I Started Something

Yesterday marked the publication of my first book for children: Mr Reuben and the Mole.  Mr Reuben is a character that I started thinking about over three years ago; sending scrappy photocopied sheets of paper to friends and family before graduating to my much beloved Moleskine notebook where I hand-wrote the stories again and drew colour illustrations so that I could take Mr Reuben to the local primary school and try his tall tales out on some very patient 5-7 year olds.

This story in particular has changed from one that was written in verse to being delivered in straight prose, the edits have been numerous and at one point in publication I literally did have to bin the whole process and start from the beginning again.  The cover has changed three times in the last month but finally Mr Reuben has made it from my imagination into the outside world and I'm just a little bit excited.

There are many tales about him to be told, most of which are still living in that notebook, all of which will need some tweaking but he's out of the blocks now and it feels like the start of something special - I can't wait to see how he gets on!

Third time lucky on the cover!

Just what is Mr Reuben so worried about?

A few story planning sketches

Soundtrack: I Started Something I Couldn't Finish - The Smiths 

There She Goes

She propels herself through the water; head down, body sleek, arm over, then through, the water.  Legs kicking, not splashing.  Concentration creating flow.  Grace, strength and power creating movement that looks effortless.  Her head glances to the side; face just visible, to catch a breath before turning back to join the water.

I am watching, rapt.  The noise of other people becoming a background thrum as I soak up the sight of my girl swimming lengths of the pool. Confident, strong strokes that I have not seen before and couldn't replicate myself.  No looking round and seeking approval, no searching to see if I'm watching.  I can't believe I've got the chance to see this.  I can't believe I am her mother.  

I want to phone my husband, to tell him what I can see and that I wish he was here, but for once in my life I resist the urge to grab my phone and try to soak up every last microscopic detail of the moment.  

The swimming instructor is pacing alongside the pool in time with her and he pauses as he sees me.  "Bet you didn't know she could do that eh?  Look at her go."

He walks on, and I watch her go.


Soundtrack: There She Goes - The La's

The Walk of Life

This morning, I finished the Moonwalk - 26.2 miles through London and part of an incredible 15,000 people who raised £3.5 million pounds collectively (and counting!)

My legs are singing with aches & pains, but my head sings with the story of the team I was part of, and you can sing along too!  It is of course - Walk of Life by Dire Straits.  

-

Here come Emma saying
"Roll-up, sign up
Join Compton Crackers, we'll be on our way"

Here come Lindsay saying
"I'm gonna do it, 
I'll get us training in the hills today"

We put on trainers
We hit the footpaths
Oh yeah we hiked all day
We got lost and got blisters
But Claire could read a map, and soon we found our way

And Lorraine got over her fear of bush-wees
And our long walks gave our husbands some strife
All for the walk, all for the walk of life, all for the walk of life

Here come Vic J saying
"Pimp those bras girls
I got a bucket of pink dye today"
Here come Sarah and she's raided a craft shop
Beads, bows and buttons and prosecco - yay!

We glued the ribbons, we sewed the buttons
Oh yeah the bras looked great
Some were big and some little
But all were made with love on decorating day

And Becky thinks it's all so embarrassing, 
And Evie's skills are sharp as a knife
Close to the walk, close to the walk of life, yeah the walk of life

Here comes Toni saying 
"Facebook, Twitter
Let's raise some funds the social media way"
Here comes Ben and he's the 'Cracker Tracker'
Puts us in the S-Max, takes us to the train

We get to Ascot, it's full of drunkards
Those boys, they can't behave
Get to Twickers - it's rugby
There's so much fancy dress to watch the game today

And finally we get to Clapham Common
And then we make our way to the start line
To do the walk, to do the walk of life, mmmm to do the walk of life

Here come London and it's close to midnight
We hear the horn & then we're on our way
Hi-vis helpers saying "You're gonna do it"
Seeing the landmarks take our breath away

We count the miles off
As couples walk home
Oh yeah - wine makes girls sway
They're all drunk and, we're sober
But we cheer each other on and we forget our aches

And we crossed the line knowing all of our efforts
Might help your husband, daughter, mother or wife
We did the walk, we did the walk of life, yeah we did the walk of life..........

For Becky, Claire, Emma, Lindsay, Lorraine, Sarah, Victoria, everyone who supported us and everyone who supported the Moonwalk!!

Slave to the Rhythm

When I was in my twenties and living in Reading, every Monday to Friday was taken up with going to work, going to the gym and going out in the evening.  Saturdays were for shopping and going to the pub, and Sundays were for lie-ins and pints of Guinness once the hangover had disappeared.

This remained largely unchanged until Mr K and I moved to a village where going shopping requires either a car journey, playing 'bus roulette' with the six that run each day or a £50 round trip in a taxi, and 'going to the pub' is quite literally that - you go to the pub, the only one in the village.  Sundays remained intact - winner!  The rhythm of our lives was set by where we had to be (work) and where we wanted to be (pub).

