You Sexy Thing

I ring the Aged Ps to catch up on news. Dad answers, which is a pleasant surprise.
"Hi, Dad. How are you?"
Immediately in the background I can hear aggressive noises, which get louder as Mother approaches the phone.
"IT'S ANNA!" Dad yells in my ear.
"WHO?" Mother yells back.
I pull the receiver back slightly as the phone clatters on the Other Side.
"Hello," grunts Mother.
"Hi. How are you?" I ask. When will I learn . . .?
"Not good," says Mother. "We have had a very disturbing afternoon." She sniffs loudly to indicate disapproval and disgust.
"Oh dear," I say.
"It wasn't disturbing exactly--" Dad offers.
"Yes, it was," Mother snaps.
"So, er - what happened?" I ask.
"You know we've been helping this social scientist person with a questionnaire--?" Mother begins.
"--it's that survey we were telling you about," Dad adds. "The one about How Old Age Affects Our Life, or something," he finishes vaguely.
There then ensues an argument between the Ageds over what the survey is called, who is carrying it out and which company got them into this in the first place. I drift off and start thinking about when I can put the phone down and start watching Masterchef.
"So what do you think about THAT, hmmmm?" Mother suddenly barks.
"Eh?" I sit up. "Oh, er, well, very interesting?"
"NO!" Mother shouts. "There is nothing interesting at all about being quizzed on your SEX LIFE! At OUR AGE!"
Wow. I am listening now.
"Your sex--?"
"YES!"
"It wasn't that bad," Dad says sadly. "It's not as though we have much to--"
"La-alalalallalaaaaaa!" I sing in a panicked tone. "I don't think I really want to--"
"Nor did I!" says Mother. "And do you know what she said? She said, 'Yours is the first generation that we have asked these questions to.' The cheek!"
"You should take it as a compliment, then," I say. "I don't suppose Grandma's generation would have understood the questions. They probably think you are liberated, having been young adults in the sixties and all that."
"Well, we soon put her right on that," says Mother.
"Yes," says Dad with a sigh. "We certainly did."

The History Girl

The Aged Ps have had a lovely week. They have been up to London to see the Bronze exhibition at the Royal Academy. I, on the other hand, have been down the road to talk to 70 children about cats and dogs. I am also full of snot.
"Wow, I am quite jealous," I say. "What was it like?"
"Well, it was all right . . ." says Mother. "The layout wasn't very good."
"But what were the bronzes like--?"
"And the labelling was so annoying. Have you heard of this 'C.E.' business?"
For a moment I mishear and think she is about to go on a rant about the Church of England and how she is glad they have not voted for women bishops because it's bad enough having women vicars, etc., etc., and so forth. But no.
"C.E.?" I say tentatively. "Do you mean Common Era?"
"Common Era," Mother sneers. "What the hell does that mean? Common with what? With whom? With the Muslims, I suppose."
"Well, I think the idea is--"
"I know what the IDEA is," Mother says. "But it's Cringe Central, if you ask me."
"Er, that would make it C.C, actually," I say.
"What?" Mother snaps.
"Nothing."
"I mean why should we change our calendar to fit in with all these multi-cultural immigrants, anyway? We are a Christian country with a Christian heritage."
"Which is why you don't go to church or believe in any of that nonsense," I point out.
"Well, yes, I know, I mean, I don't but . . . it's our culture. It's part of Our History!" Mother says.
Saying that something is part of Our History is Mother's trump card. If something is part of Our History, it is sacrosanct, indelible, cast in stone. You cannot argue with Our History.
I think about tackling her argument from a number of different standpoints. But my head is full of cotton wool, my son needs help with his Chemistry revision, I am trying to make carrot and celeriac soup, and I am struggling with some knotty plot problems in a book about chickens. I have neither the time nor the willpower.
"Yes, I expect you're right," I find myself saying.
I shall probably live to regret saying this, but at least it brings the conversation swiftly to a close.

The Next Big Thing

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you will know that I only post silly sketches about my family and our pets. However, today I am going to use it for shameless self-promotion as I was tagged to be part of an internet meme called THE NEXT BIG THING.

(Click on the red words to go to relevant links.)

The writer who tagged me is the lovely Karen Saunders, a fellow children’s writer whom I met at the Bath Children’s Literature Festival. Her own version of the meme appears here. The idea is that every Wednesday some children’s authors will post some Q & As about their books and then tag a new author to do the same the following week. It’s like a very excellent chain letter – one you actually WANT to be part of!

What is the title of your next book?

