Real Life According to Emma

Bi-Polar Bare

2012-03-07T14:26:00.000+01:00

A while ago a lad on the bus was chatting to me about his girlfriend. The mere fact of having obtained such an asset positively changed his demeanour. Instead of his normal monosyllabic grunt and slouch he became a young gent. His acne receded and was transformed into vocabulary.

About ten days ago he did not come out to board the bus to go home. Unsympathetic teenagers grew restive in my mirror. I cranked up the music but that brought complaints from the headphone wearers. At the last minute he appeared being led by a teacher. His tear stained face was swollen. It was over. Over. Over, with that terrible brick wall finality of a dead hamster in the palm of a young hand and the rest of mortality. The vocabulary acne inversion flipped like the magnetic poles of the planet in history.

Yesterday, they got back together. Compasses started to work again. GPS systems stopped talking backwards. No one should feel secure. It won't last.

I've been giving away books on Amazon KDP. I am one of the more successful donors of the American literary world. However, in the UK, the natural sense of cool reserve and dissimulation prevents the accepting of gifts from strangers. I have the feeling that if I were to tour in my white Rolls Royce cabriolet throwing bank notes to the crowd, they would run after me handing them back. Probably I would get a ticket for littering.

blueprint for a question not yet asked

Then the unthinkable happened. I started to sell books. Maybe after all I was a writer. I exchanged my life and personality for sales figures. Some days I see myself as a pie chart, other days a block graph. Yesterday I had that corporate spreadsheet feeling. Personality and self image issues - surely not!
As I looked out from my window yesterday into the cold clear dusk I saw a tree reflecting the direction of life, albeit very simplified.

Today sales dipped a little. A reviewer thought I should give up and drive a bus or something. The GPS is talking babble. I think I'm too old for acne. Insecure? Me?

Emma thinx: Whatever you've put in someone's life today - they're already passing it on.

Roll Play Exercise

2012-03-02T15:39:00.000+01:00

Spot the difference

There's a song by Janis Ian which contains the line "Let's drink a toast to those who best survived the life they led". Well - here's to all those who've survived the drink and the toast - and the butter, the foie gras and the chocolate. Life catches up with us doesn't it. The bus driving blogger novelist carboholic lifestyle has done its worst. It is not that the situation has got out of hand. It has got out of both hands. Soon I'll have enough spare tyres for every wheel on the bus. It had to stop. I have joined a gym. When I finish my morning shift I go straight to a modern cathedral of techno-flab where there are merciless machines that have ways of making you squawk.

Even worse the place is half full of skinny pert anorexics who do not need to be there and spend their self righteous time watching the sagging wobblers gasping for survival. If that were not bad enough I encounter neighbours and acquaintances to whom I would never present myself in rippling Spandex. I have seen a few films of an erotic and anatomical/educational nature where the participants wear masks so as not to be recognised (I assume) by friends, work colleagues or members of the book club. A small comfort like this would double membership. Luckily a little ray of sunshine fell upon me today. I staggered back through the door after a treadmill session watching a TV show about liposuction and heart transplants. There on the mat was a lovely sample selection from "Hotel Chocolat". Damn - I must have forgotten to cancel my subscription. And before I move on to literary matters here is a video clip I found whilst researching Vladimir rootin tootin Putin. I think it's about dieting. Keep watching until you see the ballet dancers! Wow - Gilles likes this video, but only the classical paintings. Seriously though - this world has so many cultures! Rejoice.

Tomorrow (Saturday 3rd March) is a free KDP day for "Knockout". The tweetbots and all the engines of cyber triberr will be whirring. I apologise for all the self promo. If you've not got your copy roll up roll up. Here are the links:
Amazon USA
Amazon UK
Amazon France
Amazon Germany
Amazon Italy
Amazon Spain

Emma thinx: Beauty is only deep skin.

Hacking Coughs

2012-03-01T01:25:00.000+01:00

OK - I'm a News junkie. At lunch time I watched the BBC NEWS. For an hour I followed a story that James Murdoch had resigned from News International. There was a 40 second interruption to tell me that North Korea had appeared to modify their approach to nuclear annihilation of Earth. Thank goodness they did not linger on that limp little column filler.

I was first in the queue on Sunday morning to buy the new disgusting filth soaked pack of lies, scandal and gossip that the Murdochs have launched to replace the degraded, vile, sex obsessed and delicious News of the World. To me it was a bit disappointing to be honest. I wanted a story of top toff politicians in frilly ladies' panties being whipped by pouting sexy Russian spies in an exclusive underworld vice den. I wanted the dark soil of alliterative adjectives raked open. The new Sun was a bit PC and non confrontational. It was like an anger management course for boxers. (Yes comrades - this is the latest wheeze of the world controllers. A British boxer, Dereck Chisora, has been ordered to seek anger management counselling after a punch up with another pugilist.)

Now - I am no Murdoch fan. He is a Union breaker and a tyrant. Normally I would have no sympathy but here is the truth of it all. Murdoch got in amongst the toffs and the self seekers at the top. They took his cash. They courted his affection. They were elected on his say so. They chortled and bloated at his overflowing table - glad to see lesser nobles, commoners and opponents beaten with shitty sticks. Then - the baron forgot who was king. He attacked other barons - not realizing that he was NOT actually himself in the club. He is a foreigner and a bruiser. You can guffaw and chortle inside the club but you cannot attack the club. Sadly, in the UK, affairs of the boudoir are in the public interest and light fell on several erect parliamentary members.

Now sensational News! Newspapers have been paying police and officials for juicy inside information!!! Journalists and cops intermingle, drink and chat together! CLAMOROSO as they say in Italia - although these days they can only afford lower case to save ink. Surely the sweet innocent public are astounded by such notions. Even worse, the hapless ex-editor Rebekah Brooks was given a retired police horse to look after. Can civilization withstand any more immorality on this scale? Such a tale of kindness to animals has elevated her in the opinion polls above every single politician in the land.

I'm no fan of Murdoch or News Corp. All the same I'll tell you who was afraid of the News of The World. It was the drug dealers, the child pornsters, the hypocrites who would control you, the pimps, the corrupt sports stars, the arms dealers and the perfumed icons who rolled in filth. I loved the News of the World and I doubt it will ever be replaced.

No one needs me to tell them that this a grubby old world. While we are waiting for the broom to sweep it clean let's keep the lights on and shining in the corners. When you live in shit, light may have to pass through a sewer to reach you.

Emma thinx: Scandal - the tabloid word for desire.

Biting the bullet

2012-02-23T23:56:00.001+01:00

Mystery headless man in white spotted at crime scene

I diesel droned the bus by the police tape that closed the block of flats and the shopping parade. Regulars might remember my little moan about derelict buildings and the vision of children. Well, the area is closed because of a shooting. Various young men have been arrested and the judicial processes set in train. Gowns and wigs will be televised. Pronouncements will be boomed in posh voices about violence and the protection of decent society. No one is surprised. Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday are lottery days. This time....this time!!! Such things can happen anywhere I know. Circles are vicious. Cones and spirals can take you up or down. I'll leave it to you to judge the general direction.

Now - I've spent several months in a dilemma. When your name is Emma that can tear you in two. It's not that I have not been writing - it is more that I've been uncertain as to the direction to go. To be frank - I am under frilled to be a Romance writer. I am a real person with tubes, follicles, on lazy/writing days occasional armpit and leg fur and the beginning of a tummy. Well actually - quite a mature tummy. Maybe it is time to write that gritty Earth moving novel about poverty and greed set against a backdrop of boiling revolution. A young peasant girl gives her only remaining kidney to save a dying investment banker who once tossed her mother a dollar to buy the baby milk that saved her life. He falls in love with her but with both her kidneys gone, she dies. Oooh - I've told you the story now so there's no need to bother. By the way - she sold her other kidney to pay off her dying father's pay day loan and a new winter jacket for the elderly three legged dog they rescued from the burning barricades.

So - I have actually scrapped most things I have been doing. The fact is that I love the escape of Romance and the its ability to blend sex with glamour and true love. Good sexy romance can educate women and men a little too! (My theory is that if a few of the angry young Kalashnakids had a bit more sex they'd be a bit more mellow). If you think kids get told it all at school - think again. The facts sure ain't the whole truth. It's gonna be Romance with all the sex-joy-love-passion power I can muster. I've been writing the story in my head for a while and things might go a bit quiet for a few weeks.

Now -let's talk serious bus driving. I am a full bodied Lycra clad righteous planet saving eco green cyclist AND a bus driver. You know, the real problem here is the way we manage traffic. Basically we are savages. I've never had any sort of impulse to injure a cyclist but driving long, wide and heavy vehicles in crowded tense situations is difficult and stressful. Big trucks and buses do not mix with bikes! Why do we think they should??? Now I've upset the the cyclists. Guess I might be the subject of a flatwa. You gotta laugh.

Emma thinx: When in Romance. Do!

Nessun Dormitory

2012-02-20T23:13:00.000+01:00

Oh - too brief my little trip to France. Even the problems of the great freezage did not weaken my love for my adopted home. We lumbered our possessions back into our UK rented house grateful that there were no floods, ice or power cuts. There was no heating because the modern state of the art wi-fi thermostat system had suffered an "Electronic anomaly". And there was me thinking it just did not work. A while later the auto fire alarm system developed a "signalling issue" and activated the "tamper threshold" on the theft alarm system. Stuff is trouble. More stuff is more trouble. My stuff and jargon decoder is at critical meltdown.

I left the return booking a little late and there were no cabins on the 2300 service from Caen to Portsmouth. That meant a night in the "reclining chairs". Deep joy! For a few extra pounds or euros you can buy a kit comprising of eye shades, a small blanket and an inflatable plastic pillow. Gilles and I gazed into each other's blindfolded eyes and puffed into our stubby inverted nipple nozzles. My Romantic novelist DNA flipped towards a public love scene where two lovers - perhaps fleeing from her crazed aristocratic family of sword wielding knights, attempt to escape on a Brittany ferry to find love in a Portsmouth concrete housing block. Realizing that members of the family had boarded, their one chance to cement their love before death was in a reclining chair, surrounded by iPod playing bleeping electro-geeks, a snoring drunk with a body freshness issue and some leather clad English biker who wanted to talk to his mate about his chain lube. Oh yes - public sleeping is a whole new game. Luckily there was a coffee machine a and a door to the outside deck. I would have kissed my lover in the moonlight if there had been any moon and if he had woken up. And they say Romance is dead! Now - looking for a link to Pavorotti singing "Nessun Dorma" (no one shall sleep) I saw on the you-tube menu this truly inspirational moment which many of you will have seen before. Even so - please allow yourself a pure surge of surprise and joy and watch this clip. You cannot tell a book by it's cover - except mine.

On the doorstep at the English house there was a soggy frosted parcel containing the hard copy of "Knockout". Wow - it looks like a book that a proper writer person could have written. Rosina had ordered me a copy to proof read. Oh no - can I face reading it again?....

Emma thinx: Read to a child. You can cover a book by it's telling.

Snow way!

2012-02-17T13:34:00.001+01:00

Defiance

As the last snow melted I sat in my garden this morning with a cup of coffee feeling the sting of the sun on my face. The furniture is re-assembled and dry. Beneath the snow a hyacinth proclaimed its defiance. New buds were green on the fig tree We are such little things - with all our vanities and petty brief lives. Whatever becomes of us, Nature will win and all our defeats and victories will be nothing. It is a comfort is it not?

Madame! Of course it never freezes here

I've been having a KDP free day. I shifted about 1700 copies of the "serious" short story "Sub Prime" and 800 of the Romance "Knockout". All in all now I have shifted some 10,000 copies of this book - the majority for free. I am not a marketeer or any kind of business person. To be frank, I am happy even if the book gives pleasure to just a few readers. I have never wanted to charge any money for "Sub Prime" because it is an unashamedly socialist story about exploited powerless people. The fact is I guess that in my old bed-sit "sincere" writer days, if I had sold 10,000 books I would have been able to work for a year - yes if I had sold them! The fact is that a Mills and Boon "title" used to sell about 7,000 copies before it is pulled off the shelves and pulped. I guess those days are gone. My own mistake is to have pushed out a single book without a series or stable of similar books already off the production line. If you just have the one book, so much effort and promo to get it noticed will create nothing but a brand vacuum. My advisors and I do clash a little over this. My view is that free days are great if it leads on to sales.....if.

Amongst the many regrets of my life is that I have always scrapped all the manuscripts that came back as rejected. I have always figured that the next one would be worthwhile and someone would like it. The danger was I may have been tempted to waste more time on the rejects rather than trying to improve. You think that posh educated experts must be right about you. You learn these lessons too late. I hope these rather dour words may get to you if you are a younger struggler out there. Do not throw it away just because a few publishers and agents sneer at it with remarks about inconsistent genre targeting etc. Soon enough you will have run out of time, your energy will be failing and younger better writers will be nearer those golden control buttons. My heart felt advice to all writer/marketeers out there is - get a bus or truck licence.

I hope I don't sound too miserable - I am not. I would like other writers to tell me their take. I really would like some feedback on where you guys as writers think we are going and what are realistic ambitions?

Emma thinx: If the snowball gets too big you can't see the glacier.

The Price of Love

2012-02-13T23:25:00.000+01:00

Water meter counting the litres in the ocean

The room in which I am typing this little epistle is warm. It was not always thus. Shortly before my arrival home in France it had been minus 11 degrees - just ask my plumbing. The water supply into the house was frozen so there was no water. Fan heaters, gas space heaters and hair dryers were employed until water reached the meter, which kinda exploded. A sweet guy from SAUR turned up and fitted a new one. The water advanced slowly through the house. The air temperature reached a positive number. Radiators burst, frost sparkled on the inside walls. We travailed with spanners and buckets. I dreamed of oysters and moules marineres. We ate cold tinned ravioli. Wonderful neighbours arrived with heaters and advice. We plugged in heaters and blew the electrics. We warmed on the advice. Invitations flooded in. I longed for daylight. Outside it was minus 7. Inside I reached absolute zero. Gilles was Gallic and shrugging his way through the "comedy of life". He is calm and sometimes I hate him. Around midnight we went to bed.

I was dreaming of water - great waves of gushing running water - maybe purging my anger, maybe purging me of the morally equivocal life I've led. Maybe dumping 931 litres of freezing water through the ceiling....Yes, the water had reached the upstairs bathroom and found a detached flexi-pipe. I ran downstairs through a downpour of water and got to the inlet valve. I glanced at the new meter which had started at zero. It read 931 litres. Well - it's always nice to know the size of a problem! Water was about 2 inches deep through the entire ground floor. Gilles arrived and commented on "La comedie de la vie". We swept, scooped and sponged the night away. Around 7.30 am the daylight I had longed for arrived. We surveyed the ruin. I suppose it is a comedy really.......

Today, the world's most helpful and kind plumber arrived to replace radiators. I have spoken of this guy before in a previous blog. He is an old school craftsman and gentleman. If you live in the Saintonge area I cannot recommend him too highly. Soaked furniture and possessions are slowly drying out. We are alive, fed and have a home.

OK - It's St Valentines day tomorrow. In the Super U hypermarket at Saintes there were not whole sections of the shop dedicated to cards, red velvet heart shaped cushions, teddy bears and special red roses. The main special feature was fat duck livers. In Walmart in the UK the merchanisers had gone mad. I reckon that the first guy to market heart shaped Valentine double dipper recession burgers in a red ribboned box will clean up. The ASDA (UK Walmart) brand have marketed a smart price budget Valentine card for 7 pence, (11 US cents). I guess that this was a tongue in cheek exercise to publicise their Smart Price no nonsense pricing. If so, I take my hat off to them. If Gilles has even thought of buying me one there will be no further blogs for a while unless I can post from prison.

Several days in cold water, ice and propane gas fumes have diminished my normal romantico flame and passion. Tomorrow is another day and I wish you love.

Emma thinx: Don't throw cold water on a flood of kindness.

Pistons on La Piste

2012-02-10T00:21:00.000+01:00

It is snowing here in Southern England. Two issues occupy my brain.
1) Will it be snowing in the morning and will the school be closed?
2) Will Gilles and I be able to slither the car to the Brittany Ferries terminal at Portsmouth in order to cross the Channel so that we can go home to France?

Come what may I am going home! Sunday morning hot baguette and oysters for lunch with wine ....Nothing will stop me! I will crawl through the snow living on nothing but the huge cask of brandy around my neck like a St Bernard mutt. (I love dogs and always think that mountaineers should have the rescue brandy round their own necks).

There is always much controversy over reverse parking and driving skill in the benda fender gender agenda. My sexy French lover, Gilles is an executive high earning occasional car driver. I am a minimum wage full time bus driver. If he offers to drive in the snow and ice - yup, he's got the job. Would I ever say anything.......? Do you think I would ever offer a single word of guidance...?

Emma thinx: Love has no end - only endings.

A Right Old Pickle

2012-02-03T14:27:00.000+01:00

Heaven and Hell in a jar

"Can ya tell'em at the school he's got a tempracha," came the voice of intercom mom from floor 23 of the tower block.
"Is that an' igh tempracha or a low tempracha," I ask.
"Woh - dunno for sure dear - but ee's right poorly."

I trudge back to the bus. It is Friday. The chances of intercom mom having a thermometer seem unlikely. Her boy is a right little sod and secretly I must admit I did hope that if she did have one, she had inserted it up his bottom. I think he attends about one Friday in each half term. At the school I informed the staff. As I swung the bus out of the yard I'm sure I saw them dancing in my mirrors.

However, let me get back to the real business and glamour of my life as a best selling romantic novelist. In my last blog I raised the issue of pickles and a lady apparently had not encountered pickled onions. You know, we always think that everyone is like us. When you are a kid you think that your family is normal. I never forget when I first went to a friend's house and found that not all parents hated each other. I was astonished.

You never know when you might need a pickle

Now I think about it, you do not see many pickled onions in France. You do see cornichons (dill pickles) and one just cannot eat dried pork saucisse without them. But the pickled onion is probably almost as iconic as British fish and chips. Most fish and chips shops still have a huge jar of pickled onions on the counter. It was my first ever experience of the impulse buy. Mr Henry Papadopoulos, the Greek fish and chip shop guy, plopped an enormous crisp vinegar soaked onion on top of my battered cod and chips (fries). Oooh, As my mouth blended the acid onion crunch with the crisp batter and the soft hot white fish sprinkled with salt, I experienced a deep physical joy. Soon after I discovered sex and I think it was only that that saved me from addiction and a life in the chippie. Incidentally, if you do eat a pickled onion, make sure your lover has one too. Greasy, salty gum-sucks are OK but unilateral pickled onion can slow things.

I think the goldfish might be dead.

Before I get away from the fish and chip issue I must make a major statement. The best fish and chips I ever ate were on the pier at Santa Cruz in California. As I sat in the open air overlooking the Pacific Ocean, an enormous pelican decided to dispute possession with me. Those birds are killers!

I'm sure there are all kinds of pickles out there unknown to Brits. In Texas, somewhere near Fort Hood, I found a quaint "old time western" shop selling cactus pickle. I wonder if anyone else does pickled boiled eggs? I received some as a gift at Christmas. Chip shops often sell them but they are just so acidic that my poor old tubes shriek at the sight. I've dotted a couple of pickle pics around the text just to excite you all.

And finally, some readers will not have encountered the quest of Kathy Lynn Hall to raise money for Wounded Warriors. She has written an e book, "The Great Twitter Adventure", the profit of which will be donated to the fund. It sells at only 77 pence in the UK, and is a first rate read! The above link is for for Amazon UK. Here is the Amazon USA link. Come on guys....99c or 77p...

