The Corner House

What's been happening?
Not a lot. Think, hope, hope, hope, that I've got a job. It's for a printers(!) deja vue but this time I'll be doing something on the shop floor, God knows, don't care. The agency said said I'd be starting this Thursday or Friday so I'm just waiting and hoping for a phone call. If not, I have an interview for a warehouse job on Friday. To be honest, I would prefer the early shift at the warehouse (no commuting) but I'll take what comes first.
Had to postpone the lorry driver I had booked to bring my stored stuff up here. He wanted paying in cash! The rent from Hackney House wasn't in yesterday, I hope it's in now. Too scared to check.
Oh, God. And there's something faulty about the light switches and my Gas Insurance has lapsed. Help. Gizza job.
On the plus side, Internet being down or what but I produced a 5,000 word short (long?) story. First draft but still.

Really, I must stop doing memoir-type posts.
Just this one.
TKK moaning about Camden. He wants to try shopping at the all-night Supermarket in Hackney. I was a bit of a regular there. Well, I'd be on my way home from work, five a.m. and I'd have the whole store to myself. More or less, give or take a few drug addicts. I was on first-name terms with some of them. One particular morning, probably a Friday, they were always the worst and some dude (I think that's a word that suits him) some dude comes towards me as I'm chaining up my bike.
"Wanna buy some hash? It's good stuff."
"No, thank-you" says Miss Straight-Laced me.
He was still there when I came out.
Never say die, he approached me again.
"You sure you don't wanna buy some hash?"
"Look," I said, "I am a respectable middle-aged Spinster, cycling home from work. Do I really look like I want to buy some hash?"
"Yes," he says, "You do."
I told Blondie and Maj this story and they said I should have bought it because it might, indeed, have been good stuff

Hello, bloggers.
In case anyone noticed my absence, there were a few technological difficulties chez moi. Just could not access the Internet all over the Bank Holiday weekend. Bonnie off in Durham, not that she knows any more about it than I do. The Wean and her man were here but he's an Electrician not a Computer Programmer. I did my best. Figured that there couldn't be much wrong because all the usual lights came on and I could use the Word Processor. I kept changing the plugs about but nothing seemed to work.
Anyway, think Bonnie phoned Ian who phoned the Wean. He asked a few questions then told her to unplug one of the leads from the laptop and plug it back into the modem.
......whozat said i shoulda beena blonde?

I've been sitting in all day.
Mostly blogging.
Bloody temp agency didn't ring.
But in last half hour have got two interviews.
One in a Printers(!) (non-typing) and one in a Warehouse. The Warehouse is closer. Currently filling in form to work in a betting-shop
Oh dear, I hope I don't end up having to make a choice.

I didn't really want to leave Germany.
I had a lovely flat.
But no job.....
In the end, it was a good move. I did loads of drama classes and even had two professional but non-equity jobs. Then I ended up at the bloody print firm....
Whatever, I was only just back in England when Jen rang.
"This happened, that happened..... and what about Steve. He's left Trudi, you know. I'm not sure what happened but they've split up."
Josie later told me that he'd gone off with a black woman but the black woman had lost interest when he was no longer married.
Twenty-five years ago.
I'd say he's bald. A lot of the men I fancied when I was young when bald. I really believe in all that stuff about bald men being sexier.
"Who knows, one day the door bell will ring and he'll walk back into her life again."
I can always hope.

More or less the last I have to say on the subject of SS.
Another party.
Baby Rhys's introduction to the world
"Isn't he small" well, I hadn't really seen a recently born baby before.
Tactful, or what, remember SS is only tiny.
"Small? Oh, now, no, now. He's not small at all, look you. That's the size they come in."
"I'm seeing a lot of new babies, lately", said Eleanor, our set designer. She's there, officially, with James. "Yes. This friend's just had a baby and that friend's had a baby and someone else had a baby and..."
SS laughs and says, "Oh, now, don't blame me. I'm only responsible for this particular baby."
So far, so funny.
Then I look up. For some reason I look up at Lena. She's not looking at me. She's either looking at SS or the baby. And I had never - have never - seen so much pain in somebody's eyes.
And I just thought, SS is so selfish. He doesn't care what he does, who he hurts.
I thought - steer clear, stay well away.
But I lived to regret it.
There's such a thing as too sensible.

Trudi had a baby boy.
They called him Rhys.
Alright, be honest, I'd sort of hoped she'd die in childbirth.
Irish Catholicism and morality. It's ok wishing someone dead? Preferable to having sex with their husband?
Still, I moan about Catholicism but without it I suspect I'd have been very promiscuous and got AIDS or something. I have all that low self-esteem that goes with promiscuity.
As a rule, I'm not.
Casey, oh, God love Casey. At least he had the sheer good manners to seduce me. Seduction is fair, you have to be a real moron to not know that your are being seduced and it takes all the responsibility off you. If SS had only seduced me instead of having a "ride at your own risk" attitude.
So, his son is born.
I love a married man. Who cares nothing about me. A man who's wife has just given birth.
One of Josie's boyfriends, "Brickie Micky" used to call me "Iron Knickers." So you get the picture.
I had boyfriends. I'd go out with them in some vague hope I'd forget SS. I didn't normally sleep with them.
But.....
He was a big American soldier. I dunno, he was a good dancer. Dim and not remotely fanciable but what did it matter. SS's wife had just a baby.
Oh, I don't know. I went to bed with him that night. It was ghastly. I ended up in tears because it wasn't SS. He went home, convinced he'd met a loony.
A few days later "Geordie" took me to a party. Geordie was new on the scene and fancied me.
SS was at the party. I think that was one of the parties where he went mad chatting up Josie. He certainly fancied her. She would never have gone out with him but she loved the attention and getting one over on me. Josie was a bit of a bitch.
So Geordie's taking all this in and he says "It's him, isn't it, Maureen? He's the one..... No. You canna be serious. He's a reet shit. You canna be serious."
I was unhappy. I ended up going to bed with Geordie. Big, bloody mistake because then I had to extricate myself from that whole mess.
There was some film once, two friends, one was single and took "substitute lovers."
Yes.

