tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-200472502024-03-28T21:25:20.508+00:00C L Czerkawska - A Life in Writing I write books. I live with my artist husband, Alan Lees, in a 200 year old cottage in Scotland.Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.comBlogger692125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-59861026719505025172024-03-17T16:28:00.000+00:002024-03-17T16:28:15.632+00:00Was Heathcliff Irish? (And a Happy St Patrick's Day to you all!) <p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoW1xF86KJRX8Vyqe8V0-rczMXPIihslInq96Bikkb7lLkOp303wL3MwvQ4bHsp7W68geYqfG6KpdJlO2iVbOAJ0L-Wyee38A1FfAcOALwJvSSSoDLqKENxycjd_8AO1na9ugUp7uVZKJMolC_rlSM9UtADBu1f_RxZUlw2AJdG9TKgsBJAlJ/s2121/PPD_frontcover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2121" data-original-width="1382" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoW1xF86KJRX8Vyqe8V0-rczMXPIihslInq96Bikkb7lLkOp303wL3MwvQ4bHsp7W68geYqfG6KpdJlO2iVbOAJ0L-Wyee38A1FfAcOALwJvSSSoDLqKENxycjd_8AO1na9ugUp7uVZKJMolC_rlSM9UtADBu1f_RxZUlw2AJdG9TKgsBJAlJ/w261-h400/PPD_frontcover.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div></blockquote><br />I've been re-reading my own book: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Proper-Person-be-Detained/dp/1912235536" target="_blank">A Proper Person to be Detained</a>. Writers sometimes do this out of a certain curiosity, wondering how on earth we managed it. But in this case, it's because I've started thinking about a future fiction project and I wanted to check over some details about a particular story of which more later this year. <div><br /></div><div>Among extensive research for this book, I'd been investigating Victorian attitudes to insanity - how it was seen as a moral failing,and how disproportionate numbers of Irish women were placed in British asylums. In the course of that research, however, I came across another fascinating possibility and today - St Patrick's Day - seems like an appropriate day for blogging about it.</div><div><br /><div><div>Perhaps the best thing to do is to give you an abridged extract from my own book. It had struck me forcibly that the Brontë sisters, Charlotte and Emily, displayed very different attitudes to insanity in their fiction. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>'Charlotte Brontë, in Jane Eyre, displays little sympathy for the plight of the madwoman in the attic, the first Mrs Rochester, but perhaps we can’t expect her to do so, since she would have perceived the lunatic in the contemporary light: a frightening, demonic person. There are hints of a belief in possession, even in the hospital notes of some mental patients at this time ... Charlotte was writing ... just as the asylum population was inexorably on the rise. Any understanding of Bertha Mason, the first Mrs Rochester, was left for the Caribbean-born Jean Rhys, writing in another century and from quite a different perspective, in The Wide Sargasso Sea. <br /><br />In Wuthering Heights, on the other hand, Emily Brontë’s extraordinary portrayal of what would certainly, in the Victorian era, have amounted to insanity in both Heathcliff and Cathy is at once more impartially, but more sympathetically (because less judgmentally), drawn than her sister’s depiction of Bertha Mason, locked in an attic for ten years by her husband. "Don’t torture me till I’m as mad as yourself," cries Heathcliff, when he sees Cathy for the last time, while sensible but partial Ellen Dean recollects that: <br /><br />"the two … made a strange and fearful picture. Well might Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to her, unless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character also. Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping. As to her companion, while raising himself with one hand, he had taken her arm with the other; and so inadequate was his stock of gentleness to the requirements of her condition, that on his letting go I saw four distinct impressions left blue in the colourless skin."<br /><br />For a less original writer than Emily, both Cathy and Heathcliff would have been 'proper people for detention' in the nearest insane asylum. In a scene that seems to mirror the above, poor, mad Bertha Mason has been reduced to something less than a beast, not just by her sickness, but by her erstwhile lover, her voice turned to animal rantings – and Jane concurs. <br /><br />"What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not at first sight tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours. It snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face."<br /><br />And a little later: <br /><br />"the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek …"<br /><br />Having subdued her ‘convulsive plunges’ by means of a rope, Rochester compares her resentfully to his Jane. <br /><br />"That is … the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know!" he says. "And this is what I wished to have, this young girl who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell."<br /><br />Both are fine pieces of writing, but Charlotte’s attitude to the prevailing belief in the moral nature of madness and its treatment seems quite different from her sister’s more nuanced approach, the voice of seeming ‘normality’ in Wuthering Heights always filtered through Ellen Dean, a narrator who is clearly <i>not</i> the author, so that various perspectives can be seen at once: the conventional judgment of Victorian society about morality and the need for control of degeneracy, the lack of self-control that excludes the madwoman from heaven, and the nature of an emotion so elemental that it overrides all other concerns. <br /><br />And so we come to my original question. <i>Was Heathcliff Irish? </i>Well, we'll never know - but it's a distinct possibility. </div><div><br /></div><div>'It is worth noting here that the Irish background of the Brontës, at a time when the migrant Irish were routinely described as lazy, foolish and filthy in their habits, "but little above the savage", was consistently played down by Charlotte. Yet Patrick Brunty, their father, came from a poor background. He had known prejudice, and the family still contended with fiercely anti-Irish sentiment. </div><div><br /></div><div>In Wuthering Heights, Mr Earnshaw’s discovery of Heathcliff, the dark, fey creature abandoned on the streets of Liverpool, babbling in a foreign tongue, may be Emily’s nod to her family’s past, since that city was the port of entry for many of the starving Irish who were so despised by their unwilling hosts, not least because some of them spoke Gaelic.<br /><br />"We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy’s head I had a peep at a dirty, ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its face looked older than Catherine’s; yet when it was set on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand." </div><div><br /></div><div>These Irish incomers, disembarking at Liverpool before moving on to work in mills and foundries, to build roads, to provide the 'hands' for Britain's Industrial Revolution, were some of my own forebears, and some of them would have spoken Gaelic, a language that would all too frequently have been despised as gibberish by their exploitative hosts. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvyDtjeffZC9hRGUAp9lHTIdcPyxVpibUmIuzuso8IYXE-8-rFFJoXHEkldYQJK7vjFw5qZNBZY0859JjU2sK9MJzlaRS_la-6i7QZR63M6pJZX2Uqjr3fuqbUI4NNE82ks5_MCWE1IwxHNhVmCCJtBA6fdKLIH9Ic9XmBf6gIRVzhRlU3hOu/s600/topwithenspast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="600" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvyDtjeffZC9hRGUAp9lHTIdcPyxVpibUmIuzuso8IYXE-8-rFFJoXHEkldYQJK7vjFw5qZNBZY0859JjU2sK9MJzlaRS_la-6i7QZR63M6pJZX2Uqjr3fuqbUI4NNE82ks5_MCWE1IwxHNhVmCCJtBA6fdKLIH9Ic9XmBf6gIRVzhRlU3hOu/s320/topwithenspast.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top Withens, the site, albeit not the building, of Wuthering Heights.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-91324811905763891362024-03-12T11:37:00.004+00:002024-03-12T11:37:39.587+00:00How Not To Be A Writer - Part Two<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5T-puoO0GBJItfAOg2k40ALi5FqQt7dssKhz-y7n723PfsMVqW8EuyLFoq_aTFr2p864GMXYoMFtXs5egiNDH8flCKdid59D3U4GvltaSGnjZvZT2d_EHDaToJ51Wwaicmx4ZjE7ItOrm6hCMZpGrRKMiC7GSEwT1AJEcl562kxr4-lKelbq/s914/me,%2017%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="914" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5T-puoO0GBJItfAOg2k40ALi5FqQt7dssKhz-y7n723PfsMVqW8EuyLFoq_aTFr2p864GMXYoMFtXs5egiNDH8flCKdid59D3U4GvltaSGnjZvZT2d_EHDaToJ51Wwaicmx4ZjE7ItOrm6hCMZpGrRKMiC7GSEwT1AJEcl562kxr4-lKelbq/w400-h274/me,%2017%20001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here's me, somewhere in the Galloway Hills, playing at Wuthering Heights. My companion's name was Andy and he was a gem of a dog, a Sheltie Border Collie cross who, fortunately, combined collie intelligence with sheltie good nature. He lived to be eighteen, and was one of the most loveable creatures I've ever known. </p><p>We moved to Ayrshire when I was twelve, and dad - a research scientist by then - got a position at the Hannah Dairy Research Institute just outside Ayr, I spent most of my secondary school years here, first at Queen Margaret's School in Ayr and then travelling to St Michael's in Kilwinning for my two senior years. We spent a little while in 'digs' rented out by a peculiarly unpleasant elderly lady. I had a bedroom, but mum and dad had a sofa bed in the living room. The landlady had to come through this room to get to her kitchen, where she would cook her habitual meals of boiled fish. Looking back, I suppose she was strapped for cash and hated having to rent out rooms, but instead of knocking on the living room door, she would say 'knock knock' and come in. Dad swore that one day he would be stark naked when she did this. Unable to stand the smell of boiled fish any longer, we moved to a small caravan park outside town while my parents waited for completion on a house they were buying off plan. </p><p>I made a couple of friends who lived nearby, which was just as well, because school was a different matter. I was an ungainly adolescent with the wrong accent. Everyone seemed to have known each other for years - which they had. The school had burned down just before we came north (I was yet to become familiar with the West of Scotland habit of burning down schools and any other inconvenient buildings) and half our classes were in portacabins. I didn't know that when the teacher asked a question, you were supposed to shut up and pretend you didn't know the answer. Which made me quite popular with some teachers, but not at all popular with my classmates. I also didn't know that when people asked you which school you went to, they wanted to know if you were a Catholic. All these years later this still happens. The response is always a sort of loaded silence. </p><p>The other shock was how often teachers used the 'tawse' or 'belt' as we called it - a leather strap. I don't think I had ever seen corporal punishment administered till we moved to Scotland. At my primary school, we knew that the formidable head teacher had a cane in her office, and the 'big boys' might be sent there for terrible transgressions. At my girls' secondary school, it wasn't used at all. I recently came across early 20th century instructions from the Education Department in Leeds about the use of corporal punishment that seemed particularly enlightened - to be used sparingly, if at all. </p><p>Nobody had told Scotland. The vast majority of teachers belted pupils every day, sometimes whole classes, and often for the most spurious of reasons, such as wrong answers or lack of understanding. I encountered more sadists in those few years than I've ever encountered since, skipping up and down with glee as they wielded the tawse. It did no good. The lads who were belted most often were proud of themselves, their hands grown horny so that they felt very little. </p><p>I can still remember the awful sensation of approaching breaktimes when we would be turfed out into the playground, and I would either find myself alone or grudgingly absorbed into some group or other. Listen to Janis Ian's '<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMUz2TNMvL0" target="_blank">At Seventeen</a>' and you'll know exactly what I mean, although thankfully, by the time I myself hit seventeen I had escaped to university and a whole new group of genuine friends. Occasionally, talking to people who were my classmates back then, I find that their memories are quite different from mine. They have no memory of the little digs, the jibes, the rolled eyes, the giggles. I was an incomer. Would I have behaved any differently in their shoes? Well, perhaps not. </p><p>Once again, I escaped into my imagination. When we moved to our new house in Castlehill, I would walk out to Burns Cottage on spring and summer Saturdays and daydream about the poet. We were an adventurous little family. Dad had acquired an elderly car by this time, and we drove out into the countryside, went hillwalking, went on camping holidays, visited castles and stone circles and all kinds of places, perfect for feeding the fantasies of somebody like me who still wanted to be a writer. </p><p>I read avidly and I wrote terrible adjective laden poetry and short stories. I was in love with the Beatles, especially John, and wrote fan-fiction before anyone had invented the concept. I discovered Tolkien, via my father, who found old copies of the books in Ayr's Carnegie Library long before they became so popular. I read and loved Alan Garner's novels and wrote a fan-girl letter to him, but made the unforgiveable mistake of mentioning Tolkien which elicited a dusty answer. He didn't like the comparison <i>at all</i>. I was mortified. It didn't quite put me off his books, but it taught me the valuable lesson that not all successful male writers are prepared to be patient with eager aspiring females, even very young ones.