Category Archives: Writing

My London Book Fair aka #LBF14

Posted in London, Writing by

At the end of day three at Earls Court, here are some things that stand out for me:

LBF 2014

  • Meeting lovely people I know only from social media, and finding them even better in real life
  • The lure of bacon sarnies first thing in the morning
  • Standing room only at seminars in Author HQ
  • Finding out what ‘domestic chillers’ are  (hint: Zanussi doesn’t make them)
  • The rallying cry to indie authors (and the brand new ALLi badge)
  • Terry Pratchett on video loop
  • Aching shoulders from accumulated bumf
  • Some cringe-making questions from the audience (“How does one start to write a book?”) and Katie Fforde’s incredibly courteous reply
  • An awesome open mic session at the indie fringe fest

ALLi 2nd birthday party

  • Agents emerging blinking in the light after days spent holed up in the International Rights Centre
  • Pizza with not enough pepperoni (Pizza Express, please look up ‘loaded’ in the dictionary)
  • It’s not just my London Book Fair. It’s also my London, so here I am standing with my book in front of the house where I was conceived.
34 Trebovir Road SW5

34 Trebovir Road SW5

You might also like to read these other author perspectives on this year’s London Book Fair

Alison Morton

Debbie Young

Orna Ross

Jessica Bell

Joanna Penn

 

 

The School Reunion: You Haven’t Changed a Bit

Posted in Writing by

The smell of lino and neglected gym kit propels Harriet nearly 20 years back in time.  As soon as she opens the door of the hall, there’s a shriek: “Oh my God!  You haven’t changed a bit.”

Harriet returns the compliment then heads towards the drinks, remembering to push out her chest.  Amy aka the ‘Sweater Girl’ is bound to be here.

Harriet lives in the pages of my novel One Night at the Jacaranda. Today she’s escaped to attend a school reunion.  

She scans the room for Matt.  Back then everyone fancied him.  Now he sounds like Mr Irresistible.  She hasn’t read his book but, according to the reviews, it penetrates the very core of human condition.  Matt has arrived.

Though not here.   There’s Marcie who makes jewellery out of spoons, and an insurance woman who’s working the room.   She asks Harriet “What are you doing these days?”

“I’m a journalist.”  No need to tell her commissions are down to a trickle.

“Ooh, lovely! Who do you write for?”

“I’m freelance now.  Much prefer it.”   In truth she’s barely had 16 months on the staff since her degree.  “I write for a lot of the glossies, or whoever’ll pay me.”  She hopes the self-deprecating touch will make her sound witty.

“I’ll look out for you.  What kind of thing do you write?”

Best not to mention her last feature entitled What your loo-roll says about you. “I’m doing a piece on breast cancer at the moment” she lies.

unloved school piano

Tonight there’s a drinks table in the corner by the distressed piano, and by the drinks table there’s Amy cradling an orange juice.

“Oh my God, Amy, you look amazing” says Harriet.   As usual Amy’s wearing a clingy sweater, but now there are milk stains on her shoulder and her boobs are somewhere by the floor.  Oscar is just 17 months and Mia is 7 weeks.  She needs little encouragement to display the entire contents of her iPhone.

Harriet offers Amy a glass of wine.

“Oh well, just a small one.”

“Anyone seen Matt?”

“Not for years” says Amy, readjusting her bra.

Harriet helps herself to more Château Tannin and talks to a guy she can’t quite place. He’s an architect now.  “I designed the bus shelter in front of the Bagg building.  Have you seen it?”  But he isn’t expecting an answer.   He’s looking over her shoulder to see if anyone more interesting is on the horizon.

There aren’t many men, apart from a tight cluster by the window, all necking Bud from bottles.

“They’re not having a great run.  Arsenal, now…”

“The GTi probably.”

“Went belly-up, didn’t they?”

“Reckon Palace are for the drop.”

