Writer’s Life

Silly Saturday

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I have loved taking photographs since I was eight, though I have never been interested in the technical side; merely pointing and shooting my way through black and white, colour slides, Polaroid and back to colour prints until digital changed photography for all of us. Suddenly we could take lots and lots of pictures and I became addicted. When I finally succumbed to a smart phone I was even more obsessed; joining those I had previously sneered at as they gave everyone a pictorial commentary on their meals or child’s tantrums. 29026303_2009414072421706_3591610815813255168_o(1)

Facebook, WhatsApp, Instagram, my Website… all waiting to be filled with pictures. Here are this week’s silly selection. A week of all weathers made it especially fun.28584870_2000526599977120_2006830012_o

The phenomenum of freezing rain created real frosted windows.28641119_2000128503350263_185788723_o28642842_1996678273695286_74645765_oAll Fired Up Cafe provided a winter retreat.

http://potterycafebournemouth.co.uk/

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Then suddenly the snow melted and the sun shone.

Boscombe Pier is full of musical instruments.

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On Friday we had torrential rain and more photo opportunities…

28872393_2010324878997292_623618002859851776_o…on the bus. What luck that the first bus to come along was…

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https://www.bybus.co.uk/features-offers/blog/the-gallery-bus-such-fun

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Back into town to ‘All Fired Up’ to collect my fired camper van; a money box to save my author earnings and a reminder to get on with writing my camper van detective’s novel.

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Every chapter of my website is full of photographs.

https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/

You can read two novellas and a short story featuring  Tobias Elliot Channing, the young camper van detective, in Someone Somewhere.

Friday Flash Fiction – Jack’s on a Mission.

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Heartbeat

 

‘Don’t let the cold air in Jack.’

‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘No, the three alarms woke me.’

‘I didn’t want to be late picking up the other three. I’ll creep out now and let you get back to sleep.’

‘Fat chance of that with you clumping around, anyway you know I’ll be worried till I hear you’ve arrived safely.’

‘No need to worry if you don’t hear, not likely to get reception up there.’

Jo yawned. ‘Is it foggy out there like the weatherman said?’

‘Yup can’t see a thing.’

‘Do be careful out on those winding lanes, thank goodness Phil’s not driving… have you got everything, flask, long johns on, all your gear?’

‘Yes… yes, look I’ve got to go, I want to be right clear of the city before the rush hour.’

 

Phil was waiting by his garden gate for Jack.

‘Hope this fog lifts or we’ll never see it. Did you remember to fill up the petrol this time?’

‘Yeah, ready to go, hope the other two set their alarms.’

 

‘You are now entering the Red Rose County…  at last’ said Phil.

‘Still a way to go yet, keep an eye out for the road signs, I don’t want to miss that turning this time.’

‘Sun’s up and I think that mist is clearing.’

 

Jack felt a thrill as the road climbed and the number of sheep multiplied. Once they were in the car park he jumped out and took in the cold damp air of the moors. After a quick sup from their flasks they started getting the camera gear out; it was time to split up. The four men had planned their positions several days ago, every vantage point had to be covered. Later there would be time to warm up at the inn, get a hot lunch, a few beers and most importantly have a debriefing. Jack strode away from the gritted car park and on to the spongy moor. The sheep took no notice of him, they were used to walkers and sightseers. After ten minutes he was happy with his spot and checked his watch, half an hour to go. He took out a sandwich and the flask and sat on a hillock taking in the silence; nothing but the occasional bleating of a sheep. He had a good team, but he needed to be alone for this part. It was quite a miracle when the sun came out, it didn’t happen often up here. Though the warmth and light was welcome, low in the sky, the sun could cause problems for his shots.

 

It was the same as before, he merely sensed it at first. Still out of sight when he heard it, like a heartbeat, like the blood pulsing in your ears at night. When he was a child he thought it was a train in his head.

Then he saw the white plumes of smoke, switched on the video camera and started clicking away with the camera, following the graceful curve of the rail. The sky was clear as the train crossed the viaduct, he was going to get his best shots ever.

All too soon it was out of sight, Phil would be getting a perfect view from Ribblehead Station platform. The sheep carried on grazing, oblivious to the marvels of Victorian engineering.

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https://www.settle-carlisle.co.uk/heritage/history

Read more flash fiction and longer stories in Someone Somewhere.