</p><p>For me, I think it was the beginning of the perception of just how many people will confidently tell you what you ought to be writing and how you ought to do it, although it would be many years and many disasters before I was confident enough to act on that perception. </p><p>We all need to learn. The very best editors - and I've had some - will question you closely about your work. In finding the answers to those often very challenging questions, you'll make the work better - but it will still be yours. The worst editors and directors - and I've had plenty - will confidently demand the kind of changes they think you ought to make, unaware that they are trying to shape you in their own image, trying to force you to write the book or play they would have written - if they had the time.</p><p>Years later, somebody I had worked with on a couple of projects said to me 'you know - you were far too compliant. You should have argued more.' He was right, but why he didn't tell me this at the time I will never know. That's how not to be a writer as well. You learn your craft by reading and writing and polishing over and over again. Not by blindly following advice from people's whose credentials you're unsure of. If you don't believe me, read Stephen King's brilliant <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Writing-Memoir-Craft-Stephen-King-ebook/dp/B003BVFZ4Q/" target="_blank">On Writing</a>. That's more or less what he says too. </p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-72964607634796948242024-03-03T10:06:00.000+00:002024-03-03T10:06:13.796+00:00How Not To Be A Writer - Part One<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFwcn9sivqz6NwYMAQgdozwnd8ndYjvz-OtFR5EZEBtVydrcV94xhSypHwqVBlBN4cMdYehbUW6OXv_3b_qrn0KN5K26aoBcDuNk_rC2uzbHm4ii9e7wVECzwABs8_gGIHgLEf5MQd98SxL2aEGgxrdwawCU48RSq1UTDhFHVjaxlbqO0pcT5/s1314/me%20001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1314" data-original-width="902" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFwcn9sivqz6NwYMAQgdozwnd8ndYjvz-OtFR5EZEBtVydrcV94xhSypHwqVBlBN4cMdYehbUW6OXv_3b_qrn0KN5K26aoBcDuNk_rC2uzbHm4ii9e7wVECzwABs8_gGIHgLEf5MQd98SxL2aEGgxrdwawCU48RSq1UTDhFHVjaxlbqO0pcT5/w275-h400/me%20001.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>Here's me with my plaits. My hair was so long that I could sit on it. Mum plaited it every day - I must have been one of the few kids in my school that didn't get head lice, probably because they couldn't get any purchase on the tight braids. <div><br /></div><div>I don't remember learning how to read and write. My school was a small Roman Catholic state primary, not particularly close to where we lived in Leeds. There were always books in our house, including a set of old Wonder Books that had belonged to my Aunt Nora, beautifully illustrated extracts from the classics, poems and short stories by the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen. I loved them, but I don't remember when I moved smoothly from having them read to me (along with little Noddy and The Faraway Tree) and being able to read them for myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>We had a good, kindly infant teacher called Winifred Burgess, one of the very few teachers I remember with real affection, but I would always rather be at home than at school. The 'big girls' bullied us every playtime, pretending to balance us on the school wall, but in reality threatening to topple us over. Ever since my school days, I've marvelled at the naivety of adults about children and schools and the low key nastiness that went on, and I'm sure still does go on. </div><div><br /></div><div>My wish to be at home was granted in terms of a constant stream of childhood illnesses, interspersed with serious asthma, so I spent a lot of time at home, mostly in my nana and grandad's house, at 32 Whitehall Road, sitting on the rag rug in front of their fire, listening to their wireless, and reading. My parents started their married life in a tiny two roomed flat above their adjacent small shops - a sweet and tobacconist and my grandad's fishing tackle shop. When I was well enough, I would take myself along to his shop and sit with him in there, bothering him with questions that he never minded answering. He called me his little queen, in the old Yorkshire - nay, the old English - way. His 'little woman'. I was very much loved and wanted for nothing, except perhaps a pair of patent leather ankle strap shoes, and I'm pretty sure I got those as well. Mum and dad took me to the 'pictures' - the Gainsborough in Holbeck - to see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Afterwards, I made the whole family reenact it, alongside all my toys, with myself in the starring role, of course. An early venture into theatre.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember learning how to read and write, but somehow I could and did. I listened to the wireless - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Listen_with_Mother" target="_blank">Listen With Mother</a>, then Children's Hour, and the terrifying excitement of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Journey_into_Space" target="_blank">Journey Into Space</a>. I have another memory of what must have been an early dramatisation of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca and its haunting opening lines 'last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again' - so vivid that I can still see it in my mind's eye. We had no television, nor would have for years, so the words had created the pictures long before I was old enough to read the book. </div><div><br /></div><div>At some point, I must have thought 'I could do that'. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was right. I could and, some fifteen years later, I did. On the whole, it was a mistake. It was a wonderful medium, but once television came on the scene, BBC radio drama was the poor relation. The cheap option. Of which much more later in this story. The talent they had accumulated was prodigious, but they neither knew nor cared just how extraordinary. It did, however, teach me how to write dialogue, and how to visualise things when I wanted to write about them, how to orchestrate. For some years, it would earn me a living of sorts, and even a couple of awards. All that, though, was far in the future.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was twelve, we moved to Ayrshire in Scotland. I was an incomer. An interlowper. I was an awkward adolescent and my accent was all wrong. Good experience for a writer-in-training, but not very comfortable at the time. No wonder I retreated into my head. It was a time that I still think of as 'bullying and Burns'. Great experience for a would-be writer though. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-59827821616034526542024-02-20T23:03:00.004+00:002024-02-21T11:08:34.433+00:00How Not To Be A Writer - Introduction<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmKG5xXEMBVAyANdnkK_Gw1oC0sbVzPbvweaAifC2mXcFjz8uRp8iSgcgn1fMjEh2IkaqSlIWtmVC2HkG9rIdEGqZiQQh6pGOwtmbpqmOgAmyZb-1v9F3v5dmTKHUAks39spTzB8j-LwsDattmaBkKAsUVSBTFbcc8shH5A9RC6GeontlwlJG/s472/2%20cool%20cats.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="472" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmKG5xXEMBVAyANdnkK_Gw1oC0sbVzPbvweaAifC2mXcFjz8uRp8iSgcgn1fMjEh2IkaqSlIWtmVC2HkG9rIdEGqZiQQh6pGOwtmbpqmOgAmyZb-1v9F3v5dmTKHUAks39spTzB8j-LwsDattmaBkKAsUVSBTFbcc8shH5A9RC6GeontlwlJG/s320/2%20cool%20cats.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two cool cats</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>There are times, as a full time freelance writer, when you think to yourself 'you're doing this all wrong.' Rather a lot of times for most of us. More recently, as I start to take back control of what I do and don't want to write and publish, and how, that realisation, sometimes howled at the stars, mostly muttered <i>sotto voce</i>, changes into 'You've <i>definitely</i> been doing this all wrong.' </p><p>This week, on social media, somebody asked me what was the title of my novel. Which novel? There are <i>nine</i> of them and counting. And three fairly hefty non-fiction books as well, involving a whole lot of research. Then there's half a lifetime of assorted plays, stories and poems, many of them still in print or regularly repeated on R4 Extra.. </p><p>Have I, I wonder, been so careful about not over-promoting my own work that I've hardly promoted it at all? I can think of several writers who seem to be in positions of power and influence in the Scottish literary establishment (for want of a better word) who have so little actual writing to their names that you begin to wonder if their relentless self promotion works. Those of us who spend most of our time writing can only look on in wonder at just how effective such promotion of so little substance can be. Very effective indeed, presumably.</p><p>It's doubly irritating, I think, because for the vast majority of writers, the very last thing we want to do is talk or write about what we're working on right now. If, as often happens, somebody asks 'what are you working on?' having first disguised the involuntary gasp of horror, you find some way of fudging it. You never go into detail. You're happy to talk about what you have written, but never about what you <i>are</i> writing. And that's because the more you talk about a project before you've finished it, the more it simply disappears, like, as our national poet describes it, 'a snowflake on the river, a moment white, then melts forever.' </p><p>There are millions of blogs and websites and books out there full of advice about How To Be A Writer. When I look back at my long and varied career to date, most of it could best be described as How Not To Be A Writer. </p><p>And you know what? I reckon that might be more helpful than 'how to' for a whole lot of people. I've been putting pen to paper for a long time. More or less since I could read. Since I was the little girl in Clark's sandals, sitting on a doorstep in smoky Leeds, with my nana's cat, Jimmy. My late, very much missed Canadian friend Anna, a formidable lady with a stellar career in education, once asked me about what she called my 'inventory'. Everything I'd written, worked on, published, over many years. 'Why aren't you richer?' she asked. It's a question I and my artist husband have asked ourselves many times. I mean 'rich' would be lovely, but the question really should be 'why aren't you reasonably comfortable?' Or even 'why are you still struggling?' </p><p>Clearly, we've both been doing it wrong. </p><p>Come back soon for another thrilling installment of what not to do. </p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-53715858484878376412024-01-27T15:39:00.000+00:002024-01-27T15:39:10.589+00:00A Memory of Burns (from someone who knew him.) <p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMuf9qe2V7_xcu4og65_bvf9EvKesuuCcPOBQ6CBPPwtK1os1VpdmHnIKodD6gfThMTJluDkErSQklbs4eL4cqh0gE1ngYuOzO1u6t0FEPAi87NR3aHuCcgkZY3OPr3JG2pT5j3d1yop3QZmcr0FE_Y91NDfj_sRZHVMmriwm5vrbH9zDFKWu/s983/the%20real%20mossgiel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="983" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMuf9qe2V7_xcu4og65_bvf9EvKesuuCcPOBQ6CBPPwtK1os1VpdmHnIKodD6gfThMTJluDkErSQklbs4eL4cqh0gE1ngYuOzO1u6t0FEPAi87NR3aHuCcgkZY3OPr3JG2pT5j3d1yop3QZmcr0FE_Y91NDfj_sRZHVMmriwm5vrbH9zDFKWu/w400-h278/the%20real%20mossgiel.