Emma thinx: If you think you'd give your right arm for something, remember those who've given theirs for you.

Oxymorons Run Amok in Free Sales Orgy

2012-02-01T13:15:00.001+01:00

You know that insecure feeling when you come downstairs after the party, slithering on a wine soaked crushed samosa that obviously missed the eloquent mouth of some unknown drunk, who at the time, was the wittiest and most flattering intellectual in the world? For a moment you gaze around wondering how cobwebs could possibly suspend so many popper streamers until you remember that the spiders have had several months of freedom to weave silk ropes that could catch an anchor chain. And all because the lady is a novelist and does not do dusting. She also does not do ironing or checking of sell by dates on mundane produce. How can a pickled onion be out of date? Who did not know that 2007 was a vintage premier cru champagne year for bloody pickles?

This is a long way to explain that I had a bit of a party and that I know my life is being sucked into a femaelstrom of microwaved Swedish meatballs. Apparently Edgar Allan Poe first introduced the masculine form of the word into literature. I must start to get a grip. I get up in the morning in my furry dressing gown and check my sales, my blog comments, my facebook likes, my triberr karma rating, my Amazon chart position, my twitter re-tweets and my Goodreads reviews. I am become Electro-Fem, a Joan of Story Arc, a Romantic Grovelist at the keyboard shrine. Then I put on my woolly pully and go out driving my bus. Good job all the other motorists don't know that the huge vehicle in their rear view is being driven by a neurotic self doubting ego maniac on a cobweb and pickled onion literary guilt trip. This life would not have happened to Jane Austen.

Oooh - I'm glad I got that lot off my chest. The party was on account of having some 3,000 folk reading my book Knockout! by Saturday. By the end of the weekend I had shifted 8,000 books. Of course, they were all free on Amazon's grand KDP Select Adventure. My serious "mined from the sorrow of life" prize winning etc. short story Sub-Prime had shifted 328 copies. You know, I always bear in mind that I sell the Romance for 77 pence in the UK which is less than a candy bar. When it became free, there was an exponential increase in interest. And I bet you that someone who got it for nothing reviews it and says it is a soppy formula written load of sex, cops, robbers and slobbers. (Oooh, I love it!) I do hate it when people miss the point. As I hover on the publish button, Amazon have just started tweeting me as a "mover and shaker" and I'm still high in the rankings with sales increasing if anything. Does this make me feel secure? Of course not. See my thinx today. My future sense of security rests on the continued real sales. I think there might be a few bad hair-trigger days.

Somewhere in the fog of the party, an intellectual goatee beard type is reading the sell by date on my pickle jar and asking me what year it is. "Look", I exclaim, "I'm an artist - how the hell should I know?"

Emma thinx: From the ground you see the mountain. From the peak you see the drop.

Kreatures of Kreation

2012-01-30T14:13:00.000+01:00

Firstly let me thank Jo VonBargen for nominating me for the Kreativ Blogger Award. At my primary school I was appointed deputy blackboard monitor. Since then few accolades have come my way and I have searched in the desert of broken dreams ever since for that high. Oh - OK - I've been scribbling romance and I'm in double purple 3 glasses of wine on empty stomach mode. The regulations require that I list 10 things about me that one would not suspect. Oh dear, does this mean that I must submit to a warm bath of ego while my readers sponge my back. Ooooh - here goes then:

1) I play the trombone. Probably this is why I can be a little brassy. It certainly explains my love of Wagner.
2) I am not quite absolutely totally a fully pigmentally challenged natural blonde.
3) My favourite undergarment is my salmon pink and black lace basque.
4) I have a RYA coastal skippers ticket.
5) I have a Class 1 Heavy Goods (semi-trailer rig) licence in addition to my class 1 bus licence.
6) My ex husband called to say he was marrying a pole-dancer. Turns out she is my age, lives in Poland and loves to tango.
7) I am allergic to cats.
8) In France people think I'm Belgian on account of my accent and love of chocolate.
9) When sensitive English friends visit us in France I have been known to serve rabbit and tell them it is chicken.
10) My favourite position with my sexy French lover is... on the back of our tandem going downhill.

Gilles bought me my basque by mail order from a lively national company who provide lingerie and all manner of toys. They boast that their products are delivered in plain wrappers by their own couriers. I was at home when the doorbell rang and a large tattooed man handed me a package. With a wink he explained in a gruff confidential stage whisper - "Ere y'are Sweet heart - here's them naughty knickers." - I was quite shocked.

What a week-end. I've been free on Amazon KDP Select and Rosina keeps phoning me with updates. In the end I gave up and made leek and potato soup. To me it seemed a bit bland so I added some anchovy paste.....Ummm - well, we ate it.

The weekend stats have all sorts of astonishing aspects. If you are thinking of going for this KDP deal you might be interested. Breakdown of figures by Tuesday I hope.

The second regulation for this award is that I choose a further six Kreativ souls. Here is my list:

1) Claude Nougat - La giornalista piu intelligente in Italia.
2) Jack Durish - historian who is improving my general knowledge
3) Magda Olchawksa - for her informative and varied posts about the Creative Industry.
4) Yvonne Lewis for being the only other person on Earth to admit to loving Carousel and Oklahoma
5) Craig McGinty for This French Life - the best ever resource for news and info for expats in France
6) Julie Kemp for Empty Nest Insider - Intelligent writing about a variety of interesting topics.

Emma thinx: Elation and deflation have poetic relation.

Free Market Slaves

2012-01-26T22:50:00.000+01:00

If you look at my previous post you might have gotten the idea that I am a sex fuelled hedonist. Well, if not I'm gonna try and try until I make it there. It's only lack of book sales that is holding me back.

But let's talk about the "new capitalism" which is the buzz on the economic block. I hear Euro politicoids talking about "Fairness" as if the concept had just arrived on their desks with all the kick-ass imperative of a memo from Rupert Murdoch. Before all the social class, religion, nationalism and wealth difference poisons and divides kids - they know about fairness and justice at the age of three. Just try telling a toddler he took his brother's chocolate biscuit when he knows his sibling took it himself and framed him.

So - how is it that something so atavistic, so recurrent and ingrained in mankind has been subverted and lost in our teeming world of worshipped and applauded greed? I heard PM Cameron today declaring that Europe was falling behind the productive capacity of China. Oh no - maybe our systems of democracy, health and safety, social care, civil rights, conditions of work and wages are holding us back? Dear me - there is the answer then. Let's all race to the bottom. The finest time of Britain and the Empire was when slaves were bartered for gold, children started work at the age of nine and life expectancy was 25years. At least it would get rid of a few rival novelists on Amazon.

A few months ago a case of "human slavery" was discovered in the UK. There was wailing and a general gnashing of teeth. The political class were astounded and outraged. However, it was not a surprise to some of us. If you want another story here is a link to a terrible tragedy in 2004. At a time of my life when I was destitute I went to work as a turkey process hand. It was tough. Let me say that again - it was tough enough to break your bloody heart. I wrote a story because fiction is far more powerful than "News" because that happens somewhere else. The girl in the story is unattractive and therefore could not work as a prostitute which is the fate of most trafficked females. That does not mean she won't be used and raped by her "masters". The story is "Sub Prime" and is as true as a story can be. Ironically it is something of a best-seller although I have never wanted money from it. I have published it with an audio track, read by a dear friend. I cannot read it myself because it makes me cry so much.

This week-end Saturday 28th and Sunday 29th January, "Sub-Prime" is free on Amazon, along with its MP3 audiobook that will also play on the Kindle (I have also have a free romance novel on the same promo).

Click here for my FREE books on Amazon USA
Click here for my FREE books on Amazon UK

Emma Thinx: Keep the bones out of the bonus

Writing the Sex in the Text

2012-01-25T12:36:00.001+01:00

Shall we talk about sex? Oh OK - if you really want me to. I write Romance. Well - love and sex actually. In "Knockout" there is a story but it is a story about a sexy woman going headlong into a passionate sexathon with a beautiful guy. They do it in her bed. She does it all on her own. They do it in his bed, in Paris, several other places and they do it on a boat. They kiss and caress the burning totality of each other's lips. They adore each other's skin and musk. She craves the untiring hard knot of his controlling, urgent muscles. He longs for her abandon, surrender and softness They eat highly flavoured food and breathe the garlic of shared ecstasy. They drink champagne and lie naked in the warm open air almost as a sacrifice on the altar of lust. Oooh....if I don't stop tweaking the knobs I'll have to jump in a cold bath. And just think - it was me, a middle aged working woman who wrote it.

self portrait

The basic reason why I write this kinda stuff is that I love it in life and I love it in fantasy. I know it may be a brazen to say that, but it's true and if I'm honest then in my writing about sex I'm not short changing my readers. When I write a sex scene I am there and willing it on. Actually, it's writing itself.

There are technical problems in writing about sex. The big one (Oooh steady on) is the line between artistic, pornographic, anatomical, purple and naff. Different generations and cultures have different levels of frankness and taste. In the supermarket today I noted that I could present myself for chlamydia venereal disease testing while I was waiting for a new batch of granary wholemeal bread to reach the shelves. All those intimate swabs quite put me off the idea of a nice buttered crust. I was reading some supermarket Romance where the young lady presented her sexual arousal by way of her "dampened swath". That brought me out in a fit of the giggles. I figured if things didn't gel with the guy at least she could wipe down the kitchen worktops. In another similar epic, the young lady exposed her "creamy crevice" - so far this is the worst image I have ever encountered. Well, at least there is some classy alliteration. Finding the words, the euphemisms and the poetic passion of human juice is not always easy. Just this morning I encountered a curly triangle of love. Well, I suppose if your car broke down you could prop it up in the road to warn other drivers of an obstruction. It's all about context is it not?

knobs and shafts

When it comes to the male side of the park, obviously a female can only guess and ask a lot of questions. My lover man is never shy. His only complaint is that males only get to ride one wave while females can stay in surfing all day. - (Hmmm - depends on the quality of the water). Males provide more vocabulary problems. I have a few dislikes - such as swollen manhoods. It always makes me think of those old naval war films where they wear 10 layers of clothing under a duffle coat.. Luckily, my readers are mostly female and factors such as size of hands, width of shoulders and tone of voice can excite more response than shafts, lengths and pulsating needs. For fun I googled "knobs and shafts". Not quite what I had in mind. With males it's just so easy to get lost in engineering.

But here is the core of the issue. People like sex. Even people who do not want actual full contact sex are interested in it. Sex is us. We are born what we are and half the world has the opposite set of bits.

And then, of course there is love. Oh Love, oh love, love, love. This purest thing, rejoicing in the pollution of its own sense, losing focus so as to see nothing but the other. It is where the ego both asserts its power to give and shrivels in a humility of powerless longing. Our love finds expression and escape in physical sex. Cold sex is what my friend the poet Oscar Sparrow describes as the "gaping gash of loveless love". Getting this blend right is the work of the humble hack Romance writer.

"Knockout!" my romance novel on Kindle is FREE on Saturday 28th and Sunday 29th January if you want to check out how I deal with these tender literary parts.

Amazon USA
Amazon UK

Emma thinx: Love me - love my love.

Offside Clap-Trap

2012-01-20T13:43:00.000+01:00

Driving my bus this morning in the rush hour traffic, the commercial station favoured by the kids squeezed a news flash between an advertisement for a diet plan and a promo for new low prices at Burger King. And the news was.....David Beckham is gonna stay on with L.A. Galaxy. He spoke in his familiar London accent of his hopes to captain the British Olympic team at the forthcoming GAMES. (I will be hiding in France). He seems a decent guy to me but the fact that this small matter filled UK air time testified not to him but to the power of FOOTBALL. Yes, FOOTBALL, FOOTBALL, FOOTBALL,FOOTBALL and more FOOTBALL. I know that in certain areas of the ex-colonies this noble game is known as SOCCER.

Portsmouth fan

The game in itself is a reasonable entertainment to me. Some very nice male legs are exposed. The repetitive use of jargon and cliché is a genuine comedy of the "Victory is not about getting the most goals" variety. Last week I heard a team manager comment, "They had a couple of exceptional players. It was them that won it for them, not the team." Ah, I'm glad he explained that.

Southampton fan

All this stuff is harmless enough. Recently vile racist chanting has marred the game and the level of spiky mockery between groups of fans is quite distressing. I suppose it's all a form of externalised nastiness that real life suppresses. Just imagine some unfortunate office worker who made a small mistake suddenly being surrounded and jeered at. Surely most of us sing more when we are winning In the UK, I have been living near to Southampton whose team is the sworn deadly enemy of the nearby team of Portsmouth. Babies at the breast are told that they are either "Saints" or "Pompey". I guess it's all about tribalism too. I have added a couple of images of fans of both teams. I cannot imagine why David Beckham wants to stay in the USA.

Emma thinx: We only win when we're singing

Roboscribe puts her love on the line.

2012-01-14T19:29:00.001+01:00

Production line

It's coming isn't it. Just as I get to be a writer, the geeks come up with Roboscribe. Just as I got good enough with a glass of wine and a cleaver to be a TV Masterchef, the genre starts to fade. One Foodmeister gets arrested for stealing cheese and wine and another gets kicked out of his job with Sainsbury's. Probably the only thing left is to be the first Romantic novelist in outer space. Come to think of it though, there are already plenty of weightless novels.

This little tirade was brought about by a message in my inbox inviting me to buy some software with which to write and perfect my novel. Wow - now all I'm waiting for is a programme to do the typing and print it out. I was a little worried by the typos in the advertising blurb, but perhaps they did not use their own stuff - or worse, maybe it was wrote by a human bean. I will confess that there is a little devil in me that is tempted to spend my £9.99 ($15) and have a go......should I? I have tried working with Mills and Boon/Harlequin editors so I have walked on that wild side without shame......and publication. How did I know they would not run a book where the female heroine drove a double decker bus? One day a multi billionaire gorgeous Italian guy gets on, brushes her cheek with a wad of erotically scented cash and asks to be swept away. She stops her bus, rummages in her locker for her dustpan and brush and tells him with a knowing wink she is the woman if that's what turns him on....Can you imagine how I felt when I got that rejection letter?

Oh - how terrible it is to be a famous author. This is often the complaint of old school angst and closet writers. Just imagine how ghastly it is to be constantly in touch with your customers! Well, actually NO! As a mere worm in the pantheon of scribbling I love to hear from readers. A couple days ago some folk got in touch and told me they had done a review of my book. I would like to say thanks with all my heart and to assure the reading world that I just love to chat with them.

Emma thinx: There's no formula for love. It's chemistry Stupid!

Whatever - so what eh?

2012-01-10T20:35:00.000+01:00

I have a regular good old ding-dong (London-speak for heated discussion) with one of the lads on my bus. He's a challenged, disadvantaged kid with little going for him. Some mornings he finishes his breakfast of Red Bull and cigarette by tossing the can onto an area of littered grass and mud outside the run-down block of flats where he lives. The can then adds to an accidental collage of fast-food wrappers, dog excrement and an eclectic sprinkling of marketing driven "packaging".

He then inhales deeply on his cigarette, grinds the stub into the road, clears his tortured lungs, spits theatrically and boards the bus. Many a time, me being a judgemental bourgeois old cow/Romantic Novelist, I chide him for his conduct. OOOOOh ! I do hate litter. He shrugs and says "Whatever - so what eh?"

I ponder this matter quite often. Yesterday a bus job came up that involved me picking up some folks from a pre-school. Bright little souls aged between 3 and 5 with their parents were waiting outside the school to board the bus. Opposite the entrance there was a dilapidated housing block, awaiting refurbishment. It has been a long wait and I guess it could be a lot longer yet. The picture above is the view that these kids were looking at. Maybe we should think about how the seeds and attitudes will grow.

Emma thinx: By the eyes of the child arrives the vision of the man.

Insecure? I'm not sure really.

2012-01-04T13:31:00.001+01:00

Actually I was feeling relatively secure as I sat down to write my blog. Then an 85 mph gust of wind hit a tree just to the right of my office window. Several tons of wood split from the trunk and destroyed my neighbour's garage and a good portion of the house roof. The rest of the tree now leans towards my very position. Now, I've always maintained that any sense of security in this world is misplaced. We are helpless creatures of no account, clinging to our fragile capsule of individual conscious time. As dear old John Keats wrote for his own epitaph "Here lies one whose name was writ in water". I'm OK with the water, but I wonder if I could have it 50/50 with a decent brandy? Of course, John Keats did not have the benefit of the Insecure Writers' Support Group. The course of English Literature could have been so very different...

Insecurity as a writer is of course another thing all together. I mean, who is not a writer? Any time I tell someone I've written a book I find that they have already written several or believe that they have a host of unwritten brilliant narratives ready to wow the Readerverse. So - who would bother with me? Um - well - there are always the critics.

When I first launched "Knockout" I came across a lady who offered to review books. Her verdict opened "I knew at once that I would hate this book." All the same she carried on in what I can only assume was an orgy of masochistic self loathing. "The characters were unrealistic since no Police Inspector would just fall in love with some guy." She followed it it with the suggestion that "The writer is clearly a foreigner with no idea of England. (I am a Londoner) Names of places in London are used as if it were a guide book." The critic then turned to the matter of a restaurant menu which she felt was a poorly designed combination of dishes. Finally she declared that the character of a Police commander was "unrealistic since such a bombastic character would have been brought up before some kind of employment tribunal". I thanked her for her kind efforts but some small part of me wanted to say that it was a Romance where rather larger than life characters behaved rather "Romantically" in a world of unsuitable menus and horrid bosses. I could also have said that the Police Commander was based on someone I knew and if anything, underestimated his odiousness. As a final salvo the lady opined that the choice of the name Freddie for the French/American male hero was a ridiculous pun on a sitcom character called "Freddie the Frog" of whom I had never heard.

The choice then was whether to accept all her criticisms and not publish or kinda stick to my self belief that, although not high art, it was not that bad. Perhaps some of you guys will let me know.

I think I'm in my 35th year of more or less continuous rejections. I suppose my confidence wavers as I wait for the letter. By now I feel utterly secure in my prediction of the outcome. I know there is a novel from 20 years ago possibly in a slush pile, still out there somewhere. Some rejections have become treasures. A famous poetry editor wrote back to me to say that my work was ghastly but that he loved my covering letter. I felt validated and secure. It was the only time. I have always taken comfort from the notion that all the GREATS were rejected, cut their ears off and ended up in a pauper's grave. The only problem is that this is not true.

If I'm being serious I would say that all the years of rejections have never stopped me from trying and have convinced me that I'm unlikely to please any publisher/agent. This realisation is my freedom and I am secure in it. My good friend Oscar Sparrow, the poet, has recorded the supposed world's worst poem. People get in touch with him just to say they love it. If you wanna hear the sweet sound of heroic failure here is a link. By the way, the "world's worst" poet Theo Marzials was a huge success in his own life-time!

Emma thinx: The trouble with insecurities is that they tie you down.

April Towers.

2012-01-02T15:21:00.000+01:00

OK - let's take a deep breath, get out the dry bread and water, take down all the Christmas decorations that I didn't get round to putting up in the UK and face reality. Well - there are still several cheeses in the fridge and I spotted an overlooked bottle of champagne as I was looking for my hair shirt and gruel recipe book. Obviously I will be laying off the alcohol at least until the 5pm daily review moment. It's time to face the scales and the facts. Perhaps I could pretend to be a smoker so that I could pretend to have given it up. I am a novelist after all. I make things up.

The noose of toil has tightened and I am back in the UK. Far behind me now lie the memories of foie gras and fig stuffing, Pineau and hot baguette. We decided to give Christmas pudding and custard cultural food parcels to friends and neighbours. Watch out for news features about canine obesity. I'll never forget the day I tried my neighbours on some lovely English fruit jelly. I don't think they will ever forget it either.