..... of the Court of King Caractacus.....
Which was very much what rehearsing for our play felt like. I was stupid, too. Sort of "shall I, shan't I?"
And Lena was on-guard, big-time.
We rehearsed weekly in some hall but towards the end we needed to do a bit of extra work.
SS suggested we rehearsed at his place.
We sat around the kitchen table. Trudi kept popping in and out with sandwiches.
S'funny but I think Lena and I sort of dismissed Trudi. I felt that Lena was my biggest problem and vice-versa.
Incidentally, Trudi was also a Cancerian.
The end of a very uncomfortable run-through. I mean, I didn't like being there and I wasn't even having an affair with him.
After our rehearsal, we ate the sandwiches, had a drink, fitted in a bit of Am Dram gossip.
Dishing the dirt on our set designer, Eleanor.
"Is she going out with James?"
What the secret was, they were both single anyway, but private people, I suppose. (Reader, she married him).
"Yes, oh now, it's true, look you, Eleanor is having an affair with James." said SS. He was looking at me as he said it. Sub-text, this is how grown-ups behave, Maureen, will you please stop messing around and sleep with me.
Quote, Alan Ayckbourne's "The Norman Conquests" - "I don't want to be number three in a night."
Two-year old Dina was allowed up to say good-night to us all. A dark little girl with -
blue-grey eyes, the colour of slate on Welsh mountains.
The assembled cast stood in a semi-circle.
"Give everyone a goodnight kiss" said SS so Dina did as she was told, going round the semi-circle of people and kissing us all in turn. Then, pleased with herself, she ran back to her Daddy.
He just put an arm round her while she again looked around at all the people she'd just kissed goodnight.
Then, for whatever reason, she broke loose and, out of everyone, came back up to me and kissed me again.
So sweet, so lovely.
It's one thing being a mistress when you've never met the man's wife and kids but.....

A high percentage of Irish people suffer from mental illness.
It's been looked into.
Some people blame it on Catholicism.
Nowadays, things, thank God, are different. I hope they are.
My mother was born in 1916. She had wanted to be a nun "but" as she told me, "I didn't have the education."
She was very religious.
So you know my upbringing.
"Mo", my gay friend, Maj asked me once, "did you ever fancy having a lesbian experience>?
"For Heaven's sake, Maj, I'm Catholic, I had enough hang-ups about having heterosexual sex....."
And I did. I was terrified, terrified of being unmarried and pregnant. It always seemed easier to avoid.....
Occasions of sin?
Perhaps.
And to have an affair with a married man?
I was my (younger) sister's bridesmaid around this time.
The wedding was lovely. All sorts of sanctity of marriage thoughts going through my head. And all my parents friends and, I thought, I can't come home pregnant, it's not fair.
It's alright, I had heard of contraception but I so wanted a baby.
There was something very unworldly about my Mum.
Less so, my Dad. Years later, I must have been forty, I was telling him I'd like to have a baby.
He just looked at me in horror.
"A baby, bejaysus. 'Twill be like the dog, twill be me who ends uo looking after it."

It was to be another twenty years before I thought about Stacey Caitlin.
My first hot flush.
You cannot imagine. The menopause? A crash course in growing-up more like. Anyone else aged 47 would know they weren't going to ever get pregnant but, with the first hot flush, I really knew.
Did I? I thought, well, there's such a thing as a menopausal baby and went round to Ern's new house (we'd just split up) (what a year) to have sex with him and have a menopausal pregnancy.
Cuckoo!
I ended up off work with depression.
I just wanted to die.
Or wake up and be in my late twenties again. Because, I just know now, that those years were my last chance of getting pregnant. At the time, I thought, oh, I've got until 45! For years I didn't even know I had fibroids but they came on at 31 and they can cause infertility.
My body so knew stuff when I was 28. I was desparate for a baby, I was never the sort of woman that didn't want a baby.
And Nature, who doesn't know about marriage, had provided me with SS.
If it had been a boy I would have called him Stephen but if it had been a girl she would have been Stacey Caitlin. Cait, for short.
She's 25 now, my Stacey Cait. A solicitor somewhere. Well, she was clever and got a first-class degree at Cambridge. In German. She looks like her Dad but has the sort of figure I used to have.
Telling Bonnie about my fantasy daughter started her off. Because Bonnie always wanted another child after Ian and would have loved a girl.
She decided her daughter was on heroin and living in a bus shelter somewhere.

