Away from it all

Maybe because I had just finished the marvellous What was Lost by Catherine O’Flynn (my first ever five stars on Library Thing) I had trouble choosing a book to take away on our Gower trip.  I ended up rushing into the library and choosing a handful almost at random hoping at least one would appeal.

In the event, the novels remained unread or unopened, but Silver River by TV producer Daisy Goodwin   is still going strong. Daisy is the daughter of sixteis wild child Jocasta Innes and the opening chapters are dominated by her mother’s terrifying lover, an aging hippie called Joe whose idea of fun was to  dangled Daisy over a cliff edge in Dorset and later incite her to extort free chocolate from the Mars company. Joe is one of those characters who could stand up in any novel. Now that he has left the scene I hope there are others coming along to take his place.

Meanwhile a thank you to the golf pro at Pennard who directed us across the course (sans clubs) to these fantastic views of Three Cliffs Bay and thence to the local  coffee shop whose cakes were equally memorable. 

 

 

That time of year again

As a child I hated Wimbledon. Why on earth were my parents glued to the TV when the weather was nice enough for the beach? But from the moment I picked up a racquet and discovered how hard it was to steer that ball between the white lines, I was hooked, and for most of my life Wimbledon fortnight has been an immovable feast during which the family have groaned ‘Oh no, Wimbledon again.’

I gave up playing the game after school, but started again in my forties, when I spent many a Friday evening slogging it out in Division 5b of the local ladies’ league. As darkness fell we were usually still out there, with aching legs and eyestrain, hoping a lucky net cord would put us all out of our misery.

The tennis might not have been great, but the will to win was intense, and so I understand how they felt tonight, Ferrer and Ancic, playing a tie-breaker at 9.15. I know how it was for the crowd too, the suspense of the game matched only by the worry that some referee would look at the gathering gloom and  suspend play. But not tonight. Ancic got his man, and the crowd got more than its money’s worth.

In his interview Ancic looked pretty whacked. Still, he probably gets a day off tomorrow, and treatment from a professional masseur. Me? I  had only a hot bath to look forward to and a trip round Sainsbury’s the following day.

For anyone who wants a bookish connection in all this, there’s a fantasy league tennis match going on between Dovegreyreader and Scott Pack’s team. (Having watched Ancic, think I’ll stick to the real thing). 

 

Afterlife

When Pygmygiant sent out an email asking for non-fiction submissions, I was quick off the mark, and lo! you can see the result here.

It’s a piece I wrote a couple of years ago following a trip to my home town in Scotland. Looking at it now it feels a bit self-conscious and wordy, and I freely admit it owes something to an article that appeared around that time in the Guardian which is a wonderful evocation of the ‘Auld Grey Toon’ where I grew up.  Its author, Ian Jack, was editor of Granta at the time, and I did approach them with Afterlife, which was unsurprisingly rejected, though I did get a polite note back (which as any writer will tell you is better than a curt standard rejection!) 

It all seems like a long time ago now (the trip, as well as my chldhood!) but it was a big part of the inspiration for my current W.I.P. which is taking off at last, and so maybe it’s a good omen that the article is now, thanks to Pygmygiant, seeing the light of day. Here are the pictures of the fire at St. Paul’s that are mentioned at the start of Afterlife. They are from the  Dunfermline Press  of July 9th 1976.