We arrived back in time for New Year's eve and ended up dining with friends and their friends. Oooh I did feel a bit out of my depth. There was this guy who has written a book about Shakespeare but it's out of print methinks. However, I didst a copy find, by time defiled, on e bay. Like an ego-sodden clod I confessed to my own literary output, which as my readers will know, has a similar stamp to that of the bard. Several wine fuelled hours followed during which I kinda recall, the subject was ME. I do have to forgive myself because this was the second Brit who had ever spoken to me about being a writer. In France I count as quite normal but in the UK, folk kinda shuffle away in case I get out an embarrassing poem FOR THEM TO LIKE, read them a love scene or just throw a passionate pink frilled frenzy.

Tomorrow the bus depot shuffle begins. I have missed the kids and all the jangle of other lives. I have seen the New Year speeches of Sarkozy, Cameron and Merkel. As we left France I wondered if things would ever be the same again. Most of my life I have lived in a tepid bath of euro certainty. Now no one knows whether to pull the plug, let in more hot water or just jump out. My guess is that they will do all three together. Probably won't work.

Emma thinx: April. Yes - April.

Pineau Paradise.

2011-12-21T22:41:00.001+01:00

I am so so happy. I am home in France. It was not long before there were friends at the door, Pineau to pour and and invitations to accept. Don't these people know that I am an artist and have to WRITE? Luckily they couldn't care less because everyone here is an artist in the medium of smiles and humanity. The teenage kids kiss Gilles and I as friends and are respected as friends themselves. Whatever happens, mankind must not forget that we can care about one another.

Of course, it is Noel and the decorations are lit. French rural life is curious because it exists invisibly in homes and "les foyers". Streets can have a ghost like quality. We arrived after "La tempête" and the crossing of the Channel was a churning vomitous horror. The night previous to our voyage, the vessel "Le Pont-Aven" had not been able to enter St Malo because of the storm. I guess the crew must have had a terrible experience. For this reason I will not be writing to Brittany Ferries about the rude and almost confrontational behaviour of one of their car deck marshals. This large young shaven headed character had obviously trained as a night club bouncer. When Gilles did not understand his wild impatient arm gestures, he responded by pointing at his eyes with angry stabs and then at us. Finally we just pulled up behind the car in front and got out. We do not go on these boats looking for aggro with people who are paid to help us! By the sideways nervousness of his comrades I kinda got the idea that they were a bit uncomfortable with this guy. Brittany Ferries - let me say that we pay hundreds of pounds for these crossings. WE are the customers! If any of you guys out there have Trans-Manche Ferry stories I would love to hear from you.

In the meantime here are some shots of St Savinien at Christmas. With respect to the shot below, the box on the right is if you want a delivery. The box on the left is if you you would rather avoid one.

French letters.

Emma thinx: Peace on Earth? Well, it's no good looking at me!

Christmas, Kindlemas, Body Mass

2011-12-15T18:06:00.005+01:00

Well, the old boy did it. Oscar's book of poetry has gone live on Amazon Kindle. It's called 'I threw a stone' and he kindly asked me to write the foreword. Not only is it an e-book, it also includes an audio album with all the poems read by Oscar. I find all this uploads/downloads stuff a bit bemusing but I managed to get the audio onto my Kindle. All this new interconnected media gives writers the chance to produce some unique kinds of work. Oscar's book has a music intro as well. I believe that the e-book is not a competitor with the tree book. The e-book is actually a wide exciting medium in itself and can provide far more. The book trailer is here if you want to take a peek.

Apparently, this Christmas will in fact be Kindlemas. This is the year when the e-reader will be the must have item in Santa's sack. I think the old dead tree books will still have a place. I have shelves of them to show folks how learned I am. While books proclaim what you like folk to think you have read, the e-reader hides what you actually like to read. You can sit on the commuter train to a posh job in the City with your Kindle reading "Confessions of a Harem Handyman" and no one knows.

I have parked up the bus for the holidays now. Soon I will be going home to France for a holiday season of ruthless dieting, cold baths and exercise. On the other hand I might get out the foie gras, un bon Bordeaux and catch up on some reading. I wonder if we Brits will be turned away at the border by the Sarko police? His eyebrows really do look like circumflex (little roof top) accents, the presence of which in French denotes that a consonant used to be present in a word. With Britain missing from Europe the look on Sarko's face takes body language to new heights.

Emma thinx: Europic - a new serious vision problem.

Channel Tunnel Vision

2011-12-09T12:01:00.000+01:00

Well, that's that then. The Brits have swept their chips off the table and stamped off to the cash desk. How dare these Europeans think of regulating and taxing our world saving philanthropists in the City of Londres! If only we had some planes on our non existent aircraft carriers we would show these foreign johnnies some bulldog behaviour. Let them beg in vain for our chutney and orange jelly.

The Euro dream may or not survive, but the vision was there and I am very much part of that generation. Now the head boy will come back to St Margaret's to the applause of the City prefects. With pay day loans at 1,700 % and the latest scandal of long term investments sold to vulnerable old folk too old to collect, you can see why we need to sacrifice ourselves to keep these guys here.

Since the Brits didn't want to play, I'm glad the farce is over. All this stuff of demanding that Europe be a free market but not wanting to share in the responsibility for its continuance was getting embarrassing.

Emma thinx: Let them eat money.

Matthew 5:5.

2011-12-08T21:14:00.000+01:00

At 7am my mobile phone was ringing.It was the mother of one of the kids on my bus.
" I'm sorry dear....ee can't come today - I'm took bad an' I'm up the 'ospitall. I 'ad to send him round to my mate coz I can't leave 'im indoors like ee is."
She is an ageing mother now, in poor health. They cling to each other in a tiny fragile life boat. Yesterday a survey revealed that fewer and fewer UK citizens really cared about those poorer than themselves and blamed them for being lazy. That's OK then.

Emma thinx: Hiring now. Meek needed for major earthworks.

Weapons

2011-12-05T22:18:00.000+01:00

There is nothing simple. Love is wonderful. War is heroic. The deeper the love, the more terrible its end. The more terrible the war, the more joyful its end. The machinery of conflict has potency and evokes awe. The salt of tears shed in love spice the soul equally for king and slave.

In London I took a couple of photos and from these arose my thoughts. You will have your own.

Emma thinx: If you can think sensibly of love - you are not in it.

Far From The Crowding Mads

2011-12-04T23:09:00.001+01:00

I took the train to London. Ooh - I never knew there were so many people in the world and that most of them would be in Leicester Squash. Yes, yes I know it should be Square. Apparently they are improving London ready for the GAMES. What games do you say? Yes, the Olympics. I must confess to feeling that it's actually a lot of fit young folk running about and playing games. Tribal warfare with feral mobs of grasping lawyers has already broken out over the ownership of the Olympic stadium after the event. Anyway, they are pimping up Leicester Squash. Entering or leaving from the Charing Cross Road means battling with thousands of one's comrades through a small gap created by building site mesh barriers. Any faller would be trampled. Last night a rampant gang of spidermen dress-alikes surged and jumped through the shuffling throng. A comatose young female in Father Christmas garb was dragged along by merry reindeer mates. Ho hum - I'm getting old and longing for Charentes-Maritime. My business plan in this world of austerity is for the inflatable Olympics. The same stadia and palaces of pugilism could be traipsed around the globe and inflated in the winning city like a travelling fair or circus. And we could have all manner of be-knighted bigwigs blabbering about drug scandals in the bouncy castle event. OR - we could have the games permanently in some unlikely place that needs a cash generating theme park like....um.... GREECE.

I went to London in full bourgeois pursuit of ART. There is a fabulous exhibition of paintings by Degas at the Royal Academy of Art in Piccadilly. It focuses on his paintings of dancers and takes in that period when the whole notion of motion was a lotion flotion in the air. Photograph, film and the science of movement were combining to fix and define the relationship between Action and Time. Ooh - when I try, I can sound right posh don't you think?

I feel a bit mean for writing about Degas because he guarded his privacy very seriously. He thought the worst possible fate to befall a man was to be written about by writers. Well, that's all right then - I don't think I count. Regular readers will know that I once had a temp job in the ART world and developed a taste for the old brush strokes. Some exhibitions can be promoted with lofty themes and in reality have a cobbled up content. Not so this one! It is the biz with a buzz.

There is a modern term used in comedy these days of "projectile vomiting". I had always dismissed it as hyperbole although laughed to see it in" Little Britain"clips. Last night Gilles and I dined at a famous Chinese restaurant in Wardour Street Soho named "Wong Kei" (Affectionately known as Wonkies). This restaurant is known as being good value but with staff at best brusque, but probably often just rude. The food is kinda slammed down in front of you and plates are snatched away before you have finished. Last night Gilles was left in mid munch when his plate of hors d'oeuvres was grabbed from the table. To a Frenchman this kind of thing is incredible. In seconds the next course was slam dunked in front of us. As I began the Chicken in black bean sauce young man of about 8 years old stopped alongside my table. He turned his green face towards our table and clutched his hand to his face as he convulsed in pre vomit apoplexy. Suddenly he let go. A stream of hot pre-owned sweet and sour pork noodles splattered into my rice and onto my arm. Gilles, who had not been impressed so far, shrugged and asked cynically if this was the cabaret. The child appeared happier and stood smiling in front of me. Waiters arrived throwing green tea and bleach on the floor. The child wandered back to his oblivious family who were occupied with a second screeching child who was throwing some kind of tantrum and charging around the salon. Still green, the lad resumed his meal. I was delighted. I hate to see food wasted.

The sting of bleach in my eyes and the splash of vomit had cooled my appetite. We paid and left. You know, this is the land of plenty. Sometimes it is just too much.

Emma thinx: When you think you've had enough, you've already had too much.

Kissing Is Calorie Free

2011-11-30T19:20:00.000+01:00

I guess I thought that if I reduced my output of blogs I would automatically have more time to do all sorts of other things. What has actually happened is that I spend longer doing the same number of things.

As an act of pure self indulgence I went out to see a movie last night. Nothing too bad about that except that the screening was preceded by a chocolate tasting. It was an odd kind of event to be honest. The film was French entitled "Les Emotifs Anonymes". In the UK it is playing as "Romantics Anonymous". (There are sub-titles.) In fact this is not really a translation because the term and psychological condition "emotif" does not exist in English. In France there are self help and counselling facilities that recognise shyness, timidity, blushing, fear of intimacy, fear of social situations etc as at least a problem. In France I find my neighbours and friends to be both more formal and emotionally open all at once. We English (although this term is increasingly loose), are trained to cover our meaning and soul in layers of vagueness and politeness, rather like a hazelnut in a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.

The story of the film is set in a chocolate factory and hence some marketeer came up with the idea that a couple of the sales staff from the local "Hotel Chocolat" shop should stand in front of the cinema audience and chocolatize them. The girls done good and we all received some samples to reflect upon. I quickly analysed my tastes in matters of cocoa solids and sugar content and decided that there was just not enough of any of it. I must admit I did wonder how I would have felt if I had been ordered to stand in front of a chocolate hungry mob and give a speech. I think I might have crawled away to attend the local branch of "Emotifs Anonymes". By the way, this is a great film. In movies and plays there is often a pre-snog moment when the story focuses in on lips, eyes and glances. In a couple of moments the comedy is so potent that Angélique (played by the lovely Isabelle Carré), is fighting not to laugh as she approaches a kiss. It is a charming and lovely screen kiss quand même. This film sheds a light on a lot of private heartache and longing. It is subtle French cinema at its beautiful best.

Oh dear, world economy red alert. I'm out of work today because of strikes by government employees. European leadership has fallen silent and I get this image of ears pressed to the ground in citadels of power to hear the first crack and split. If I were a leader I'd be withdrawing all camouflage clothing from shops. When the marching and the flag waving starts, a rag-bag mob look less serious. Any lateral thinking government should be stocking up with chocolate bullets.

Emma thinx: They put orange creams in the box to show the flow of my generosity.

Cook The Books With A Gastrocrat

2011-11-25T20:09:00.001+01:00

Italy is to be led by a technocrat. Greece has been handed to a technopinion of technocrats. All of this misses the vital point. What is a crat? Also what is the proper collective noun for a number or gathering of crats? And another thing - how could you hire one or apply to be one?
"Excuse me Frau Merkel - we have a problem here. Could you send us a couple of crats?"
Anyway this whole issue has led to me re-branding myself as a writocrat, busocrat, laundrocrat and very much of a gastrocrat. World governments please note. If you need to pay a big wedge of cash to hire a crat, you need look no further. Once you've put a crat in your team you're on the way to salvation.

Well now, I've been kinda loafing about and kinda busy. You poor souls had to clear your inbox every single day of my output and I figured you might need a rest. I actually needed to get down to some good solid chocolate sampling and digging up of sexy tingle dust to sprinkle on a video trailer for "Knockout". I'm sure some of you already know that it takes about a day to do 10 seconds of visual. If you would like to see my efforts they are here.

At an educational establishment where some of my bus kids attend, they offer "life skills" training. Often this involves retail orientation and expertise development. You probably know this better as shopping. The idea is to show them how to handle money and how to evaluate the best price. During a recent tutorial held in a hypermarket, a student was grabbed by security guards for impulse buying without payment. There are several terms for this practice. The suspect explained that he had been asked to obtain goods at the best possible price. Now, that lad got the best deal in the world. And they say educational standards are slipping!

Tonight as I drove my bus on a 4 lane highway at about 50 mph a black cat flashed into my vision as it sprinted across the 2 lanes to my right, across my path, body swerved a lorry to my left and sprang on to the foot-way. I'm guessing that's 4 lives used up. If he makes the return he'll only have the one in reserve. Should I buy a lottery ticket?

Emma thinx: Why do the big breaks all come in life number nine?

The Worth Of Words

2011-11-18T21:24:00.001+01:00

On May 19th I pushed out my first blog. At that time I was in my little home in France. Blogging was apparently all part of reaching one's readers and building a platform. I must confess that I sighed a little when Rosina told me that this was what the modern author does. I decided to do it everyday, I think as a form of the discipline that you need to write anything. Deadlines are the best possible master. For me there is always a feature to read or a last ever chocolate to eat before I'm ready to write. So, TODAY completes 6 months of daily blogging. Manuals about self promo tell you that it is hard to think of a subject. My problem has been that it is hard to choose which of the many to attack. As I write this, my book "Knockout" sits at No 1 in the Kindle Romance/ Suspense Romance tag search. I think it changes by the second and works on a formula too deep for tears. (Check out these last four lines of Wordsworth's Ode on Intimations....)


Thanks to the human heart by which we live,	205
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

I was not looking for a tacky DJ style link to this piece. The full text is here. If there is one poem that really tries to tackle the slippery subject of metaphysics, this is it for me.

I know I should not, and I assure you it will be the last time, but the affairs of Silvio Berlusconi have once again caught my attention. In common with very few world leaders, he was a cruise ship crooner. As he resigned from office he released an album of songs called "True Love". I just wish I could have been at meetings between him and Angela Merkel. He was an outrageous clown and so often accused of immorality and corruption. All the same he coloured my life a little and I can't believe that he will never influence the odd character creation in many a novel. Ecco la musica. He was a monster - with a perma-tan facelift.

Looking back on my blogs I do chastise myself for my unkindness to some members of the teaching profession. Since the corporate tide swept Gilles to London for a while I have been back in the UK. I was lucky to find some casual temporary work as a bus driver and have been plodding a route with special needs kids. Everything I've said about the horrid teacher petty types is true. Since these characters are for more spiky and in your face, I have been guilty of noticing them more. This week I was chatting to an angel without knowing it. One kid is very challenged and has laundry issues. One day I happened to see his shirt was different and clean as he boarded the evening bus. The teacher washes stuff up for him. She's never reported a bus driver for being a minute late or early and she's never shouted her mouth off about being an angel. But she is! Obviously going nowhere in this world.

Emma thinx: Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who can do both, LOVE.

Typewriter Types

2011-11-17T14:12:00.000+01:00

When I was a kid (by the way, beware of anyone who opens like this), the great fear was the advance of the machine. The world was mechanical. Most watches still ticked in clockwork measurement of time, so that to me it seemed that time did "Tick away". Common London vernacular described the human heart as your "ticker". Now the beep and the arty bing bong form the punctuation of time. The electronic calculator arrived as I was at primary school and its been a one way street ever since. A few days ago the final bridge to that past was blown. The last typewriter factory in the world closed down. Now let us think about that. The works of F.Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Shakespeare were all qwertyd out by ribbon and roller sweat. (A deliberate error is included to keep you awake). I hit the keys during the 70's as a teenager and I still have my old friends at my side. These machines beat out novels and poems that were rejected by some of the greatest publishing brands in the world. Words pounded into the paper on these keyboards sat unread in slush piles of Faber and Faber, Mills and Boon, Poetry review and True Love magazine. Some of them are still there. Who knows, some work experience kid on a 10 year internship hoping for a job before she/he dies might be reaching for the next yellowing bundle on the !980 pile. What bothers me is what do we do when all the power goes off? Has anyone come up with the clockwork powered lap top?

A recent survey has revealed that "most people" feel insecure and vulnerable if they do not have their mobile phone with them. I suppose I should poo poo this idea but actually I think this is true. Firstly I think that folk feel insecure and vulnerable anyway as their jobs and life-style lose stability. Secondly I think that the cult of individual grasping for self that has created our societies, has eroded the notion of community. The mobile phone represents a kinda friend and a connection to our own network, where folk just might be more kind or care.

Unemployment among the young is a record levels and soaring. More and more old timer steam and clockwork guys are clinging on to their jobs, while kids who teethed on X box and have degrees are queuing for a job flipping burgers. I know it takes a while to turn the tanker around, but is there anyone on the bridge?

Emma thinx: In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is under contract to the bank.

Holding Out For A Hero

2011-11-16T12:55:00.000+01:00

Really I'm a bit of a pleaser type. If I write something I've got half an eye on what I think folk want to read. I don't think I could have been a Charles Bukowski although I do admire him. He portrayed himself as a drunken sexist, although I've found that men like me more when they're drunk. He spent years sending his poetry to editors and getting knocked back. For years he worked as a postman and from his own account in his book "Post Office" was hardly employee of the week. When I've entered poetry competitions I have been guilty of double guessing what the judges would like instead of ploughing the arid furrow of artistic truth. In social situations I try to pretend to be kinda like the other folk there and just go home. As an employee I'm semi obsequious because I want people to be pleased with me. I think I am most people don't you?

All of this brings me on to another of my heroes. Yes - you've probably guessed it - Silvio Berlusconi, that slimy arrogant self seeker who should be the enemy of all righteous pure people like me. Take a look at this clip which is just so outrageous that when I first saw it I could not believe it. Also notice that he only had about a quarter of the hair on his head that he has today. The point is that people like this represent the possibility of being audacious and getting away with it. I would not want this guy anywhere around me, but I rejoice in the comedy of his vileness. This is a most inconsistent argument and I'm not proud of it. But it sure makes me laugh.

I'm missing France and the French language. I've been tweaking the foreword to Oscar's book and called him. In the background he was playing Jacques Brel singing "La Chanson des Vieux Amants". Brel was an unparalleled genius as a musician and a poet. If you love French, or your soul longs to understand its longings or you feel homesick, have a chocolate and a weep with me. Go on, give in! This song is so beautiful in French.

Emma thinx: The imbalance of your inconsistencies = YOU.

Homeward Bound

2011-11-15T20:29:00.001+01:00

It's week 4 of the Warm Fuzzies Blogfest and it is also the last week of my daily blog before it moves to a new twice-weekly schedule.