Then our daughter was born which introduced us to a new rhythm dictated mostly by her need to feed.  A perfect bundle of limbs and lovely smelling skin that took our self-indulgent Saturday nights out and Sunday lie-ins and drop-kicked them out of the window.  Our lives no longer had the easy vibe of mellow soul music, they had all the shrieking and parping of avant-garde jazz.  She didn't do the best job of turning us mad with sleep deprivation though, as a couple of years later we decided to do it all over again.  Enter the boy-wonder: bed-leaper and early-riser.

As a couple who both worked full-time, our children went to nursery full-time.  Nursery opening hours became our clocking-in system and caused us to have panic attacks if we were on the motorway at 5.45pm, as a minute past 6.00pm and you WOULD GET FINED!!  Perhaps more terrifying was the thought of being given a telling off by the manager which would leave you feeling like A. a bad parent and B. a corporate slave.  Wrong on point A, probably quite right on point B. 

Then our daughter started school which threw a ginormous spanner in the works.  Nursery and normal work hours were the same, but school?  What do you mean it ends at 3.15pm?!  We cleared that hurdle, found a way and as of last September, found ourselves again in the happy place of both children in the same place at the same time.  Bliss.  All seemed to be going swimmingly until, well swimming actually.  I thought all the after school activities were aligned, I thought I had very cleverly gamed the system making sure I only ever needed to be in one place at one time.  Until this afternoon, until my lovely girl proudly told me that she was being moved up a level in swimming which means a change of day and time.  A day and time that doesn't fit in with her brother's lesson.  Life and swimming lessons; laughing their arses off at me and creating a frantic scrabble in my brain to try to make all the clubs, appointments and non-uniform days fit together with having a job, running a house and the million other commitments it seems like we have.  

Oh well, we'll figure it out I thought.  It's only one change and perhaps by next week our son will have magically leaped several levels in swimming so they'll be on the same day again.  And then tonight I found the letter in our son's book bag (come on - who actually checks book bags when the kids get home from school?  You must always check on a Sunday night - or Bank Holiday Monday in this instance - always!) telling me that he has a new club after school.  And it clashes with swimming.....

Soundtrack: Slave to the Rhythm - Grace Jones

Great Big Onion

"It's great to see what you're doing Toni, but I don't think you're quite there yet."  So spoke a friend and mentor a few months ago.  At the time I wasn't sure what he was going on about but I kept it in the memory bank as he's one of those sorts that has incredible perception, great foresight and some very handy hindsight based on many years of coaching and listening to people.

And he is right.  The past few years have been interesting times indeed and the path I've taken hasn't been entirely straight forward.  When I first left Microsoft I embraced the freedom of freelancing but a lot of what I did was not unsimilar to the job I had left behind.  Then I had a bit of a wobble that came in part from missing working with others and in part from worrying about nursery fees, and so I returned to working for someone else.  And then I missed the freedom that comes from being your own boss....and went freelance again which my husband greeted with outward understanding and good humour as he internally suppressed a howl of "would you please make up your mind woman!!".  Difference is, that on my return to freelancing I decided that I would do the thing I really wanted to do: write.  And I found that people liked my writing, and would pay me to do it, and I could make a living out of it.

Photo credit: 9gag.com

So that's it, isn't it?  Well no, as my mentor so astutely observes, I'm still on a bit of a path as it goes, gradually peeling away layers.  The writing started off with technical writing, marketing, advertising copy and case studies.  This has given way to helping others to blog and find their voices, creating content together that speaks to their personal opinions and feelings and working with people I feel a connection with.  It's collaborative work and there's something very fulfilling and interesting in helping another person to express themselves.  Along the way I have published my first book, and my first story for children is about to be published.  I am becoming less 'freelancer' and more 'writer' and with each layer that peels away is an excitement and trepidation, some nervous energy and a slightly sick feeling in my stomach.  Could I do it?  Can I do it?  Where will it lead?

I could just chase the money, I could just be content with things as they are, but my need to do it comes from what you find when you go through the mess and tears that come from peeling an onion: the heart.


Soundtrack: The Onion Song - Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell

Wee Rule

After signing up to do the Moonwalk with a group of girls in the village, I received a pack which went into a huge amount of detail on how to keep yourself safe from the rest of the human race (which was slightly alarming, I was hoping for something a little more "yay! go you!" than "avoid quiet pathways...lined with bushes where someone could be hiding") provided lots of encouragement to spend money on branded kit, and contained a plan on how to get yourself to the required level of fitness to walk a marathon in the middle of London, in the middle of the night.  

What it didn't cover was something so crucially important that it was the first question that was raised when we got together to discuss the training - where are you supposed to wee?  You may laugh, mock even, but when you're being encouraged to be out walking for four hours at a time, whilst drinking enough water to remain 'well hydrated', it's likely nature will come calling.