The smelly girl from the front of the class has changed.  A lot.  She doesn’t smell anymore and she’s morphed into an eye surgeon.  “Spent last year in Mali operating on trachoma patients.”

Harriet doesn’t dare ask what trachoma is, so she says “Is Matt here?”

He isn’t.  Harriet chats to someone called Caroline.  They tell each other they look incredible and agree it’s been years, or ‘yonks’ as Caroline calls it.  She’s started her own business, which Harriet can’t understand despite the long description.  Her clothes are expensive but she still looks a frump.  Apparently the scarf is Celine and the jacket was made to measure.   Harriet makes a mental note to stick to Zara.

white wineBack at the drinks table Amy has another glass of wine.   She burps and clutches her stomach.  “Sorry.”

“Are you OK?” asks Harriet.

Amy shuts her eyes and lets out a sigh.  “I think I’m pregnant again.”

“But you’re a fantastic mum.  You love children.”

There’s a pause before Amy says “Matt doesn’t.”

Spreading a Little Sunshine

Posted in Writing by

There’s nothing January can do to redeem itself in my eyes, other than apologise and segue into February without delay.  Thirty-one days of it are just too much, especially in the UK where the weather is dismal and it doesn’t even have the decency to snow any more.  But I had to grin from ear to ear and reach for my shades when I got a Sunshine Award from Mr Don Charisma himself.sunshineaward

Thank you very much for this, Don.

Naturally no man gives a woman anything without there being strings attached.   Unfortunately I can’t display the badge on my blog in any permanent fashion as I am too damn stupid at WordPress.  This may be rectified later.  I won’t be any less stupid, but I will have asked someone.

Not all bloggers like accepting awards so let’s just call my list the blogs that light up my screen and my life. They fit the bill because, to use Don’s words, they positively and creatively inspire others in the blogosphere.  Here are my 10 bloggers who deserve an award:

Don Charisma for his great charm and good humour.  I loved Whose Blog Is It Anyway? and I suspect everyone else did too.

Ellen Arnison of In a Bun Dance.  She’s almost invariably  cheery, with the happy knack of seeing the beauty in all manner of things.  OK, her post on murdered 3 year old Mikaeel Kular wasn’t quite in that mould, but it contained great good sense and a warning to those who don’t understand what sub judice means.  For some reason I’m unable to post comments on her blog so this award will have to do.

Debbie Young at her personal blog Young By Name. Debbie is an accomplished author and blogger writer whose posts are brimming with life and crammed with unexpected little treasures.  I can’t do her blog justice so you’ll just have to read it for yourself.

Catherine Ryan Howard for Catherine, Caffeinated which is famed for its humorous encouragement. Without her guidance many writers would have stalled.  Catherine is truly the AA and RAC of self-publishing.

Time Thief from One Cool Site.  It is the go-to place for WordPress tips and inspiration as well as being, well, one cool site.

Suz Jones of It Goes On.  Suz blogs about depression and much more, and turns out it’s really uplifting stuff.  A worthy recipient of Blog of the Year 2013.

Seif Salama Karem.  His posts are often dark and can be political, so they’re not always easy reading, but they have a lyrical quality reminiscent of Khalil Gibran, whose work we both love.

The team at Chick Lit Club who deal with all things chick-lit.  Respect to head honcho Steph who sanctioned a review of my novel  despite one of my characters being incredibly rude about her home town.  She clearly has a sunny and forgiving nature.

The bloggers at Varsity newspaper.  Their contributions shine with enthusiasm for student life in all its forms.  Guaranteed to make you feel 18 again, especially if like me the Fen Poly is your alma mater.

Yes, I know. There are only 9, because one of my favourite bloggers has stopped blogging. So I’m sulking.   But in life there are things even jollier than blogs, like my family, friends and cat. And look at this fella sitting in the middle of the road, probably because it’s as wet as the river.  Any nearer those yellow lines and he’d have got points on his license.

Swan in Ely

One day I may list 10 of those kinds of things, just for fun.