The quest this week is to discover what makes us scribblers do it at all? Hmmm - well, I would have to give two separate answers. I write poetry because I want to magnify that small voice that is the essence of life. Most of the time you cannot hear it above the rumblings of lusts, stomachs, diesel engines and the pick and mix dilemma of daily decision. As I have aged the sound has become ever fainter and more distant. These days it is the blurred hiss of the TV sound system between segments of the jangling multi-coloured commercial breaks.

I write Romance because I like sexual passion, travel, wine and drama amongst most other things as well. The sensation of warm sun on my skin, a glow of Bordeaux wine and a long deep kiss of lips and souls that starts to build my desire, is where I want to be mentally all the time. As it is I aim a bus through heavy traffic and shop in Walmart. I am saved by a gorgeous lover. Romance writing is a turn on and is intended to nudge the love nodes of my readers. For me this is fantastic because it gives me too an erotic buzz and allows me to use what I learned about words and moods as a poet, but without the ruthless discipline of poetry and short stories. If I combine my two responses it would be in saying that I write because I love words and words of love are the writing of our emotional DNA.

I have chosen a passage from my novel "Knockout!" when the lovers are spending the night in Paris. They have dined and become engaged that evening. Both Anna and Freddie know that huge forces beyond their rapture are hurtling in. At stake are their lives - or worse - their love.

That night they made love tenderly, without urgency or complication, reaching out to each other like the roots of two seeds blown by chance and interwoven as one. At around midnight they lay touching hands in the moonlight. The window was a little open and admitted sounds from the street. In the distance voices and traffic spoke the muffled language of other lives. Somewhere close by in another apartment a sad saxophone played reflective moody late night jazz. If there had ever been a moment when she would have stopped time it would have been then - in the mellow moments of their after-love and their before-life.

The great River Seine rippled and pushed on to the sea as the sun tip-toed the back stairs of the world climbing towards dawn across Paris. Maybe the morning light would never uncover two lovers hiding within the protection of each other’s arms…

I would like to add my thanks to Juliana for hosting this blogfest. It has been a marvellous opportunity for me to encounter so many other writers. I know this kinda stuff is hard and eats time and so I wish you now a little peace and poetic space.
Tonight as I drove my route, the setting sun was a cold red disc in a sky of cruel blue. The kids were singing along to Rihanna's "We found love in a hopeless place". A particular lad always wants to sit next to me. He pointed at the volume control to indicate he wanted to pump it up. I pumped it up as a V formation of rooks passed across the void of space and we sang, bopping about in our seats. For just a moment I really felt the lonely turn of our planet in the cold indifference of the cosmos and heard it filled with defiance and a kind of love. The lad cannot speak.

Emma thinx: A beautiful second will fill all time.

For Juliana: WFPF 4xposts plus 4xtweets = 24 ?

Toilet Humour For Robots

2011-11-14T21:08:00.000+01:00

You know those shows like "Les Miserables" and "Oliver" where there are always packs of ragged urchins in dirty clothes and smeared faces. All the same, they intone in posh fake underprivileged accents and defy their filth with their perfect white teeth dazzling from their blackened well nourished rosy skin. It's a form of theatre I have always called Singing In The Pain. You would think that these historical "shows" are colourful cameos of those poor n 'appy snappy, golden gutter, good old days. Please forgive my little pastiche of show biz poverty. It helps if you flap your arms like a bird and do a knees up misery minuet.

The trouble is that when you come across kids who are are only slightly less piteous, who smell and whose crooked teeth are already stained with tobacco, you kinda think they should be cheerful. They are not. I pulled up in the bus this morning and picked my way through the detritus spilled from ruptured bin bags on some wasteland which adjoins a run down house. A chaos of bins, old bikes, a bed and a rusty supermarket trolley vie for dominance in a garden of unintentional urban art. Eventually a lad stumbled out, unwashed in the same torn soiled clothes he always wears. This is 2011. We have been to the moon. So far we haven't got to poverty and more importantly, its causes. Some politicos will tell you it is not there. Follow your noses guys.

As an act of goodness I agreed to do some child sitting this morning. It was not too tough, but it was a peep at a world that I had forgotten. On the TV was a channel clearly sponsored by some global coloured plastic manufacturer. A few seconds of cartoons were followed by about 15 minutes of toy advertising. One toy caught my eye and actually made me laugh aloud. It is called "Stinky the garbage truck". It is billed as "interactive" and you can see it here. The imagination of these toy designers is truly fantastic. This machine belches, farts and defecates. It bellows and sings and actually is the most crass and UTTERLY DESIRABLE TOY I have ever seen. I have had dinner parties with people who have behaved very similarly but without the entertainment. I want one and I'm gonna pester and pester and pester and stamp and whine 'til I get one.

Another toy was a radio controlled tarantula. Some horrible boy was tormenting his squealing sister into terror. In my youth they just stuffed a frog down your knickers. I guess you just can't get the frogs these days. I've never mentioned it to Gilles.

Emma thinx: Imagination - the pale public mask of unlimited fantasy.

And Still The Bodies Come Home.

2011-11-13T20:06:00.002+01:00

Today is Remembrance Sunday in the UK. I feel humbled by the TV pictures of older men and women who endured war and combat. Now they stand in Whitehall in the slight mist of a late autumn day. Green leaves still decorate the plane trees in a defiant gaiety, like a soldier's marching song. I reflect that all the crowds gathered there would only have occupied an hour or so of a machine gunner's time in the trenches of World War One. At Passchendale each human life was exchanged for two inches (5cm) of advance.(140,000 soldiers died)

The magnificence and pomposity of State plays out a fabulous theatre which does give gravitas to the ceremony. Today and tomorrow the mines, bullets and bombs will harvest their crop of lives and limbs. The flags will drape the coffins. We all agree on the futility and cheer our brave warriors. One day, one day there will have been enough killing. It is easy to make hollow judgements and rhetorical appeals for peace. Peace appeals for itself. Where are the humble giants of humanity to silence the strutting dwarves of division? I hear those opposed to European unity and wonder if they skipped a few chapters in our history.

Lunch-time found me in a country pub for a traditional English roast. It was the occasion of a distant relative's birthday. Ooh, how I would hate to be a caterer. The poor lady had to explain that the roast potatoes had all gone wrong - so it would be mash or boiled. There was a bit of huff and puff, a dash of English tut tut and several Gallic shrugs.Through the window a clear blue sky drew me a picture of two aeroplane vapour trails crossing in a perfect kiss. I took a photo to show you. I am alive, I can eat and kiss. I think I thought sincerely of those from whom War had stolen their hitch with the potatoes or had no eyes to see.

Emma thinx: The enemies are those who divide us, not those from whom they divide us.

Lies, Damned Lies and Bus Driving

2011-11-12T20:23:00.001+01:00

I suppose there are degrees of shame. I'm always telling people not to beat themselves up. In the absence of the confessional I'm just gonna confess to all you guys out there, most of whom are Russian Mafia spamming me from websites with a .tk suffix. All you computeroids out there probably knew about these creatures years ago but they have only just come onto my radar. If you see postring, glowlan, massprofits on your traffic BEWARE! They constantly change their names so keep alert.

So here is my confession to you sweet readers and also the Russian Spamming Mafia. Last night I parked up my bus and came home. Somehow a large gin and tonic slipped accidentally into my hand. As I lifted it to my parched longing lips the phone rang. It was the bus company. There was a crisis and a mob of kids had not been picked up. Was it possible for me to dash back to the depot, collect a bus and save them? Enraged parents were foaming at the mouth with anger and only I was capable of confronting them. And then I lied. Oh Great Unisex Progenitor of the Busiverse, I told them I was not at home and could not get there within an hour. Even as the lies slithered from my throat, a life giving infusion of gin passed it on the way down to my deeper soul. Did I want to deal with rage filled parents? Um - no to be quite frank, I did not. Kids - I am so sorry. I have felt wretched all day.

Another reason for my deception was that I was going out. I was going to dine with some friends of Gilles and the food would be Romanian. Just the idea of Romania reverberates in the follicles of the romantic novelist. So, I prepared myself with interesting comments about Romanian culture. I had googled the work of Mihai Eminescu (headline photo) and read (in English) his passionate poem "Desire". I enquired as to what the hostess liked to read. And the answer was "Pride and Prejudice". That shut me up. I've never read it! We had a lovely meal of pork with the finest ever mashed potato which was as light as mousse. There was beetroot with caraway seeds and cheese filled pancakes. Gilles has such wonderful friends who do big stuff in the world. Sometimes I wish I'd gone to school properly instead of wandering about wanting to write the poem that is out there somewhere in the Universe. At least I knew the smell of river water on my hands and knew that I had stolen it from under the nose of Time before it faded into the hour, the lifetime and the deception of personality.

I've been hiding from Formula One and football. Oscar Sparrow called me to say that he had to put out his first ever blog in preparation for the launch of his collected poems. As a blogavirgin he needed inspiration. I told him, rather exasperatedly, to write about bloody racing cars going round and round and round. He said he would but was worried about the jargon. I tried a translation myself.

Emma thinx: Drag reduction system: keeping Queens out of Formula One.

Slush Pile

2011-11-11T20:15:00.001+01:00

At last I have got down to the Warm Fuzzies trial by keyboard. If you are not a cognoscenti, the mission is to talk about the story arc of the Main Character of your Work in Progress. Well, I can't really do that because the WIP is not simply a fiction although it does have a main character. As a writer I believe I am what is known as a pantser. This is not purely lack of planning but a deliberate gift of freedom. Most of my stuff has been self edited to the bin and the rest has sat in the slush pile until it melted with the Spring sun. So - please excuse me talking about the main character of my short story "Sub Prime".

Now this tale was written in my heart for many years after I had had the experiences described. When I presented it to a magazine competition it won the prize but they refused to publish it (Publication was actually the prize plus £50), because it could upset advertisers. Two of the judges clashed over the issue in my presence. One was a T.S. Eliot prize winner and the other an acclaimed author. I felt like the mouse in the herd of elephants. This experience changed my whole view of writing and in fact more or less finished my serious career ambition. It was the chance of a major breakthrough and no one was allowed to see it. (Thanks to Indie publishing it is now out there). I think it was then that the Romance writer was born. I love sex, passion, intensity and joy in my own life and I make no bones about it. Some writers are fantastic writers. I am just a being with a pen. Writing Romance is a turn on and reading it should fix you up a bit if you need a fix. However, I digress. By chance during a low ebb of my fortunes I came across the world of casual labour and illegal immigration which amounts to modern day slavery. The main character is a male, a tough guy who drives a truck until he is thrown out of work. As Christmas approaches he gets the chance of some cash and finds that maybe he ain't so tough. He has to confront the matter of his own inner strength and finds himself humbled by someone far weaker. More humbling still is the generosity of the human spirit and the hopelessness of those without power. All I can say of this little story is that it makes me cry even today. If you fancy a look at it it's FREE. I would only ever give it away although Amazon list it with a price so do not buy it there. You can get it FREE here on
Smashwords with audio. It is formatted for kindle, nook, apple, EPUB, kobo, pdf for PC or Mac.

In my life I have made a few faux pas. I have cocked it up, gone off on one, grabbed the shitty end of the stick and undoubtedly taken the biscuit. Today was a milestone in contemporary embarrassment. The bus company put me on a new route as a guest act. Because the kids were younger with very challenging behaviour I had an escort who was kind and lovely. This evening as we arrived at the school she warned me that one of our passengers was difficult and needed to be firmly advised that no misconduct would be tolerated. I saw the obvious passenger approaching flanked by two staff. The lad looked about 20 with bleached spikey hair and and bellowing a rock song while playing a violent air guitar. OK - I had to be firm.
"You'll have to pipe down on the bus and sit quietly," I demanded, standing aggressively in his personal space.
"I'll remember that if I need to travel," he replied.
I heard a shriek from the escort.
"Not him! that's the headmaster," she shouted.
Well, as you get older everyone looks so young. Apparently he was doing something for charity.Teachers and important people are a problem for me.

Emma thinx: Most people's problems are people.

PS. Juliana WFBF 3 posts =15, 3 tweets = 3, Total 18?

Hi Ho Silver.

2011-11-10T15:57:00.002+01:00

I love science and there is nothing better than kinda working out something for yourself. My first ever contact with the matter of latent heat was when I discovered the Indian dish of lentil Dahl. I became aware of an issue when my first tasting of hot lentils turned the roof of my mouth into a huge blister that could carry enough fluid to keep a camel alive for a crossing of the Sahara. When I researched this matter I found that learned scientists were already on the job. If you're a lentil gobbler check out the truth here. So, science was ahead of me with lentils. During the night I often get up for a cup of tea and a think. In the kitchen of my temporary English home there are silver fish,(pictured above). They are just so beautiful. Whenever I come across some little bug and take the time to examine their complexity and the sheer audacity of their marvel, I always think of Walt Whitman's saying that he saw "nothing but miracles". By the way, Walt was an Indie author and self published his first books.

So, although these little miracles are plentiful in my night kitchen, I'm not too sure about their little "borrowers" routine in the sugar bowl. Chemical pesticides and the like are a no no but my scientific brain at once told me that there is a solution. I do not have any in my French kitchen but I do have my huge huggy friends, the house centipedes. Guess what they eat? I bet you need a license to import a few. It could be the grey squirrel all over again.

Oh no - big trouble in the world of never ending footballfootball footballfootballfootball. Firstly the English were not allowed to play wearing poppies but luckily Prince William and the Prime Minister intervened. I always find that the threat of the Tower of London and Beefeaters' pikes soon deals with all those foreign johnnies. But even worse is that Couldn't Care less Carlos Tevez has refused to play, picked up the ball and has gone home to his mum in Argentina. Now, only one WOMAN OF IRON knew how to deal with Argentina when they wouldn't behave sensibly. Maggie - they won't give us our ball back!

Emma thinx: More creatures live on crumbs than live on loaves.

Death! Plop.

2011-11-09T18:53:00.000+01:00

OK Literatti - let's get down on some poetry. Today I have been busy on a whole new project of compiling and editing a book of poetry on behalf of Gallo-Romano Media. Regulars will have heard me rattling on about my mate Oscar Sparrow whom I have known for many years. He's a bit kinda prickly to be honest and is a tree book hard-liner. On account of that he's scuffed along in a bedragglement of small press pamphlets, anthologies and Arts Council artsfarts. (An artsfart is a form of poetry only read by South American ant-eaters) Eventually I have persuaded him to put out a small collection of his poems via Rosina's media outfit. Everyone knows that no one reads poetry except other poets and they don't like it cos they didn't write it themselves. I'm officially gonna be credited as editor and a small contributor. He believed that he has sold his soul to the forces of Mammon but he cheered up when we assured him that no one would read it and he wouldn't get paid. It is at moments like that you know you are in the presence of a true poet. I wish Oscar were my brother so that I could love him.

There was a poet called Theophilus Marzials (1850 - 1920) who is sometimes accused of having written the world's worst poem. In his day he was a successful writer and it only since his death that the critteratti have spiked into him. Oscar uses this as an argument against having any form of success in this world. Now, I like Theo's poem and so you know what I'm talking about - here it is.

A Tragedy

Theophilus Marzials

Death! Plop.
The barges down in the river flop.
Flop, plop.
Above, beneath.
From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.
Plop, plop.
And scudding by
The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,
And my head shrieks -- "Stop,"
And my heart shrieks -- "Die."
* * * * *
My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled
They all are every one! -- and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
And dizzy me dead.
I might reel and drop.
      Plop.
      Dead.And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
      Flop, plop.
* * * * *
A curse on him.
      Ugh! yet I knew -- I knew --
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end --
My Devil -- My "Friend"
I had trusted the whole of my living to!
Ugh; and I knew!
Ugh!
So what do I care,
And my head is empty as air --
I can do,
I can dare,
(Plop, plop
The barges flop
Drip drop.)
I can dare! I can dare!
And let myself all run away with my head
And stop.
Drop.
Dead.
Plop, flop.
            Plop.

Just read on from "slimy branches" through to "thin tree top." To me it is a poem teeming with drippy droppiness and flappy ploppy flopshiousness. Of course, its absolute lusciousness of vocab kinda does away with the sentiment of TRAGEDY which he is trying to capture. I like it because a guy wrote it when he had trouble with a woman and whatever was going on this trace of of love remains and I am here reading it and talking about it. Theo - you were a man who wrote poems. Time has made you a poet in my heart. Over to to you guys......

More international MARKET people all day talking about what they want the world to do. Is there any further point in the pretence of having meaningful national democratic governments?

Emma thinx: Economic Feudalism - the noble savage serving the savage noble.

Clamoroso

2011-11-08T20:35:00.000+01:00

I do wonder about the role of the press. The whole Greek problem with referenda on and off, coalitions coalescing and journalists journalising worked its way up to a frenzy in much the same way as I attack a jar of anchovy stuffed Greek olives. Of course, at last they are all gone and you are in with a frenzy without a cause. Suddenly a cry goes up. Greece is done as a subject. Editors scream for more copy and the circus moves on to Italy. Grave faced reporters report on the seriousness of the problem. A first wave of retired ex-experts are dredged up to talk to camera whilst the crisis is fanned up to a level where real experts can be hired in. The credit rating guys look at the thrashing whirlpool of exciting gloom and put up the interest on everyone who cannot pay, while reducing them for those who can! More experts and retired statesmen are called in and they predict further gloom.....Do I need to go on?

Of course there is nothing new about this. When I was a kid at school I was not that girlie and was entertained by the boys who played fantastic playground games. One game was called "Pile On" and could occur spontaneously at any time. Some kid would be knocked down, perhaps in a fight. A cry would go up "Pile on, pile on!!!" Kids would run to the scene and fling themselves on top in a heap. Teachers would charge to the scrummage and start pulling at the boys who clung to each other in order to resist. The girls would stand about watching, advertising their angelic goodness whilst enjoying the spectacle. One day I'm gonna switch on the TV and see a reporter yelling "Pile on!" I have asked some modern kids about this game and apparently it still exists under the name "Bundle".

President Sarko is in trouble on account of a frank private conversation with President Obama. This matter has come to my ears as I was writing the above paragraph. Seemingly the Press decided to blab the story and the old "Pile On" game goes on. The same scribblers who denounce in purple prose hypocrisy those caught in the Murdoch phone hacking scandal, quite joyfully report an overheard private exchange. Mind you it was good to see Sarko and Obama in agreement. Guess French Fries might be back on the menu soon. Not so sure about the bagels though.

Are you guys watching what has happened in Greece and Italy since I revealed the CQB index on Sunday?

I just want to say that there are roses. It does not matter where they are or what they are doing. The Roseness of the rose is there as part of the fabric of existence. The photo is of some supermarket roses that have flooded my heart with roseness every time I have seen them in my hallway this last week.

Emma thinx: Take off the mike before you take the mickey.

Pick Of The Crop

2011-11-07T20:21:00.002+01:00

Every billboard on every street and on the side of every bus is announcing the Coming. Tomorrow it will be here. Have you got yours yet? I guess you folks all know that MW 3 "Call Of Duty" is launched on Tuesday 8th November. Of course I was aware of all this. Well, I could see that these ads were plastered everywhere and that they looked like they had been stuck up using a bucket of mud. To the horror of the anger management lads on the bus I did not know that this was a deliberate effect and that the product was a computer game for the sex box 360. It's all about grunge, squalor and violence. I must admit that in a world where films are seen as sensational if you get a full nipple exposure, it astonishes me that "gaming" revels in psychopathic violence seemingly as a celebration and a joy. If you wanna see a clip this is the trailer.