After the house-warming party, Trudi would appear occasionally at social functions but usually SS was on his own. Or with Lena.
One night Trudi came out for a drink. My friend Josie was much more observant that I was.
'Is she pregnant?'
She was.
Love and psychic ability. Despite my limited powers of observation, I always think you're very psychic when your in love. Like it's a part of the brain that gets activated. Not sure because I also suspect that every single mistress alive believes she will eventually get her man. Yes? No? With Ern, before I even went out with him, I knew he would leave his wife.
As a Tarot reader I also believe nothing's set in stone. We have a lot of Free Will.
I do remember, back then, sitting on the bus one night. Feeling a bit sorry for myself. Oh, fantasy land, I'd never even been out with SS but I remember thinking, poor me, I'm crazy about a married man who has a rich wife, a beautiful new flat, a daughter, a baby on the way, a mistress......
Then this feeling came over me.
Like a voice in my head saying, "Doesn't matter, none of it matters. It will take years but it will all work out between you and him."
Maybe it could have if I hadn't chosen a different path.
I also think if you do that, go against Fate like that, then it will not be easy. My thirties were a harsh and a cruel time for me. Unfathomable loneliness like you cannot believe. I think I was way, way, way off-track.
Want another quote from Alan Bennett's fabulous 'Habeus Corpus' - Mrs Swabb 'Who knows, one day the doorbell will ring and he'll walk right back into her life again.'

Oh, my God.
I am sitting here tearing my hair out.
Letter from the Housing Association about faulty light switches in Hackney House plus my Gas Insurance has lapsed and the boiler needs checking.
Aaaaaaaaagh! What do I do?
A few more posts on Steve Sex, reminiscing and regrets, it's a better sort of misery that worrying about money.

£450 to hire a van to transport my junk from London to Manchester.
Found a storage place that said they'd charge me £80 per month.
"£80 per month," said Bonnie, "You could pay that off your credit card."
Agreed, but said it wasn't an option.
She had a little think - and, she's an angel, really, because she then said, "The front room's empty since Ian and Gabriella left. Stick them in there for now."
So that's the latest arrangement.
The boxes can go in the cellar. Perhaps I can sell the furniture, or rent a bedsit near the Uni, or find a nice man with a shed.
Bonnie's diagnosed her latest boyfriend (Mr Durham Town) as having Asperger's Syndrome. I just thought he was quiet. She says, no, definately Asperger's and she's currently deciding if this bothers her or not.
She also said that I've been moping around lately.
"You keep harping on about that Welsh wanker. You had a narrow escape there, that's all I can say. You didn't sleep with him because you're not that daft. You knew he didn't love you. You did sleep with Ern because whatever his faults, he did love you, once."
That's me told then.
There's a possibility I'll get some temping work. We'll see.

A rest from talking about my centuries-old non-love life.
Just been watching the Lord Longford/Myra Hindley thing. The one that won the Baftas, or whatever.
Who'll believe this?
I tell the truth.
I met Lord Longford once. Years ago, I was temping in the House of Lords. As you do. In a portacabin out the back, actually. Lots of real Lords brought their typing in.
Honest. I don't lie.
Well, I'm Hyacinth Bouquet, me. Loved it. A lot of the Lords were old and doddery and on their last legs. I do love the upper-class good manners and charm thing. Ooh, I so wanna be posh. No wonder I can't get a Marxist boyfriend.
Lord Longford came in. The permanent typist told me how nice he was, how he had often asked her about her sick mother and seemed genuinely interested.
All I can say is, well, perhaps I'm not the best judge of character. I fall in love with womanizing Welshmen, whaddya I know. But I do read Tarot cards and sense things. As far as I'm concerned Lord Longford was the most saintly person I have ever met.
He seemed genuinely interested in me. Not charm; he seemed to possess a genuine interest in me as a human being. The words nobless oblige came into my head. I sensed a man who knew he was privileged and wanted to put something back in return for his privileges. I just thought he was a good man. I thought, as regards, Myra Hindley, he was probably misguided.
The programme tonight confirmed all this for me.
I only met him for five or ten minutes.
I'm not anyway near as good a person.
To be somehow as good a person as him is something to aspire too. I've thought that on and off over the years. Not just 'cos I watched a bit of telly tonight.

She was about thirty. She dyed her hair a sort of red colour. I love red hair but my hair was long and brown then and I didn't bother to dye it. I remember thinking, so many brown-haired girls dye their hair reddish but everyone knows its brown, really, so why bother.
She was quiet. A bit sophisticated, the way quiet girls can be.
She was utterly and completely in love with SS. I could tell.
Just like she could tell I fancied him and that I was a threat.
We were similar, in different circumstances we would probably have been friends. Her star sign was Cancer. (My ascendant sign). In the end, she was one of the reasons that nothing ever happened between me and him. Although, really, I have only myself to blame.

Oh, I'm into it now.
You poor things.
I won't make it a private post. I think there's more option to skip a post if it's public.
I could say I don't want to bore anyone.
Truth is, I don't care.
Therapy rules ok.
For a few weeks a sort of pattern developed between SS and me. I'd go out, usually to the club. he'd be there (minus wife). We'd go home often, oh my God, meet me in St Louis, Louis, by tram together. It has to be the most romantic non-affair ever. I sussed out his stop was the one before mine but he always got off at mine and walked me home.
Dress sense?
I remember never as much as owning a pair of flat shoes in those days. He found my stilletoes hilarious. I think he'd grown up with brothers and was a bit fascinated by feminine stuff. I was always trying to be sophisticated and failing dismally. Walking home one night I got my heel stuck in a grating. He just laughed.
He was funny. I remember another night, walking along the road with some of the other girls from the Club. It was dark. Remember he was such a small man, tiny little arms and legs, sweet. He caught us up. 'It's a bit late to be walking around on your own, girls' he said, 'You want a big, strong man.'
Pause.
'I'll go and get one.'