Virgin Snow and Virgin Boxes

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There was more disruption in our house this past week due to upgrading of the Virgin Box than there was due to the Beast from the East. The new box had been safely delivered before snow. Cyberspouse was waiting for an open ended day to unplug the life support system and replace the old box; Virgin claimed two hours should be allowed, he wanted five hours to be on the safe side, but there is never a good time to detach the umbilical cord to the outside world and the ether we writers need to breathe.

Thursday night brought freezing rain on top of the day’s continuous snow. Friday morning was a white delight, but the beautiful virgin snow was now frozen hard. We were not going to starve if we stayed home, would probably not get scurvy if we relied on baked beans and frozen peas. But with local shops so handy we’re used to daily shopping, more importantly I did not want to miss out on Day 2 Snow Experience and more pictures for Instagram, Facebook and my website. We planned a circular walk to the cliff top and down Grand Avenue to the Grove for coffee and shopping.

It was a foolish mission that could have ended in disaster; impossible to walk on the icy crust of snow, hanging on to garden walls was not an option as they were covered in ice. We weren’t the only ones who made it to the cliff top, just the only ones without dogs or children. It wasn’t as cold as Thursday, the sky was heavy laden, insulating us and I could just about take my gloves off without getting frostbite and operate my smart phone.

Our favourite Ludo Lounge was open and it was packed. With schools closed and parents unable or unwilling to go to work it was like summer holidays, but with ice and slush. A waitress said they had received twenty eight phone calls before 9.30 am checking if they were open; people had their priorities right.

The greengrocers’ was closed, however Sainsburys’ was open with enough veggies for a good stir fry. But something was wrong, there was no milk on the shelves. It hadn’t occurred to us that out in the real world milk tankers would be unable to get to farms or back to dairies, nor would delivery lorries be able to get to supermarkets or corner shops. With only enough milk left for me to have two cups of tea this was a First World Problem of mega proportions, but Cyberspouse takes everything black and we have a Tassimo coffee machine. Worse was yet to come.

Saturday the snow melted, I bookmarked everything appearing on line and the WiFi was switched off; as predicted by me, the new box did not work. The help line was rung, the engineer would come out on Tuesday. No Saturday night Swedish Noir on television, no Facetiming Australia early on Sunday morning and no blogging.

This big First World problem had a First World solution, our smart phones would keep us in touch with the outside world and I could still put pictures on Instagram and Facebook, but phone screens are small. If I was a Borrower it would be fine… The Borrowers, by the English author Mary Norton, published in 1952, features a family of tiny people who live secretly in the walls and floors of an English house and “borrow” from the big people in order to survive. How they would have loved to borrow my Samsung phone to use as an interactive big screen TV.     https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Borrowers

Smart phones are great when you are out or on holiday, people can’t resist checking them at five minute intervals. But with minute writing and the perils of predictive texting it is not the way I like to read, enjoy and comment on blogs and photographs. If anyone has received any strange comments from me I apologise.

I did at least get more of my novel written with no distractions. By the time I got home on Tuesday evening all was restored. I’m blogging again, but my Bookmarked list is longer than ever. Visit my website to see snowy pictures.

https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-two-coastal-views

 

Friday Flash Fiction Fantasy

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                                      Andromeda Advertiser                           

       The Hotel Inspector

 How long would you spend in suspended animation to reach a one planet solar system? How many holidaymakers would be prepared to trek across the universe to visit the only habitable planet in a third rate solar system? Planet Gaia has only one moon and an outdated space station; what it does have is water and this is the main selling point in their first venture into intergalactic tourism.

The second unusual feature is its tilted axis, which gives it a great variety of climates to choose from. The downside? The brochures omit to mention the unpredictable nature of the locals, or even to explain which is the prime species.

Our tour started when we woke up on the moon, quaintly called Lunar Base. From here we enjoyed wonderful views of the shining blue planet; this alone made the trip worthwhile. We had yet to meet our hosts.

Next stop was the antiquated space station which must be pre booked due to lack of space, but essential if you wish to orbit Gaia.

By the time we landed on the planet we were ready for a meal. We had chosen a tiny island with a mild climate which boasted large colonies of homosapiens. The hotel itself was on the edge and not for the faint hearted unused to water.

This was when the tour began to lose some of its starlight. How do the locals expect to attract tourists without making any effort to learn their language? Even the sign language was limited by their possession of only two arms. It can only be presumed that the more intelligent species live in the oceans, but we did not have time for the underwater trips, nor was our travel agent accredited for this risky expedition.