The next book to be published is called The Smug Pug. Macmillan Children’s Books are publishing it in February 2013. It’s the third and final book in my Pooch Parlour series which includes The Poodle Problem and The Dotty Dalmatian.

What is a one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Dash the dachshund is suspicious when a clever and very smug pug arrives in Crumbly-under-Edge, bringing with him a mysterious machine to help out in the pooch-pampering salon.

Where did the idea for the book come from?

The idea for the whole series came to me whilst chatting in the hairdressers. I was moaning (as I frequently do) about writer’s block.

“I can’t come up with any more stories!” I wailed.

“Why don’t you write about us?” suggested my hairdresser. “There’s always funny things going on in this place.”

“But my publishers want me to write about dogs,” I cried, “not hairdressers!”

Now, the funny thing about inspiration is that it can come from the most unlikely places or conversations. And so it was that in the car on the way home, I could not stop thinking about hairdressers and dogs (as you do). By the time I had got back to my desk, the idea for a pooch-pampering parlour had started to take root.

“What if I had a dog who could talk and who helped out in the parlour?” I thought. “And what if he was a bit of a Sherlock Holmes and liked solving mysteries . . .”

What if . . . ? What if . . . ? The cogs had started whirring and the idea for Mrs Fudge’s Pooch-Pampering Parlour was born!

What genre does your book fall under?

Young fiction for 7-10s. The Smug Pug will appeal to boys as well as girls as there’s loads of gadgets and slap-stick comedy in it. And the cover is yellow. (NOT pink, for a change . . .)

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

The minute I saw the illustration that Kate Daubney did for the cover, I could not get the image of Ronnie Corbett out of my head. Not sure he would accept the part of a pug, though, however much he was paid!

Julie Walters would make a lovely Mrs Fudge (the owner of the pooch parlour). Although the image of her on this link is perhaps a bit too glam! Think Mrs Weasley in Harry Potter, but with white hair . . . 

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It’s being published by Macmillan Children’s Books. Macmillan have published all my young fiction titles. My agent is Hilary Delamere at The Agency.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

The first complete draft of a new series takes between six months and a year. I scribble loads of notes to start with, churn it over in my mind obsessively and write at least five drafts before I show it to my editor, then she suggests improvements and I write another draft! By the time it is published, it has gone through many changes. And it is always better for having been thoroughly edited.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I was a bit stumped when it came to thinking what other books I would compare my series to, so I asked my editor how she would answer this question. She said, “Your books are like Andy Stanton’s Mr Gum books in terms of writing style, and the content is like The Great Hamster Massacre or the Cat Conspiracy books by Katie Davies.”

I was pretty pleased with those comparisons! I hope readers will agree . . . Basically, the books are comedies with a mystery-solving twist, and are aimed at animal lovers.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The idea for the whole series came from the hairdressers, as I have explained, and is a sort of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency in a pooch parlour! But the individual characters came from all over the place. Mrs Fudge is a little bit like an English version of Mma Ramotswe from The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and she is a lot like my wonderful Grandma who passed away a couple of years ago. She was a great cake-baker and tea-drinker and a very kind and patient grandmother. She also had snow-white hair and was round and cuddly!

Pippa Peppercorn is a little bit like me when I was 10 and a little bit like Pippi Longstocking and a little bit like my daughter when she was 10.

Smug the pug is inspired by a very old book called The Incredible Adventures of Professor Branestawm, which I loved to read when I was young.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I hope the characters will make you laugh out loud! And I know that anyone who sees Clare Elsom’s beautiful inside illustrations will be tickled by them. 

Next up, I’m tagging the fantastic writers Michelle Robinson, who blogs here, has a website here and tweets @MicheRobinson and the marvellous Chris D’Lacey of The Fire Within fame. He has a website here and blogs here and tweets @chrisdlacey.

Have fun hopping from blog to blog to check out all the authors involved in The Next Big Thing. Once you start, you can't stop!

The Very Important Birthday

Mother is back on form, having been finally assured by her doctor that she may resume "normal activities". I am thinking that most people would take that to mean resuming an exercise regime or going back to eating habits formerly proscribed by the doctor during the period of illness. I don't know. What I do know is that "normal activities" for Mother comprise resuming badgering her family with phone calls delivered in an obstreperous tone with Dad on the other end to maximise the effects of stereophonic insanity.
To bastardise Jeanette Winterson's latest book title: "Why be normal when you could derive enormous pleasure from driving your family round the bend?"