Besenwirtschaften: Seasonal Wine Rooms
The history of the Swabian »Besa« ...
starts around the year 800 with the decree of Karl the Great. This permitted the winegrowers to serve their wine in their own private households.

The tradition has continued to this day with wine sometimes being served in the winegrowers’ living rooms, sometimes in rebuilt stables or side rooms. The winegrowers place a broom ("Besen") in front of their doors as a sign that their homes are now open for visitors.

A "Besenwirtschaft" is a typical Swabian institution: In the comfortable atmosphere, tasting the home-produced wine and eating home-made meals is not only a highlight, but hanging out with the locals and listening to the original dialect is also very exciting! Sometimes there are live bands that perform for the guests. It is really an experience not to miss!

Under law, winegrowers may run a Besenwirtschaft without restaurant permission in their own home, however, not for longer than four months out of the year and not for more than two different periods of time. We recommend that you find out beforehand whether the "Besa" is open or not!

Have fun exploring and trying out the numerous restaurants around Stuttgart!

I'm in blogging mood and I'm in reminiscing mood.
Because of my dream, I suppose.
Before I start. Fizz has taken to Durham Tom. He seems to like her and walks her. I thought she'd rush off to sleep with them but no, she obviously doesn't want to be a gooseberry and has stayed down here with me. She slept with me last night. It can't be much fun for her because I'm fidgety and it's a single bed and she's a big-ish dog.
Awoken this morning by the smell of poo. Poor thing(!) had a bad case of diarrhoea. I was so pleased that she seemed to have done it all on the landing outside my room and Bonnie was swearing and moaning away as she cleared it up. About 7 am.
Hum. Surfaced at 9-ish, after the SS dream. Somehow as I was getting out of bed, I managed to put my hand in....
Yes. So I had a bit of cleaning up to do as well.
I think (hope) she's over it now.
Joys of dogs.

Bit difficult posting of late. Cellar computer not working as usual and Bonnie's laptop in a very public place. Can't access blog.co.uk from library.
Job-hunting? No luck so far but a few phone numbers and promises of application forms. Am hopeful.
Bonnie's Durham man here. Ooh, he is quiet. And when he does talk I haven't a clue what he's saying because of his accent. She seems to like him but there is a occasional 'ah, Guy' sigh.
Huge worry about what to do re storage. All my worldly goods are in a storage place that is on a future Olympic site and in ten days it will be razed to ground. Yes, I have known about this for a while. No, I don't know what I'm going to do.
I know it's junk but it's my junk.
And my sofas are not junk. £3,000 pounds worth of beautiful pink leather.
Oh, I hate this homeless lark.
But, how wonderful. Baby Freddy wasn't burnt to death after all. I'm sure that bit of good news has cheered up half the country.

Case anyone was worried I had anorexia, rest assured I've just had a big place of gammon, beans and chips for lunch.
Yesterday was a vegetarian day which probably contributed to my hunger pangs in the evening.
Of course, I have loads of packing to finish because I didn't do it all last night.
Oh, well,
Have a nice friend here. An older lady, even older than me, she works in the canteen. She was telling me yesterday about her sick husband and how her wages count but, thank God, her mortgage gets paid off this year. I know all married women are not rolling in it. Suppose it depends on who you marry. I think it's hard being single because every thing is down to you.

So much for the packing....

La Grande Illusion, I would say is my favourite film, not least 'cos it's in French and I'm such a poser. No, I like it. It's was Tom's (Bonnie's late husband) favourite film as well. So, I found some stuff about Jean Renoir who directed it and about the film itself.

Jean Renoir (1894-1979)

One of the greatest film directors of France, a humanist and "the least arrogant of all men," whose most creative period in the 1930s produced such masterworks as The Grand Illusion, The Human Beast, and The Rules of the Game. Renoir conceived all his work as a collaborative effort by director, writer, technicians and actors. Typical for his films are continually changing relationships between people, deep-focus frame, moving camera, and long takes which recorded the intimate thoughts of his characters. "In nature nothing is created, nothing is lost, everything is transformed," Renoir once said.

"Simplicity is absolutely essential to creation. Those people who make love while saying: "We're going to have a magnificent child"; well, they won't have a magnificent child, they may not have any child at all that evening... The magnificent child comes by chance, one day after a good laugh, a picnic, fun in the woods, a roll in the hay, then a magnificent child is born!" (from Renoir on Renoir, 1989)

Jean Renoir was born in Paris as the second son of the famous Impressionist painter Auguste Renoir - his works were an inseparable part of Renoir's early years. Renoir divided his childhood years between the family's house in Paris and a country estate in the south of France, developing there love for the nature. At the age of five he became interested in puppet theater and later he found the adventure books of Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers, La Tour de Nesle and others. Especially he was fascinated by the sense of honor between the musketeers. Renoir studied philosophy and mathematics at the University of Aix-en-Provence, before joining in 1913 the cavalry. During World War I he served as a second lieutenant with the Alpine Infantry and a pilot. Renoir was wounded two times. A bullet in a thighbone left him with a permanent slight limp.

Renoir's father died 1919. Next year he married his father's beautiful model Andrée Heuchling, who gained fame as an actress under the name Catherine Hessling. Renoir had became interested in the cinema already during the war. With his inherited money he set up an independent production company. 1924 he produced and wrote his first film, CATHERINE OU UNE VIE SANS JOIE. His first direction was LA FILLE DE L'EAU (1924), starring Catherine Hessling. She was in Renoir's adaptation of Zola's famous novel NANA (1925), a complete commercial failure. CHARLESTON (1927) was an erotic fantasy, again made for Hessling. However, in the beginning of the sound era they separated. Her place was taken by Marguerite Mathieu, a film editor, known as Marguerite Renoir although the director never married her.

