Take notes!

Note to self: always write down the interesting things as soon as you hear or think them.

History drawls a veil over exactly when I started to do this: I should have wrote it down, that moment I first put pen to paper knowing I would otherwise forget that witticism, perfect line, cunning plot, great title, cracking dialogue.

So I never go anywhere without a notebook, and if you want to be a writer, neither should you. My most recent acquisition is this fab personalised one from The Dog's Doodahs.

Some people complain I am 'stealing their ideas'. These are usually people who will never do anything useful with the ideas they have, and ideas that are doomed to die young and unfulfilled. Plagiarism? No? It's a Public Service!

You have to be careful, occasionally I don't write enough and just find random words staring back at me that mean nothing:

the Darth Vader of fairies

synchronise your mothers

regurgitated garnishes from previous incumbents

Apostrophe wife

fake town?

I still keep notebooks, especially for journeys, but some are too lovely to use. And now I jot ideas on my phone or iPad, too, ready to transpose into a Word document... which now runs to over 70 pages. You do the math.

Then be afraid.

Do you make notes? 

There's always thumb thing

Just when you thought you might manage to do everything you set out to do in a given month, thumb thing else crops up, and reminds you of what's really important... and what isn't.

So if you're wondering why I haven't blogged for a bit, it started out being because I was up to my eyes in voluntary admin/PR stuff for the forthcoming Festival of Firsts, and then it became very much because my parents have needed my support since my 78 year old dad was rushed into hospital twice the same day two weeks ago. Look away now if you're squeamish.

He was on a ramble, but waited until he was clear of any sofy, cushiony grass or foliage, and fell flat on his face on a tarmac road instead, knocking out most of his front teeth and damaging both hands - including this nasty dislocation / compound fracture, which was poking out of an open wound when I got to A&E. Yes... ewwww. *shudders*

Two muscly young orthopoedic doctors managed to man-handle it back into place, hence avoiding the threatened surgery, but when we got him home 5 hours later, he had a seizure so I had to call 999 and back we went. They kept him in this time but they're still not sure what caused it.

He's much better, though he's still not allowed to lift anything or drive, so it's just a matter now of a bit of ferrying and keeping an eye on them both (mum's 79 and partially sighted).

It certainly makes you realise, when people you love need you, what your priorities really are.

'It's like your gran... turned into Beyoncé'

This is a big week for Liverpool and for libraries. After a three years closure, the Liverpool Central Library has reopened following a £55million PFI-funded refurb.

(They probably want their Borrowers back, too. We inherited a few for a while, but as will all things library-related, they have to be returned.)

As the Daily Mail said:

'It's like going to meet your gran and finding she's turned into Beyoncé'.

It is indeed a breathtaking building: like a high-tech Hogwarts it has layers of floating walkways hovering above a central area which spirals upwards to a quirky out-of-kilter dome. The old-world splendour of the Picton Reading Room and Horny Library sit surprisingly comfortably alongside the chrome, glass and on-trend big letters/bright colours.

It's a building that lends itself to being a library (see what I did there?) and a very beautiful place to be and I could quite happily live there.  Ooh, I have library envy.

They even have books.

But while the media response to what the Liverpool Echo calls the city's 'new cathedral of knowledge' has been rapturous, these are times of austerity, and the money to run it has to come from somewhere.

Three Liverpool libraries have been closed, 76 jobs lost and opening hours reduced to help fund the City Council's commitment to the landmark building agreed by the previous LibDem administration.


It's very automated too - a subject I'll be coming back to. There are computers everywhere and free wifi throughout but it'll be interesting to see how many actual staff there are and how the borrowers react to space-age borrowing.

But with so many libraries are closing (give yourself a scare by checking out this map) it's good to see that so much has been invested in a new one - may it shine like a beacon of hope across the land!

Talking of beacons, the reopening last night as part of Light Night, where the city's arty farty smarties compete to lure the public to be dazzled by late-night shenanagins.

I managed to miss most of it, except for this rather groovy kaleidescope of light projected onto the Oratory of the Anglican Cathedral. The patterns were made by shards of stained glass.

(And that's the second time this week I've been forced to use the word 'shard'. I'll have the Poetry Police after me at this rate.)

Murder!

I hosted a Murder Mystery event at the library earlier this week, taking the role of a forensic scientist leading the audience through the 'evidence' and a plot by crime author Ann Cleeves that had more holes in it than the victim.

And, apart from neglecting to wear my rubber gloves and mask, forgetting to wait until after the sirens before beginning, and accidentally starting on the second page, nothing BAD happened. In fact people seemed to quite enjoy it.

Between you and me, some of us at the library lean towards the theatrical, darlings. And we like to make props (see Wirral's most haunted library). Often this is limited to hand-crafted paper bunting, but we had fun with a crime scene and gruesome evidence. For one day only, you are all allowed to say 'shard' (see shard rant for why you can't any other day.)