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Mossgiel</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><br />When he was farming at <a href="https://mossgielfarm.co.uk/">Mossgiel, where our milk comes from</a>, Burns employed a herd-boy called Willie Patrick. Many years later, in 1859, another William, a Burns enthusiast called William Jolly, went on a pilgrimage to Burns Country, visiting Mauchline and Mossgiel. While he was wandering about Mauchline, he met Willie Patrick and asked him about his memories of the Burns family. This formed the basis for a little book called <i>Robert Burns at Mossgiel, with Reminiscences of the Poet by his Herd-Boy.</i> You can still find reprints online if you hunt for them. Asked to do a brief Immortal Memory speech and toast at a small local Burns Supper, I dug out my copy and reread it, for inspiration.<br /><br />Willie Patrick had been born in 1776, so was in his 84th year when Mr Jolly met him. He was short, and very bent, after a life of hard labour. Jolly describes him as being in good health, clear in his mind, shrewd and full of humour. He had a staff, which he leant on, although he could walk without it. <br />He wrote "When making any statement, he would turn quickly round and earnestly answer me that ‘it was as sure as death’ or ‘as sure as I knock the heid aff that thistle.’"<br /><br />Willie spent four years at Mossgiel, working for Robert and his brother Gilbert, between March 1784 and April 1788. This meant that he started work as a little lad of eight, and worked there till he was twelve - afterwards becoming a shoemaker, before serving in the army and eventually working for the poet’s friend, Gavin Hamilton. <br /><br />At Mossgiel, he was <i>herd callant</i>, watching over the herd, or occasionally <i>gaudsman</i>, accompanying Burns when he was ploughing, to help drive the four horses. However, in view of his age, he mostly did odd jobs about the farm. Willie remembered that the Burns family lived chiefly in the kitchen, as most farming households did and probably still do. Robert’s father had died at Lochlea, a rather unhappy place for the family. The two elder boys had actually taken on the Mossgiel tenancy before their father died, without telling him, reluctant to add to his worries. Their mother, Agnes – ‘a wee booed body’ as Willie called her - spent a lot of time sitting close beside the fire. Willie said that the house was largely kept by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isabella_Burns">Isabel, known as Bell,</a> the youngest daughter, although that may have been because she was closer in age, and very much his favourite sister. There were two older sisters, Agnes and Annabella, who were probably involved with dairying, and two younger brothers, William and the youngest son, John, who died aged 16, while Willie Patrick was working at the farm. <br /><br />Gilbert was a year younger than Robert, but Willie observed that he took more charge of the farm, given that Robert was so taken up with his poetry. The family, especially the women, made <a href="https://www.pongcheese.co.uk/blog/robert-burns-the-poet-and-part-time-cheesemaker">Dunlop cheese</a>, a sweet milk cheese, from the rich milk of the Ayrshire cows, no doubt learning from their mother, who already had the skill of cheesemaking . <br /><br /> Besides the sisters, there was a female friend who helped in the kitchen, and Rab’s ‘dear bought Bess’, his little daughter by Elizabeth Paton whom he had welcomed into his house. Latterly, this large household was joined by one of Jean Armour’s first set of twins, Robert, then only a toddler. There were no female servants at all – just friends and family. After a few turbulent years, after the marriage was formalised, Jean would walk up to the farm from her rooms in Castle Street, to learn dairying and cheese making from the Burns sisters. When Jean and Rab moved to Ellisland, Burns was supposedly the first to introduce the handsome brown and white Ayrshire cow to the county. All the household slept in the house, while the male servants, including young Willie Patrick, slept in the stable loft.<br /><br />Willie did little jobs about the kitchen, as well as feeding and herding cattle, mucking the byre, and running into town on various errands, but most of all carrying letters – more of them than was at all common at that time for a farming family. The poet was a great correspondent and was always sending away for books.<br /><br /><br /><a house.jpg="" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtoR-hyDYTSN4mRE8fvDPlZVYWwiHJBtQabpLdSwQrpRWv1WYSkbp2R08-aCh9x8o1zGcKgGJsIZ_jkls1AFgvF1lwlUJGJLmFJYRIbpETLFYn3LGkE3SQ6OFWOlsT_MnHobs0ZKup0kmKnbUveB6Xm_1qzKD1reKtp1zMAE5scgGIKCDdVcG/s1024/gavin%20hamilton" s=""><img border="0" house.jpg="" s="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtoR-hyDYTSN4mRE8fvDPlZVYWwiHJBtQabpLdSwQrpRWv1WYSkbp2R08-aCh9x8o1zGcKgGJsIZ_jkls1AFgvF1lwlUJGJLmFJYRIbpETLFYn3LGkE3SQ6OFWOlsT_MnHobs0ZKup0kmKnbUveB6Xm_1qzKD1reKtp1zMAE5scgGIKCDdVcG/s320/gavin%20hamilton" /></a><br />Gavin Hamilton's House, Mauchline<br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>In winter, mindful of Willie’s age, they would sit him down beside the fire, opposite Mistress Burns, peeling potatoes or doing other small domestic jobs, while the women worked and chatted or sang around him. There were far worse jobs for a boy at that time. <br /><br />The whole household took their meals in the kitchen, and Wille remembered that Rab was ‘aye reading,’ even at mealtimes. Gilbert was a ‘douce and sensible man’ but Willie was more impressed with Rab. He described him as smart, manly and good looking, liked by everyone except a few of the ‘stricter sort’ (including Jean Armour’s father who hated him at that time, although he came round in the end!) – and those who feared his wild reputation. He says he never once saw him the worse for liquor. He over-indulged at times, but was never a drunkard. <br /><br />Most important of all, he was a ‘good master' good natured and kindly towards all those who worked on the farm, even if he seemed distracted by things that other people never noticed. 'He was aye pickin up things and thinkin ower them for a lang time’ says Willie, adding that he was a special favourite with the lasses ‘He could aye speak up to them’ – a gift, and a charm that never left him throughout his too short life. <br /><br />Lovely to read the words of somebody who had known the poet and worked with him on a day-to-day basis. Especially since he was remembered so fondly as a good man and a kindly master.</div><div><br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdGGr_Un5wtX4Mzd0yZWvAVtcPirJZ3C9PtbfiRSx8BZOis0nOu33WinPjtIfhjEguJk6BA0H7f2lMFaIPzFdK_5IiH7RE1-Vv6CH4vutV43Ye6pO4-vQeF-Yx6GHNfrwqHtVjgCzVrW8uGow5pivlLVq5cCLJW7O0TXhv_t3vj7x_BF2jwB0G/s983/cottage%20garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="983" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdGGr_Un5wtX4Mzd0yZWvAVtcPirJZ3C9PtbfiRSx8BZOis0nOu33WinPjtIfhjEguJk6BA0H7f2lMFaIPzFdK_5IiH7RE1-Vv6CH4vutV43Ye6pO4-vQeF-Yx6GHNfrwqHtVjgCzVrW8uGow5pivlLVq5cCLJW7O0TXhv_t3vj7x_BF2jwB0G/w400-h275/cottage%20garden.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mauchline many years ago</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-30813194092414433332024-01-25T14:32:00.000+00:002024-01-25T14:32:32.879+00:00Here we go again ...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zGAB4toMVjW0xbRUzV0htZa_7NkaLrmD7uGll4KMQhJ58N-b-8jQy4aNRv-QsLqmL9apylP3IFEaj99j-yZ5yxcKq-I5fTJf11DVY_mTS1AsLcB8kSWDkjzkvBDs9dw-ba5_ojC8vE7EoQmJM1uIR-BSDgEmy3t8FHGrAU48hBL4Kzv5ypx7/s225/burns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="225" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zGAB4toMVjW0xbRUzV0htZa_7NkaLrmD7uGll4KMQhJ58N-b-8jQy4aNRv-QsLqmL9apylP3IFEaj99j-yZ5yxcKq-I5fTJf11DVY_mTS1AsLcB8kSWDkjzkvBDs9dw-ba5_ojC8vE7EoQmJM1uIR-BSDgEmy3t8FHGrAU48hBL4Kzv5ypx7/w400-h398/burns.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Can we knock on the head once and for all the belief that Burns was a drunkard and a 'crap father'? This was a view expressed yesterday in a Facebook group devoted - I kid you not - to 'Scottish Literature'! <div><br /></div><div>The poet was neither, and to label him so is to ignore both the context and the recorded truth of his life. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was no saint. He occasionally over-indulged (as which of us has not) but the drunkard myth was a figment of the imagination of some 18th century idiot writing an obituary in a local rag, and in the process misrepresenting as alcoholism the illness that killed him - most likely chronic endocarditis or inflammation of the heart muscle, which, when it turned acute, was a death sentence.</div><div><br /></div><div>His wife Jean never forgot or forgave the misrepresentation. </div><div><br /></div><div>The glib judgments of his character I read last night seem to have one thing in common - a complete ignorance of historical context. Not surprising, really, since our own history is so neglected by our education system. </div><div><br /></div><div>For a man of his time, Rab was a good, loving and patient father, in verse and in action too. By all accounts he was content to work away with the children playing around him. There is evidence of his devastation at the death of his little daughter Elizabeth Riddell Burns at the age of three, as he and Jean desperately sought a cure for the unknown illness that caused her to waste away. Compared to the more aristocratic writers of the time who preferred to pretend that their children weren't there at all, he was a model parent.</div><div><br /></div><div>He was a serially unfaithful husband, it's true. His wife, as one later biographer observed, was 'better than he deserved' but then she has been largely ignored by his other biographers. She was likened to an 'unfeeling heifer' by one female commentator, as though only a heifer would put up with him. </div><div><br /></div><div>In fact he loved women not wisely but too well and was just as likely to enjoy the company of older women as young women, something that is a rarity even today, when older women become largely invisible. He was a fantasist, like many writers, but had the sense to distinguish between the romance that inspired his poetry, and the real, abiding love he felt for his wife, a love that is present in so many of his poems and songs, if only we look for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, when his first illegitimate daughter was born in 1785 he wrote a defiant poem in her honour. This, at a time when the Minister and the Kirk Session in every parish in Scotland would spend much of their time trying to get men to own up to the children they had fathered!</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Welcome, my bonie, sweet, wee dochter!</i></div><div><i>Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,<br />And tho' your comin I hae fought for<br />Baith kirk and queir;<br />Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for --<br />That I shall swear! </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>If you want to know more, look for my novel <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jewel-Catherine-Czerkawska/dp/1910192236" target="_blank">The Jewel</a>, all about Jean and her husband, their life and times.</div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-21597982652792897342024-01-19T11:38:00.001+00:002024-01-19T11:38:18.153+00:00Chilling and Spine Tingling<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTh72_b8ZKixzl8xOAdNhOR-qYI1ZaYLkHwse_tgVYqgP9YjdhPGE4l4QT9GwhaojmDl1g7mTApEUWtBlbAE4M3dqEZAbRqEFVxVD0zzVNWtzK_N6nEBZ3d8TzJSx9bbhb7v9-FXyYJk4yL_-DEtgXD7zH1UAVKefAhQPDvXW8j2WwV0Fz_b94" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="334" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTh72_b8ZKixzl8xOAdNhOR-qYI1ZaYLkHwse_tgVYqgP9YjdhPGE4l4QT9GwhaojmDl1g7mTApEUWtBlbAE4M3dqEZAbRqEFVxVD0zzVNWtzK_N6nEBZ3d8TzJSx9bbhb7v9-FXyYJk4yL_-DEtgXD7zH1UAVKefAhQPDvXW8j2WwV0Fz_b94=w267-h400" width="267" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I'm never in the business of denigrating my fellow writers, so I don't usually give negative reviews. But it's depressing how many times these days I find myself downloading onto my Kindle a sample of a new novel with vast numbers of glowing reviews and recommendations. I read it, and think 'aargh no' and delete it. The last one was punted as 'the most chilling and spine tingling ghost story you'll read this year.' In this case, I did actually soldier on through the whole thing.