LE GRANDE ILLUSION (1937) was Renoir's first international success, but in Germany it was banned by Nazi propaganda chief Josef Goebbels, who persuaded also Italians to ban it. However, embarrassment was great when it won in Venice Film Festival the "Best Artistic Ensemble" award. Grand Illusion was based on a true story from World War I and illustrated the power of wartime camaraderie between the French and German soldiers. Erich von Stroheim played Von Rauffernstein, and Jean Gabin was Marechal, who try to find a way out with Pierre Fresnay from the escape-proof fortress, Wintersborn, commanded by Von Rauffenstein. Inside the walls the prisoners are treated well and there is some kind of natural bond between all men. Von Rauffenstein is an aristocrat. He reluctantly shoots Captain De Boeldieu, whose self-sacrifice helps two of his comrades, Gabin and a Jewish officer, to escape from Wintersborn. Paradoxically, outside the walls is freedom but not equality. Renoir was sensitive to his actors' bodies and gestures, stating once: "I began to realize that the gesture of a laundress, of a woman combining her hair before a mirror, of a streethawker near a car, had an incomparable plastic eloquence. I made a sort of study of French gestures through the paintings of my father, and those of his generation." Von Stroheim, understanding Renoir's ideas, added a neck brace and a corset to make his character look outside even stiffer and inhuman, but inside he represents virtues of the old order - patriotic heroism, chivalrous manner, and honor. Asked years later how much effect pacifist films have, Renoir answered, "In 1936 I made a picture named La Grande Illusion in which I tried to express all my deep feelings for the cause of peace. This film was very successful. Three years later the war broke out. That is the only answer I can find..."

Anyway, to continue.
Confident people always seem to have relationships. Whatever, they look like.
I don't think I ended up an Old Spinster because I was ugly. Then again....
Beauty you're born with but Glamour is easy.
I remember when I was about 13. All that teenage angst. And I wore glasses and looked like "Ugly Betty". I was at the local swimming pool because I liked swimming. And one of the Allan girls was there. There were about three Allan sisters, all gorgeous. Retrousee(?) noses, and long, brown hair. Very 60's looking. And they all had pretty names, too. Ruth, Rachel, Rebecca. That day, I remember looking at the beautiful Ruth, thinking, if only I looked like her, I wouldn't have a problem in the world.
Later, when I got contact lenses and the hang of wearing make-up, I remember someone saying "You look so like Ruth Allan."
Did it make a blind bit of difference?
Did it hell as.
Confidence was what I needed and I just did not have it. I have so destroyed potential relationships because I lacked confidence.
Like the time in Germany. I was twenty-five. I was wearing a cream, frilly skirt and a green top. I looked nice. Was on a coach trip (I was working in a hotel). I was on my own (it was a lonely summer). I stopped to have a coffee in this little open-air tourist place. I think it was near Bodensee - Lake Constance. Oh, I'm so well-travelled. There was a couple at a table, with a friend, a single man. Young, tall, handsome, distinguished. Looked like a doctor or something. They were watching me and I knew the handsome one fancied me. They called me over.......
It was all innocent, and friendly, and....
What went through my head? He's so handsome. He fancies me. He fancies because I look pretty. He's so handsome. He looks clever. I look pretty. The minute I open my mouth and speak he's going to realise that I'm a complete nitwit.
I just turned and ran.
My own worse enemy or what.
Just think, I could be blogging away in German now.

playwrite (I think that's her name) lamenting her lack of beauty.
I should be packing but can't be arsed.
Helen Gurley Brown (for some reason I'm into HGB tonight) (it's the diet thing), she says something along the lines of, yes, she'd give her last breath to be beautiful but in the end it's brains what keep you amused. Something like that.
When younger I was so insecure, never thought I was pretty enough. Acting helped, for the first time ever I wanted to be good at something; I thought being a good actress was (slightly) better than being beautiful.
God, I'm hungry, it's this blinkin' diet. Where was I? Obviously, I haven't entirely given up on the looks thing, have I? Or I wouldn't be starving myself but....
Bonnie is very sensible about beauty. She does all the glitz and the glamour (her middle name is Beauty Treatments) but I think she has it in perspective. As she says, it doesn't matter how beautiful you are, sooner or later someone will come along who's younger and lovelier.
Then, look at the women who are beautiful. I don't mean famous ones, I mean the ordinary, beautiful women you know. I just think of Lemonie and a first cousin of mine. Both of them were/are stunning but excuse me.... both are housewives and grans, I mean, there no different from lots of plainer women. My friend, Layla, gorgeous but early forties and not married. (And I can think of more than a few Plain Jane's that got themselves handsome hubbys).
Not sure how playwrite works out that you need looks to become a writer. I should have thought it was one sure profession where looks were unimportant. Unless it is different in America.

I'm hungry. Starving.
This is because I'm on the diet that isn't a diet.
I really have eaten enough today. By anyone else's standards this would not be a diet.
Quote from Helen Gurley Brown. I like HGB. "Unless you're feeling hungry, you're weight loss isn't happening".