Now there’s something else I’m meant to do in accepting the Sunshine Award: tell you 10 interesting things about myself.  As you’re busy people and I’m not that interesting, you’re only getting 7.

1 My cat is a ginger female called Mishmish, which is ‘apricot’ in Arabic and in Hebrew.

2 My idol is Martin Luther King.

3 A long time ago I actually saw the Beatles. Not that I heard them, because everyone was screaming.

4 I don’t need sat nav as my sense of direction is excellent.  Besides, there’s a map in the back of the car.

5 At school I did Russian O-level.

6 Some of my oldest childhood friends are still my closest.

7 I love writing.  It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on. Though you can also do it with your clothes off if you want.typewriter

The 12 Quotes of Christmas

Posted in Family life, Writing by

Right now you can hardly turn around without hearing the word Christmas, usually accompanied by lame puns on seasonal words like holly and merry, and the lazy journalist’s headline The 12 whatever-they-are, even if those particular whatever-they-are have nothing to do with Christmas.  Well, I’m not about to get left behind in this frantic festive scramble, so here are my 12 favourite quotes.  Just in the St Nick of time.

If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. And if they don’t, they never were.”  Khalil Gibran

“What we’re saying today is that you’re either part of the solution or you’re part of the problem.” Eldridge Cleaver

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”  Nelson Mandela

“What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?”  Vincent van GoghMLK crop

“If a man hasn’t discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.” Martin Luther King, Jr

“True friends stab you in the front.”  Oscar Wilde

‘There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”   W. Somerset Maugham

“I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear better shoes.” Oprah Winfrey

“Stupid is as stupid does.”  Forrest Gump

“I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry.”  John Cage

“You cannot predict the future.”  Stephen Hawking

and that’s why you probably didn’t expect this 12th quote

يوم عسل يوم بصل

This anonymous Arabic quote translates as “One day honey, another day onions” and I think it nicely encapsulates the bittersweet nature of life.

What are your favourite quotes?

Related articles

Seven Days as a Novelist

Posted in Family life, Writing by

Thanksgiving Day 2013 and my novel comes out after spending years getting ready. 

front cover reduced

First cover of my novel

Day One is great:  congratulations arrive on Facebook, in cards and by email.   I don’t have a launch party but I go to Women in Journalism’s Christmas bash.   Everyone can see that I’m floating about 6″ off the ground.  That’s because I’m wearing red suede heels like these.

By Day Two, I’m seeing stars in the form of my first review.  Five stars to be exact, and from an author I respect hugely.  I tell all my friends, which means I post the news on Twitter.  Writers lose their real friends because they spend all their time writing. 

On Day Three I see a neighbour who wants to know all about my book. When I explain how she can buy a copy, for instance here, I get a blank look.  She asks “What do you mean, buy?”

It’s the Primrose Hill Christmas Festival on Day Four   The place is crawling with models, writers, actors, whatever (MWA, darling).  I don’t see any celebs out and about with their noses in my novel, but I spot these supermodels in their new winter coats.

Ruff & Tumble

Monday night is Day Five.   I attend the British Lung Foundation’s Christmas Carols by Candlight at St Pancras Church.  It’s a big occasion so I’m wearing THE shoes off the cover, not a stand-in pair.   Along with Linda Robson, Tommy Walsh and David Oakes, I read a poem. By now my book and I are feeling proper festive.  

jacaranda tree

But that day my elderly mother has another fall and can’t stand up.  I catch a flight out as soon as I can.

She’s in a geriatric hospital.  Her lipstick tells me she’s still fighting but the rest of her tells a different story.  She has severe osteoporosis and has broken several more bones.  They give her morphine which barely helps her pain.  You have to work up gradually to the right dose and we’re not there yet.  

The red heels have come off.  I sit by her bed and help her drink from a drinker, the kind my children had as toddlers.