I have no right to pontificate on such matters. The closest I have come to warfare is when my mother took me to the January Sales in Croydon, South London. In those days "The Sales" actually offered bargains. We queued from about 6 am. The plan was to attack the doors as soon as they were unbolted. My mother was going to run flat out for a winter coat. My job was to drop back and obstruct pursuers by running far slower in a zig zag. It worked and ever since I have had a kind of interest in military tactics. However, this was not the master blaster machine gunning engagement of "Call of Duty". I guess that it was not real war either. But what I want to know is whether proper brave soldiers, serving or vets, want to play these games? Is there a problem when violence is fun and painless? I bet there are all manner of studies and I really would like to know, but there again I'd like to know so many things about human behaviour.

I mean does anyone have a child and say to themselves "I want to bring this kid up to be kind, modest and honest as a priority"? Should one not say "I want my kid to big themselves up, muscle to the front and get rich/ important /successful/ admired/be a bishop with a palace/martyr/ etc." I am not a Christian but I have no argument with their outline propositions. In a world where there is no sign of the meek inheriting, to what extent should you influence your kids to be meek? I've been a parent and I am a grandparent and I just dunno. Do I say "Go snatch it kids" or do I say "Maybe someone needs it more - hang back and help them." ? I am a hard line Atheist, Buddhist, lighter of cathedral candles, pinko commie, semi revolutionary property owning hedonist. I have no special insights.

As I passed a run down take-away pizza store tonight in my bus, light spilled out onto the footway. I glanced into the empty shop to see a large moustachioed man at the counter poised to serve his next hungry customer. Obviously a slice of pepperoni had become lodged up his nostril and he was attempting to gouge it out with what looked like his thumb and several fingers. The meat feast could be a no-no.

Emma thinx: Don't solve the problem until the solution gets you noticed.

Mein Hair

2011-11-06T18:23:00.001+01:00

In the world of high finance around which my life revolves, I am constantly hearing the term "Haircut". Seemingly this means to write off a portion of a debt owed to you. Unfortunate banks are likely to have to accept major haircuts on loans made to Greece. Luckily, the banks will be "re-capitalised" by governments if it looks like they will fail as a result. So boys and girls - who do you think will end up with the bald eagle hair-do in the end? Um - that's a tough one. All these affairs of state got me thinking about the hair styles of European leaders and I do believe I have spotted a pattern. Exhaustive research has shown that a tidy haircut leads to financial ruin. Just compare the coiffure quotient bias (known as the cqb amongst insiders) between Angela Merkel of Germany (Solvent) and Silvio Berlusconi of Italy (Indebted and struggling). When you see evidence this profound you will realise that the market rule is "If you don't want to take a haircut, avoid leaders who obviously know a few hairdressers". The most startling proof comes when you look at George Papandreou of Greece. Now that's what I call a haircut. The poor guy has given his all. Dear old Great Britain who kinda stumbles around trying to find the key to the last of the kids money boxes remains afloat while the markets accept the bluff. A quick glance at the Cameron Coiff should steady the exchanges for now while we look for that damn key. By the way girls - can you see how the term "haircut" is dripping with macho don't give a billion kind of swagger. I'm gonna tell my own creditors that they have won a free re-style.

I'm getting a bit peeved with product pricing. A pack of prawns last week at ASDA was the same price that it had been in March. Hoorah and jolly hockey sticks! The only difference was that the weight had reduced by 100 grammes. This is an enormous increase. I had earlier noted that chicken breast fillets had been similarly reduced in pack weight. So, what is going on? Do they think we don't notice. Having been out of the UK for a while the jump is obvious. I guess if you just plop the same stuff in your trolley week in week out you may not spot the difference. So come on guys -d'ya fink we're like stoopid or summink?

Emma thinx: Tosstesterone - the ultimate field event steroid.

Every Child Splatters

2011-11-05T19:04:00.000+01:00

I suppose we all think we remember what it is like to be a child. I've always been a great admirer of writers who can produce stories and characters that grip the attention of children. I often think that some books for very young kids are designed to appeal to parents. Writing for children is a special talent and I'm guessing that you need some element of personality that is still rooted in being a child or younger person. I must admit to wondering if you actually have to like children. Maybe to know children you have to retain some their utter cruelty. Are there any children's writers out there to tell me?

This topic came to mind as I was sitting in my bus yesterday afternoon. A woman with a little boy of no more than 3 walked past and we made eye contact. I could see she was kind. A few yards ahead was an enormous puddle. The lad looked up at mum who smiled consent to an unasked question. The lad ran in splashing and shrieking with delight. Soon he was soaked and the reality of cold wet clothes overcame his pleasure. I guess that was his first time and I was forced to reflect on how quickly the predators begin to nibble at our innocence. All the same it was one of those little golden moments that will stay with me. She was a lovely mum and no statesman or super star has ever done more.

Once your kids grow up and in my case very quickly become far more serious and sensible than me, you kinda lose touch with a large slice of the world. Luckily, driving a school bus has refilled my account with all manner youthful cultural currency. I do like to have a little sing and a bop about as I'm waiting for the kids to come out. Yesterday a student took the time to give me a steer to Genki Sudo and a music group named "World Order". Now, I missed all those protest songs that were spawned by the Vietnam War and the threat/fear of nuclear attack. It is tempting to think of young folk as conditioned and accepting on account of the lack of overt radicalism in politics. This little clip (you may think it goes on a bit) represents some cogent social comment and the yoofs are much more aware than you would think. It is also very troubling to realise than most people are so much more talented, so much younger and so under employed.

A high powered committee have named three new elements for the periodic table. Apparently they are super-heavy and fall apart as soon as they are created. Tomorrow I'm gonna send them one of my poor attempts at Quiche pastry. Soon Calinium will be number 113. Immortality at last.

Emma thinx: Youth - your state of mind before your mind's a state.

Absentee Tee Hee

2011-11-04T14:48:00.000+01:00

The best possible thing about being back at work in a real job every day is that I get a FRIDAY feeling. It has also toned my mathematical ability because I can tell you at any time of the day or week how long it is until Friday night. Now, in researching this little matter I clicked on You Tube just to see how many "Friday Night" entries there were. My maths weren't up to making a full count. Yes- this sense of week-end release from toil has always been a background in my life ever since I can recall. This is one of the reasons why French life has a very different feel to it. Here in the UK I really notice the whole 24 hour culture. It always amused me to see folk buying groceries at the all night gas stations. For security reasons they do not allow shoppers inside but the goods have to be poked out through the little gap left for you to pay. A plastic milk bottle will just bend through but a pack of Cornflakes is a major challenge. I reckon there is a fortune waiting out there for the guy who invents Gas Station retail ergonomics - you know like a hot water bottle of milk, bread rope and a sausage of washing powder. If any of you lot steal this idea I'm gonna be straight down the Gas Station to hire an inflatable lawyer.

Rain and thunder slowed traffic to a crawl this morning so I was 10 minutes late getting to intercom mom. I thought I'd launch a pre-emptive strike.
"I 'spect ee's already dun 'is teef," I quipped.
"Nah dear - ee's not too good an' ee won't be in. Can you tell 'em."
I crawled on to the next client - a lad of about 16. Normally he stands at the bus stop smoking a cigarette. Torrential rain fell and there was no sign of him. I knew his house and went to the door. No answer. I returned to the bus soaked and getting cold. On Friday I can take anything.

At the college I saw my favourite official.(She's the one who reprimanded me for speaking to a parent about their child's behaviour when I was not a professional educator). Yesterday she reported me to the bus company for being two minutes early even though she was standing there. She has to know who comes in. This morning I watched my lot troop past her while she wasn't paying attention. With anyone else I would have braved the rain and told her she was two short. Important officious people probably think they win the game. I bet her little heart swelled with pride inside her reflective importance jacket as she grassed me up. So - she's had her tremble of official joy.....

Emma thinx: Know what the game is before you try to win.

Culcha Vulcha

2011-11-03T13:38:00.001+01:00

Dear me - I think I've been missing something for the past 24 years or so. Once I had realised that I had completely wasted my opportunity to be educated I kinda figured that clever people read clever books and listened to Beethoven, at least until they were ready for Bartók. Until recently I think I had been becoming more and more SERIOUS. I soon realised that the kids on the bus were not ready for the Shostakovitch cello sonata . To be honest I'm never been sure if I genuinely like this stuff or not or whether I'm just a bit up myself. Anyway check out that guy doing the Gershwin piano.

But the kids voted out the culcha and it's been WAVE 105 all the way each and every day. Well, this morning I heard a song that made me feel so happy. I had the kids singing along and cranked it up to full volume. If you were at the traffic lights this morning next to boom box bus with the warbling old Doris at the wheel I don't care. I rushed home and downloaded "Deleted Scenes From The Cutting Room Floor" by Caro Emerald. This is super album that makes you wanna dance, kiss and wiggle ya waggle. Oh if you like Caro Emerald you'll like a French singer called ZAZ. This song "je veux" sung in the street in true "Chanteuse" tradition is a joy. If you love Paris and la langue francaise it's a little gem.

Older people are having more and better sex according to a new survey. Over 70% of males and females over 60 say they're having more fun than ever. Ho hum - that's great but should we not be looking at the life style of the consumption driven brat tortured middle-agers who live in a blur of work and tail chasing? For late boomers like me it was possible to dream of saving up your life for later.(Actually I saved it up for a rolling infinite NOW). As pensions dwindle and opportunities atrophy these younger folk ought to think about having some decent sex TODAY. I wrote a poem about this issue. Check out "Boomer" here.

News on the radio that Dyslexic cops are to receive special notebooks. What I want to know is why every time I've been booked for speeding the officer has recorded all my details perfectly leaving no loopholes. Surely once in my life I deserve a dyslexic ticket that allows me to beat the rap.

Emma thinx: Chill - there'll be another NOW along in a while.

Warm Fuzzies - The Sequel.

2011-11-02T22:33:00.002+01:00

So, this is my second week at the Warm Fuzzies Blogfest. The mission is to give a clue about what we scribes are working on. The above photo will tell you so much about my work in progress that actually it's hardly worth writing the book. My dear manager Rosina, tells me that there are more than enough books about transvestite stationery salesmen and that the genre is worn out. She is a bit of a tree book nostalgoid to be honest. ( Remember the days when the big six dinosaurs used to rule the world and they ripped down all the trees so that there were only 20 literosaurus wrecks who were allowed to have paper to write on). However, if the book is not what she thinks then you guys are bound to be able to work it out, post your guess in the comments below...

As for inspiration and music whilst writing, my own requirement is actually nothing but silence, some kind of neutral middle distance to stare into and coffee. I need at least an hour to think down to the kind of depth I want to be at. I don't want any distractions and I can be absolutely horrid to seekers of keys, bicycle pumps, menu suggestions and telephone sales-slaves. If I'm writing about a kiss I want to be a warm lip. If I'm in the street I want to hear the sounds. When I was a serious poet I used to think for weeks about what my subject was like - you know - what does a meadow mean?

Dear Oh dear - too much "I am an ARTIST" stuff. I have had far more immediate concerns today - particularly regarding tattooed breasts. Two ladies whom I encounter during my bus driverly duties have tattooed orbs. One of them wears her breasts au sauvage under a low necked vest. I can see that some kind of toothed serpent is rising from somewhere around her nipple and I must confess to an immense curiosity about the rest of the design - I mean is there a basket and a guy with a flute down there somewhere? I really don't like to stare or ask. The other lady is something of an official figure and wears an important green luminous jacket. On sunny days a smudgy blue bouquet peeks out searching for warmth and photosynthesis. I can't imagine there is a hidden flower tub or vase can you?

Now, I know that men would only want me for my mind and soul, but I do wonder if cleavaged tattooed breasted women become offended if males allow their eyes to break away from intellectual and emotional eye contact now and then. A while ago a friend sent me an intriguing photo from Japan. If you can't bear the thought of the needle and ink but you want to catch the eye, these revolutionary scarves might help.

Emma thinx: Look up and you can see two thousand stars. Look in and you can see everything beyond.

For Juliana at WFBF: 2 posts on Twitter = 2 points?

The Ghost In The Machine

2011-11-01T19:48:00.001+01:00

I'm beginning to lose the plot. Not only is it National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and National Author's day, but also it is the National-blog-everyday-for-a-month Fest (NaBloPoMo!). What I did not know until I went to ASDA was that it is also National Sausage Week here in the UK. Now come on guys, you've got to admit that all that literary stuff fades into the background compared to the English Sausage. I'm gonna be taking part in the slog the blog binge since I pump it out every day anyway. Seemingly sausage is now the number one meat choice in the UK. I do wonder if that is because it is relatively cheap. In recent years I have noted the sizzle of the gourmet sausage such as Venison and Tarragon endorsed by Igor Apronifico and similar culinary luminaries. I sometimes wonder how far this kind of kidology could go - maybe François Potagier's Pheasant and Camomile Chipolatas? I reckon I know a few gourmo-snobs who would go for it.

Now - if you look at the above pic you may well wonder what it is. Last night was of course Halloween (La Toussaint). Eventually I heard a noise outside and took a shot with my camera hoping to startle them with the flash. After they had retreated with their haul of sweets I checked out the photograph. Now - perhaps the flash didn't work or perhaps I was shaking with fear or perhaps......the Unthinkable. It all looks a bit spooky to me. Could be a whole new genre.

The headline shot today was sent by a friend in France who knows I am temping as a school bus driver. I believe the photo is from Morocco. Now, I know I complain a bit about my lot in life but well, all things are relative. I'm just so pleased that the bosses of the bus company are unlikely to see this image. I bet you there's some bright shiny young thing with a modern tie and spiky gelled hair who's just dying to wow them at the next cost cutting brainstorm meeting.

I note that as a foreigner I can't win any of the NaBloPoMo Blogfest prizes. Well, I do not suppose I would be in the running but come on ....we gave the Fonz an MBE, or rather the Queen did. Next time I take tea with Her Majesty I may well raise the matter, although generally she raises this kind of issue with me first.

I've been walking quietly in the soft low sun as if I were still a poet. In the end my poem was one line, but so are we are we not?

Emma thinx: For each fallen leaf there is a branch with a memory.

The Overall Effect

2011-10-31T22:03:00.001+01:00

"Ee's just doin 'is teef but the lift's broke," came the voice of intercom mom from floor 23 of the concrete sky. We all waited on the bus as the lad made his way down the steps. At last he arrived dressed in the same clothes that he always wears. It's fashion sport wear and it's always clean. I think it's all he possesses. Mom must strip him off as soon as he gets in and poke it in the washing machine. Poverty is relative of course. Seemingly there are now 7 billion of us and the world can no longer feed us. When I see these poor kids and how they cling to the lifeboat of fashion even at the expense of food, I realise that the soul/status/ego/self image of each person is both our joy and our agony. It is a perversity to see the anorexic vision of catwalk model beauty amidst the plenty and the Fast food/Big Biz/glamour glitz worshipped by the poor.

Yesterday afternoon I watched snatches of the first ever Indian Formula One Grand prix. How lucky they are that the Gods of Guzzle have handed them the golden gladiators of radiators. Oh yes - the land of Shiva is now the land of GP diva. I'm a bit wary of making liberal arty farty capital out of the whole car racing circus. Probably it makes no difference but to me India has always seemed a land of advanced spirituality - beyond the brand and logo of plastered bill board overalls. And yet the taste of madness is sweet you know. Those childhood orgies of fallen conkers, hoarded simply because they were there, run on into adulthood and are delicious. The scream of wasteful engines and the kingfisher flash of wealth are seductive. Seventeen thousand revs of orgasmic horsepower speak louder than a quiet voice of thought groping out for some gentle insight. Rip the rubber and ram it home to the chequered flag. Think simple and get the goods. That's the true grand prize. Who am I to say different? At one stage of the race a car stopped at the edge of the circuit. Suddenly a mob hurtled towards the high grilled fence and pressed their faces against the metal in an agony to touch that far far world of the man with sponsored boots and million dollar gloves. These two worlds will never collide - provided that the fences hold.

A very disturbing film is out on DVD about the life of the racing driver Ayrton Senna. I'm not sure if it was meant to worry me but I kept posing a Wagnerian question "Where is there for defeated gods?" Many folk saw him as a GOD. That would be very difficult for a guy who simply drove cars in the name of a cigarette brand would it not?

Oh no - trouble in the temple. The Dean of St Paul's cathedral has resigned over the strife around the anti-money changer demo on the steps. I love St Paul's cathedral and have so often lit candles to the lovely building echoing choirboy fake-up-kid-yourself-spirituality God. Seemingly the elders of the temple can't agree over whether or not to support the protests. I can see that this is a tough one. You get some kind of hippy guy show up with a few rough looking supporters and they go on about wealth and greed. Yup, even old Pontious Pilate was perplexed. He kinda fixed things up in the end though.

Emma thinx: Bossmosis - How the higher sucks out the lower.

Tea For One and Two for Tea.

2011-10-30T20:37:00.003+01:00

Well, here I am back in Blighty. As I stepped red eyed and head-ached from the car my first impression was of fallen leaves. Initially I thought of back aching raking and sweeping. Then I thought of a proper strong cup of tea and gazed from the kitchen window onto the sog and bog of damp drizzling drab which is the Sunday morning after a night on the English Channel. The pint mug of tea pulsed out into my blood and flooded me with proper thoughts of love and romance. I found myself singing in French the song "Les Feuilles Mortes". Look- I can be a pretentious stupid cow can't I? Actually I only know one verse that goes:

"Mais la vie separe ceux qui s'aiment
Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit.
Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des amants desunis."

A quick translation : Life separates those who love each other/softly without sound/And the sea erases from the sand/the footprints of parted lovers.(This is deliberately not a poetic translation.The French language IS Poetry simply in itself).

In the famous Nat King Cole version in English, this is not translated. If you want to feel the emotion of this season enhanced by music there are so many versions. I have chosen one here by Andrea Bocelli. For me the visuals are a bit busy, but have a glass (or two) of red wine, turn to whoever you love and remember that life is brief and that words of love are our Spring and they they will grow until one day their fruit passes inexorably into memory.

Now - let's talk about condoms. A while ago when I first wrote "Knockout" I pushed it out for some pre publication reviews. Generally things were OK but one reviewer savaged me for allowing the lovers to have sex without condoms. Well, actually I did not allow it because having created these impulsive passionate beings the minute I took my eyes off them they were at it without even referring back to me. She attacked my irresponsible attitude to venereal disease and the kind of example I was setting to readers who might try this kinda thing at home. I know that from a public health point of view she was quite right but I just wanted naked passion between impossibly larger than life people in a wish list world. Now, fellow scribes - tell me what you think. PLEASE. I don't want to go down in history as the woman who poxed up the populous and chlamydia-ed Christendom.

And then there's the subject of the tea served at breakfast on Brittany Ferries. I crossed last night from France and took the buffet breakfast in the restaurant aboard the vessel "Mont St.Michel". As always the staff were flawless and kind. However, Gilles and I took tea and received one pot of hot water and a tea bag each. I believe the tea was Twinings. For me it was a bit pale but it was OK. There was just not enough of it. You can just about get one cup. The breakfast buffet is generous with ham, salmon, eggs, cereals etc etc etc. It is brilliant quality and value. If you order tea and coffee you get a whole pot each! We Brits need more to prepare us for life back in the UK. Dear Managing Director.........

Tired and deprived of tea I turned on my lap top to write this blog and saw that a wonderful person had given me a lovely review. on Goodreads.

Emma thinx: Isaac Newton was primarily an alchemist. You can only get it right by being mainly wrong.