Feeling a bit disgruntled. I think it's because I'm packing. Bloomin' boring and taking forever.
I have a vague sort of blocked ear which could be wax or then again could be a brain tumour.
I think the sugar deprivation is making me miserable. Something is...
Oh, I know. For months, months, the buildings insurance on Hackney House was lapsed. It did worry me what with hurricanes in Kent etc. Finally, I rang up an insurance firm to sort it. I know a lot of them won't insure rented houses. This one did - for £425 per annum. A miracle I had it but I've been a bit quids in this term as I only had to pay rent for 6 weeks (approx).
Rang Lemonie and had a moan. The cost of living, I mean, I feel extravagant 'cos I buy an odd book from a charity shop but why, when right, left and centre people are taking money off me for sod all.
I'd so love to be a footballer's wife. Anyone's wife. He'd pay all the mortgage etc., I'd just spend my time at the hairdresser's, the Gym, shoppping and getting my nails done. I could live like that, don't think I couldn't.
Did I tell you about that part-time job I did last term and the woman in charge (my age) who said "Men are put on this earth to pay the bills".
I so wish.

You're Waiting for Godot!
by Samuel Beckett
Many people think you're extremely dull, but you're just trying to
patient. Really patient. Patient to the point of absurdity, quite frankly. Whatever
you're waiting for isn't going to just come along, so you can stop waiting. I promise.
Move on with your life. Change of scenery might do you good. Heck, any scenery might
do you good. In the meantime, you do make for very interesting conversation.

Take the a>
at the Blue Pyramid.

E-mail from Myfanwy. Was thinking about her last night.
Anyway, she's back in Australia. Said she had a bit of a breakdown after her Mother's death. Then she mentioned she wants to return to England and live on a barge.
It is very scary how alike me and Myfanwy are. I always thought that. When she first came to Hackney House to look at the room.
"My new lodger doesn't seem to be on the same planet as everyone else" I told them at work.
They found this hilarious "She's living with the right person, then," they said.
I'm currently envisaging a nice future, me and Myfanwy sharing a barge and writing.
How come I meet loads of women I get on with and can quite happily live with or imagine living with. I don't think I'm a lesbian. I think you pick your friends because you have things in common with them. With men, all the sexual attraction has to come into it. I don't think me and Ern had/have a single thing in common but, bloody 'ell, I didn't half fancy him.

11.30 and final assignment, more or less, finished.
Just needs a bit of tinkering with, nothing major.
One year down, two to go.
Bonnie picking me up on Thursday. It's funny, when I'm there, I look forward to getting back here for some peace and quiet; when I'm here, I miss the Corner House.
It's sounds as chaotic as ever. Ian and Gabriella have moved out. The Wean is there for another month. Now, wait for this - an ex-love interest of Bonnie's is turning up on Saturday (from New Zealand) as is her latest, Mr Durham Town. She says she's been honest and telling Durham that her and Mr New Zealand are just good friends. She wonders if I'd like Mr New Zealand as he's my type (small, fat and Alpha).
!
Thankfully, she was very understanding when I said there was no spark with B.E. therefore I wasn't interested. She seemed to empathize but said she can not go down that 'In Love' road again because it makes her too unhappy. Only yesterday she caught herself crying for Guy and it's not what she wants, she wants a companion, preferably one who is good at DIY.

As yet, she hasn't suggested that I try Internet dating. Matter of time, I suppose. For my part, I daren't mention the 4-letter word to Bonnie. ****, sssshhhhh, d i e t. Studying and scoffing always went together in my book but, oh Lord, the size of me! I have a beige skirt which was always loose and is now too tight. Middle-aged spread. I agree with Bonnie. Diets don't work. She blames her current weight on silly, fad diets she did when young. But, for past two days I have been following new eating regime. It's not a diet. It's giving up obvious sugar for most of the time (except special occasions and maybe Saturdays). (Something the diabetic Bonnie really needs to do). Apart from that it's mainly normal eating - just no carbs. after 6 pm, and no food at all (drinks allowed) after 9 pm. For rest of life.

Penultimate assignment in.
The last one, I've started and I will probably finish tomorrow. It not too difficult a one, just an evaluation of the year's work.
I feel a bit "must try harder" next year. Well, it will be the 2nd year and the marks will count towards what sort of a degree I get.
Phoned up Marie, cousin's wife, last night. Yet another (younger) cousin, is getting married in July and I wasn't going to go the wedding but, of course, now I am. I might miss something if I don't. So I checked to see if Marie was going too and she is.
Weirdest thing, really. For years, like years, me and Marie couldn't stand each other. Honestly, I thought she was such a bitch and so nasty to me. Then, somehow, a couple of years ago, we became best friends, always pleased to meet up.
Someone please explain. What is that about?

www.fionacooperbiz.biz/

WELCOME

Hi ! and welcome to my website.
Having received many very kind letters about my books over the years, I've decided to get technological !
When I was a child, the only punishment that really hit home was not being allowed to read, and I remember defying the ban and to hell with the consequences! Fortunately, these days those consequences are on the verge of being made illegal.
I read everything I could get my hands on, and God bless Mr Tebbutt, the local librarian who allowed me to borrow from the adult section at the age of eight. Classics, westerns, crime, romance, history, horror, science fiction - I soaked it all up.
I knew I wanted to be a writer as soon as I became aware that real people wrote books.
My first novel, Rotary Spokes, was published by Brilliance Books in 1989 and that moment of holding a real book with my name on it was sheer joy.
For the next seven years I produced a novel annually and one collection of short stories, I Believe in Angels.
I did a lot of journalism, contributed short stories to many collections and really felt I was getting there. Then, after Blossom at The Mention of Your Name came out in 1995, everything changed.
Having always dismissed writer's block as an affectation, I was horrified when it hit me. Thousands of notes and half chapters later, I found that nothing seemed to flow. It was like trying to play a piano with no strings. I felt that maybe I'd been a writer and couldn't imagine ever writing again.
And now my new novel As You Desire me is in the shops and hot off the press. Holding the first copy of that in my hands brought back wonderful memories. I hope you enjoy your visit to the site - please let me know.
Thank you all for your encouragement and enthusiastic support over the years, and I hope you continue to enjoy my work.
And yes - I am working on a new book - again!
Never say never!