This, now, is reality.  Fiction?  That’s just escapism.  But what a welcome escape it can be.

Why I write

Posted in Family life, Writing by
One Night at the Jacaranda

First cover of my novel

Not being George Orwell, I can only tell you why I wrote this book.

Every writer wants to produce the kind of thing they love to read themselves. I’ve read a lot of great authors, so I had in mind a contemporary novel with flawed characters, dialogue that rings true, a sense of place, and a terrific story-line to pull it all together.

That may well be how I wrote it, but it’s not why.

It began on a plane as my eldest son and I headed for Princeton and my father’s funeral.  The 7-hour journey to Newark gave us plenty of time to talk.

Most families are complicated.  My father moved out when I was about four.  Although my earliest memories go back to my second birthday, all I remembered of my Daddy was trailing around my mother in the too-large flat and asking where he was. “Heliopolis” she said.

Just recently I looked through an ancient photo album.  It was a jolt to see evidence of the three of us together, Mum and Dad and myself as a young child.

For years after he left, we had little to do with each other.  It was my grandfather I called Papa.

Then came occasional awkward meetings in Philadelphia or Washington, DC.   The most awkward was an outing to buy a Barbie doll, during which my knicker elastic snapped.

But I was lucky as a teenager and then an adult, because we gradually grew closer despite living on different continents most of the time.  Recently we were seeing each other once or twice a year.  I’d often go over with my children to spend some time in New Jersey with Dad and the wonderful American woman he’d married when I was about 9 (‘stepmother’ is too Grimm a word).

On flight CO19 Julian and I reminisced.  Dad was the archetypal Brit in the USA. Despite having settled there decades before, he was still sustained by Tommy Cooper videos and Harrogate toffees that played havoc with his dentures.

His death was hardly premature, but his last years had been tough, with serious lung disease, spinal stenosis, and a heart attack that made his heart stop twice.

Julian and I talked about the little oxygen cylinder that came with him everywhere.  His reluctance to use a disabled badge.  His marvel at the benefits of knee exercises (most of my patients hardly bother with them, but Dad was meticulous about his quads regime).  His impatience with politics both sides of the Atlantic, yet his infinite patience in his volunteer work for Centurion Ministries, which absorbed him after he retired from decades in life insurance.

At some point Julian slept and I got a gin and tonic.  That’s when I started jotting things down on the napkin.  Then I asked for another napkin.  Julian stirred and wanted to know what I was writing. “Notes for an article” I said, unsure what I had in mind.

The notes developed into a plot about a motley group of singletons (there’s more on the Books page). They are all, not surprisingly, trying to find someone special.  I know I was.

I scribbled some more, and a novel developed.   The story has nothing to do with my father. Except for this one thing: he’d always wanted to be a writer.  When he read my first (non-fiction) book, he never said he was proud of me, but he did say it was a bit like something he’d once written.

Is One Night at the Jacaranda the kind of book he’d have wanted me to write? Absolutely not.  I think he’d choke on a toffee if he read it.

dad and IPS For the curious, Centurion Ministries is an investigative agency with no religious affiliation. Its mission is to free from prison those innocent individuals who had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the crimes for which they were convicted and sentenced to either life or death.

A Week to Remember in the Surgery

“An alcoholic is someone who drinks more than his doctor” thinks Geoff as he attacks the second bottle of red.  This isn’t going to help, but it’s Friday and, let’s face it, it’s been a bit of a week.  He waits for the microwave to do its thing with dinner.

Geoff is a family doctor in suburban London, or he would be if he were real.  As it is, he’s just a figment of my imagination.  At 38, he’s divorced and already worn out.

On Monday, Geoff had. expected a two-minute silence but nobody had read the memo.  “Was there a memo?” says the practice manager.  It was a mystery how the staff always take note of the senior partner’s memos though.