Our meal was surprisingly tasty and we were soon ready for our guided tour. Having come this far I was determined to put my foot in the water which is called by many names; here it was flat, thin, perfectly safe and called sea. The sensation was not unpleasant and we also enjoyed watching the homosapiens splashing around making their mating calls.

Our party of three and a half was booked in for five days, but the brochure skimmed over the fact that the days are very short, making the stay poor value for money. The ablution facilities consisted of more water, with no sign of any hot dust. Our first night was cramped and uncomfortable; we should have been advised to book more than one room.

The most fascinating aspect was the rapid change of atmospheric conditions. We had not been guaranteed rain, so we were delighted on the second day when the hotel was pounded by strong air currents full of water. From our viewing platform we could see the water had now turned to waves and we were glad to be in the shelter of the hotel.

How did I rate the experience? Mixed; frankly we were glad that the days were so short. I gave our accommodation five suns.

 

 

Wagner, Elgar and All Star Superslam Wrestling

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The Pavilion is one of my favourite buildings in Bournemouth, an Art Deco theatre and ballroom built nearly a hundred years ago, a Grade Two listed building  that has outlasted two Winter Gardens. The ballroom has wonderful views of Poole Bay and The Purbecks.  If you go to the theatre, don’t be late getting to your seat if you are in the middle of the row; they are narrow with very little leg room, a timely reminder of how slim our recent forebears were. But outside the auditorium there is plenty of space. If you are going to the theatre, explore the rest of the building, saunter down (literally ) the sloping corridors on either side and look out on the Lower Gardens. Then if you need to go before the show, don’t want to queue to use the loo, descend the stairs to the ballroom toilets, more spacious than those at the front of house, with the original ashtrays still in the cubicles.

https://www.list.co.uk/place/50527-pavilion-theatre-bournemouth

On Sunday there was a matinee concert with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. The whole Pavilion was abuzz so there was obviously another event going on in the ballroom, which could have been anything from a wedding fair to an antiques show. But what no one, sauntering down the corridor in the depths of the building to the ballroom toilets, expected to see were large bare chested men wandering around, wearing what appeared to be ladies see through panties. A shock for elderly ladies on a respectable Sunday afternoon outing and for mothers who had brought their young daughters for some culture. All through Wagner’s serene Siegfried Idyll I was wondering if the chaps had come from some Netflix fantasy drama. I was relieved the young man playing Elgar’s Cello Concerto had his normal concert gear on, as my seat was only a few feet away.

In the interval we discovered from the ushers guarding the ballroom doors that it was All Star Superslam Wrestling. Unfortunately the wrestlers were not seen again so I didn’t get a chance to have another look. But I’m sure Dvorak’s New World Symphony was more exciting.

Alas, Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, one of the country’s leading orchestras              a Cultural Beacon for the South and South West of England, only play seven or eight concerts a year in Bournemouth. They do not live here, but down the road in Poole at The Lighthouse Centre for the Arts. A bit annoying, as when we moved here I thought I had steered us to heaven, a seaside town with its own orchestra. The orchestra is older than either building, founded in 1893. They are also Classic FM’s Orchestra in the South of England. At The Pavilion Saturday evening and Sunday afternoon concerts we get a jolly Classic FM presenter, who has stories to tell, just like the radio only thankfully without the advertisements.

https://www.bsolive.com/

At The Lighthouse things are more serious, except at Christmas. Here the audience have been praised by conductor Kirill Karabits for trying lesser know pieces every season. BBC Radio Three broadcasts live concerts regularly; occasions when you certainly don’t want to be late getting to your seat or forget to turn your mobile off.

Music is one of the themes of my Brief Encounters trilogy; download the first book for only 99 pence.

 

 

Friday Flash Fiction – The Writer’s Tale

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‘How hard can it be to write a novel?’ thought Joe as he walked through the town towards the Job Centre. Redundancy could be the best thing that ever happened to him; a golden opportunity for a new career as a writer. Passing the library he stopped to look at a notice in the window WRITING CLASS. He went in to enquire for details, couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the library; the sight of all those books intensified his desire to write one himself. He gave his details to the librarian.

‘It’s your lucky day,’ she said ‘the class meets in ten minutes, you could attend to see if it’s what you are looking for.’