"Yfather and I sat on the M11 for two hours last night," she informs me. "I've said it before and I'll say it again -" [sharp intake of breath] " - there are too many people in this country."
"It wasn't that bad, dear," Dad pipes up on the other line. "We spent a lovely time listening to our Italian CD."
"Harrumph," says Mother. "We could have done that at home in comfort instead of being stuck in a traffic jam of immigrants--"
"What were you doing on the M11?" I ask, more to cut Mother off at the chase than because I need to know the answer.
"We went to see y'sister, didn't we?" snaps Mother. "She's 40 now, you know."
"Yes, I did know," I say.
"Well," sniffs Mother. "Everyone seems to have forgotten that I have a Very Important Birthday coming up soon."
She pauses.
I pause too before saying, "Oh?"
Mother's Very Important Birthday is not until August 2013. My poor sister has literally only just celebrated hers. But of course, this is nothing compared to what Mother is building up to.
"I," says Mother, "I . . . shall be SEVENTY."
Pause again.
I had forgotten that getting older was a competitive event on a par with entering an Olympic heptathlon.
"So you shall," I say.
"Well, I hope you're going to make a fuss of me," says Mother. "No one ever makes a fuss of me on my birthday."
Perhaps that's because by the time the nine month gestation period between the announcing of the event and its actual occurrence has elapsed, any enthusiasm we may have had about a celebration has worn so thin you could use it as cling film to wrap the party food in. And even if we do throw our all into a knees-up or a special present, it is generally met with comments along the lines of, "Well, I didn't think much of the meal/present/party/guests."
"Are you still there?" asks Mother.
"Yes, dear. I'm still here," says Dad.
"I meant y'daughter!" Mother says. "Is y'daughter still there? It's gone very quiet."
"Yes, I'm still here," I say.
"So are you going to make a fuss of me or not?"
"Am I going to make a fuss of you in nine months time when you turn seventy?" I ask.
"Well, if you're going to put it like that . . ."
"She didn't mean anything by it," says Dad.
"Yes she did. Everyone else gets spoilt on their birthday. What about me . . . "
I put the phone down gently on the table and let Mother and Dad talk to each other for a bit while I start jotting down ideas of how to survive the next nine months.
Maybe I should join the traffic jam of immigrants on the M11.

All it takes is a faith and trust - and a Little Bit of Pixie Dust

Not-So-Small Boy and I are stuck in traffic, and he is filling me in on School Life.
"We think William's sister has a boyfriend, so we were teasing her about it last night when we all walked out of school together," he confides.
William's sister is sixteen, or thereabouts. I am sure she is thrilled about two giggly eleven-year-old boys teasing her in front of their friends. I decide not to criticise as criticism inevitably leads to conversational shut-down. I will learn more if I just stick to chit-chat.
"What's his name?"I ask.
"Well, it wouldn't be fair for me to tell you that," my son says, frowning.
"Clearly," I say.
"So, me 'n' William have decided to use a code word instead. We are going to call him Beano because his name sounds like one of the characters in the Beano!"
"Right." I shudder to think.
"Which reminds me!" Not-So-Small Boy says, bouncing in his seat. "I've got a new nickname!"
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It's Tinker Bell!"
I put all my energies into not crashing into the car in front. "WHAT?"
"Yeah. It's coz there's going to be a school play next term and we think it's Peter Pan and I said could I be Tinker Bell?"
"As in . . . Tinker Bell the fairy?" I ask, staring resolutely ahead.
"Yes!"
"As in . . . the fairy who wears a tutu and waves a wand?"
"Yes!"
"But - a fairy?"
"Yes!"
I swallow hard.
"Why?"
"S'obvious. I get to fly!" Not-So-Small Boy flings his arms wide and beams with delight.
"But - But," I stammer. "But PETER PAN flies! And John, and Michael. And the Lost BOYS - don't they fly as well?" I have no idea, but I am clutching at straws here. I refuse to mention Wendy. I don't want to be responsible for where that might lead.
"Yeah, but they don't have pixie dust, do they?" says my son triumphantly. "THAT is cool."
"Right." I take deep, steady breaths. I can see his mind is made up.
"Anyway, so that's why my new nickname is Tinker Bell," my son says. "And Molly has even changed my name on her phone to say 'Tinker Bell'."
"And you're fine with that?" I ask.
"Course, why not?" my son says, looking puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
I cannot help but admire his confidence. I smile. "Absolutely," I say. "Why wouldn't you?"

Don't Mention the Lingua Latina!

I ring the Aged Ps, armed with amusing anecdotes. I refuse to let the conversation descend into its usual rant against The State of the Nation, The Weather or What A Terrible Year This Has Been. Mother is gearing up for her annual Annus Horribilis speech early this year, and I am not in the mood for another rehearsal. Bearing this in mind, I have armed myself with a list of prohibited topics so that I can steer a path through the conversation to sunnier themes.

