Flowerpot is somewhat indisposed at the moment and is heading for a minor operation on Monday, so here is a soothing picture of my mother's front door in sunnier, warmer times. I'm sure I'm not the only one who needs comforting.

You were going to have a lovely picture sent by my mum of me aged about 3 and my dad sitting on the terrace at our home in Devon. Himself scanned the picture, sent it to me - but it's a PDF file not a Jpeg and blogger doesn't like pdf files. Anyone any ideas? You know what a technical virgin I am.

Excuse me while I crawl off with my hot water bottle.

Awards and Smiling

Another award – this time from the lovely Akelamalu. What a lovely award – guaranteed to bring a smile to anyone’s face! And as I have to nominate three others, here they are:-

Graham, Prince & Tilly – not that he’s always funny, far from it, some previous posts are hearbreaking, but hopefully his life is on the up and Tilly is such a darling, full of wonderful antics

Rilly Super – who seems to have disappeared from blogland, but hope she will return soon. Her earlier posts had me crying with laughter.

Around my kitchen table – for often hilarious, wise and beautifully written posts. Wish there were more of them, table!

On the subject of making you smile, I have a beautiful wooden box on my dressing table shaped like an old fashioned pencil box. The wood is pale with darker wood inlaid, simple and sturdy, a no-nonsense box smudged with the years.

It was a present from a journalist I used to work with in the late eighties, who brought it back from Albania. We weren’t involved – he was happily married and expecting his first baby, but it was such a thoughtful and generous present, it always makes me smile.

And what is life if you can't smile?

Many thanks to the rotten correspondent for her award of Blogging Star. How extremely kind and generous.

Now, of course, I have to pass it onto other people, who are:-

Crystal Jigsaw
Laurie (3 dog blog)
Lady Thinker
Miss Understood
Debio

It is a wonderful, if cold, day here in Cornwall with a Wedgewood blue sky, a brisk northerly wind and clear, bright sunshine. If only my head felt as clear as the sky. But I feel dizzy and befuddled. Words are down the other end of a long hazy tunnel this morning, and my legs are wobbly, unable to go and retrieve them.

However, a strange thing has happened. The post arrived and with it a note saying I had won a prize. I viewed this with a certain amount of cynicism but decided that as the phone number was a normal rate one, that I'd ring it. To my amazement, I have won a Gold Card membership for the health club in Falmouth. Not that I have any desire to go to a health club. I went once to aerobics and was bored rigid, and after all, Mollie does a very good job of keeping me fit. But they do yoga and pilates, which I am told I should do. So perhaps I should go and have a look. After all, it is worth £700 (gasp) and I am a firm believer in Never Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth. Shame this one didn't have cash in its mouth though.

By the way, my blog instructions have gone back to German. Anyone else got this? Or is this a sinister message? Big Brother is German?

A reading meme

I have been memed by RT about my reading.

Total number of books owned – thousands over the years. They come and go except for the old favourites.

Last book read
Boy in the World by Niall Williams

Last book bought
The moment you were gone by Nicci Gerrard

5 meaningful books
HARNESSING PEACOCKS by MARY WESLEY. A story of great originality, wit and imagination. Lessons for us all.
NEVER CHANGE by Elizabeth Berg. It’s never too late for anyone to fall in love, but if they die, you mustn’t give up. Life is for living.
RACHEL’S HOLIDAY by Marion Keyes. A bittersweet tale of addiction.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD BABY GIRL – anything by FANNIE FLAGG is worth reading
A SPOT OF BOTHER by MARK HADDON. The agonies of a dysfunctional family.

I have to tag five people who are –

Crystal Jigsaw
Rilly Super
Liz Fenwick
Lane
Mother at large

And a PS. I've just started the new novel and need a name for a dog. A young collie-cross. Any ideas? Oh, as aptly pointed out by MissU, it depends who owns the dog. It's the older, sprightly lady who is in her late 60s/early 70s. I thought of calling the dog Fred, after Fred Astaire, but think he needs to be a bit more imaginative than that. She is an ex-dancer, so - no, he can't be called Rudolph...

Filming in the Library

Apologies to RT for her reading meme which I am looking forward to tackling, but felt I should give an account of last night first.

Filming got off to a dodgy start yesterday evening as two out of four of us on the panel didn’t turn up – they thought it was today. So a passing poet was roped in plus one of the librarians, neither of whom had done any research, of course.

Looking back, I wish I’d re-read some Hardy as I was sitting next to a retired Know It All (ex-teacher I would guess, though no offence to any ex-teachers who might be reading). She was convinced that whatever she said was right, when she was frequently off topic. I shot her down on several occasions, notably to say that I’d never read Hardy since school as I found him too depressing. Being a Hardy Zealot, this enraged her. She was the sort you could imagine on Mastermind, taking Hardy as her Specialist Subject.