His colleagues in the practice think losing two minutes at 11am would be completely out of order.  Especially when Remembrance Day falls on a Monday.  Especially when there are targets to meet, hoops to jump through.

crumpled poppyThe practice nurse is wearing a poppy, now crumpled out of shape and dangling precariously from its pin.  One of the receptionists has one too. The rest don’t bother.

So at the precise moment when Geoff thought he might be standing shoulder to shoulder, if not with all those who serve, then at least with all those who work in the health centre, he’s peering at a patient with spots.

“What can I do for you today?” asks Geoff.  Every doctor knows you never ask what’s wrong today, because patients reply that’s what they came to find out. You don’t ask them what brought them, either. Not unless you want to hear about the 168 bus.

By way of reply, he unzips his flies and whips it out.  That’s where the spots are.  The patient wants antibiotics.  Geoff wants him to get checked out properly.  So he sends him to the Pox Palace, but he uses the correct name instead: sexual health clinic.

On Wednesday the computer database is down.  Turns out it’s a national outage.  “National outrage, more like” fumes Geoff.  Still, he likes idea of free-range consulting.  He can look people in the eye and do proper medicine instead of being fixated on the computer screen.  Funny how much easier it is to listen when you’re not at the mercy of stupid pop-up menus ordering you to ask if they’re depressed, check their medications, and offer a change of contraception.

But by the time the computer’s back on at 11.30am, he’s accumulated pages of illegible patient notes and 20 patients who really need to be seen again.

It’s late on Friday when Geoff finally leaves. He sees that the wall by the No Smoking sign outside the health centre has been used to stub out cigarettes. And he can guess which patients did it.  He goes and scrubs it, because nobody else will.

Now it looks like this.small dirty wall

Surely that entitles him to a bonus glass of wine or two.

 

Alcohol abuse is common in doctors but the expression ‘drunken sailor’ has a lot of truth in it.

Other articles you may like

Finding a Man: the Sure-Fire 5-Point Plan

Posted in Dating, Family life, Writing by

You’ve got to be organized, especially when you’re a single mum with four kids.  Karen’s good at lists.  Most of them look like this.

RSPCA memo pad

Karen is a character from my forthcoming novel, but if you have kids you probably know her. Her latest list is a plan.  A sure-fire 5-point plan to find herself a man.  Here goes:

1.  Be optimistic

2.  Look great at all times

3.  Network

4.  Go where the men are

5.  Leave comfort zone

OK, so she hasn’t met anyone since Tom moved out six months, but it shouldn’t be rocket science. After all, she used to be in HR.  She’ll get her man.

Point 1:  easy.  Karen’s always upbeat.  Her motto is ‘It’ll be fine’.  It’s simple, easy, and versatile.  It can be shouted when your 8-year old’s team is 7-0 down, as was the case last Sunday. Which sort of worked, because Damon didn’t let in any more goals after that.

All may not be fine, Karen admits, unless she implements 2 Look great at all times.  She learnt that lesson trying to flirt at the recycling centre when she looked like one of the totters.  Now she brushes her hair, applies lippy, and wears matching shoes even if she’s only doing the school run.  The other morning Charlotte watched critically from the doorway (she’s 10. Critical’s what she does).

“Mummy, why do you need mascara and blusher just to go to the bank?”

“You never know, sweetheart.  Suppose I run into Harry Potter in the high street?”

Karen has a new get-up too.  It’s for everyday wear, instead of the joggers that are only suitable for the garden, ideally on the compost heap.  She hadn’t been looking for new clothes, but she was in Sainsbury’s walking down the wrong aisle, which had a lot in common with her wedding.  Unlike her ex-husband, it was 25% off and came with double Nectar points.  

Sainsbury's signThe top isn’t quite the right size, but Karen fixes that in no time.  If she doesn’t raise her arms, nobody will even notice the staples.

On to point 3: Network.  Not so much using LinkedIn as mining existing contacts.  Surely somewhere there’s a friend of a friend who knows a single guy who isn’t an axe-murderer.  Karen doesn’t have the nerve to ask every mum at the school gates if they have a brother or a discarded husband/lover/toyboy, but she drops a few hints.