The list is as follows:

Thou shalt not mention Ed Milliband in the same sentence as Disraeli
This is sure to set off a diatribe against the conniving nature of the shifty left who will do anything to get into power. (Trouble is, I sort of agree with this. If Milliband can side with Disraeli, it won't be long before Thatcher gets a mention. But THOU SHALT NOT start this conversation because . . . )

Thou shalt DEFINITELY not mention Thatcher at all EVER
Mother worships at her shrine. The hagiography that ensues at the mere whisper of the woman's name is enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. In fact, come to think of it . . .

Thou shalt not bring up the topic of politics at all!
Which is hard, considering the only other stories in the news at the moment are about sex offenders or child murderers. And she would be bound to take great pleasure in reminding me about that letter to "Jim'll Fix It" about wanting to go in the Tardis.

So, if I can't talk about what's in the news, what else is there to talk about other than the weather?

This is why I have decided to focus on the children and how charming and wonderful they are.

"Hello, it's me."
"Oh, it's you."
"Hello, love!"
The Aged Ps have surpassed themselves. They have picked up the phone as one Aged Being.
"So, how are you?" I ask. I immediately kick myself. This was not the opening move I had planned.
"I'm fine," says Dad.
"Well, you know . . ." Mother begins. "Not so good. What with this dreadful weather. And the news - it's nothing but shifty politicians and disgusting sex offenders, which reminds me! Didn't you once write a letter to--"
"Your grandson is doing ever so well in Latin at the moment!" I shout, in desperation.
Latin?? Why did I have to mention THAT?
"Oh, quid mira et intelligens nepos habemus!" trills Mother.
I groan softly, put my head in my hands and thank the gods that she has not yet mastered Skype as I proceed to bang my forehead quietly on the table.
"Ita vero! Est mirabilie. Est continuans familia traditionem," Dad agrees.
H-e-l-p m-e! I mouth to Not-So-Small-Boy.
"I found a magazine our grandson would like, actually," says Dad.
"Great - a wildlife one?" I ask.
"No. A Latin one," says Dad. "It's full of cartoons and stories and pictures - and it's all in Latin! Isn't that great?"
I cannot take this any more, so I pass the phone to my son.
"Hi Grandpa," he chirps. "Yes . . . yes . . . I love Latin. Did you know that turdus stupidus means stupid thrush! It's so cool - it means you can swear without actually really swearing! And "turdus" is a hilarious word for a bird! And there is this other even more hilarious word "furcifer", which sound like "fuc--"
I grab the phone back.
"So, what did you think about Ed Milliband's One Nation speech?" I ask.
I sit back, close my eyes and let the battle commence.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

It is Saturday and I am getting ready to go and give a talk at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. I would like to think that this would mean my family might treat me with a mite more respect than usual, but it is not to be.
"Morning," says Not-So-Small Boy.
"Hey! Stop waving that spoon in my face, please," I say, backing away.
"But I was only going to scoop out your ear-wax," he replies.
"Do what?"
"Yeah, I was going to scoop out your ear wax like the Vikings used to do before going into battle," my son continues eagerly.
"Erm, I hate to break it to you, but firstly I am not a Viking, and secondly I do not have enough ear wax to merit it being scooped and thirdly I am not going into battle. I am going to give a talk to fifty seven-year-olds. Actually . . ." I pause. "Maybe the two things are pretty similar, but I still don't want you scooping anything out of my ear with a dessert spoon, thanks."
"Oooh!" Not-So-Small Boy looks downcast. "But you've done your hair and put make-up on, which is kind of also what the Vikings used to do to look good when they went into battle, so you might as well have your ear wax scraped out, too," he pleads.
"No," I say firmly.
My son bangs the spoon down crossly. "I have just realised that you have lots of opinions on things that really don't matter at all," he announces.
"Like not wanting to have my ear wax scraped out with a spoon?" I say.
"Yeah. That and you don't like it when people say 'annual leave' instead of 'holiday' and you don't like swearing but you swear all the time when you are driving and--"
"Right. Have you quite finished with your character assassination?" I ask, getting up to leave. "Only I have to go now."
"Good luck," says Husband. "You'll be great."
"Huumpf," says my son. "Only if you are not patronising. You always sound patronising when you talk to little kids."
"Great," I say. "So I've got waxy ears, I have stupid opinions on things that don't matter at all, and I am patronising."
"At least there's no danger of things going to your head," says Husband.
Indeed. Out of the mouths of babes and all that.