I was left in sole charge of 25 borrowers while their answers to 'whodunnit' were evaluated by the team. I'm still newish, haven't run any reading groups and felt like a trainee primary school teacher left with her first class of expectant little faces. Again, nothing bad happened; there was no hair pulling, no-one (as far as I know) wet themselves and they didn't get too rowdy during show and tell.


I've never been to a Murder Mystery before (have you?) but we got away with it - which is more than the perpetrator did! (Sadly, I didn't think to bring my handcuffs... and now my colleagues are looking at me funny just because I own some!).  But I'm thinking I should have a go at writing one... one set in a library perhaps? The Crime Reading Group look a suspicious lot...

A funny week... in a very 'literal' sense

Ian MacMillan welcomes everyone at the door

I don't get out much, but I've had four nights of laughter on the run!

First up was Eddie Izzard: Force Majeure at the Echo Arena. I've followed him since the 90's and he's one of my fave comedians. I love his surreal logic and improvisations. Genius!

Monday was my first time at Liver Bards - a rumbustious cornucopia of performance poetry. The co-hosts are a comedy double-act (but shhh ... don't tell them)- Steve rambles and disorganises while Dave attempts to keep accountant-style order. But you can't herd poets.

Next, as part of Liverpool City Council's poorly-advertised In Other Words literary festival, was an evening with Barnsley bard Ian MacMillan. With his BBC Radio 3 show and poetry aficionado credentials I thought he'd be more serious...and taller. But his gigs are inclusive (he met everyone at the door!), hilarious, fast-paced, anarchic and did I mention inclusive? This meant a lot of audience participation - singing and co-creating a unique epic poem to music. He's coming to Hoylake next year - you have been warned!

Last night was Flash in the Dark - the finals of a short horror competition run by Writing on the Wall . It wasn't supposed to be funny and much of it wasn't (my zombie mood piece 'Homecoming' had been shortlisted) - some truly gruesome offerings and well-deserved winners. But the guests, Les Malheureux, were even better than I expected - quirky short fiction performed by two of my flash heroes: David Gaffney and Sarah-Clare Conlon to a musical and visual landscape. Witty and unsettling.
*Note to self - MUST get them to Wirral!

What tickles your funny bone? Who are your favourite comedians?

May the 4th STILL be with you

I'm just off out, but I couldn't let Star Wars Day pass without mention.

Fans may be delighted at the announcement that Disney will be releasing 6 new Star Wars films from summer 2015, but they just won't be the same without the big fella.

I still haven't put together the video for my Love Song to Darth Vader, but it isn't the only poem I've written with the Dark Lord of the Sith in mind:

Darth Vader (Retired)

Darth settled out in the valley, he was weary of Wookies and thrills
He found himself a spacious pad in the heart of Beverly Hills
It’s got a pool, it’s dark and cool, where every morning he dunks
And then has a bask in his breathing mask and his skimpy Speedo trunks
He’s shy at parties – won’t talk much, and the kitchen is where he’ll stand
He’ll grunt and sigh at each passerby and crush nuts with his metal hand
His light saber is on the shelf, and he aches when it’s chilly weather
But he keeps his buttons oiled up, and still shops at the World of Leather.
Typecast, he gets no offers - just voiceovers – bleach and Jiff
It’s been years since he made a movie - except the end of Revenge of the Sith
And he misses it now it’s over, he’d go back but does not know how
And none of his fans are Peter Pans and the don’t recognize him now

Some more about my lobelia

Spring has finally sprung and I've been wrestling the Demon Weed in the garden. John Wyndham knew a thing or two, I can tell you.

I don't think I've posted this poem before, but it seems apt and was recently published in an American gardening magazine  'GreenPrints - The Weeder's Digest'.

It's not the first time I've mentioned my lobelia, but it must have been Double Entendre Week when I wrote this post: How to avoid damaging your lobelia.

So here's the poem, which may seem to veer towards the religious (I'm not at all) but was just something that, having been brought up Catholic occurred to me.

Sacrament

I don’t mind getting on my knees
to bend my head before creation.
There is no greater power than these:
the seasons and the seeds.

Here’s a church to break your back,
another creed that’s steeped in Latin names.
My catechism: ceanothus, nasturtium
hydrangea, gladioli, alium.

My solid faith will never swerve
from sacrifice nor settle for
a pious whisper of ‘thy will be done’
that would let me off so lightly.

Today I’m penitent. Sins of omission:
I’ve allowed convolvulus to choke
the rubus and failed to baptise
the lollo rosso and lobelia.

Others may pray for miracles
and martyrs. I see them daily
in my communion and every spring
greatest of all: the dead are raised.