The outcome is the dinner party from hell, with single bachelordom represented by a monosyllabic quantity surveyor with personal hygiene issues.  Her hosts aren’t speaking to each other, which makes the evening as fun as a conference of Trappist monks.  The dinner is a roast and the meat wasn’t local.  Karen chews in dutiful silence, trying not to think of live lambs trapped for hours in an overcrowded container lorry.

Karen describes the evening to her best friend Rose.

“That’s no use” says Rose.  “You’ve got to go where the real men are.”

Karen recalls a teenage pastime.  “What, like hanging around the barracks and hoping to pick up a squaddie?”

“No, silly.   You’ve got a car.  And you like books, don’t you?”  Rose has a couple of suggestions.bookshelf

Coming soon: what happened when Karen left her comfort zone.

Meanwhile here’s one of dating blogs Karen has been reading http://www.nerve.com/advice

If her kids are still up, she looks at this site instead http://www.nectar.com

The Top 5 Cities for Dating

Posted in Dating, Writing by

It depends what you’re looking for (and, as a friend rightly says, how old you are, there being obvious differences between Vienna and, say, Ibiza).

I was on the look-out for settings for my latest novel and wanted guidance.  The advisory panel retired to a bar to deliberate the top cities for dating.  Several rounds later, they had discarded New York and Rome, and came up with these five choices.

1.  ParisParis frame 2

For: Possibly the most heavenly city on earth, with no shortage of romantic places for a rendezvous.

Against:  the pickings can be slim, according to a writer friend who lived there and longed for more than a married lover for some cinq-à-sept.

 

Amsterdam framed2.  Amsterdam

For: Vibrant, hip and imbued with sex as well as culture, this city can put you under its influence without ever going near one of the infamous coffee-houses.

Against: the weather is unpredictable.  And the men love to eat raw fish.

3.  DublinDublin framed

For: A beautiful and historic city, with plenty to see.  And Dubliners are wonderfully gregarious.  There are no strangers, just friends you haven’t yet met – with some bound to be single.

Against: the weather is predictable.  It rains all the time.

Havana framed

4.  Havana

For:  If your idea of dating is to go salsa dancing as soon as you land, or be serenaded to Guantanamera when you only stopped to cross the street, this is the place.

Against: prepare to consider yourselves ‘engaged’ by the end of the night.

5.  Cleethorpes

London was going to be on the list until my friend Rachel convinced everyone how much Cleethorpes has to offer.  There’s the seafront, a lovely pier, a light railway, romantic trams, even a statue of The Boy with the Leaking Boot.*  The Greenwich meridian goes through the town, and the weather’s not so bad if you wrap up warm (you weren’t going to have sex on the beach, were you?).

Despite these obvious attractions, I did the dirty on Cleethorpes.  I plumped for London as the setting for my novel on dating.

I know it’s beautiful, because I live there.  Alongside the obvious pubs, restaurants and bars, there are some of the finest shops in the world.   There’s also free entertainment:  museums, galleries and parks, or just a stroll by the river. Time it right, and you can catch Tower Bridge opening. Tower bridge framed

Cleethorpes may have lyrical trams, but in London a lot can happen on its iconic red buses or the extensive underground system.   Commuters being what they are, you can even give birth on the Piccadilly Line without anyone batting an eyelid.

I set several scenes in Marylebone because it’s buzzing.  There are upmarket grocers, specialist bookshops, funky gadget stores, designer boutiques, not to mention charity shops which stock a lot of designer cast-offs.  Despite there being more cafés, patisseries and restaurants than anyone could possibly need, they’re always full of customers lured by the aroma of warm bread and freshly ground coffee.  Marylebone is very much the place to be, especially if you have nothing very much to do.