Dermot the producer was good at throwing questions at us and one was, ‘how would you interest a 17 year old in any of these writers?’

For once, my brain worked on time. ‘Sex,’ I said, before my neighbour could give Hardy another blast. She merely looked horrified. ‘Get them to read Mary Wesley. They might pick up a few tips.’

I don’t expect that bit will make it to the final edit, but it will be interesting to see. It’s to be shown on Westcountry at the beginning of December – I’ll let you know details as soon as I find out.

However, Himself came and watched and Dermot seemed happy with it overall, despite all of us drying up at some time or other. I managed to give Daphne du Maurier and Mary Wesley a good plug, although to my horror Hardy won the vote for Westcountry Writer. Pah!

Himself says that autographs are available by post. He's organising that side of it, having appointed himself my agent. Knowing his business skills, I think I’ll sack him before he starts, but he’s Very Proud and told everyone this morning on our dog walk, ‘I’m with a Star, you know.’

Fraught Weekend and TV Fame

A busy weekend here at Flowerpot House. My 78 year old mother, who has recently recovered from major surgery, was staying but warned that she wouldn’t be able to do much.

‘That’s fine, Mum,’ I said, picturing a sedate wander through town and a cup of coffee.

Saturday afternoon saw us striding into town (she walks FAST), to the bookshop, stopping at various places along the way. She doesn’t wander when she shops, she streaks in and out like a collie rounding up sheep. We spent an hour in town before going off to take Moll for a Proper Walk. My blood sugar level was starting to tumble, and after walking for half an hour I suggested we start back (making it an hour long walk).

‘Oh,’ said Mum. ‘Why don’t we just go a bit further? Just to the end of that field.’

‘OK, Mum. Fine.’ I mean, I couldn’t be walked off my legs by my dear Mum. I’m fit, for God’s sake. Or thought I was…

That evening I was assembling a meal when I realised that whereas there had been three bits of salmon for our tea, there were now only two.

‘Oh,' said Himself. 'I thought it was empty so I threw the carton away.’

God – men! I delved into the bin and out came everything teabags, egg shells, potato peelings – everything except salmon.

As I was half way down the bin, I heard a squeak from the shower.

‘Hello!’ called Mum, her voice rising in panic. ‘I can’t turn the shower off! Help!’

Having turned Mum’s shower off, the phone rang. Thankfully Himself answered. It was James. He couldn’t work out how his new hole punch worked. Himself, who possesses infinitely more patience than me, spent the next half an hour explaining to James how to put a piece of paper in, and punch the holes.

Back in the kitchen I wondered about the salmon and turned to the animals. ‘Mollie! Buster!’ I shouted. ‘Have you been eating salmon?’

Both animals looked at me with that angelic, ‘Who, me Mum?’ expression, and I abandoned all hope of finding the salmon. It had gone, I think down Bussie’s gullet.

I retired to the front room with a Very Large glass of wine. My God it tasted good.

Tonight is the filming of the Westcountry Writers debate (for TV) featuring a panel of people including yours truly, though how they got these people or who the others are I have no idea. (Before you get excited, the end result will be edited down to 4 minutes.) I don’t know when it’s being shown – sometime next year I presume – but will find out and record it for posterity. Well, I would if the video was working but that’s another story.

I am now off to mug up on Mary Wesley, Betjeman, Hardy, Agatha Christie and Daphne du Maurier. Watch this space, now I’m a television luvvie, darlings.
Actually, I’m quite nervous.

A Rant

Last week our elderly friend James asked us to type a letter to his solicitor for him as he is concerned that his daughter isn’t looking after his finances properly. I wasn’t sure about doing this but Himself said we should help James as the daughter won’t listen to him and James is unable to write a letter himself or talk to the solicitor on the phone.

After much deliberation the letter was sent off and today we saw the reply. The solicitor has clearly talked to said daughter who has said – via the solicitor – that she would rather look after James’ finances by herself without interference from anyone else. (I bet.)

The letter also said that she would do any typing that James wanted rather than having “Outsiders interfering with his personal finances or his marriage settlement”.

While I appreciate that the solicitor is doing his job warding off untoward people trying to grab James’s money, I am so hurt that I want to slap and shake the daughter for even suggesting such a thing. She should know by now that we are true friends of her father’s.

I want to shout and scream with rage. I feel as if someone’s stuck a knife in my guts and wrenched it around. We would never do anything to interfere with James’ finances and I find it highly offensive that this is being suggested. All we were trying to do was help him.

But this, I suppose, is what you get. You can see why people stop helping, when all they get is a slap in the face.

End of rant. Thank you. I feel better now.