The morning flew by, Joe listened to the other people in the group and thought If you can write, so can I. When they did an exercise the words flew out of him. He signed on.

At lunchtime he sat down in the coffee shop to make a shopping list, then strode down the road to WH Smith. Much later he emerged laden with purchases; writing books and magazines, note pads, pens, pencils, Microsoft Word, six Three for the Price of Two modern paperback novels, a large piece of board and a packet of felt pens.

 

Arriving home he staggered through the front door.

‘How did you get on at the Job Centre dear?’ called his wife.

He faltered and nearly dropped his shopping. ‘Fine dear, I’m just going on the internet to look up some job websites.’

He closed the door of the spare room.

An hour later his wife called out ‘Dinner’s ready.’

With no response she stumped upstairs and pushed the door open. On the wall was a large board with strange plans in bright colours. Joe sat at the desk in front of the computer, open notepad by his side. On the screen were written two words Chapter One; absorbed he hadn’t noticed her come in. She looked more closely at the board; at the top was written Dove Street, below were drawn two rows of squares filled with names, she peered at them puzzled. ‘Mary and John White, Mr and Mrs Khan and their three children, young Polish workers, old Mrs Green…’

‘Joe, what are you doing?’ she exclaimed, startling him.

‘I’m going to write a novel,’ he exclaimed proudly ‘in fact I may well do a series, there are so many interesting people who live in Dove Street, the possibilities are endless.’

 

 

 

No Time Like The Present

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There’s no time like the present, especially for authors. How long does the present last; a year, a week, a day, a second?

My first novel Brief Encounters of the Third Kind’ was set in the present, that was where I intended it to remain. I did not want to name a year; the characters lived in London and the 2005 bombings were still quite recent when I started writing, I did not want their story overshadowed by such a major event.

But first novels, especially long ones, take a while to write, to be read by others and edited. The present was fast becoming the past. World events were turning out differently to what most of us could ever have imagined and technology was racing ahead. My characters had mobile phones that took photos, they Skyped and went on Facebook, a few of them had SatNav. But they did not have smart phones, tablets, ipads, Kindles etc. and the last thing I wanted them to be able to do was Google their location or look up information on the internet with their smart phone; that would have wrecked the plot. More of the Twenty First Century passed by while I went down the traditional route of looking for agents. In the meantime I had written my second novel, Quarter Acre Block, a shorter straight forward family drama set firmly in 1964 and 1965. It became the first novel I published on Amazon Kindle.

I decided to stick to self publishing, Brief Encounters became a trilogy and I describe all three novels as being set in the early years of the Twenty First Century. As far as my characters are aware, they are living in the present and in a new century.

My work in progress was initially inspired by a local event during the Valentine night storm of 2014 and the novel should come to an end within 2014. All the places the wandering hero finds himself are real. But real places can present problems if your story takes place in the present; pity the author whose character goes shopping or works in BHS, no sooner is it published than the shops close down.

If you avoid ‘the present’ and set a year you still have to be on the alert. London and other cities have many familiar and iconic landmarks, but well known scenes can change dramatically. If you set your novel in a particular year, don’t have your hero enjoying the view from the top of The Shard before it has even been built, or the heroine after years away abroad, tearfully spotting the iconic cooling towers on the horizon that mean she is near home – the cooling towers that were demolished two years previously.

But there is no need to rely on your memory; what did authors do before the internet? Rush down to the library to search through old newspapers. Whether you are writing an historical novel or a millennial saga you can look up when Queen Victoria visited your local town, or what the weather was like in Portsmouth when your hero set sail for his solo trip round the world.

As for getting the future right, you will just have to wait and see; not many writers from the past got it completely right or completely wrong.

 

Weather and Loungers

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Weather and Loungers      by an anonymous guest blogger.

February is a dreary month in the Northern Hemisphere and many of us may listen with envy as retired friends and relatives set off on a cruise to the Caribbean, or working friends, who had the foresight to book a week’s holiday in winter, grab a bargain break on an island; anywhere from Cuba to The Canaries.

One rainy day I spotted an email from a relative that was much longer than the usual brief holiday update. I printed it out to enjoy reading properly and messaged back that he should join the blogging world. He suggested I edit it as a guest anonymous blog.

********

I lay on a sun lounger getting sun burn and wind burn at the same time. I remember saying before we came ‘I don’t mind if it’s not that hot, as long as it’s not too windy.’