</p><p>It wasn't (the most spine tingling etc) and I'll tell you why. Because as I laboured on through a long novel that really wanted to be a novella or a short story, in a Scottish setting about which the author seemed largely ignorant, I suddenly realised that it was heavily inspired by one of the best ghost stories ever written: Henry James's <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Turn-Screw-Henry-James-ebook/dp/B08NWDTS97" target="_blank">The Turn of the Screw</a>.</p><p>And that really <i>is</i> chilling and spine tingling.</p><p>I've read this classic novella several times, including at university, but this time I decided that I would read it ultra closely, paying attention to every nuance, to every word. In fact, I read it as a writer, trying to decide how the author had done it. </p><p>It was still chilling and spine tingling in every way. It haunted my dreams. But most of all (and if you haven't read it, this isn't really a spoiler) I still, after all these years, couldn't make up my mind whether the ghosts were real or not. And which of those two possibilities was the most horrific. Which was obviously James's intention. Genius. </p><p><i>There is just too much hype out there. </i>I know, because as a published author myself, the pressure to find glowing cover quotes is intense. We treasure positive reviews, knowing that we can quote them. I've done it all too often! </p><p>But when those cover quotes don't seem to reflect the quality of the work, as a reader, you can feel cheated. For the last few weeks, I've felt very very cheated.</p><p>Sometimes, a good entertaining story well told should be enough, shouldn't it? Is that why so many crime stories are so popular? Because that's what so many of them unashamedly are? Good, entertaining stories, well told.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-21488293900478416642024-01-12T15:35:00.003+00:002024-01-13T09:42:30.059+00:00Mr Bates, the Post Office and Issue Based Drama<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEdZ7YXiw8hJQkwvAHmzPzNhl827IiFv_Qvs8tKFqeYbVF8UOr5SyaBTTJUjicKKhlv6N-RzdWUHK3hoP7cQh5HKdFvhqt2RN4i_G-CiJjEF6qNPnl1BLYZdkfMslHkpvVaALrjSFlViKiqS4otKeHzd8uMIcOc2A6ml1wjpx86B8FbRQA4Fp/s1874/Anne%20Marie%20Timoney%20and%20Liam%20Brennan%20as%20Tanya%20and%20Stefan.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="1455" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEdZ7YXiw8hJQkwvAHmzPzNhl827IiFv_Qvs8tKFqeYbVF8UOr5SyaBTTJUjicKKhlv6N-RzdWUHK3hoP7cQh5HKdFvhqt2RN4i_G-CiJjEF6qNPnl1BLYZdkfMslHkpvVaALrjSFlViKiqS4otKeHzd8uMIcOc2A6ml1wjpx86B8FbRQA4Fp/w310-h400/Anne%20Marie%20Timoney%20and%20Liam%20Brennan%20as%20Tanya%20and%20Stefan.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anne Marie Timoney and Liam Brennan in Wormwood</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />If you haven't yet seen it, and you'd like to watch a perfect piece of 'issue based drama', seek out ITV's recent <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr_Bates_vs_The_Post_Office" target="_blank">Mr Bates vs The Post Office</a>. Written by the excellent Gwyneth Hughes, with a very fine cast, it tackles an injustice so colossal, so disturbing, so enraging that you'll be fuming quietly (or perhaps loudly) about it long after you've switched off your TV.<p></p><p>Here's the interesting thing though. I've been following this issue for years. There have been a number of hard-hitting programmes and articles about it, but this drama is the one that has 'cut through', the pebble (albeit a very fine pebble indeed) that started the landslide. </p><p>Ever since it was broadcast, I've been mildly irritated by a string of social media posts wondering why 'they' - that perennial they, who ought to do all kinds of things - don't do a drama about a string of other issues. Everything from Brexit to migration. All of them disturbing issues with which we must sooner or later grapple.</p><p>Dear reader - and even dear writer, because some of my friends are aspiring dramatists and some are already fine playwrights - that isn't how issue based drama works. That isn't how you set about writing it. You don't look at a sort of pick and mix of current issues, and say to yourself 'I fancy that one' and then jam a set of characters into it.</p><p>Well, you can, of course, and people frequently do. Especially when they're starting out. The results are almost always dire. Boring diatribes about issues, with the characters purely incidental vehicles for the playwright's preoccupations or obsessions.</p><p>Back when I was writing plays, I spent a long time - years, in fact - with the idea of a play about Chernobyl nagging away at me. I'd been pregnant when the cloud drifted towards the UK so it had loomed large for me as for so many others. But it wasn't until the accounts from the people who had been most involved with it came filtering out from Ukraine that I suddenly saw the play I wanted and needed to write. The firemen and their families, the people living in Pripyat, the schoolteachers, the children, those who experienced it at first hand - those were the people whose voices and experiences mattered, and suddenly any 'issues' became secondary to those experiences. They mattered, of course, but they could only spring from characters whose lives were interrupted by that 'safety experiment' gone so disastrously wrong. </p><p>The result was a play called <a href="https://www.nickhernbooks.co.uk/plays-to-perform/wormwood" target="_blank">Wormwood</a>, written for the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh and staged there in May 1997. It was a well reviewed but disturbing production. People cried at it. Occasionally, they fainted. If you want to read it, you'll find it online or in an anthology called Scotland Plays, published by Nick Hern Books. </p><p>Many years later, the superb US TV series titled <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chernobyl_(miniseries)" target="_blank">Chernobyl </a>was equally focused on character. It's hard to watch, and yes, many issues arise out of it. But first and foremost, we are captivated and horrified by what happens to the people most closely involved, from the 'party man' whose whole ethos is gradually thrown into question and destroyed, to the firemen buried in lead lined coffins. We watch and we identify with these people. Just as we identify with all these innocent postmasters and mistresses whose lives were destroyed in order to - well - to preserve a brand. We watch and we know that it could happen to us. And then, if we're honest, we also wonder if we too had been on the other side of that divide, with our livelihoods dependent on toeing the Post Office line- what we would have done differently. Would we have been brave enough to say thus far and no further? </p><p>After Wormwood was staged, I ran a short course on issue based drama for young writers at the Traverse. So many years later, the central truth remains. The only way to 'cut through' is to focus on those most closely involved, people with whom we can identify. </p><p>Last night, I watched a heartrending documentary about the <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0010ldl" target="_blank">39 Vietnamese migrants</a> who suffocated in a container, before they could ever set foot in England. What made it so tragic was the recognition that these were people like us, human beings, many of them young people, with hopes and fears and dreams. The last messages they sent to their families, from within the hell of that container, were mostly apologetic. 'I'm sorry' they said. Sorry for wanting to improve their lives, for taking a leap of faith for themselves and their families. </p><p>Now there's an issue that somebody could tackle. An issue obscured by the daily rantings of our politicians. But to do that would involve immersing yourself - as the detective who investigated the case clearly did, and has never got over it - in the ordinary, mundane, precious lives of those 'people like us'. Then, I reckon, the issue would take care of itself. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdTrcCe2HYOEsHLhhGum_yTVFBYZ3FamE76zfxNZ8AGj6Dz7M8yYwZI5Gk64Pvf6jAExHspZSf9g_8FT2u8A0g7s1PgDmYAfHCPVXryEzCRtxCuZZjA9m9P0Fz5m7vhgPBN-ohbydHf7m76uyxMwJCtZPHJrrH1-2ePSc5QwlkthUDWG1BY7p/s1868/Opening%20Scene.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1868" data-original-width="1302" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdTrcCe2HYOEsHLhhGum_yTVFBYZ3FamE76zfxNZ8AGj6Dz7M8yYwZI5Gk64Pvf6jAExHspZSf9g_8FT2u8A0g7s1PgDmYAfHCPVXryEzCRtxCuZZjA9m9P0Fz5m7vhgPBN-ohbydHf7m76uyxMwJCtZPHJrrH1-2ePSc5QwlkthUDWG1BY7p/w279-h400/Opening%20Scene.jpg" width="279" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opening scene of Wormwood at the Traverse</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-69634170558674867362024-01-11T16:10:00.000+00:002024-01-11T16:10:32.905+00:00Belated New Year Greetings!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zjhcLcxuVIZvvG-sk5WBNG2X80ddwJsRMHwReLCz0H5zJJOU7V_gI0VZcgSqxiQN9NZzSZbYBH8Zuoya12vGfJcpWVVBVKnV3c9cgdcm1Tsz13crlK2rH2q-hfNa8jWZWw3v0ZqhpUKO5aC5X8ADPAJDlji_4nv6QSqN858me3rsuckeSzfF/s2694/Spring%20clutter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2694" data-original-width="2694" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0zjhcLcxuVIZvvG-sk5WBNG2X80ddwJsRMHwReLCz0H5zJJOU7V_gI0VZcgSqxiQN9NZzSZbYBH8Zuoya12vGfJcpWVVBVKnV3c9cgdcm1Tsz13crlK2rH2q-hfNa8jWZWw3v0ZqhpUKO5aC5X8ADPAJDlji_4nv6QSqN858me3rsuckeSzfF/w400-h400/Spring%20clutter.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The above picture is titled 'spring clutter' on my PC. Not quite there yet, but this week, I bought a couple of bunches of daffodils so we're getting there. This is the time of year when I try to buy a bunch of tulips or daffs, or sometimes both, every week, just to prolong my favourite time of year - spring. </p><p>This year, too, I remembered to plant some bulbs back in the autumn, and they're all emerging. For the first time ever, I managed to persuade a couple of blue hyacinth bulbs to grow and - more to the point - flower, in a pair of lovely old glass hyacinth vases. Every year to date I've put them in these vases full of water, in hope, and every year I've been disappointed. Last year, I forked out for big expensive bulbs and hey presto - this year they're flowering! You obviously get what you pay for in this instance.</p><p>I've had a ridiculously busy, albeit happy, Christmas. Missing our son who works in Stockholm very much, now that he's gone back. </p><p>But I'll also have some rather big news about my writing. Coming very soon. I've been gearing myself up to writing about this on here, but putting it off till I felt as though I had got 'all my ducks in a row.' Now, if not in a row, then at least they are swimming about where I can see them. </p><p>Watch this space.</p><p>PS, the daffodil plate, my favourite, belonged to my mum who bought it in our local auction house back in the sixties. It looks like Moorcroft, but it isn't. Don't know what it is, but I love it.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-84686336880517546872023-12-15T23:14:00.002+00:002023-12-16T12:43:57.384+00:00Bringing Christmas Into This Old House<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolvUECPB0lplPUtxj2Jom0FCJvhEsrV5_8F0P89vqmIITwB4SfkGNflVykqHwDlQve1tNnLSjgMkG3Pg8wgWL9GU8Bgp-trAc-TscuJlRcTW7heEpS8HIkMa9EfZ-vf9eIpkYam4pNOU6I93CqsIhgrONatH-BYQqr_G8FHFM23W80qiU2yKs/s4000/our%20stairs.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolvUECPB0lplPUtxj2Jom0FCJvhEsrV5_8F0P89vqmIITwB4SfkGNflVykqHwDlQve1tNnLSjgMkG3Pg8wgWL9GU8Bgp-trAc-TscuJlRcTW7heEpS8HIkMa9EfZ-vf9eIpkYam4pNOU6I93CqsIhgrONatH-BYQqr_G8FHFM23W80qiU2yKs/w300-h400/our%20stairs.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /> I very seldom post pictures of the inside of this cottage, except for the kitchen, occasionally - and the conservatory, which is where we put the <a href="https://garrochertreefarm.co.uk/" target="_blank">Christmas tree</a>. It's so cold there at night that it hardly sheds a needle.