Fiona Cooper

Fiona Cooper, is a published author of seven novels and a short story collection, see Book Reviews.

Several of her books have been translated into German and Catalan, and her work has also been dramatised for the BBC's Radio 4

Layla phoned this morning. Very upset. A few years ago we both went to Canada, near Toronto, to stay with a cousin of hers. Nice woman, husband, young kids. Apparently, she died yesterday from some rare disease. Layla's forgotten it's name but it eats away at your internal organs. She was only 40!

Decided to take today off.
Did a little shopping. Just food and stuff.
Rang B.E. I knew he was sick but, anyway, poor man, he's got whooping cough. He sounds dreadful. He said he didn't think you could get it twice but apparently your immunity stops after 50 years. I didn't think whooping cough existed anymore or that adults got it.
Of course, I'm a great believer in Louise Hay and I suspect all this is linked to his son dying.
I like B.E., I'm quite happy to be friends. I'll ring him over the summer and see how he's getting on.

Last night, while everyone else was having fun, I was reading a Fiona Cooper novel. No, I don't quite mean that the way it sounds, I'm enjoying "A Skyhook in the Midnight Sun". I will do a post about Fiona Cooper at a later stage.
She is a good writer. I was reading her book thinking, gosh, she uses her pen like a brush to paint pictures with.
Well, my descriptive powers are rubbish. But thought I'd give it a go -
So - skip this bit if you like -
Famous novelist Renee McCall (latest pseudonym) describes her Halls of Residence bedroom.

The walls are a smoky magnolia. A fluorescent strip runs along the white ceiling. In one corner an uncomfortable looking bed - monastically single. The furniture in the room is utilitarian made out of ersatz beech. There is a lively bookcase, haphazardly crammed with hardbacks, paperbacks and coloured files. A turquoise tissue floats on top of a thick, erudite tome and a purple plastic holdall is crammed with papers. Coloured scarves, draped on hangers, festoon the sides of the wardrobe while it's top has become a makeshift dressing-table on which bottles, tubes and pots of lotions perch. The room is too chaotic to be called tidy. It is, you sense, always in a transient near-miss-of-a-mess state. More books lie on the desk; beside them an incongruous packet of breakfast cereal, an ugly and environmentally-incorrect splosh of a plastic bag and more scattered cosmetics. On a chest-of-drawers, stuff lies in a mixed-up jumble - a pretty, pink retro radio stands next to an unwashed plate and near them is a huddled mass of indistinct shapes. A packet of dental-floss, a jar of handcream, a note pad, a box of post-it notes as well as some Tarot cards wrapped in a dirty and dishevelled scarf. A book, open and inverted, balances precariously on all this, thin twists of wrapped sugar stick out from a bone-china jug, a small alarm clock, a diary, a mobile phone and a pair of brass-and-sequin earrings add to the confusion. A blue minimalist lamp stands guard over the lot. On the floor, which is covered by something less a carpet and more an upstart mat, other books lie. The radiator is cream and the green, blue and beige stripes of the curtains are vaguely co-ordinated. Cheap pictures and posters stick to the walls and the corner sink is hidden by the wardrobe with its profusion of scarves.

Felt like Cinderella last night. Minus the Fairy Godmother. The May Ball was on and seems all the campus went to it apart from me.
Saw Luke at breakfast this morning. Still in a skirt and wearing red nail varnish and using his "female" voice syntheziser. He apologised for the noise him and his friends made in the small hours. As if I'd create a fuss, I've been noisy enough myself in my day. He was very emotional; it's his last May Ball, he's loved University life, he will miss all his friends.
E-mail from Bonnie. Her mobile's been stolen; she can pick me up Thursday evening if I want.
Better crack on with my final assignment then.

I found this on some writing website. Do it, I will post the 'results' later.

CUBE GAME

Step one: Close your eyes. Imagine a blank desert, nothing but flat sand and
sky.
In this desert landscape there is a cube.
See it.
Describe it.
What size is it?
Where is it?
What is it made of?

There are no right or wrongs.. Describe what you see.

Step Two:
In the desert landscape in addition to the cube there is a ladder. Where is
it? WHat is it made of? What does the ladder look like? Describe its
position relative to the cube.

Step three:
In the desert scene with the cube and the ladder there is also a horse.
Describe it. Tell what it is doing. WHere is it in relation to the ladder
and the cube?

Step four:
IN the desert landscape with the cube and the ladder and the horse a storm is
brewing. Describe the storm. Where is it? How does it affect the other
objects in the landscape?

Step five:
Add flowers to the desert scene. WHere are the flowers in relation to the
other objects? Describe the flowers.

That is all of the steps . I shall send a different message telling how to
interpret the writing you have done. I hope you had fun.