Earlier this week we hired a car and drove round the entire island. One of our stops was at what I assume was the highest point; it had a visitor centre with lots of interesting facts to read.

As I move through the exhibition, learning about European colonialism, I’m also learning a lot about the geology and geography of the island. By the end of the exhibit my annoyance and unwarranted resentment starts to build from the facts that are becoming ever clearer.

Feurteventura has the lowest overall land height out of all the Canary Islands, this leads to clouds not being forced up as the blow in from the sea. Apparently this means there is less than average rainfall, although that did not stop it pouring down for two days when we arrived.

Right, sit down if you are not already seated. This thing with clouds and not having high mountains also means it is by far the windiest place for a hundred miles. It regularly gusts 70mph and explains a lot of those jaunty looking palm trees. In summary, this is what I have learned.

A: Do your research.

B: Despite what anyone tells you, unlimited beer will not make you cheerful. You have to be cheerful to start with.

C: You can’t blame anyone for the weather, though I bet someone on Trip Advisor will try.

Now to the title – Weather and Loungers.

I’m sitting here with the musings of Tom Wrigglesworth in my ear.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04pbwf3/clips

Occasionally I have a break to read my book. There must be 500 sun loungers round this very large pool and that’s not counting the adults only pool, the chill out pool and the nudists only pool which are all in turn smaller than one another and must culminate in a super relax puddle.

All these sun loungers are meticulously laid out every morning with a level of accuracy that suggests at least a small amount of forward planning. Every so often a couple leave their loungers to get food or sample some of the other wonders this place has to offer. Within no more than ten minutes two members of staff, dressed in white with blue latex gloves, will have reset those loungers to their starting positions; perfectly straight and with the back rest down – I learnt earlier in the week that this stops them blowing away.

As I write, two men have corrected the loungers next to me, the older man seems to be instructing the younger in the correct orientation and optimum lounger spacing. I don’t understand Spanish, but imagine it goes like this.

Look here young whipper snapper, I was arranging sun loungers when you were still at ‘all inclusive buffet’ school.

I imagine his father was a sun lounger arranger and his father before him and his great grandfather was a deckchair; the skills and lessons passed down through the generations. These include minimum distance from lounger to poolside, maximum relative distance between and most important; minimum amount of stacked loungers to prevent them blowing away overnight.

He’s surely a member of the Guild of Master Sun Longer Arrangers and sadly his son has shunned the lifestyle and gone to the mainland to be a jet ski salesman. He toils day after day, trying to pass on his skills to fellow workers, the Guild a dying breed pushed out by low wages and contemporary attitudes. Sometimes he reminisces about the old days; the great strike of 2004 when the lounger arrangers staged a walkout in support of the much abused banana boat operators. He hopes one day to save enough money to fly to a Sandals resort, where they still appreciate his very skilled profession.

So in summary of these thoughts; too much sun on a bald head makes you think up some strange things.

 

Flash Fiction Friday

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I was once short listed for a six word flash fiction competition at https://www.magicoxygen.co.uk/    The excitement in the house (mainly mine) was of Olympic proportions. If I had won the £100 prize it would be the most £s per word I was ever likely to be paid. The six words?

‘I am starting again’ said God.

A tale that covers the whole universe and time itself? Is it fiction, does flash fiction need to tell a story. Could ‘Instructions’ be the sequel?

Instructions

‘Just follow the instructions,’ said the exasperated father ‘you put too much water in last time.’

‘But it looked so beautiful and shiny.’

‘Sparkle and glitter are no good if it doesn’t work properly. You need to get the axis straight for a start.’

‘The axis would have been fine if my stupid sister hadn’t thrown lumps of rock.’

‘You must learn by your mistakes, the structure has been unstable all along, you were over ambitious. Now it’s time to get back to basics and before we can do that you need to dismantle E1. It’s all recycling these days… Don’t look at me like that, you knew we’d have to put them down; you can have new pets when I’m satisfied with E2; not so many this time, pets that don’t eat each other or kill one another.’     141 words

 

How long is flash fiction?  Paragraph Planet publishes a daily piece that must be 75 words exactly. Several of us at writers’ group had one or more paragraphs accepted and for a while it became an obsession to tailor a piece to 75 words.   http://www.paragraphplanet.com/

Cold

A crystalline cold dawn; heavy snow had reached their valley for the first time. His master had just made it back. Usually Nicolai hated the long winter nights, but each breath that seared his lungs brought hope. In late afternoon the clear sky brought a violet shimmer to the virgin snow at the graveyard. Nicolai thrust his stick through crystal layers; it juddered on the iron cold ground. The master would not be arising tonight.    75 words

 

Several of us once entered a one hundred word competition with the theme of inventing a new word. We were unsuccessful. The winning entries were very serious and intense.