<p></p><p>Today, though, since we've just about finished trimming up - always traditional decorations, some of which we've had for years - I took a photograph of the hallway. Our hall and staircase in this two hundred year old house is bigger than it should be. We've sometimes wondered why it's so palatial in what is, after all, a stone-built terraced cottage. </p><p>It was built back in the very early 1800s, by a retired gardener from Cloncaird Castle, who had been given a piece of land by his employer. Somewhere among the deeds are details of the plot of land and the 'house new built thereon'. He sold it very soon after, so I suppose it was his pension fund. Some of the stones of which it's constructed are huge - boulders more than stones. You wonder how they lifted them into place. In the sitting room, there's an original lintel, still soot marked, over what was once a vast fireplace - the main fireplace in the house back then but reduced to manageable proportions over the years. </p><p>The wooden floor in the hallway is pitch pine and comes - allegedly - from the deck of a wrecked ship - installed well before we moved here. The beautiful wrought iron balustrade and elegant banister rail are probably Victorian although again they seem rather grand - so this was no ordinary cottage. Previous owners included a sea captain and a doctor, so presumably it became a desirable residence over the years after the gardener built it. I don't think it was ever a weaver's cottage, although the village was full of them. </p><p>I keep planning to try to find out more about the man who owned the land and built the house but work tends to intervene. I remember that at one point in its history it was sold by 'candle auction' in the pub over the road - the winning bid being the last one placed when the candle went out. </p><p>Not long ago, as he galloped about the house, trying to fix something, a frustrated tradesman exclaimed 'This is a <i>difficult</i> house!' We know, we know! The thing about old houses - genuinely old houses - is that they really <i>hate</i> being disturbed, even when you're trying to do essential work. And boy, do they let you know about it. </p><p>But we've been here a long time now. It's a welcoming house. You get the feeling that it always has been. And we love it. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWapIb0AVjJlUvmIz4TLNIxQKzFnAL6Vj9MQ5Qi2ito7jX2GWsjdPbCYsDUxQIKHtO2h_bm_R5cAjb4UMo3o3raUkurbjRCF63DN3Dxqhz-IUs5YGlLR2ytrXTyyQpDIa42DWpsPBzuAVYBEoxJMvz6faBoUS9qXR5KzOsd3YMKZQguWgBrsz/s4000/conservatory.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWapIb0AVjJlUvmIz4TLNIxQKzFnAL6Vj9MQ5Qi2ito7jX2GWsjdPbCYsDUxQIKHtO2h_bm_R5cAjb4UMo3o3raUkurbjRCF63DN3Dxqhz-IUs5YGlLR2ytrXTyyQpDIa42DWpsPBzuAVYBEoxJMvz6faBoUS9qXR5KzOsd3YMKZQguWgBrsz/w400-h300/conservatory.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-8746474300623155832023-12-01T14:01:00.002+00:002023-12-01T14:01:23.900+00:00A Sad Goodbye to a Very Fine Poet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD82_1Z9pVY0HEZoty89PcfXMjohwC4HqqzxUumw65lqtowdOfi0QRuyHXcv5IBQvr0QJLdahvjRF1XNABK6DOI1-ApVhMum2AI0Ng-kt6ve1UJAfDZM5DX_8szY35pXYYdSxVSW18ATt2vWUyHemAWYaKuFj6SczhvtFIAOG1LBDqSW3OMe8V/s4032/red%20red%20rose%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD82_1Z9pVY0HEZoty89PcfXMjohwC4HqqzxUumw65lqtowdOfi0QRuyHXcv5IBQvr0QJLdahvjRF1XNABK6DOI1-ApVhMum2AI0Ng-kt6ve1UJAfDZM5DX_8szY35pXYYdSxVSW18ATt2vWUyHemAWYaKuFj6SczhvtFIAOG1LBDqSW3OMe8V/w244-h183/red%20red%20rose%201.jpg" width="244" /></a></div> I was very sad this week to learn of the death of Sheila Templeton. Ours had been one of those friendships where you stay in touch online and meet up only very occasionally - but it was nice to know that she was there. I've lost a couple of other friends and colleagues this year, and sometimes have to stop and remind myself that they're no longer in this world - but it's still hard to believe. Sheila was such a fine poet, such a wonderful talent. It was always a privilege to hear her read her own brilliant work. And she was an inspirational older woman who simply could not be ignored! <p></p><p>But since whenever I think about her she's smiling, I have a couple of stories about her that I want to tell here. </p><p>The first was when we found ourselves at the same gig, in a quirky Glasgow tea house (alas no longer with us either) organised by a mutual friend, both reading our work, along with various other writers, most of them Very Young Men. We were allocated ten minutes each, and Sheila and I stuck scrupulously to that, although to be honest, I could have listened to Sheila for hours. <i>All </i>the young men, without exception, mounted the stage with sheaves of paper, and proceeded to read for at least twenty minutes, sometimes even longer. Some way through the evening, Sheila leaned over and whispered in my ear, 'Do you think any of them can <i>count</i>?'</p><p>The other tale is even more characteristic of Sheila. Some years ago, we were asked to judge a competition for a writing organisation - she was judging the poetry and I was judging the short stories. There were many entries and it was a big task, but one that Sheila undertook with her usual enthusiasm. We decided that, although we had the final say about our respective tasks, we should each look at the other's entries, and compare notes, just to make sure that we weren't overlooking anything. We spent a long afternoon in a quiet corner of a cafe, going through the entries together, giving each its due. There was some excellent work, but what was both fascinating and reassuring was that - independently - we had reached the same conclusions about the various winners and 'highly commendeds'. </p><p>Cue forward some weeks to the award ceremony. The organisation had kindly given us accommodation in a lovely little inn, not too far away from the venue. Arriving after the event, we had a drink in the bar but soon retired to our respective adjoining rooms. This was a small inn, with a single row of bedrooms above the main bar and restaurant, with a door to the carpark at the bottom of the stairs.</p><p>At about 2am, on a chilly night, somewhere outside Edinburgh, the fire alarm went off.</p><p> Deafeningly. </p><p>I threw on shoes and a warm coat, grabbed my handbag, and met Sheila heading for the stairs. We were soon joined by a middle aged man in a dressing gown. We three were the only occupants. The bar and restaurant area were deserted, and the door into the body of the hotel was firmly locked. We stood outside for a while, shivering. The wind whistled around the car park. That was deserted too. There was no smell of smoke, which was probably just as well. </p><p>'Where are we?' yelled the man, above the deafening racket. He explained that he had been attending a business meeting and had been dropped off at the hotel quite late in the evening. Nobody had told him where he was. </p><p>My phone had no signal. Sheila's phone had no signal. Nobody came. The man, wandering about the car park with his dressing gown blowing in the wind, did finally manage to pick up a signal, and dialled 999. All the while, the fire alarm rang on. </p><p>Sheila and I agreed that we were very glad we were together. </p><p>Some minutes later Lothian's Finest appeared. They couldn't get into the body of the hotel either but suggested that we at least take shelter in the little lobby at the foot of the stairs, since it seemed that nothing was actually burning and we were freezing. A little while after that, somebody from the hotel turned up with the key. The brigade checked everything out. There was no fire. Something had tripped off in the kitchen.</p><p>Just before we were allowed to go back to our rooms and our sadly disturbed sleep, Sheila nudged me. There we were, two middle aged/elderly females in our nighties and coats. She nodded at the fire chief. 'Would you look at him!' she said. 'I wouldn't mind being rescued by <i>him</i>, Catherine. Would you?'</p><p>She was, of course, right. He was as tall and handsome as a firefighter in a movie. At breakfast, we agreed that it had definitely been worth the sleepless night. </p><p>I could say rest in peace, dear Sheila - but after you've had that wee rest, do keep an eye on us. And send us some of your inspiration and your brilliant creativity and your remarkable positivity.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-76828256486241663812023-11-14T15:23:00.003+00:002023-11-16T22:05:44.962+00:00In Which Eeyore Has a Complaint. <blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-V3Jc6HKzYegaCbMK7dPeEz-pdzQpbSnYCAu3BQnwBNNB8HYmH-EGuLuUoMQSYVpHBY3JkmOh9f2KEe92e5LDZ8njaHeSIOtx3VtrnjYP90TwrX9tBbDlhUfQi8SG2Ws_VaGkZfsvWlhVB8hPnX66J6PHb-aVrbvyOiribXxq-2wMWHIgP81j/s1600/pooh_99_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="1600" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-V3Jc6HKzYegaCbMK7dPeEz-pdzQpbSnYCAu3BQnwBNNB8HYmH-EGuLuUoMQSYVpHBY3JkmOh9f2KEe92e5LDZ8njaHeSIOtx3VtrnjYP90TwrX9tBbDlhUfQi8SG2Ws_VaGkZfsvWlhVB8hPnX66J6PHb-aVrbvyOiribXxq-2wMWHIgP81j/w400-h280/pooh_99_0001.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"> </p>The Old Grey Donkey, Eeyore, stood by himself in a thistly corner of the forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, ‘Why?’ and sometimes he thought, ‘Inasmuch as which?’ – and sometimes he didn’t quite know what he was thinking about. So when Winnie-the-Pooh came stumping along, Eeyore was very glad to be able to stop thinking for a little, in order to say ‘How do you do?’ in a gloomy manner to him. <br /><br /> ‘And how are you?’ said Winnie-the-Pooh. <br /><br />Eeyore shook his head from side to side. <br /><br />‘Not very how,’ he said. ‘I don’t seem to have felt at all how for a long time.’ <br /><br />‘Dear, dear,’ said Pooh. ‘I’m sorry about that. Why?’ <br /><br />‘Because, said Eeyore, ‘Somebody keeps rewriting me. I didn’t think it was allowed.’ <br /><br />‘Bother,’ said Pooh. ‘But it’s all because of something called outofcopyright. Christopher Robin told me. It’s happening to everyone in the Hundred Acre Wood.’ <br /><br />‘And what is this outofcopyright?’ <br /><br />‘It means people can steal our words and add other words like ok and there-for-you and long words that even Owl doesn’t know, like imperceptibly.’ <br /><br />‘Impercepti-what?’ said Eeyore. <br /><br />‘I know,’ said Pooh. ‘It’s Terrible and Sad. For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain and long words Bother me.’ <br /><br />‘Why don’t they make up their own words?’ said Eeyore. <br /><br />‘Christopher Robin says they are in a Very Sad Condition because nobody has taken any notice of their words. So they steal ours and spoil them.’ <br /><br />‘That accounts for a Good Deal’ said Eeyore. ‘Not that it matters. But How Like Them.’<div><br /><div><br /></div><div>(<i>With profound and heartfelt apologies to A A Milne and
Ernest Shepherd.) </i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-13333363396844261672023-11-12T16:15:00.001+00:002023-11-12T16:15:08.468+00:00My Favourite Books of 2023<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjotB0uCO3vu1heLvI6yOHDhWhTXDaBiaHiCHmX59FL0_kRRLCC0-MGTNvaegO1YeCgxCaC5fpy4Op8RrYeAf2LvFUNmon35OHiaxtNq1Z9VtxztHYJTH-Ng1LGDYLmWpejJgUIJa9TsNSGUbNS5V3u6prbVoMBTVsJejPf6szDP7VUw9XIV02M" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1200" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjotB0uCO3vu1heLvI6yOHDhWhTXDaBiaHiCHmX59FL0_kRRLCC0-MGTNvaegO1YeCgxCaC5fpy4Op8RrYeAf2LvFUNmon35OHiaxtNq1Z9VtxztHYJTH-Ng1LGDYLmWpejJgUIJa9TsNSGUbNS5V3u6prbVoMBTVsJejPf6szDP7VUw9XIV02M=w640-h325" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>I've been picking my favourite reads of 2023 for a great new book recommendation site: Shepherd.com You'll find them <a href="https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023/f/catherine-czerkawska?" target="_blank">here.</a> I read a lot of books in any one year - usually on my Kindle, far into the night - so it's always hard for me to choose. There were plenty of contenders, but here are the ones I picked, with great difficulty, I might add!</p><p>Also, if you would like to see what other people have recommended on this excellent new site, you'll find lots more 'best books' <a href="Best books of 2023 https://shepherd.com/bboy/2023" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-50471964437203849222023-10-29T16:38:00.001+00:002023-10-29T16:38:30.499+00:00Real People?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih15vlY9iLEa_AsJ4Hd5sPcKTaqDUa0wOzmYfTZNg1GVVnInwQ1_nZ8K1tRE-AbldebcIapiVBjZfo5UGQqE0_GE6FIDvfAtdTicDomtNoR9s80H10X8PoA7wgsXkv336pVlVLppNS5r-J7hGL0krmQQM2Hm8jfNcV66J7dJ1ODf9fAWEKYHnh/s2268/Broch%20Beag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="2268" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih15vlY9iLEa_AsJ4Hd5sPcKTaqDUa0wOzmYfTZNg1GVVnInwQ1_nZ8K1tRE-AbldebcIapiVBjZfo5UGQqE0_GE6FIDvfAtdTicDomtNoR9s80H10X8PoA7wgsXkv336pVlVLppNS5r-J7hGL0krmQQM2Hm8jfNcV66J7dJ1ODf9fAWEKYHnh/w400-h400/Broch%20Beag.