Thing is, the rules for weeing as a girl or woman changes as you age, so which one was going to be right?  

Ages 3-5: Outdoor weeing is facilitated by a red-faced parent trying frantically to brace themselves to adequately support your weight whilst trying not to let your wee go all over their shoes.  Indoor weeing involves being shouted at by your parent not to "lock the door, touch the seat, or 'that blue bin'" and to "make sure you wipe your bum!"

Ages 6-10: Attempts at weeing outdoors 'like a boy' will most certainly result in hilarity and wet shoes.  Attempts at squatting range from the successful 'shake-off' to managing to wet your knickers, legs, skirt and shoes.  Indoor weeing becomes a no brainer.

Ages 11-15: You wouldn't be caught dead weeing outside.  Hold it in and pray no-one makes you laugh.  Indoor weeing may begin to require a friend to go with you so you can have a chat (yes gents *this* is where that comes from!).

Ages 16-21: Depending on location, situation and beverages available you may be found disgracing yourself by weeing in a shop doorway / on a train station concourse / on the toilet floor.  This may also be accompanied by wild laughter / manic crying / the encouragement of your friends.

This is lovely, but where's the sign for the toilets?

22 - onwards:  Hopefully you have enough control of both your behaviour and bladder that the art of weeing does not occupy too much of your mind beyond being a natural bodily function.  Unless you're at a festival, in which case you have the opportunity to develop the thighs of a skiier thanks to the position you must assume to avoid coming into contact with anything inside a portaloo.  To avoid this experience, I did once try a 'She-Wee' - what an evil little piece of origami it was.  I wee-d on my hands, and decided to return to the 'downhill skier' pose.  Far better to feel pain shoot down your thighs than wee run down your jeans.

Then you have children, and the whole bloody circus starts again as your life revolves around someone else's pee and poop when all you wish for is the opportunity to go to the toilet in peace. Just once.  Pleeeease.

But back to those rules, well luckily we are training in the countryside which does offer relative seclusion and privacy, so should nature decide that it cannot be ignored we can re-visit the struggle and hilarity of our childhood, just with the added complication of lycra and a different centre of gravity.  This works out great for our training walks but I just don't know how well that's going to go down on a London pavement - better check the rules...

Soundtrack:  Wee Rule - Wee Papa Girl Rappers

If I Could Talk to the Animals

I was out running today near some gallops when I saw a couple of racehorses being exercised.  They were trotting up the bridle way towards me so I stood to one side until they passed.  "Thank you", called out one of the stable hands, "it's good to meet someone who understands horses".  Truth is I only know to stop running because I once got shouted at for not slowing down.  It has since been explained to me that racehorses are very excitable and nervy and running at them in a hi-vis jacket is ill-advised as they might just decide to throw their rider and trample you to death.  

"I'm sorry, I simply don't understand you" source telegraph.co.uk

My track record with animals is a pretty poor one as it goes and it started from a young age.  It began with an incident with a red-setter called 'Rusty' who I thought had the most beautiful tail.  I decided to stroke it and was alarmed to discover that instead of enjoying the feel of its silky red hair, I got a hand full of poo.  My failure to understand Rusty's body language meant that I had stroked him while he was "going for a crouch" as my friend explained through tears of laughter.

A few years after that I went to stay with a family in France that included a trip to a big country pile owned by the grandmother.  After eating a lovely stew of 'lapin' which I enjoyed until I figured out what the translation for 'lapin' was, and after the family had enjoyed laughing at my horror of eating rabbit (something that has since been overcome), I decided to explore the house and found myself in a dusty old room, with what I thought was a lovely, fluffy, friendly pussycat.  How wrong I was.  So bad was my French that evidently my attempt at "here kitty, kitty", translated into something extremely offensive and so it launched itself at me until I found myself cornered.  I stood there shaking as the cat contented itself with hissing at me with its back arched until one of the (still laughing) family opened the door.

There have been bites from ponies and puppies, a knock on the shoulder from a horse, scratches from kittens and my own cat emptying its guts on my feet when I picked it up because it was making a weird noise.  And of course the time when a not-yet-fully-trained Collie called Billy decided it was going to ignore its owners calls to "come back" and my hopeful utterance of "be a good boy" and bite me on the arse.  As a result my body language around animals is shot (and I am up to date with my Tetanus shots).  I do try to get it right and adopt a confident tone but the animals know and see it as their sport to alarm me.

So when near the end of my run a lady approached with a big dog on a lead that was straining at the bit to get near me, I called out "Is my running upsetting him?", she replied "Oh no, don't worry, this one's stupid, just ignore him."  And in there was my moment of clarity - I need to drop the Doolittle - although if someone could give me the pigeon for "stop sh*tting on my car, I'd be very grateful, me and those birds need to have words.

Soundtrack: If I Could Talk to the Animals - Bobby Darin