Reursinement

Her Majesty’s minister barely read the title of the document ‘Reursinement – Natural Culling’ before scanning the paragraphs… environmentally sustainable… ecological balance… and signing his name. His constituents and the Forestry Commission should be delighted, fewer complaints about car accidents, trampled gardens or ruined saplings.

Operation Goldilocks took place at night, the team quickly assessed their new environment; those experiencing freedom for the first time guided by the migrants from North Eastern Europe.

Nearby, a stag sniffed the night air and felt a primeval fear.

Days later the news headlines read

Walker Killed as Bears Introduced to Beauty Spot without Public Consultation

 

Do you prefer something longer?

Felicity’s Farewell

Caroline hated crematoriums, but Felicity had been her best friend. Mathew looked drawn, ill; thankfully the thirty minute slot meant a short ceremony.

Always look on the bright side of life…

Fliss had joked she wanted that song played at her funeral; some of the elderly relatives looked shocked, already upset there would be no vicar, no service. Her friend was an atheist who abhorred hypocrisy. They had discussed funerals after enduring a requiem mass for a colleague. Felicity had not expected hers to be so soon, but she had made one serious request; her body should be used for medical research. Only Caroline and Mathew knew of this request; under the circumstances cremation was the wisest option.

Mathew was seated in the front row, Felicity’s parents either side. Her sister, a tower of strength, now rose to speak. Caroline clasped her open bag, checking again that her phone was switched off and the throat lozenges were handy; she would speak next.

Her eyes darted back to the bag, a glow, a text message…

Seems I got it wrong; I am to meet my maker…

Caroline shivered as the message rolled, was someone playing a joke? She tried to switch off.

No joke Caro, you and Mathew will have to account one day. I was blind, hindsight is a wonderful thing, especially on the other side. Tell the truth, don’t let them press the button, forensics must speak for me. Then I can move on, perhaps forgive you both… Fliss             250 words

If you can think of an original six word story, please add it in Comments.

I included flash fiction in my collection ‘Someone Somewhere’.

 

 

Lines On The Washing

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Winter has the advantage of long dark evenings, but the risk of tripping over on the pavement – if you are nosey and walk with your head turned sideways to see into the windows of homes where they have not closed the curtains. I love seeing choice of colour schemes and furniture, signs of lifestyles; room full of toys, a cello and music stand or a wide screen television hung over the fireplace revealing to the whole street what they are watching.

Being on a train, coach on the motorway or upstairs on a double-decker bus has the extra advantage we can’t be seen spying on the lives of others; peering into their back gardens, watching a farmer walk his cows over a motorway bridge or busy shoppers ignoring a homeless person in a doorway.

When I was 21 and officially on my working holiday, with destination, career path and accommodation vague, I would look down from train or coach windows fascinated, sometimes envious of other people with their real lives. Going to work, pushing prams, shopping, gardening and hanging out the washing; putting washing on the line is one of the few domestic tasks we can observe, from the person leaning over their tiny balcony in a block of flats to a lone cottage on a hill, the wind ready to tear the sheets from their hands.

Hanging the washing up is my favourite domestic task. This is not a discussion about housework and who should do what. Clothes and bedding need to be washed, meals prepared and homes large and small cleaned; somewhere along the line someone has to do it and my favourite job is hanging out the washing. Yes I know towels come out of the tumble drier lovely and fluffy, but it’s hardly a spiritual experience.

When I am in my little garden hanging out the washing this is the real life I observed so long ago. The fact that I am out there means either I’m basking in the sun or being whipped by an exhilarating wind, either way enjoying nature. Looking up at the sky, observing the birds and tidying up the flowers are all part of the experience and an antidote to the internet; though I often grab my phone to take a picture of birds, flowers or clouds to put on Facebook or Instagram.

Of course you will know from books, films and television dramas that secret agents, detectives and important politicians never need to do the washing. But in my novel Brief Encounters of the Third Kind, Susan is a very ordinary woman in an ordinary London suburb. It is when she is in the garden hanging out the washing that something strange happens that will change her life.