Horny Cowgirl

2011-10-29T12:22:00.001+02:00

Today is a busy travel day so there is little time to write. Yesterday I decided to top up my memory store with images of my beloved Charentes. Newly ploughed soil stretched away across fields edged with the gold and auburn of Autumn trees. The river laden with silt eddied and dimpled as it pushed on to the sea. These images will keep me sustained through the traffic and anonymous rush of life. But above all, yesterday was a day for cows. I do not think I have ever shared with you my love of cattle. Of course, it's all sentimental twaddle since I'm quite content to eat ris de veaux and entrecote.

The white beast at the top is a young bull whom I met in a field between Coulonge and Taillebourg. If I wrote Rumance (that's romantic fiction for cows), this guy would be Fernando Terrifico. Just outside St Savinien I came across a small herd of beautiful cattle with calves. Take a look at their lovely faces.

I just love the one with wonky horns. The one on the left looks kinda aware of her beauty. She just turned and posed for me in a film star way. I could just see her getting it together with Fernando.

And of course, the picture to the right is what it's all about: the meat, the cheese and the milk. Without that nipple tipple where would we be?

Emma thinx: Wretched beasts who know so little. More wretched still those who do know.

Cinema Paradiso

2011-10-28T22:24:00.000+02:00

This has been my last proper day at home in France. Tomorrow I must turn my face and soul to the barren cruel north and get set to drudge the dark days of joyless survival. However, I have a project that will keep me motivated. In our temporary home there is a fireplace and there is a chimney. In St Savinien there is always that slight catch of wood smoke in the air at this time of year. As I opened the shutters this morning to find the church tower softened by mist, that soft smell of hearth and warmth caught my senses. Yes, I will have a fire and I will smell that sense of love and home which is at the very heart of our unexplored longing. Yes, longing - what a term that is. I believe that is what actually defines us. It is what forms the anger within so many folk. When I came back to urban strife it was an eye opener for me. I had forgotten the resentment and the violence in the soul. I see it now in the face of the road ragers and the angry special needs kids on my bus. I was a careless parent - probably quick to chide and impatient with youth, always restless with a selfish show-off ego to feed. I know all that will have bred anger and resentment. To be a parent you need the wisdom of age and the energy of youth. If ever I'd applied for the job I don't think I'd have made the short list.

I wonder what the term cinema means to you. As a teenager it was essentially a dying art form, pushed under the water by pop culture and television. Now of course, pop culture as a monolithic entity no longer exists and television for young folks is merely background drivel as they tap on their various i pads, foot pads and key pads in a whirl of anti-social networking. Do you ever feel like screaming when you have to keep saying "Excuse me" to catch the attention people who are in your room but connected on tap tap tap machines to 8 thousand far more interesting people who are just " wow so cool yah lol".

In St. Savinien the cinema is the "Florida". It is not a multiplex 25 screen luxury lounge. The building looks like it used to be a barn. The foyer is kinda professional. I think the guy who sells the tickets also does the projector and makes the coffee for the interval. Last night was a rare treat that could only happen in France. The show was a concert followed by the film "Arrietty". The concert was performed by none other than Cecile Corbel, composer of the film's music and a virtuoso player of the celtic harp. Now, after the concert, there was an intermission. Free coffee and galette was served while Cecile Corbel signed CDs and chatted with quite ordinary folk like myself. I must admit I felt like a bit of a hem-toucher. I know absolutely nothing about music so I admire these folks so much. Normally I would never approach such a person but Gilles went and got a signed CD. It will be a treasure. The movie is almost innocent and almost feel-good. However, there is a sentiment that reality will triumph over sentimental wishes. Blink and you'll miss it and you'll go home with a warm glow. The movie is hand drawn animation from the renowned Ghibli studio. It's so beautiful with a true sympa sound track. See the trailer here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jeoKCQUDE-k

If you like animated film you must see this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7JDbe8DmoY. L'illusioniste is one of the most touching and tender films ever made in my view. It was written by Jaques Tatti and only put out after his death. A fey sense of sadness drifts through it which is almost impossible to quantify.

Emma thinx: Home is where the hearth is. Light a winter fire.

Relativity For Ripples

2011-10-27T23:55:00.002+02:00

There are some words in French that just convey how different life is here. The word "Auberge" carries such a quality of hospitality and warmth. Gilles and I decided to lunch out today at Taillebourg at a restaurant named "L'Auberge des Glycines". For the Romantic novelist this is the kind of venue where lovers might dine. Earlier in the year I strolled past when the front of the building was ablaze with mauve wisteria. Today rain fell on the river Charente as it swept past. In this mood I think the lovers would be discussing the impossibility of their love. As they talk, the raindrops leave their stamp of ripples on the flowing water - perfect circles, reaching for ever outwards and yet are swept helplessly onwards in the flow of life. These reaching innocent moments of perfection are born to fade into the chaotic power of the river. Maybe our lovers can escape the pull of time? As I sat sipping my aperitif, these were my sketches anyway. This restaurant is in a beautiful location. The cuisine is absolutely first class. The menu is relatively limited - but believe me, this is no bad thing. It means they know what they are doing and do it well. If you are in the region and fancy a real gourmet treat at a very reasonable price check out "L'Auberge des Glycines" here.

You know those cookery shows where some celebrities get a tin of baked beans, 2 kippers and a cabbage. Their task is to create a gourmet meal whilst celebrity chefs pontificate and mock their efforts. I thought I'd give it a go but without the mocking supercooks. I had some left over salmon, some Brussel sprouts and some potatoes and a couple of slices of bacon. I also had a rather dried out baguette, garden herbs and some chillis. The result was breaded salmon fish cakes with chilli sauce served with stir fried sprouts with bacon. At Intermarché whole Pacific salmon costs about 6 Euros and the bottle of Bordeaux will cost you 1.43 Euros. It's obviously not a grand cru but it's more than acceptable.

One day I'm gonna patent the safety cheese grater. Making my breadcrumbs I managed to remove enough fingerprints from my thumb to keep me out of Scotland Yard's data base for life.

You can tell I'm back in France because I'm rattling on about love, food and wine. Well everything else is just dust and existence isn't it? (Well, there is cycling I suppose).

Emma thinx: Love does not confer rights. But it makes your wrongs delicious.

Passage to Taillebourg

2011-10-26T22:55:00.000+02:00

There's something so exciting about discovery. Imagine having the chance to find the source of the Nile or even America. Of course there were Africans and Native Indians who used to wander about such places on their way to work every day. I guess they didn't know that anyone wanted to know about where they were. Nowadays, in the car at least I have Sat Naff. Huge satellites orbit the Earth some 12,000 miles away and they know where the source of everything is. Nevertheless today I got out my bike and set out to discover my own personal equivalent of the Northwest Passage. My aims were slightly more modest and amounted to finding a route from St Savinien to Taillebourg, not using the normal road. It was almost like stepping back into history as I encountered the little hamlet of Coulogné-Sur-Charente. I only have a couple of full days left here in France before I head back north for the madness of it all in the traffic with my bus. As I sit in the queues and bad tempered road ragers blare horns and shake fists I will re-live my moments of slightly woodsmoked air and the whizz of my bike as I opened the South East passage of my own little world. If you are looking for a holiday in Europe and you don't want the tourist trample come to Charente Maritime.

I do wish the Brits would stop belly-aching about Europe. OK - there are problems but all this "We want the trade and the advantages but we don't want to join in" is getting tedious. I do not want to go on about politics but if you look at the World Atlas you will see Great Britain (The Disunited Kingdom) a few miles to the north of France. That's where we are guys. Prime minister Cameron is sitting on a very sharp fence that threatens to slice right into his leadership regions. John Major called the anti European faction "The Bastards". Oddly enough that was more or less what the French called William the Conqueror.

If you are in France Leclerc supermarkets have some great prices for whole sides of French pork. They are also well priced for Boeuf Bourginon and other casserole beef cuts.

Emma thinx: United we stand, but only because there are no seats.

Yes I can.

2011-10-25T22:50:00.001+02:00

Now, today is a slight departure from my normal approach. Generally I just blog away to my readers on any subject that comes to hand. Most of the time I'm not sure if I'm a bus driver, a Romantic novelist or just a slightly dotty old Doris with a fantasy literary life. The fact is that for the moment I drive a bus and I have written Romantic short stories and a Romantic novel that is selling quite well. My home is in France but for a short while I am living and working in the UK. Today I am back in France and as I strolled through the beautiful streets of my little town this morning I was thinking about my project which is to do a blog for Julia Brandt's "Warm Fuzzies Blog Fest". The subject to be approached is that of "Do you tell people you are a writer and what are their responses?" Just as this thought was hurtling around the empty space of my mind I came across a snail climbing a very long hill. I took a photo and it is posted above. The Great spirit of Happenstance and Inspiration touched my shoulder and I saw at once the situation of the writer: that slow climb to who knows where, dragging that shell of isolation across the pitiless tarmac of everyday life.

Yes, these days I do sometimes tell people I am a writer. However, I'm careful who I tell. I do not tell fellow bus drivers. Most would reply "Well, I'm glad to hear it cos you're pretty poor at driving a bus." It's true I did break a mirror doing a reverse park and since I'm a woman it will NEVER be forgotten. I do tell a few posh middle class people in England. The responses are usually polite but flippant..."Wow - that's so cool. I'm gonna do a really sooooper book myself soon. I hope you don't do that stuff all about billionaires and sex in Paris. That is just so sad yah! It's kinda like for people who need cheap escape and stuff and buy those awful supermarket books with hero torso on the cover yah." When you are a something like a bus driver, people like to keep you in a safe slot. My partner Gilles is kinda posh French and has a well paid corporate job. A bus driver who is a published poet and prize winning writer just jangles a bit so I usually don't say anything. Gilles enjoys the sport and usually blabs something. A few years ago I won the town Literary Festival prize. It was all very public but you know - no one ever said a thing to me. I was a bus driver - NOT a poet. If anyone ever read the poem, no one ever said.

Even more years back I was living in a fairly run down part of South London. My ex husband had been a truck driver and I did whatever temp work could fit in with bringing up kids. I entered a Christmas short story competition in a newspaper. My entry was "Sub Prime" and was based on real events from my life. If you are reading this blog you can get it free here (for every kind of e-reader device). There is also a link for the audiobook version.

A couple of weeks later, the judge - a nationally acclaimed poet and writer called me to say that she was so sorry that the paper could not publish it, but that it had won the prize. She went on to explain that the content was too gritty and could upset advertisers. All the same as a consolation they published a feature about me with a photo. I had entered the competition as Millie Webb. I hoped that no one would know it was me. A few days later a neighbour tersely remarked "Bit posh ain't ya - writin' stories." I told them it was all a bit of a joke. It was sad that no one was able to read the story because they would have seen that it was on the side of working class people. As it was they just thought I was getting above myself. I never ever ever EVER told anyone I was a poet.

So that deals with the two social class poles in the UK. My lovely neighbours in France know I'm a writer because they tend to wander in and find me writing. France is a different society that views "artists" as normal. They do have slight social class/wealth issues but in any event I'm foreign and free.

The other group is of course FAMILY. My own children are completely and utterly embarrassed by the whole thing. I would talk about it but I think they would run out of the room with hands over their ears screaming. I am a parent. They know I write about sex and lust and they just could not reconcile themselves to me knowing anything other than not mixing up the coloured and the whites in the washing machine. I think I would have been the same with respect to my own parents.

These days the writer is visible public property. In some ways I think that the taciturn snail is most likely to produce the best work. Most snails play the whole thing down and tell folk they're a slug with a carbuncle issue.

Emma thinx: Know where you got lost. Finding yourself starts there.

Allez Les Bleus

2011-10-24T19:21:00.003+02:00

I'm guessing that most of you will recognise the above picture. Certainly it is one of my favourites. What many people do not realise is that somewhere under the heap of bodies is an oval rugby ball. Poor old France lost the world rugby cup to New Zealand by one point. The game was a dour muscular struggle and I think the French can come home filled with pride at the show they put on. A couple of weeks ago, France played Wales in the semi final. I am not a rugby fan and to be frank some of the guys look a bit fearsome. France won by one point against a Welsh team reduced to 14 when the captain was sent off. I must confess to having felt a slight conflict of loyalty since Wales used to be part of Great Britain. Nowadays they are semi independent but they don't hate the English like the Scots do. I don't know if the Scots and the Welsh hate each other. They probably do, but at present they are united by their dislike of the English.

The whole business of the Delacroix painting of Liberty leading the people came to mind as protesters all around the world have set up encampments in capital cities to protest against CAPITALISM. Given the course of politics I guess there will soon be camps of folks protesting about lowercaseism. Shortly after the Popular Italic Front will split away and it will be the story of Great Britain all over again. What I didn't know is that the figure of Liberty served as the sculptor Bartholdi's inspiration for the statue of Liberty in New York. In researching this matter I came upon this fascinating photo taken in Paris. The link of course is that the underlying framework for the Statue Of Liberty was fabricated by Gustave Eiffel.

Ooh, for a woman I can be a right old boring anorak. And that brings me to something you can all help with. (No - it's not about my placing of prepositions.) My agent and manager (my dear friend Rosina) has been on to me about my blog. Seemingly it's too wayward. I am a Romance writer but my daily wotsit can be about anything from Fine Arts to Old Farts. I must promo myself to the Romantic readers. It's no good going on about carrots or world events. I think she's right so let me give you a sneak preview of my up and coming Romantic blockbuster "The Billionaire's Woman's Secret Furrow".

She drew the ripened marrow to her belly. There had been moments among the carrots, and a brief longing around the courgettes. Since the multi billionaire Rogerico Fantastico had entered her garden she had longed for his seed of fertile wealth. Even her past lover - the Count of Monty Bisto- with all his beef was nothing. But how could she bring him to her furrow when he was busy controlling the world?

Emma thinx: Molecool - two trendy atoms getting it together.

I Think Therefore I Spam

2011-10-23T22:14:00.001+02:00

Oh what joy it is to be home, if only for a few days. My tanks are filling with that long shadow/warm sun mellow ecstasy which still lives on this far south. We arrived back in France to find that a friend was moving house today. The affair had been in the wind for a while and suddenly the dam of expectation broke, the lawyers dipped their quills and the peasant mob moved in to finish the job. It's only when you live in France that you realise just how anal the Anglo Saxons are about everything. Here, one day things will unfold. No one knows which day but everyone lives and hopes. By the time it happens there are dozens of people who share the expectation. When the time comes, everyone moves into gear and somehow everything is achieved. No one is allotted any duty and no one is in charge. In rural France most people have vans. Those who do not have vans have trailers. This obviates the need for any furniture removal businesses. In fact, when you think about it, most of the services we think we need and have to pay for only exist because folk don't know one another. Gilles gave a hand rebuilding beds and I suggested that I cook dinner since there would be plenty else going on. Sometimes things go wrong.......

At about 1 o'clock I was about to put a chicken casserole in the oven to cook slowly for a few hours. The guests appeared at the door. Yes - you spotted the problem. They had come for lunch, thinking that when an English person says dinner, they mean lunch - because everyone knows that the English get it wrong. Accordingly they had double guessed my supposed error. I had single guessed that they knew I did not make that error. Look - this is no problem. You take some tagliatelle, a tin of Spam, a jar of Dolmio pasta sauce, a tin of chopped tomatoes, some garlic, some Parmigiana cheese and a baguette. In 15 minutes a dish of Spamastia Fantasia a l'Anglaise was served. Very few people have served Spam to the French. The meal disappeared and plates were cleaned with bread. I kinda felt that my life had not been in vain.

Later, I took a ride on my bike. There is a field nearby still filled with wild flowers. These days I can no longer do poetry. Life has kicked it out of me and the jingle jangle of road traffic, commercial pop radio, hair dryers, mobile phones, work schedules and world noise blunts me down to a stub. It does this to all of us and we call it getting by and survival. Writing Romance is a different state of mind. It is about escape. You have to see that from which you wish to escape. So, I went to the field of flowers. The sky was a perfect blue and the heavens a dome of azure over my head. Under that same dome all things lived in the only ways they could. A hawk hovered, a mouse scurried and the flowers ....well, the flowers simply blew in the wind as the world turned and the vacuums drew in the pressures and the strong sowed the seeds of their failure in the defeat of the currently weak. And when all the hour glasses are turned again and all the cards are shuffled, the flowers will blow in the wind. I took a short video which is a kind of a poem. It says nothing but itself.

Emma thinx: Make a deal with time while you can still negotiate.

Kissing in the moonlight

2011-10-22T22:39:00.000+02:00

Do you ever wonder what you would go through to get to what you wanted? I seem to remember a game show on Japanese TV where you could win prizes by eating maggots or being drowned. If you Yanks haven't seen this stuff check out Endurance here. This type of entertainment came to mind as I endured a night crossing on a Brittany Ferry between Portsmouth (UK) and St Malo (France). I cannot seriously fault the staff of Brittany Ferries. They are hard working and courteous. However, these night crossings are an ordeal. Because our vehicle had a roof box we were loaded last and so when we got to the restaurant there was a huge queue. Since many of the would-be diners were French, the word queue did not apply. Probably best to imagine the French Revolution and the mobs at the barricades. Since it was half term, loads of English were also on board and I'm guessing that the ship was at full capacity. We attempted to storm the self service barricades for about half an hour but gave up and headed for the posh restaurant. No tables of course. We headed for the bar. We grabbed a table and dear old Gilles went off and got pizza from a kinda cafe place. He was back in half an hour. And do you know what? Not a single guy asked me if I was on my own/would like a drink/fancied a shag. There's nothing more pleasing to me than being fancied and offended. I was a bit miffed to be frank but that's how life is these days for the pre-menopausal bus driver. We gobbled the food and a singer did a Tom Jones, Englebert, Sammy Davis, Tony Bennett, Sinatra, Bobby Darin medley. It was all a bit D.I.Y. so I suppose you could call it the Flat Pack. The guy was good and we all had a good old sing-along. Just imagine having to entertain folks on these ferries. The audience don't want to be there and they're more worried about little Wayne having run off and jumping overboard than your rendition of "Born Free". To all the staff and entertainers of Brittany Ferries "Chapeau". (I take my hat off to you). I'm not cross really, but these boats at peak times are just unable to cope at any acceptable level of comfort. And you pay premium fares!

After the pizza, the Flat Pack and the beer we strolled to the outer deck. There was darkness, not as an absence of light, but as a presence and a offer of anonymity. The white wake of the ship spread out in that bridal train fashion behind us. Ahead of us lay our home and I saw my man under the stars against the backdrop of the ocean. And then we kissed. Two creatures of flesh in a moment that took in the randomness of the moment and the pure pleasure of another body. If you were a passenger on that boat and saw completely inappropriate snogging by two old folk I hope it didn't spoil your evening.

Emma thinx: If you wanna get to heaven - go out and kiss under it.

French Leave

2011-10-21T12:20:00.000+02:00

I wanted you all to be the first to know. I'm going home for the week.The photo is of one of my views. Can you believe it? I just can't tell you how lovely St. Savinien is. Away from the urban madness I will live properly again. I'm just so lucky. It's half term in the UK so I'm free from the bus. Gilles works for an Anglo/French company and he's convinced them that the corporate thrust needs to be applied over there for a few days. Poor old geezer should retire really but I don't think they do retirement any more. Soon there will be a mass army of unemployed young people who's only work will be as coffin bearers as all the old folk work themselves to death at all the jobs the young should be learning and taking on. I might write a book about it called "For whom the bell doles". For the benefit of non natives the word "dole" means unemployment pay. Ooh I'm a cynical old cow.

Quiet day on the bus. At the tower block, intercom mom told me that her lad was "not really up to it today." I asked if he had been kind to her. "Ee's been a right little darlin' Emma," she said with a genuine smile in her voice. Somewhere in the concrete sky above me was a little warm sense of love. Ah - made me feel quite motherly smotherly.