The Jacaranda bar, where most of my characters meet, is off Marylebone High Street and has the longest zinc bar in town.  It’s named after the original Jacaranda bar in Liverpool, the first venue ever to host the Beatles.

It would be poetic to say the advisory board met there, but it wouldn’t be true.   My Jacaranda bar isn’t a Mecca for Beatles trail tourists.   If you go looking for it in Marylebone, or anywhere else in London, you’ll be disappointed.  I made it up.

Still, my city is the star of my story, just as much as each character.   It’s cosmopolitan, it’s loaded with heritage, and, best of all, if you don’t like the one you’re with, it’s big enough to avoid said person.  Not something you can say about Cleethorpes, is it, Rachel?

*Cleethorpes is said to be the number one destination in the UK for seaside holidays.  For more, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cleethorpes

One Good Thing about Having Surgery

Posted in Pills, Writing by

Sanjay is only in his 30s but he’s had a lot of surgery, all of it since the cancer was diagnosed. That’s if you don’t count ingrowing toenails as a teenager, now best forgotten along with his pongy trainers.

As with Laura, Geoff and the other people in my novel, I made Sanjay up.  He only lives, breathes and sheds tears in my fiction.

In his opinion, the only good thing about operations is the pre-med.  That injection is chock-full of morphine.   Makes you as legless as a freshers’ night out.  There’s also some stuff to dry up secretions, so your mouth is like an African drought.  But with the morphine on board, who gives a fuck?

Then the anaesthetist gets him to make a fist.  “Now count to 10 for me.”   He never gets beyond four before drifting away.230991_2134 surgeon crop

Whatever delicious thoughts he has on going to sleep, there’s always hell to pay when he wakes up.  Last time, someone was moaning like a wounded animal in the recovery room.

And Sanjay was in serious pain.  Just because you were asleep when they plunged a knife into your neck didn’t stop it hurting like hell afterwards.

He thought of his mate Ben.  He must have been in agony for hours.  Sanjay wondered if anyone had given him enough morphine, whatever ‘enough’ means when an IED has ripped off one of your arms and a hunk of leg.  Was there was someone sitting by him, like this nurse here?  Probably not.  Just another wounded soldier, doing his best with a tourniquet and praying the MERT would show before they both snuffed it.

In the recovery room, Sanjay had the irresistible urge to sit up, but the pain and the nurse kept forcing him back down.  He had a sore throat and felt sick.  The smell of antiseptic didn’t help, nor did the bilious scent of dressings.  Nurses insisted there was no smell, but they were wrong.  Since the chemo, he could smell everything.

The moaning still hadn’t stopped.  Some poor deranged sod really didn’t want to be here.  “Hush now” the nurse said. “I’ll get you a sip of water.”

The thirst was unbearable, but all he got was a plastic thimble of water, with instructions to take a small sip.  Most of it went down the front of his hospital gown.  Miraculously, the moaning stopped when he drank the water, which was when Sanjay realized that he was the deranged sod making all the noise.

He patted his neck and shoulder tentatively through the dressing.  Strange that such a small procedure would lead to so much trouble.  Maybe it was the drugs.  It was always a bad idea to mix drugs, but hospitals dosed you with reckless abandon, with gases out of metal cylinders, and loads more stuff into your veins.  One of the anaesthetists explained it.  She was one of the new docs, a woman with long red hair and a piercing that went right through a massive freckle on the side of her nose.

She was flirting with him, he was sure.  So he flirted back, as best one could when lying down and wearing a hospital gown instead of Paul Smith loafers, Armani jeans and lucky pants.  That was when he learned about the IV anaesthetic drugs, like fentanyl and ketamine.  All the stuff to make sure you didn’t come to during the op. No wonder by the time he got to the recovery room he felt he’d gone four rounds with David Haye and had an overdose of Ivory Wave or whatever high you could get for a tenner these days.

Jeremy's scalpel

He’s hoping he won’t go under the knife again, but the cancer always seems to have other ideas.