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> I've been watching the television version of <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episodes/m001rcl0/uncanny" target="_blank">Uncanny</a>, having listened to <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p09ydnlk" target="_blank">the excellent podcas</a>t of the same name. As you'll know, if you're a follower of this blog, I'm fond of a spooky story. The success of Uncanny proves I'm not alone, and reminds me of the occasion, some years ago, when I was asked to attend a meeting with people from a big Scottish media company. I'd had several successful stage plays as well as vast amounts of radio drama produced by that stage, so they wanted to find out if I might have any ideas that I could propose for TV.<p></p><p>Two things happened at that meeting. </p><p>One was that I politely made it clear that - other than the basic proposal of course - I wouldn't be doing too much work without at least a modicum of development money. I'd been bitten by this kind of thing before, wasting a whole year of my writing life working on a detailed proposal that included many meetings and some sample episodes only to have it knocked on the head without even a 'kill fee' as the compensatory payment is called. This isn't unusual, incidentally. But jam tomorrow is a poor diet. </p><p>Then I suggested something with a supernatural theme. They pulled a sort of collective face and chorused 'nobody is interested in the supernatural.' This was just before Buffy hit our screens. As William Goldman put it in his wonderful <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Adventures-Screen-Trade-Personal-Hollywood/dp/034910705X" target="_blank">Adventures in the Screen Trade</a>, 'Nobody knows anything.'</p><p>Anyway - good on Danny Robins for his success with the excellent Uncanny. Although the explanations of the sceptics seem to me to be much more far fetched than the accounts of the believers. The third episode of the TV version included an 'experiment' in the way infrasound can induce feelings of unease and physical discomfort in humans. I'm sure it does. But if you tell the subjects of your experiment beforehand that the place where you are going to hit them with infrasound is 'haunted' you have instantly invalidated any results! I find the sceptics irritating for more than one reason though. They just seem to be so closed minded. </p><p>I believe that in Tibetan Buddhism, there is the concept of the Tulpa, a <i>thought form. </i>The Tulpa is said to be a manifestation of the unconscious mind and can assume a physical shape, even interacting with the real world. Sometimes inconveniently so. It's obvious that this is not something to be treated lightly. I find myself wondering how many of the experiences related on Uncanny might be explained by this theory. Especially those manifestations that persist and seem to pursue those who have conjured them. </p><p>More relevant to creative writing though - when you, as a writer, create characters, they become very real to you. Or they should do. If they don't, you're doing it wrong! They persist. You can't suddenly change them, or not without difficulty. Even when a book is finished and published and you've moved on, you can, if you think about it, switch back to the world of that book, and see those characters as vividly as though they were real people - friends you've known and haven't spoken to for a while. </p><p>They are just as real as anyone else you might meet in person or online. Perhaps more real than the people you know only online. Because you know them intimately. You can see them and hear them. And there they are - carrying on with their lives - even when you're not actually writing about them any more.</p><p>Which is a strange little thought for Hallowe'en, isn't it? </p><p>If you want to read another strange little story, here's one I wrote earlier: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Rewilding-novella-Catherine-Czerkawska-ebook/dp/B082FK6G8L" target="_blank">Rewilding. </a> You can download it free from 30th October till 3rd November. </p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-27604605234518848902023-10-16T11:03:00.001+01:002023-10-16T22:50:48.774+01:00My Favourite Folk Tale<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1L-hJ2n-3cFg3ejrgatvNVcsfp3B_RtNt3QHjcMn6Bc1e6Ni7HJU2NZBZU-0JmMWhin2zpQY-FfQM8MULz5DsU3zCL2IsRad6mYxUDLvqX7PAhqFV5833_F2LbCiE7pCnjvt4rOHLgvMJjiF-wpkH1jE323bUblqITk7znAX4OwPVI1VDPcM0/s3696/DSCF8576.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2464" data-original-width="3696" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1L-hJ2n-3cFg3ejrgatvNVcsfp3B_RtNt3QHjcMn6Bc1e6Ni7HJU2NZBZU-0JmMWhin2zpQY-FfQM8MULz5DsU3zCL2IsRad6mYxUDLvqX7PAhqFV5833_F2LbCiE7pCnjvt4rOHLgvMJjiF-wpkH1jE323bUblqITk7znAX4OwPVI1VDPcM0/w400-h266/DSCF8576.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><b>My Postgraduate Masters degree was in something called Folk Life Studies. I studied at Leeds University, with folklorists Stewart Sanderson and Tony Green. Among the many books we read on that course was one called Folk Tales of England edited by Katharine Briggs and Ruth L Tongue. It was first published in 1966 and I think I bought it second hand, because I note a little 60p in the corner. There are many tales that, back then, were 'newly collected'. I too was one of that generation of folklorists who went about with tape or in my case cassette recorders, persuading people to tell their stories. In my case it was the fishing traditions of South Ayrshire. </b></p><p><b>This little book, however, contains my very favourite folk tale - one of those stories that has stayed with me down all these years. I think about it periodically and laugh - because it's a funny story. But with Hallowe'en fast approaching, appropriate for the time of year as well.</b></p><p><b>It's called Summat Queer on Batch, and it was recorded by Ruth L Tongue, on September 27th, 1963. She remembers this as a favourite story of an old North Somerset groom from about 1907. It is, however, a much older 'motif' to be found in many other stories right across the world. A 'batch' is a piece of open common land or moorland.</b></p><p><b>Here it is, transcribed verbatim from Ruth's recording.</b></p><p>There were a old widow body 'oo 'ad a little cottage up to Batch and 'er come to market with 'er bits to sell, and she wouldn't go 'ome no how. Well, they axed 'en and all she'd say was, "There's Summat Queer on Batch!" and not a word more. Well, Job Ash, 'e say to 'er, 'Never 'e mind, my dear, I'll go up Batch for 'ee. No fear!' And 'e up and went.</p><p>'Twere a bit of a unket wind up to Batch, road was lonely and wind did blow whist. 'E got to cottage, t'were a little cottage like, with a front door and back door opposite each other and kitchen were on side o' passage, sitting room were t'other side o' passage and stairs was in cupboard. In 'e goes, front door were wide open, and 'e swing the bar acrost, and 'e go to back door, and 'e swing the bar acrost there. Then 'e take a look-see to sitting-room. Weren't no one there. Then 'e gave a look-see to kitchen. No-one there neither. Then 'e rub 'is hands together and 'e think o' the drubbing they lads was going to 'ave.</p><p>'E opens door - cupboard door - upstairs to bedroom. When he got up to bedroom, wasn't no-one there neither. 'Where be they tew?' said Job and 'e come down and front door were open - back door were open tew. Bar were set back. Well, Job 'e took a quick look-see outside back door and it slammed tew be'ind him and bar slid acrost.</p><p>Well, Job, 'e took off round corner o' that 'ouse and 'e didn't stop to look - gets round by front door, as fast as 'e could, and just as 'e got to front door, that slam in 'is face tew, and bar come down acrost. Well, Job, 'e took a deep breath, 'e did, and then 'e takes a look over 'is shoulder, and there were Summat Queer standing right be'ind him. </p><p>At that, Job 'e took off down that road, like 'e were at Shepton Mallet races. 'E were a girt fleshly feller and when 'e'd got about a mile or so, 'e sat down on a 'eap of stones, and 'e puff like a pair of bellowses, and 'e got out is neck-ankercher, and 'e rub is face, thankful.</p><p>And then 'e look down and there's a girt flat foot aside o' 'isn. Then 'e look up a little further and there's a girt airy 'and by 'is knee. And then 'e look up a little further still and there's a girt wide grin.</p><p>'<i>That</i> were a good race, weren't it?' sez it.</p><p>'Ar!' sez Job. 'And when I've got my breath back, us'll ave another!' </p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-75160734553767695722023-10-11T10:07:00.002+01:002023-10-12T09:32:59.634+01:00Not Your Friends<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrqthT6uZAYUdXuXhWyhbAVt8ftuVPhbZ6Y9WVtDa5x_j1VLElSewuuE05N547V8RVxarlSyByp17RTqXDye3yVgkgOrxkfr9WTQBTAMxvAk7epxdkKWQIFGVa3IyutV4Nz8PMNhgxvfZmD9LP1ZxKMMRJ9L9S9mJJBY64jk-6xBvUWmJkNTj/s232/Charlie%20Brown.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="232" data-original-width="217" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrqthT6uZAYUdXuXhWyhbAVt8ftuVPhbZ6Y9WVtDa5x_j1VLElSewuuE05N547V8RVxarlSyByp17RTqXDye3yVgkgOrxkfr9WTQBTAMxvAk7epxdkKWQIFGVa3IyutV4Nz8PMNhgxvfZmD9LP1ZxKMMRJ9L9S9mJJBY64jk-6xBvUWmJkNTj/w374-h400/Charlie%20Brown.jpeg" width="374" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie Brown and Lucy, by Schulz</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>If I had to give one piece of advice to writers who are just starting out, or to those travelling hopefully in the early stages of the journey, it would be this: many of the people you encounter along the way, agents, publishers, managers, interns, editors, producers, directors, even those who work for agencies charged with funding the arts - remember that they are <i>not your friends.</i></p><p>I have plenty of fellow writers and actors I've worked with, and I would count almost all of them as my friends. We share experiences in common, we sympathise with each other, we may well compete from time to time, but we also look out for each other when the chips are down. And even when we don't see each other for a while, we pick up where we left off when we do meet. That's real friendship.</p><p>When I look back over a long career in writing and publishing, I can see that most of the mistakes I've made - and I've made plenty - have involved me misinterpreting a warm professional relationship as genuine friendship. </p><p>It never was. </p><p>This is not a bad thing. We don't, for example, expect our doctors or dentists to be personal friends, as long as the relationship is polite and 'friendly' and mutually beneficial. Ditto our solicitors, accountants, and whatever other professionals we work with. There may be exceptions, but that's usually because the friendship predates the profession, or the professional relationship runs parallel to the personal friendship and has lasted for many years. I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the situations where that was the case and, alas, the people in question are dead. </p><p>Writers are often to be found extolling the 'friendship' they have with their 'wonderful' agent or director or publisher. I've done it myself more than once. It's hard not to see it as friendship, when there are so many similarities with the real thing: the long, mutually supportive conversations, the praise, the positivity, the helpful suggestions, the promises. </p><p>Unfortunately, and unlike real friendships that can persist through thick and thin, over many years, professional relationships may not. Sometimes they end suddenly and unexpectedly, with a letter or email. Occasionally, just when you thought things were coasting along nicely, you feel the chill wind of disapproval, followed by silence. Sometimes you realise that the person who was once so responsive - the person who made you think 'this time, it will be different!' - hardly responds at all. You make a hundred excuses for them. To yourself and to other people. I've done this countless times with different people, giving them the benefit of the doubt, shrinking away from the obvious conclusion. Like Schulz's Charlie Brown, you can't resist one more try at kicking that ball. Afterwards, you liken it to those love affairs where you make excuses until no more excuses will do. </p><p>It isn't a love affair at all. It's a professional relationship, no more, no less. </p><p>The cut off is invariably a commercial decision. Mostly, it's that you simply aren't making them enough money. For professionals, the business always comes first. And you know what? <i>That's exactly the way it should be.