Gotta get stuff in the car and calm myself. Much will be forgotten I'm sure. This time tomorrow I'll be home, gabbling to friends in French, wondering about dinner.....and the possibility of cassoulet du lapin. I love my man and this is the only proof he ever asks. Can a woman deny her man a nice bit of hot furry game?

Emma thinx: Don't just sit there. - Boo something. Be a fan not a spectator.

Shove Story

2011-10-20T22:20:00.001+02:00

It's a girl! Carla Bruni has had her baby. Que je suis contente pour eux. She is 43 and likes a drink and a smoke. Apparently her husband (President Sarko) popped out of the office to have a squint at events for half an hour. Then he had to get back to world saving duties. My ex husband was delivering a load of floor tiles up North with his lorry when I produced my last one. Well, if you've seen one you've seen 'em all and there were queues waiting in Halifax for cut price mosaic kitchen floors. We also needed the money. The word is that there will be no pictures of the baby and no publicity at all. Ah come on guys....let's have just a little glimpse. There's an election coming up and Sarko is on the floor in the polls. Surely a president and a super-model First Lady turned pop singer aren't that shy.(Check out her singing style here) I doubt a few pictures would harm the babe. I don't think the socialist candidate Francois Hollande can come up with a baby or a pop singer wife in time. They call him Mr Normal, but he has announced some more fashionable spectacles. Looks like it's gonna be ferocious. If I were a PR guy I'd have Carla cradling the babe and warbling a number one single lullaby whilst wrapped in the French Flag.

Trouble on the bus. Testosterone fuelled aggression flared as one lad was assailed for sitting next to a girl of another boy's dreams. I intervened and sat the female on the front seat on her own. This allowed her to turn round and argue with both of her suitors. By the time we reached college she was in tears. I advised her to chill and think nice thoughts. She ran off to inform the Authorities. I can see case conferences and procedures being invoked. I hope they leave me alone. I think I'm developing a spectrum.

Colonel Gaddafi is dead. I guess no one could mourn his passing, but the grainy mobile phone footage of a bloody corpse and accounts of his death seemed to me to lack nobility. The mobile phone shots of Saddam Hussein being hanged gave me a similar sensation. On a pragmatic basis I can see that a trial could well have held open wounds and divisions. Very probably I'm too much of a cissy to enjoy Revolution.

Emma thinx: One revolution brings you to where you started. Two revolutions bring you to your knees. Three revolutions bring you to your senses.

Walk On The Wild Side

2011-10-19T19:21:00.001+02:00

"Ee's just gonna do 'is teef," came intercom voice from floor 23, "ee's bein' a right little sh*t to me ee is. Ee's in an 'orrible mood."
Oh no - anger management issues in the sky village tower block. I wait in the bus. The lad appears, turns and lobs a half consumed can of breakfast Red Bull at the wall and stamps towards me. A lady runs out from the doors dressed in a dressing gown. She has no shoes.
"Pick that up!"she yells, turning to me. "Ee wasn't brought up like that. I had to follow him down in case he ran off or summink."
I glanced at the boy. He looked surly and troubled. I wish he had run off. The woman looks tired and strained. Her face and voice are smoked out. The contest of life is winning on points and she's hanging on the ropes ducking as many blows as she can. You kinda feel that the referee should stop the fight. My life is wonderful. I am a lucky privileged person. My heart goes out to this poor woman. I bet she's on her own. I give her a warm look, hoping I don't look like a posho being a feel-good kind liberal. She shrugs and goes back to her cell in the sky village. I wonder if she has the cash for some fags to dull the agony of daytime TV.

I'm getting very concerned about the British High Street. I think most High Streets will soon be renamed as Low Streets. Out of town malls and retail complexes are turning town centres into lines of charity shops, Tanning salons, Nail bars, Tattoo and piercing studios and of course Fish pedicure clinics. Well, I tell you one thing - even if I had a fish with feet, there's no way that I would take it to a clinic to be pampered. The government appear to share some of my concerns, at least from the public health view point. Seemingly a high percentage of body piercings become infected. Also there is the problem of parents bringing their babies to be pierced. I mean - is it just me or are there other people who don't like looking someone in the eye and being distracted by lip, nostril, chin and eyebrow studs or rings? You cannot get your genitals or nipples pierced until you are 16 years old. Apparently up to 10 per cent of adults in the UK have this kind of piercing. What is going on here? Who will be the first President or Prime Minister to have facial piercings or tattoos? The punctured generation will soon be the total electorate. Instead of putting a cross on the ballot paper you will have to make a hole through it.

Dire warnings about Hepatitis and Aids risks associated with feet eating fish have appeared in the press. I guess the fish aren't too happy either. Are feet part of a proper balanced diet?

Emma thinx: Legitimise your anger. Call someone else a bastard.

And Now - Here is The History Of The News

2011-10-18T23:19:00.003+02:00

I ask this question rhetorically......When did the idea of "The News" first come up. There must have been a time before "News". I guess when cave persons (see how PC I am) were sitting round their roasted dinosaur crumb roasted twizzler, they told tales of the day's hunting and gathering. Maybe a tribe member had met his destiny under a mammoth foot or a French-cave-lady had discovered a new way to cook lizard gizzard in a wine and shallot sauce.( I bet some Madame de cuisine has already done it). Mainly I guess they told tales of recent history. Perhaps a smooth guy turned (stony faced) to camera and smiled "And now for the Olds".

Every day on my bus I drive out to my first pick up. I listen to BBC Radio 4. The "Today" programme brings me news and analysis of all those things that are just so important TODAY. I know that when I pick up the kids they'll be yelling for moooosic. I really resent having to miss all the important NEWS about all those things that I hadn't realised even existed or were possible. It's a bit like Alcoholics Anonymous. You have to admit that you are a NEWS addict. Just imagine....the dramatic anticipatory communicatory music fades away - the grave presenter opens the bulletin and says "Today there is no news. Instead we are playing you the new recordings by Pixie Lott and Kelly Clarkson." Bloody hell - if they are new recordings there is some news! Who produced it, who wrote the lyrics? There must be an expert somewhere to give me some informed analysis. No News.... Sheesh, they had me worried there.

Years ago there was an advertisement on TV for a product called 1001 ( They had a jingle-"A Thousand and one cleans a big big carpet for less than half a crown". That's about 13 pence-20 cents ). All that was before I was born - but my father used to sing it when he used the vax. He never had much in life you know. But today the numbers of one thousand to one have jingled and jangled all day on the NEWS. There has been much discussion as to whether or not the release of ONE Israeli man equates to the release of ONE THOUSAND Palestinian men. Some correspondents have kinda viewed it as a deal like buying a car -"Hey, if you'd hung in there you coulda got some alloy wheels. If you'd have toughed it out you coulda got the car for free!" I say - measure the deal in the joy it brings to all those families. Then I say- tell me what joy any slaughter has ever brought to any man. Think of the thousands who cannot return from the dead. What would you pay to rescue one of them if you could? And I'll tell you something else. The name of the Israeli soldier who was released was known to every soul in Israel and many folk beyond that. You cannot read out a thousand names and so it is a statistic and the deal sounds like betting odds. Mankind can do better. We can. We know we can. Let's start tonight in the homes and hearts of everyone set free this day to write a future.

And so, to the point where I meant to start my blog. I have never been to war or been a soldier. I am a hedonist saved from debauchery because I can't afford it. I have scrimped and saved to debauch as much as possible though. This afternoon I finished Bert Carson's book "Fourth and Forever". I will admit that I still don't fully understand American football. What I do understand is that Bert's breakdown and social analysis of the whole Vietnam War and its aftermath is more succinctly portrayed here than in any lengthy book on psychology/sociology. You see - the guy was there! He was there! Just think about that and the difference it makes. One day there won't be anyone alive who was there. To a foreigner, the Vietnam War is like a kinda watershed in American political life that seemed to me as a kid to play out like a civil war that divided the USA far more than it divided communism from capitalism. In a few paragraphs Bert clarifies the whole experience of Vets returning to a homeland with no comprehension of what their warriors had been through. Soldiers suddenly lost the bonds of comradeship that had sustained them and returned to a job at the shopping mall with flash-backs of courage and horror to be kicked up the ass by bright shiny executives for day dreaming on the job. Actually it's amazing that so many of them just got on with it, at least in public. "Fourth and Forever" is a book about coming of age in one sense and about coming to terms in another sense. It is an inspirational story written honestly in a plain word style that Hemingway could not have faulted. While I was reading it I kept thinking of a screenplay for a film...Come on Hollywood, catch this ball and run with it.

Emma thinx: Pin a label on your enemy. Pin a name on a fellow man.

No Spare Tyre

2011-10-17T21:50:00.001+02:00

I once went on an "extended interview". The job was as a minor official with an eminent UK cycling organisation. I arrived in a room containing about 30 people. Oh yes - we were all there for the same job. We were going to spend the day in teams working on issues and projects whilst we were monitored by important assessors. Then, a final long list was to be drawn up and over the following month or so more interviews and tests would eventually lead to the appointment of the lucky person to a job at about minimum wage. During the day we all had to give power point presentations which we had prepared at home on the subject that "Cycling is seen as a posh middle class activity." I think they meant people with "Stand Aside" 4X4's with bikes on the roof for kids called Tamsin and Tarquin Foreskin-Smythe. Then we had to do role plays with other applicants, analyse pages of accident statistics and discuss areas such as strategies, marketing and presentation. Smug but smooth managers moved among us mumbling holy words like "Anticipated roll-out profiles within contexts of multi-layered platforms of social interactions." In one of my own exercises I had to plan a multi-cultural fun experience transcending stereotypical attitudes whilst heightening ecological issues. I suggested a carnival procession without hydrocarbon entitled "Chilli con carnival" featuring a flypast by the "Red Barrows" (The Red Arrows are the crack Royal Air-Force display team). Red wheelbarrows could be zoomed around by ethnically neutral persons making aeroplane noises. I thought the examiner was gonna choke. It's been a couple of years now and it's beginning to look as if I didn't make the cut.

The above experience came to mind tonight as I had to solve a problem. Imagine yourself driving a bus loaded with handicapped children. The bus starts to steer a bit heavy and you know there's a puncture. You can't really leave the bus or wait on the carriageway when you know there will soon be toilet issues. I spot a service station which is about big enough to take 3 family cars. I attempt an heroic shunt onto the forecourt. People run for cover. The Air line is out of order. I decide to head for the bus depot and make it with the wheel rim rim intact. If only those clever assessors could have analysed my strategy development.

Emma thinx: Liberal authoritarianism -you are free to obey.

Pick And Mix

2011-10-16T21:51:00.003+02:00

Ever since the demise of Woolworth's our world has lacked the joy of the pick n' mix sweets display. If I were to be really pompous and OTT I could say that it represented a philosophy of opportunity, infinite choice and reward. It was the free market of anticipated pleasure. Now why is this daft old Doris in the fried egg and banana sweet display? Well, watching the "global" demonstrations against "Corporate Greed" the image of the Pick and Mix keeps flashing into my mind. Should I join the jelly baby, fruit chew and dolly mixture coalition, the Red Strawberry Brigade or should I stand up and march goose-step in black uniform with the Liquorice Jugend? The choice is mine if I can ever be certain enough to dip my scoop and pay up. We live in interesting times when the old political show is indeed like some dated summer camp concert. As a spleenager I used to love punk music - (you should see me pogo guys!). There is a lyric in the 1977 song "Anarchy in the UK" which reads "Don't know what I want but I know how to get it." A further line reads "Your future dream is a sharpie's scheme." My dictionary gives a definition of "sharpie" as a "dishonest or cunning person. Now, as a very grown up parent with a life hard lived, lusted and busted I still see the fresh anger and confused accusation of this song. The modern young generation have an itch they cannot scratch - indeed because they have jumped nothing but focused educational hoops, they have received no word for that itch. They were told the pedlar had everything in his pack for them and that they could be even richer pedlars themselves. They have no anthems, no heroes and no leaders ....YET. In troubled times the winning slogan will be simple. The leader will wear some kind of boots - style to be decided. Sandals or slippers are unlikely.

I know that I overwork the word JOY. The reason is simple. In the universe of our hearts there is so much of it and yet we allow ourselves so little. Just now and then life gives you a booster jab of joy. Today, the joy was not my own - but danced and flung itself in ecstasy from the canvases of an artist. When Gilles spotted a sign advertising an exhibition outside a house as he was driving home I expected a polite amateur show of "local" art. We wandered along this afternoon to take a look at the paintings of Sara Barnes. Let me say simply that it is a long time since I desperately wanted to write a poem. The picture below speaks so vibrantly of the defiant fragility of blooms against the sky, the hidden force of their roots feeding their cry of mortal beauty into the deaf indifference of the ocean.

Then we have a canvas of Exbury Gardens which needs no words and is a visual feast of atmosphere,light and colour.

Then an unwitting careless study of innocence, hierarchy, fascination and that peculiar English childhood of rock pool discovery. The disequilibrium of the child in green, reflects a gauche accidental view of vulnerability and mortality.(Literatti among you might wish to check out "The Shrimp and the Anemone" by L.P. Hartley which explores this theme).

And finally a picture of that transcendent quality of motion that ballet sets out to achieve. Here a dancer leaps into the space of possibility that our imagination sketches ahead of us in time.

Feel the joy in that flight! I arrived too late to buy the above picture and paintings were flying off the walls. Remember the name: Sara Barnes (artist).

Emma thinx: A pure vacuum has no choice of what it sucks in.

War Horses

2011-10-15T23:24:00.000+02:00

A man has appeared in court in London charged with assaulting a police dog that was chasing him. Somehow I suspect that if he had assaulted a police officer very little would have been made of it. The alleged villain is called Lukasz Sklepowski, 28 years of no fixed address. The dog is named "Zincan". I bet the get well cards and choco dog treats are already arriving at Scotland Yard. In 1982 a horse of the household Cavalry was injured in a terrorist nail bomb outrage in London. The horse received more cards and gifts than all the soldiers killed and injured that day. Sefton eventually recovered enough to return to duty. It was probably the biggest PR mistake that the IRA ever made. To me it seems only fair that poor beasts with no choice should be seen as special heroes. Those old newsreel shots of mules being craned onto boats to go to war do pull a tender chord.

Of course it is romantic to think of Mountain Rescue Dogs. Given the chance I would like to go out with rugged guys and rescue mountains in return for some chocolate and a head massage. All manner of special rescue and crotch sniffing drug dogs deserve our applause. Some working mutts will never make the front page, yet their contribution to our lives is beyond price. We need look no further than Alf - the workshop dog. Imagine the problem of a bus coming back from a trip with football supporters. In addition to beer cans, sweet wrappings and crisp packets, there are certain to be all manner of Kentucky fried wings and burger bits all around the cabin. Alf is placed on board by his handler and within minutes every shred of chicken batter and burger bap is discovered and devoured. If ever a dog deserves the eco-reycle medal of gallantry it is Alf.

I've just come back from the movies where I have been watching Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. This is a simply fabulous film. It is witty, philosophical and just so sumptuously photographed. It is worth seeing just for the pictures of Paris. There is a great cameo role by Carla Bruni, wife of President Sarkozy. I always find that kinda stuff weird - like watching a U.S. president in a cowboy film. Nah - that's just too far fetched.

Emma thinx: A spider would make 2 four legged friends

Chocs Away.

2011-10-14T20:28:00.003+02:00

I'm tempted to quote Oscar Wilde on the subject of temptation. Unlike a genius and literary superstar, I can resist - which is probably why I drive a bus. But I am sure that many of my own romantic fiction readers here in the UK will know that it is National Chocolate week. Why do we need it? Every week is chocolate week, even if you don't succumb to a solitary Malteser. Look - all I've had this week is a packet of Turkish Delight - and that was an ASDA own brand budget deal so it can't really be counted can it? I have put up a struggle in the face of immense aggression from the chocolatiers of this world. Hotel Chocolat sent me an invitation to join their Chocolate Tasting Club. Their brochure invites me to "reach my bliss point". Do they think that such blatant erotically charged lustful hedonism would move me? Too bloody right it would! Most junk mail goes straight in the bin. I'm not quite ready to take that final step, but I will be once I've signed up.

Whilst in ASDA buying my budget Turkish Delight (I think it's a love it or hate it), I bought some sun flowers. At home in Charente Maritime they are a backdrop to summer, an orgy of careless beauty grown as a crop. You know I think that the context in which we see things is more important than the thing itself. A huge field of blooms is like a mob, an army or a nameless crowd. A few individuals in a vase are a work of art and a study of joy. How would life be if we saw the mass proletariat as precious and beautiful? How would it be if the poor and all the trampled dead of war could live an hour on canvas or in a vase or in the heart of the oppressors? We would know something then of our purpose - which is to love, to forgive and to share our chocolates. You thought I'd got God didn't you?

Emma thinx: The crop is our reality. Each bloom is our truth.

Camera Obscura

2011-10-13T21:37:00.001+02:00

You know that feeling when things are going well - that feeling of inevitable victory that all those self improvement gurus tell you to re-create when you're about to take that penalty to win the World Cup. Well, today I had that feeling. Traffic was light. I sailed through a verdant spring-time of green traffic lights. A police officer was hiding in the front garden of a house with a speed gun and a bus coming the other way tipped me off. I cruised past him at 10 miles per hour as he pointed his ray gun at me. I gave him a big "Gotcha" wave and a smirk as I passed his bush hideout. I could see a twisted rage etched on his snide face. He looked like he needed the figures for the boss. A bus would have been a headline "public menace trapped by hero cop" catch.

I swung the bus back into the yard at the depot. There was a good clear slot to back in. I shut down and got my things together....I wrote the date on the defect sheet - the 13th. Hah! I said to myself - No worries. Then I glanced back through the aisle. There was a leg sticking out from behind the back seat. There was no discernible movement. "Oh F***k" I thought. I dashed to the scene and saw a lad sleeping so peacefully that it was almost beautiful. Some kind of intuition woke him up. He stared at me. At least he was alive. I knew that he should have got off at a stop about 5 miles from the depot. It was my own fault. Some of the kids get off at stops and some go to their front door. This kid hadn't got off and I hadn't noticed. He should have been home about 90 minutes earlier. I jumped back to the wheel and queued through the rush hour to get him home. I took him to the door, explained things to his mother and did a 46 point turn to get out of his road. Back at the depot my slot had gone and I was left with an angled shunt into a tight gap. It's just so easy to break a mirror! Looks like the next 7 years are gonna be tough. I didn't cry - well, not much. At least I can dream of that thwarted cop sobbing in his bush.

Before my afternoon shift I clicked on the TV and watched a black and white film about the sinking of the battleship "Bismarck" in World War Two. I just love those posh clipped accents and duffel coats. The good guys won of course. Suddenly I saw a deep truth of the universe. Colour film destroys Empire. When history was in black and white we won. Since colour we have been in a downward spiral. Come to think of it our prime minister looks a bit orange. Can't imagine dear old Winston in spray tan.

Emma thinx: Superstition - the popular front for legitimate mystery.

Putting The Boot In.