B.E.
?
He rang me a couple of times when I was at Lemonie's, plus sent a few text messages.
He didn't turn up at Jodie's dinner party as planned. Rang next day to say that he is ill. Bad cough. I sent a text, I'll ring him later.
Another student, (another older man, married,) said he wonders if anyone will drop out next year. He thinks B.E. might. B.E. missed more or less all of last term but the circumstances were mitigating. However, he may fail this year because his marks have been low. Other student and me both agreed that B.E. has perhaps not quite caught on to what academic work involves. He is often in the computer room an hour before an assignment is due in, just starting it and he doesn't seem to understand that his assignments should be given priority over his karaoke nights out.
I like B.E. I think he's a nice man. I think he's quite handsome. We have a lot of things in common.
I am not in love with him.
What did Blondie's friend say to him (when Blondie met Maj and wasn't sure) - friend said "there's not such thing as first sight, it's only lust."
That's all well and good but I'm a bit of an adrenalin junkie. Been in love is fantastic. What really is the point of having a boyfriend that I'm not in love with? I'd as soon be on my own.

A lazy day. But I was busy last night - up to 3 am re-writing the short story. I've finally finished it. It was the one I meant to write originally but couldn't then, somehow, last night, I could. It's a weird process, writing. I firmly believe a lot of it's sub-conscious. You have to put the work in, though.
So, did a bit of reading today. Short-stories. Also, listened to the Radio 4 play. Anyone else hear it? Good. Something about male voice choirs and violence.
Gym, tea now some faffing about on the computer.

Had a nice time at Lemonie's. Bit lazy.
Story, sort of written. Not really. It's got no plot whatsoever. I'm useless at plots. Got to think one up by Monday.
"You must be nearly finished" said Bonnie, on the phone, this morning.
"I've still got one short story and one essay to do", says me.
"Is that the same short story and essay you've been doing for weeks now?" asks Miss Speedygonzales Brain-Box.
Yeah, like James Joyce knocked out "Dubliners" in a few hours, and, anyway, it's a different essay.
As for Lemonie. I mentioned that I may have to take GCSE Maths if I want to do a teaching course. Which I don't. But I like the idea of £143 a day for supply teaching. Probably danger money.
"I've got "O" level Maths" she announces. Bloomin' story. She went on to tell me she'd got five "O" levels. Next day, I was pondering on this. Five "O" levels! She has not, I mean, I was there, she's got three - Eng. Lit., Eng Lan., and I don't remember what the third one is but I'm sure it's not Maths.
So she came back from work.
"As for you" I said, "You have not got Maths "O" level and you haven't got five "O" levels either."
"What's up with you? Have you been brooding about this all night? I have so got Maths "O" Level."
"Have not."
"I couldn't have become a nurse without Maths "O" level. You need five "O" levels to become a nurse."
I told her, yes, nowadays, but you only needed three back then and Maths was optional.
"Oooh, you're so jealous. Just because I'm a nurse and I love my job. Just because I've got Maths "O" level and you haven't."
"Maths "O" level, my arse. Come on then. Name all those other imaginary "O" levels you've got."
She thought for a bit.
"Well, English Literature, English Language, Biology, History, Commerce....."
"That's five already and you haven't mentioned Maths yet and Commerce was a CSE not an "O" level."
"I thought if you got Grade 3 it was the equivalent of an "O" level. I must have five "O" levels or a couldn't have trained as a nurse."
Huh! She only trained as an S.E.N for which you didn't need any qualifications. True, she had started off doing the S.R.N. training. Twice. The first time, she came back homesick, the second time she left - she said - because she was in love with some boy who broke her heart. Years later she denied all this and said she left because she was only young and it upset her when patients died. She never mentioned that at the time.
She probably left because she is the laziest person ever when it comes to studying. Fair enough but suddenly she's re-inventing herself as Miss University Challenge and I wouldn't mind but she never writes an e-mail or picks up a pen or, come to that, a book.
And isn't it enough she's beautiful and still looks like a Supermodel even in her 50's. She has no need whatsoever to add Maths "O" level to her list of attributes.

Nice end-of-term and start of holiday atmosphere today. And it is the end of 1st Year Drama.
Still two weeks to go with Creative Writing, however. Which is why I'm back in the Computer Room trying to get some stuff together for a Presentation tomorrow. The worse is over, at least, that drama essay was really difficult.
B.E. has been around all afternoon. Gone off now, to some karaoke evening.
I don't think it's a romance. He was spouting off about blue-eyed blondes earlier, how he likes them, how his ex-wife was one. Well, I'm about as far from a blue-eyed blonde as you can get - even with my new dyed hair colour. It's sort of dark mouse now, whatever the packet calls it. I like to think I have green eyes but they're a murky sort of greeny-grey - less blue sky more shady swamp.
I'm willing to be friends with him although I've never had much faith in men and women having platonic friendships. The only men I've ever been friends with before have been gay.
Oh, well, time will tell.
Lemonie rang and is looking forward to seeing me tomorrow. Her husband's away for a few days. She's thinking about a day out in Lincoln on Saturday and maybe going to a folk club one evening, if there is one. Her idea, not mine. It will be nice. A break for her as much as anything. She works very hard; a busy housewife, a part-time nursing job and an awful lot of caring for the grand-children. Emma wouldn't be able to work without her Mum's help.
Should be a nice change. It's not exactly a holiday because I have one short story to write but I might as well write it there as here.
Will blog if I possible can. Internet access a bit problematical at Lemonie's. Involves all sorts of re-arranging of plugs.