2011-10-12T19:53:00.002+02:00

Many moons ago while I was working in my kitchen, my daughter came to me sobbing and asked if she could raise a very serious issue. Oh no - this must be the pregnancy/drug addiction/solvent abuse/pedophile situation that we watch as entertainment on the soaps, but do not wish to confront with the suds. I dried my hands and took her to the lounge, selected some calming baroque music and told her that whatever it was, we were there for her, that I knew several state registered professional counsellors and that we would not be cross. I decided not to raise the possibility of groundings, thrashings or bread and water diets. At last she spoke.
"Mother - um - I think it's about time I had some Adidas trainers. I'm being blanked and excluded because I haven't got brand names on my clothes."
It was true. "But you're not being held up at knife-point by trainer pirates"
"No," she conceded -"but I am called a retard and a dork. I'd rather be stabbed."
The truth was of course that she was being stabbed. Needless to say we pulled together as a family, called in some counsellors and had the child suitably billboarded and labelled. I knew that one day our innocent unbranded world would end. We had had a good run. She was nearly seven after all.

My dear friend Oscar Sparrow wrote a poem about fashion and how it had mattered to him as a kid - long before he became a stuffaphobe Buddhist and renounced all possessions. Check out "Fashion Footwear" here.

And so it is that I tip out my load of kids each day at the college as waves of fashion branded youths troop in. A few retards and dorks mingle in, but are clearly an underclass of non-populars. Fashion and status have become tyrants, and it is not only the young who suffer it. In my guise of a sportive cyclist more and more carbon fibre bandanna clad executive types swap "better than you" tales of Specialised and Trek. I have a Boardman from Halfords and jolly good value it is too!

This whole subject came to mind as Prime Minister Cameron launches a mission to restore childhood and to stop kids advertising to kids on TV. Pester power is truly an awful phenomenon. Most parents I know with even 3 year old kids are hounded by demands - some of which the three year olds pick up from advertising on their lap tops. I witnessed such a thing earlier this week and I was astonished. Would you let a three year old play on the internet? Come to think of it they would probably be a bit sophisticated for some forum sites.

Some things are just so hard to judge aren't they? The trial of Yulia Tymoshenko (ex-president of Ukraine) all looks a bit like a political shenanigans to me. (Good job Gordon Brown was'nt put on trial for losing £7billion on our UK gold!). I mean - she's a simple billionaire girl who mis-read her gas meter. Seven years in jail seems harsh. I just hope they have decent hairdressing salons. I can tell her that Gilles is very much on her side and that if ever she comes back to politics he would definitely offer to stuff her envelopes. Why are there so many multi-billionaires? Which bus company are they driving for?

Emma thinx: Reveal your inner darkness. Let your roots grow out.

King Of The Fountains

2011-10-11T20:38:00.004+02:00

By the time you get to my age you feel that maybe you've seen a fair bit. Well - you may have done but the fact is that so much changes so quickly. I arrived at the internet keyboard as a pure virgin only a couple of years ago and it is only recently that I had the courage to venture onto a forum. I felt like an apprentice wildebeest attempting to cross a crocodile infested river. I had always imagined cyclists to be gentle grass eating creatures. I had clicked on a link to the magazine of the Cyclists Touring Club. I figured there might be some advice for the guys on positioning your winter flask in your shorts to avoid embarrassment or a few patterns to knit your own Lycra. I spotted a thread about bus drivers and their interaction with pedallers. As a member of both communities I read on. Suddenly I realised that I had unearthed a 2 wheeled Al Qaeda cell. All bus drivers were reviled as Morons. I decided to put the contrary case, pointing out that cyclists needed to understand the operation of big vehicles and of visibility/mirror issues. Dear Oh dear! Back came echoes of bile and hatred. MORON, MORON! chanted an accuser. I felt the tearing of flesh as the crocs tore into me and pulled me under. And that was a forum for righteous lentil gobblers.

So- looking at yesterday's item about honey bees, I read some of the comments that readers had added on the Newspaper website. The professors were "feathering their own nests". A counter opinionater declared that another correspondent was a "Mong" who should get back under his shell. The fact is that this sort of behaviour is horrid. Everyone in the writing game has come up against Trolls who abuse other people's work in an unacceptable way. In my opinion some "forums" are Troll fronts where many correspondents are mentally ill. A few days ago a man appeared in Court in the UK for trolling on memorial websites to dead kids. If you do not know of this case check it out here.

The fact is that anonymity permits the very worst of us to emerge, uninhibited by fear of actual violence or reprisal. I know a lad whose life was turned into a Hell by cyber threats on Facebook. I feel myself lucky to have grown up before any such thing was possible. I have just a suspicion that I might have been cowardly enough to express my true vile self.

Emma thinx: You can snipe at rabbits but beware of the cross hares.

Lean and Mean.

2011-10-10T22:35:00.001+02:00

It's all toppling you know. Everything we believed in and trusted lies trampled in the dirt of experience. Bloody good thing too if you ask me! Today the British nation learned that Big Ben is leaning. It's only a small lean - but in 4,000 years it could topple. Apparently the lean of 1.5 inches is perceptible to the naked eye from Parliament Square. Well, I can tell you that my ex husband would not have been able to spot it. He used to think that a spirit level was the whisky department of the supermarket. We had shelves that looked like the doors of a gull wing Mercedes. But they did have a certain charm. Many a dinner guest asked if there had been an earthquake. The completely vertical tower of Pisa just does not have any cachet does it? My suspicion is that all of this stuff is a part of a tourist promo - "see it before it's too late" stunt.

Then there is far more serious leaning from vertical in the actual Houses of Parliament. Now, I want you all to note that this is the first and probably the last time that I speak well of a Tory. (That is a Conservative politician). Poor old Dr Fox (Minister for Defence) is being hounded by the righteous because his mate has been bragging about "My friend the minister" and hanging about in the corridors of power. Look - the whole Power and influence thing is based on friendships, insider deals and assortative matings. The minister appears to have a loud mouthed friend who loved bigging himself up and fancies himself as a bit of a fixer. Now the righteous are all huffing and puffing. The main hound-master admitted that his own Party had taken money from this same guy to assist with "Policy Development". OK readers - I'm gonna give you £10,000 pounds to fund a nice policy making trip. No strings attached - but let's all be friends eh. Hypocrisy and tub thumping methinks.

Scientists at the local university are suddenly in the spotlight for asking if bees are affected by diesel fumes. The theory is that small particulates of combusted fuel disturb the function of their brains and they cannot find their way home. Almost certainly this is true. Many bus drivers who have lived their whole lives in diesel fumes cannot find their way anywhere. I still know where my home is in France and I long to be there.

And finally on the subject of leaning towers I was once in Venice and asked a guide why the Campanile had fallen down in 1902.
"I don'ta know - ma - no worry - we make again esattemente the same - no deefference." Might be one to watch. If leaning structures are your thing check out Fred Dibnah.

Emma thinx: Power accepts no friendship. No friendship accepts Power.

Handling Loose Balls

2011-10-09T16:15:00.001+02:00

Me and my big mouth! Over a couple of drinks with a colleague of Gilles last night I mentioned my difficulty with the offside rule. Now- all of his life this guy had been waiting for an unsuspecting little butterfly to fall into the back of his goal net. He was on me like a spider sensing the death struggle of a gnat. Within seconds I was wound into a cocoon and injected with a paralysing sporty drug. Salt and pepper pots, a beer glass, several coasters and a wine cooler shunted up and down the table. I agreed with everything that was said but was suddenly confronted with a test to see if I had been listening. I had not been! I had got behind the pepper before the gin bottle was played.

So it was that instead of my Sunday morning romantic novelist's lie in with warm baguette, I found myself with a bunch of parent types at the edge of a windswept recreation ground. Gilles had agreed to bring me to watch his chum's boy play football and to finally split the infinitive and the atom of the offside rule. The ref looked like he had the right clothes but the guys who ran up and down the edges looked like passers-by who had been handed flags. It was these conscripts who were to judge the offside rule. Seemingly anyone you meet in the street who can hold a flag will know it.

The game kicked off and various stampedes of lads hurtled up and down. All of a sudden, a parent type shouted "Ref! That's gotta be offside - Lino, Lino- you must be blind!"

"Lino - that kitchen floor stuff?" I ask Gilles.

"Lino - it means the linesman," (That's the conscript guy with a flag).

The referee blows his whistle for play to continue. A parent of the opposing side calls out "well played lino! - that was never off!"

It then became apparent that the lino guys were from each team and their decisions were allegedly based on a biased interpretation of the rules. By the end of the game it was more or less agreed that all of the officials had obviously lost their sight with solitary handling of their balls. Why does anyone want to be a football official?

Torn shreds of clouds scampered across a pale sky as church bells peeled for morning service. The sound of a ball punted at the far end of the field reached my ears long after the action. This is a world of rules facts and beauties. We are nothing but poor interpreters and conscript linos.

Emma thinx: A granted freedom is merely a longer chain.

Offside Default Swap - Simple!

2011-10-08T17:41:00.001+02:00

Since I am supposed to be a writer of books I really ought to say something on the subject now and then. Writers can be some of the world's least interesting people since they sit writing - often with quite a grumpy and taciturn manner. When I was in my poetic mode I did a fair bit of wistful wandering. Then I would have a couple of drinks and forget what I had thought. Poets like me can be quite up themselves to be honest. However, in my guise as Laureate of the virtual supermarket shelf I am experiencing a few moments of glory this weekend. My book "Knockout" is at No.2 in the Kindle Interpol section and at No.28 in both the Romantic Adventure and Adult Romance tables. This is astonishing to me. My short story "Sub-Prime" is at No.2 in the "Workers Rights" section and at No.6 in the "Working Class" section. Come on now my dear dear readers - lash out that 99 cents/86 pence and make a middle aged bus driver feel like a No.1 best seller. Thanks in advance guys - I knew we could make it together.

Dear Oh dear on the economy stuff. Seemingly we are all doomed. The market tail is throwing the dog off balance. The politicos will not do as they are told and guarantee to bail out infinite debt.(As soon as you pay some off they increase the interest rate and want more). I actually heard a City guy moaning that politicians are too aware of the voters and tax payers. The solution is simple. Get rid of the politicians and democracy and have free elections for bankers, traders, spivs and gangsters instead. It looks increasingly to me that the big players have nearly jockeyed themselves into a position where their hedges/ default swaps et al will clean up the plate and it will be advantageous to crash the show. Governments will then pour liquidity into the sieve and the well placed hands will catch it. I wish all the free marketeers good fortune and merely comment that the rule of Law and the universal acceptance of property rights will only ever be maintained be the State. Be careful how much you crash. Barbed wire might be a good investment.

Since I have been working more or less full time I have not been able to read as much as I would like. I am still with Bert Carson's "Fourth and Forever". I'm enjoying the read but cannot quite grasp the rules of American Football. In soccer I'm afraid that the offside rule is even more baffling than most items on the financial derivatives market. Wouldn't you worry about a best selling romantic old trollop who could run the line with a flag and deal you a forward rate agreement?

Emma thinx: If the markets are free why do they enslave us?

Making a Splash

2011-10-07T20:08:00.004+02:00

Last weekend at the motorway services I saw an advertisement which said "You shoudn't have to plan your life around toilet stops". I must confess I don't know what product they were offering. I guess it was some kind of she-wee potty or maybe some medication. All the same, I think we've all known one another long enough to reveal some of the inner secrets of bus driving. You just cannot stop the bus and get off for a wee. The same problem applies to lorry drivers. My ex husband used to carry a 2 litre plastic milk bottle. If he hit traffic and he was trapped in the cab he would dangle his dingle into the neck and obtain relief. In cold weather with a failed heater, this can be a challenge even for the well developed male. If ever you pull into a lay-by you may see a few containers looking like they contain whisky or orange squash. They do not! Some very inconsiderate truckers just empty the full bottle out of the window whilst travelling at full speed. Do you still want that wind in your hair cabriolet? I hope you realise that in reading this you are being admitted to an inner cognoscenti of romantic novelists, truck and bus drivers. If you are on or driving around a public bus and you feel that the driver is pushing the boundaries of traffic etiquette please try to be aware that the poor soul at the wheel may be in a desperate plight.

The reality is that we are animals no different to say - cats. We have to go but we want to do it somewhere else, and certainly not in our own clothing. The agony of the long distance bus driver is known to many folk in different guises. My worst personal incident was when driving a coach into central London a few years ago. I had had lunch a little late and had had an extra cup of tea. On the A40 I hit terrible traffic. As we crawled towards the Marylebone Road I knew that I could not make it to any kind of refuge. Just as we were about to take the flyover I saw a park to my left. I pulled over, waved at my open-mouthed passengers and dived for the gates. LOCKED!!!! Pressure was unbearable. Then I saw some kind of yard with bins. I dived in and squatted between some huge galvanised stinking cylinders. After a desperate wrestle with trousers - release at last. Even if the Queen of bloody England (she hasn't got bits) had turned up I could not have stopped. Evidence of my crime flooded out into the street. I felt that sense of shame and relief that surrendering soldiers must feel. Then I bolted back to the bus. The passengers were coming up to London to see a show. I think they thought it was part of the entertainment. A couple of guys gave me a decent tip and a wink.

Emma thinx: The purest happiness is release from anguish.

Brown Eyes To Turn France Red.

2011-10-06T13:16:00.001+02:00

I wait at the end of a block of lock up garages. The usual lad is not there. Above us is a concrete village in the sky of about 8 storeys. I watch a woman of close to my own age dragging herself on crutches down some steps towards me. She hauls herself breathlessly up to my window. I notice she has two lip rings.

"Ee's not comin' today - ee's got an 'eadache. I would 'ave phoned but me credit's gone," she says.

I thank her and reverse the bus as she struggles back up the concrete steps to the sky village. The radio plays "It's all about tonight" by a young electro-warblesse called Pixie Lott. The pumped out pop culture kinda overlays the grey inarticulate desperation of so many lives. This is the way we are - a proletariat of tinsel, piercings and tattoos, climbing the stairs of manipulated individualism towards a nirvana of that lottery win, that Friday night out, that romance like what they does in them trash books.

Well, that cheered you all up didn't it. My home seems far away this week as I watch the fallen leaves begin to swirl more and more in the Autumn gusts. In France the socialists slug it out to see who will challenge Sarko for the presidency. The departure of DSK from the picture threw everything into disorder. Last night I watched Martine Aubry speaking on the French News. From the distance of the UK I find myself warming to her. She may or may not have had a few problems in the past (it is a job to tell when there are so many dirty tricks). But, if she has had a few issues then she knows about struggle and humanity. She answers questions patiently and has an air of being a neighbour to whom you could chat. She also has kind eyes. Martine - I would vote for you if I had a vote. As it is I'll just tell Gilles to vote for you. The poor old boy slogs up and down to London directing his branch of the corporate world. He wants to go home. I'm gonna cook him some moules tonight. A couple of weeks ago he saw a rabbit running across the sports field. He glanced at me with a grin. I know what he was thinking. Oh yes I do!

Everyday is a school day. This morning I learned about a style of architecture called "Brutalism". Essentially it means that 60's concrete slab style. When I was young it was thought to be modern and artistic. There's a big debate over whether or not to demolish Preston Bus Station. There's some folk who want to keep it as a monument. I can see both sides to this. Speaking as a bus driver it looks as if there is plenty of shunt room. Take a look at the picture and let me know. Comments from fellow bus drivers very welcome.

Emma thinx: Room to manoeuvre - get your guy to tidy the lounge.

Turkish Bath

2011-10-05T22:11:00.001+02:00

I am writing this between my 2 shifts. The morning session was calm-ish. The architect of yesterday's belligerence was brought out to the bus by his grandmother.
"Why did he come home so upset?" She asks.
"He had a row with a girl about some beaver". I reply rather disingenuously.
"He's written her a lovely note to say sorry."
"Oh - that's wonderful.."
I hear a shriek behind me as the girl tears up the note. Probably a split infinitive or a misspelling I guess. Grandma and I exchange kinda female motherly "well what can you do?" expressions.
I pull away and increase radio volume to max. Kelly Clarkson belts out "BECAUSE OF YOU" in an accusatory tone of voice. Yes that's quite right Kelly - it is always because of those others isn't it. I sing along. I .... I am an artist I tell myself.

I swing the bus into the college yard to do my homeward run.. A fluorescent clad tutor with clipboard approaches. " We'll get them all on and then bring out X (the aggro lad)."
"His Gran asked me what had happened this morning." I say.
"Tell her to contact us. We deal with these things professionally. You shouldn't be speaking to people. He's on the spectrum."
"I speak to all kinds of people...I can't help it." I reply with an irritating antagonistic simplicity. The tutor knows she's taken a jab but can't quite figure it. To patronise or not to patronise? - That is the question. She is an educational professional. She can't help it. She gives me a hard look. I tweak an eyebrow and stare her out. I never did take to teachers you know.

A couple of days ago I did a mass shoppage in ASDA. I won't go on about how they have reduced the size of pack weights and kept the same prices. Anyone who thinks that price inflation is 5% either hasn't got weigh scales or a memory. Anyway, I wanted purity, cleanliness and British tradition. I bought 2 bars of Wrights coal tar soap,( I have never seen this in France). A whole childhood of coarse damp towels, icy bathrooms, stinging eyes and tender flappy bits flashed through my mind. Coal Tar - a substance so brutal that germs commit suicide rather than do battle. I studied the wrapping. It is now "traditional soap". In very small print underneath are the words "with coal tar fragrance".
Surely not! Has this last link to virginity and purity been defiled? I study the label. In even smaller print are the words "Made in Turkey". Everything is crumbling. Prime Minister Cameron wants me to pay off my credit card and celebrate a gay marriage in his Tory conference speech today. I just want to soap my bits in an aroma of Empire and BRITISH industrial carbolic. I saw a sign outside the local pub. "Pint of Stella Artois and a Madras curry for £5." Thank you God. Some traditions stretching back to the Ancient Britons still survive.

Emma thinx: Diversity - a university for twins.

The Sultan Of Sullen.

2011-10-04T22:13:00.001+02:00

All of the kids except one come out of college at 3.45pm. The final passenger finishes his class at 4.15pm and emerges at about 4.30pm.(Funding only runs to one bus for the whole city). He does not rush. He is a charmless youth whom I think of as the Sultan of Sullen. If such thoughts ever became known to the Authorities I think I'd be looking at a spell in jail. Whilst we all wait for him the kids do what they do best: ARGUE and FIGHT. I suppose I should care, but I really don't. A student runs from the bus in tears and returns with an harassed tutor who attempts to intervene in a matter of infantile infinity rooted in the affairs of a pop singer called Justin Beaver who one supports or does not support. After five minutes of counselling the teacher rolls his eyes at me and suggests that I seat various kids apart. I suggest firmly that I am a bus driver and that louts who cannot behave should walk to college. Eventually the Sultan of Sullen turns up and exclaims "F**k**g shut up you c***ts" (Actually I couldn't have put it better myself).The tutor exits stage left pursued by a stare.

I direct the bus out into the traffic. Miles away there has been a crash and rather like stock markets, serial panic has set in. I inch my way across the city, dropping off my students. Suddenly a plaintiff call from a girl behind - "Emma - I need a toilet." Now, this kid has been on the bus for nearly 2 hours. To my left are some bushes on a kind of road island. I pull over. I don't ask but I hope it's just a pee. I get her off the bus and stand there as a kinda guard. After far too long she comes back looking grubby with a branch of holly in her hair and dead leaves sticking out of her clothing. I didn't ask - I did not want to know the answer. No one died. So far I'm not in jail. All in all a good day. Romance writing and middle class life in France (or anywhere) seem like a universe away. Well, actually they are.

Nobel prizes today for the dark matter physicists. These are the guys who have shown that the rate of expansion of the universe is increasing. Apparently this leads to a theory of dark energy. Look - my dark roots used to grow at an increasing rate until grey energy started to take over and slow everything down into decline. Believe me guys - everything will shrink back. Classical Physics remains unchallenged.

Emma thinx: Would a dark matter neutrino out-accelerate its own non existence?