</i> As long as it cuts both ways. </p><p>It can't be said too often. A professional relationship is not a friendship, no matter how much it might masquerade as one. This is not to say that it can't be polite, congenial, supportive and very good while it lasts. All of that. But when push comes to shove, <i>they are not your friends</i>, and if you begin to believe that they are, you are, I'm afraid, doomed to disappointment. </p><p>The corollary of this should be that you are free to do the same thing. Your career comes first. Look out for yourself. Don't hang on to a failing business relationship, however cordial, because of misplaced feelings of loyalty. Save that for your real, personal friends. They're the ones who deserve it. Where business is concerned, and writing is a business as well as a vocation, speak softly and carry a big stick. Be nice, be polite, but always be aware of what suits you and your work best. They won't mourn the loss of you at all, if you walk away. Because they really are<i> not your friends.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-69410706434337672782023-09-19T11:38:00.001+01:002023-09-19T11:38:50.175+01:00The Last Lancer at Tidelines<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6c5DqXfmpFTGNsZZ2n8qcvDvtYeN4UgIBJMNFHheXuH0hEmFq-KfcT99rWcXajL7U5rBgA6YHlAcu8R7wQQMZAAWV1slvpd_12dfJsPA9G_LnglXUMUGzUWZ4iDc4j8XX-6EM6DqejOdYmGIi-LxUS2i6a_9xBE04V2Ra8Y_8J1SjV-bS4fF/s3816/Czerkawski%20family%20c1928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2967" data-original-width="3816" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6c5DqXfmpFTGNsZZ2n8qcvDvtYeN4UgIBJMNFHheXuH0hEmFq-KfcT99rWcXajL7U5rBgA6YHlAcu8R7wQQMZAAWV1slvpd_12dfJsPA9G_LnglXUMUGzUWZ4iDc4j8XX-6EM6DqejOdYmGIi-LxUS2i6a_9xBE04V2Ra8Y_8J1SjV-bS4fF/w400-h311/Czerkawski%20family%20c1928.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad, his father and mother, in Dziedzilow c1928</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>I'll be at the lovely <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=717067600230997&set=pcb.717071423563948" target="_blank">Tidelines book festival</a> this coming Saturday, 23rd September, chatting about my new book, The Last Lancer, with Eleanor Thom and David Manderson. There are still some tickets available, so do come along if you can. </p><p>If I'm honest, this book hasn't had nearly as much publicity as I expected - because although I researched it over a number of years, and mostly wrote it during Covid, it became all too horribly relevant, when Russia invaded Ukraine. </p><p>I suspect some of this may be down to the sheer lack of perception of just how complicated borders are in that part of the world. Although my late dad was Polish, he was actually born and spent much of his childhood in what is now Western Ukraine, before successive occupations changed everything. That fact - and what happens under occupation - seems to be beyond the comprehension of most people in the UK where borders haven't changed for many years! </p><p>I thought - and still think - that some understanding of what those shifting borders and allegiances might mean for a family caught up in the middle of it all would make interesting reading.</p><p>So if you can, why not come along and ask me some questions about it yourself! You can browse <a href="https://tidelinesbookfestival.com/" target="_blank">the Tidelines site here</a>.</p><p>And if you would like a copy of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Last-Lancer-Survival-Poland-Ukraine/dp/1913393674" target="_blank">The Last Lancer</a>, you can buy it in paperback or as an eBook. </p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-35935298030653196582023-09-15T16:12:00.111+01:002023-09-29T13:40:59.139+01:00Invisible Fictions (And Non-Fictions Too)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi94TvQw-IFZOcn74RMH2ApRWx9S7DHCXzwGoqG0yxfnSqBQnhAA383CI8zHce7umkwvk1qoboMnqPzzgdEz7CbYXMRc2rnOaejqqv-Y7tyfGtBlDHKlaFX9xTrF_CmfNvnpl4N0gDR3orLNjp8jeQV__JXMsHxmj6VdbLXp5oWKb3rNGM--lG0/s4032/MY%20BOOKS!.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi94TvQw-IFZOcn74RMH2ApRWx9S7DHCXzwGoqG0yxfnSqBQnhAA383CI8zHce7umkwvk1qoboMnqPzzgdEz7CbYXMRc2rnOaejqqv-Y7tyfGtBlDHKlaFX9xTrF_CmfNvnpl4N0gDR3orLNjp8jeQV__JXMsHxmj6VdbLXp5oWKb3rNGM--lG0/w300-h400/MY%20BOOKS!.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator"><br /></div><p>‘Many women complain the moment they turned 50, people stopped seeing them. People push past them in queues, men look through them, and shop assistants ignore them.’ </p><div>I came across <a href="https://www.wildwomenontop.com/inspiration/will-you-become-invisible-as-you-age/" target="_blank">this excellent post </a>only the other day. It’s well worth reading in full. <br /><br />I’ve blogged about this phenomenon before – you can read my most recent post <a href="https://www.catherineczerkawska.co.uk/2023/03/a-salutary-experience.html" target="_blank">here</a> – but at that time, I concluded that I wasn’t (yet) invisible. Just able to be ignored, like a piece of furniture. Now, I’ve changed my mind, bowed to the inevitable. I am invisible.<br /><br />50 was certainly when the process started. A bit like that wonderful Tove Jansson story, the Invisible Child, except in reverse. In Jansson’s story the child starts off invisible and gradually becomes visible when she is treated kindly. <br /><br />For older women, it works the other way. You just grow ever fainter, until people ignore you altogether. Men certainly notice you when they want to tell you that you’re wrong, but in the publishing industry, many young women also tend to ignore older female writers as far as possible. I sometimes feel that there's a weird sense of embarrassment on their part, as though they have no idea what to make of you and would rather you didn’t exist at all.<br /><br />Writers are so afraid of repercussions that we tend to keep quiet about our experiences. But since, professionally at least, I have now achieved almost complete invisibility, I may as well shout into the void. <br /><br />Here’s what happened just this year. <br /><br />In February, I had a new book published. It’s called <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1913393674" target="_blank">The Last Lancer</a> and it was very close to my heart, a companion to my previous book about a murder in the poverty stricken Leeds Irish side of my family: A <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Proper-Person-be-Detained/dp/1912235536" target="_blank">Proper Person to be Detained. </a></div><div><br /></div><div>This one is about my grandfather’s eccentric and tragic family history in Poland and Ukraine. I’d researched most of it throughout lockdown although my late father had also written down some of his memories. The story would – I hoped – be entertaining, harrowing and informative. But with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, it suddenly became all too horribly relevant as well. Or so I thought.<br /><br />Dad was born into the <i>szlachta </i>– the Polish nobility, more Mitford than Downton, I always think. After an idyllic country childhood in what was then Polish Galicia, but which is now Western Ukraine, he lost everything in the war (although he was luckier than his father who lost his life as well.) My father arrived in England as an unwelcome ‘refugee alien’ at the end of WW2, with nothing but a handful of photographs, a tiny silver mirror that had belonged to his mother, and his army identity papers, on which, under ‘next of kin’ he had written the Polish phrase meaning ‘closest family to nobody.’ He literally had nobody and nothing.<br /><br />You would think, given Ukraine's current fight for existence, alongside our preoccupation with migrants, that the book might have received a modicum of attention. It was praised by no less a person than Neal Ascherson, who has forgotten more than most of us will ever know about Poland and Ukraine and the complex, troubled history of that region. <br /><br />Well, you’d be wrong.<br /><br />On publication day, back in February, nothing happened. No reviews, not so much as a postcard to mark the day.<br /><br />In fact, if a couple of Polish friends hadn’t turned up with chocolates and flowers, whereupon we opened a bottle of cava and ‘wetted the book’s head’, there would have been nothing to make the day special at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had launched a number of previous books in our local Waterstones, so I was hoping for another launch there, because lots of friends and acquaintances always turn out and buy books, but no word came from my publisher, who had organised previous launches. To be fair, if I’d known, I would have organised my own launch party - almost certainly in this village. But I didn’t know, because I had made assumptions based on past experience. Silly me.</div><div><br />Meanwhile, I was doing my best to promote the Last Lancer online. I did a long interview for one of Emma Cox's excellent genealogy podcasts, which you can listen to <a href="https://emmacox.libsyn.com/the-last-lancer-with-catherine-czerkawska" target="_blank">here</a>. The book is only tangentially about genealogy, although the podcast is certainly interesting for anyone researching their Eastern European family history. I wrote blog posts and shared them. I posted photographs and links on social media. <br /><br />Spring and the brilliant <a href="https://www.boswellbookfestival.co.uk/2023/events/276" target="_blank">Boswell Festival </a>came along. Like Brigadoon, I became happily visible. I spoke about my father’s experience, sharing the stage with a young Ukrainian woman, a refugee as my father had been. She related her heartrending escape from her home, under Russian bombardment, with her five year old daughter. The event was well attended, well received and very moving indeed. Afterwards, somebody said to me ‘I could listen to you speak all day.’ Which was a relief, because I had begun to wonder if I had become boring as well as old. But I think we could have listened to the Ukrainian woman all day too. And wept with her.<br /><br />After that came silence except for another all too brief period of visibility on stage at the excellent <a href="https://www.ticketsource.co.uk/whats-on/irvine/harbour-arts-centre/tidelines-book-festival-presents-from-lviv-to-berlin-family-histories-of-war-in-europe/e-ebeokp" target="_blank">Tidelines festival in Irvine.</a><br /><br />I tried contacting my local libraries, offering to do talks. No response. Not one. I sent out a great many copies of the book, at my own expense, including some that should have gone as advance copies to people who would have reviewed it. So much so that I’ve almost run out of my own copies, and now – hilariously, if it wasn’t so irritating – my book orders have been ignored as well. Emails and phone-calls remain unanswered.<br /><br />I had high hopes when my publisher went to the London Book Fair, but when she reported that the focus there was all on Ukraine, I wondered if anyone had pointed out what the book is actually about: the terrible, troubled history of - you know - Ukraine, as experienced through the eyes of one family.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’m told it’s a ‘niche market’ but a Polish diaspora of 20 million people worldwide is a pretty big niche. You'd think <i>somebody</i> might want to publish a Polish language version, but apparently not. <br /><br />This is just the tip of the invisibility iceberg. There are so many examples of my current invisibility that it would become monotonous to continue to relate them. So I won’t. Like a passing comet, or a blue supermoon, I may become briefly visible again at some point in the future, but I can't say when. <br /><br />Most people in the book trade will tell scathing tales about ‘needy writers’. Very few will admit that there are invisible writers. Well reviewed writers. Older female writers. Angry writers. But it’s OK to be angry when you’re invisible, because nobody at all will notice. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>. <p><br /></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-38670811871999212192023-09-13T14:08:00.002+01:002023-09-13T14:08:39.078+01:00Some Book Recommendation - Books about European History<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCpPN_B5PS9Yj0fweAhkAlpJA3tFGjuIICYMCJb79dihNBRq4vRg9auPDei7K8ZhhiG4xVD5VEUT0qfdrufUzFxHTrWHk6p33Zb_4l1h5zw-7vUEGF0dqvLjHt56Q7UgCb3__qmVWL-_hkAvbw8gegAjEjLTdV_8PwyQrt1GGfbUD0K0YtC-gG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1200" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCpPN_B5PS9Yj0fweAhkAlpJA3tFGjuIICYMCJb79dihNBRq4vRg9auPDei7K8ZhhiG4xVD5VEUT0qfdrufUzFxHTrWHk6p33Zb_4l1h5zw-7vUEGF0dqvLjHt56Q7UgCb3__qmVWL-_hkAvbw8gegAjEjLTdV_8PwyQrt1GGfbUD0K0YtC-gG=w640-h325" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>A little while ago, I wrote <a href="https://shepherd.com/best-books/that-bring-european-history-vividly-to-life" target="_blank">this piece</a> for a fairly new site called Shepherd.com </p><p>It was a great pleasure - and certainly related to the massive amount of research I had undertaken, both for my new book, The Last Lancer, about the Polish side of my family, and a previous 'companion' volume, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Proper-Person-be-Detained/dp/1912235536" target="_blank">A Proper Person to be Detained</a>, about the Leeds Irish side.</p><p>But in considering which books to pick, I was also taken back to the research I had done for my novel <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jewel-Catherine-Czerkawska/dp/1910192236/" target="_blank">The Jewel</a>, about Jean Armour, Robert Burns's longsuffering but largely unsung (except by the poet himself!) wife - and back even further to my radio dramatisation of Stevenson's great adventure story. </p><p>Most writers are very fond of reading so it's good to be able to write about the books that we've loved enough to want to recommend them to other people. </p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-30333757484703767962023-09-10T22:44:00.002+01:002023-09-11T13:54:49.153+01:00Listening and Watching - The Price of a Fish Supper<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXEIFV78kMsFg9nBvGoVV15LtzNi9AQud18SvxAsdKHdo_XFauSAPSyPh7z6X_Uy7YQ4onhQvw2DUAocK8pGDox9Ljhfg2j1HoPHrVGvOS2PAYVU9Tl0AJLhoVTDFu39HnPUco_R38FMgJR9xbLWrRUik72hcHR6Ef6JfAllasnMZ6pUTBV1o/s960/fish%20supper%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="960" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXEIFV78kMsFg9nBvGoVV15LtzNi9AQud18SvxAsdKHdo_XFauSAPSyPh7z6X_Uy7YQ4onhQvw2DUAocK8pGDox9Ljhfg2j1HoPHrVGvOS2PAYVU9Tl0AJLhoVTDFu39HnPUco_R38FMgJR9xbLWrRUik72hcHR6Ef6JfAllasnMZ6pUTBV1o/w400-h268/fish%20supper%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> A couple of weeks ago, <a href="https://www.kensmad.com/" target="_blank">MAD Productions</a> staged another handful of performances of my play The Price of a Fish Supper, originally produced at Glasgow's Oran Mor as one of their A Play, A Pie and a Pint series. It's a single hander, i.e. a long monologue and consequently a very 'big learn' for the actor involved, but Ken O'Hara (above) has made the part uniquely his own. <p></p><p>For me, once he is on stage, he <i>is</i> Rab, the troubled but essentially decent ex-fisherman who hangs about the harbour and tells his tragic (but often very funny) story to whoever will listen. </p><p>It's a play about the long, sad demise of the traditional Scottish fishing industry, a play about friendship and family, about where and how people fit into the world in which they find themselves, and the possibility, or otherwise, of redemption. It's a play that tackles adult themes and pulls no punches. </p><p>Thanks to Ken O'Hara and to Isi Nimmo, who directs, the play has had a long life beyond that first <a href="https://www.scotsman.com/arts-and-culture/theatre-and-stage/theatre-reviews-shine-on-rapunzel-the-price-of-a-fish-supper-3085131" target="_blank">well reviewed</a> production. I've done the occasional after-show Q & A session. Every single time, somebody has asked me or Ken if he ad-libs it. And every time, he points out that, with the exception of the very occasional phrase, it was all written down. Carefully constructed by me. Even down to the way it's written on the page, orchestrated, almost like a long poem. (If you want to see for yourself, it's available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Price-Fish-Supper-Modern-Plays-ebook/dp/B00XGX90FY" target="_blank">here</a>, published by Nick Hern Books.) </p><p><i><b>I always wonder if they would ask the same question if I were young and male. I suspect not!</b></i></p><p>All the same, it's Ken who brings Rab vividly to life. Plays are meant to be experienced in performance. Not as words on a page.</p><p>It also makes me think about how Rab first came into my mind, telling me his tale before he told anyone else. Which is what it feels like to write in a single voice like this - you listen and your character speaks.</p><p>In the 1970s, I did a postgraduate Masters in Folk Life Studies. My dissertation was on the fishing traditions of the Carrick district of South Ayrshire. I interviewed many elderly fishermen over a period of a year. and their vivid descriptions of the herring fishing have stayed with me ever since. Even more to the point, my husband was once a trawler skipper here in Ayrshire. Eventually, he moved on to skipper charter yachts and then came ashore to work as a woodcarver and artist, but he too had stories to tell. We had and still have friends who worked at the fishing. So there was a certain amount of immersion going on for me - and many of the tales told in the play are certainly based on truth.</p><p>After the most recent production of Fish Supper, it struck me that one of the most valuable pieces of writing advice I can give anyone - whether you're aiming to write plays or fiction - is to watch and listen. Watch how people behave. Listen to how they speak.</p><p>You have to be fascinated by people. All kinds of people. What they do, what they say and how they say it. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-72117603142913682862023-08-06T14:34:00.009+01:002023-08-06T14:34:00.142+01:00The Scent of Blue<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHuECsaH6iWXb0bOM0T7Erdq5Vv20gRlAuZF0006AP0UGy16YS_ZQ37HbYdbYCrJwl6VoR9z6vldO7zRjHiez7znuGgkfQZOAHdJRGlLOOKP7JsOPTk51N2cbJJjZ5vul7qxW2iBcm59bVrrwBPPxZ57xJUS5h1al0tGB0jPfVZ0jRKmettt-/s1280/Pics%202%201805.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHuECsaH6iWXb0bOM0T7Erdq5Vv20gRlAuZF0006AP0UGy16YS_ZQ37HbYdbYCrJwl6VoR9z6vldO7zRjHiez7znuGgkfQZOAHdJRGlLOOKP7JsOPTk51N2cbJJjZ5vul7qxW2iBcm59bVrrwBPPxZ57xJUS5h1al0tGB0jPfVZ0jRKmettt-/w400-h300/Pics%202%201805.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wrote this poem about perfumes, and one scent in particular, a number of years ago. It has been published in a pamphlet and elsewhere online, but given the subject of my two previous posts, it seems like a good time to resurrect it. </div><br /><p></p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">THE SCENT OF <st1:stockticker w:st="on">BLUE</st1:stockticker><o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A concert in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Edinburgh</st1:city></st1:place>,
years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She manages to find a single seat. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Two people sweep past, ushered by the <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">front of house manager in his dark suit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She sees a famous conductor,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">silver haired, sharp featured like some <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">bird of prey, but smaller than you would <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">expect, in evening dress. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On his arm a thin woman, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">taller than he is, strides with <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">striking face and hair, a cloud of<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">grey blonde curls around her head. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Not a young woman but a<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">diva surely, inhabiting her clothes, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">inhabiting her skin with such confidence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She wants to be like that some day,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">longs for self possession.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And she remembers the scent of her, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">musky, mysterious, a heavy, night time <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">scent, like flowers after dark. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The scent of passion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The scent of money. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The scent of blue. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She searches for the scent for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Her mother wore <st1:place w:st="on">Tweed</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Now she wishes she could <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">open a wardrobe door, and <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">smell her mother’s plain sweet scent,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">almost as much as she <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">wishes she could tell her mother so.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As a girl, she wears Bluebell, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">fresh and full of hope, or<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Diorissimo, like the lilac she once <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">carried through the streets,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">on her way from meeting a man<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">she desired and admired, thinking <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Girl with Lilac, still so young,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">self conscious, not possessed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Later, she tries l’Air du Temps and <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Je Reviens and Fleurs de Rocaille<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">but they are none of them the scent of blue. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She wears Chanel, briefly, with dreams of Marilyn, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">loves to watch her, loves to hear her voice, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">satisfying as chocolate or olives but <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Number Five is not her scent, never suits her, never will. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She discovers Mitsouko.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Some tester in some chemist’s shop somewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">An old, old fashioned scent, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">syncopated, unexpected, not to every taste. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When she wears it, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">women ask her what it is,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I love your scent they say. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">How strange the way scent lingers in the mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">How strange the way scent <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">changes on warm skin. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On her it ripens to something <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">peachy, mossy, rich and rare. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But it is not the scent of blue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She loses her heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is an affair of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>telephone lines,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">more profound, more sweet and <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">bitter than Mitsouko,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">a sad song in the dark,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">and the colour of that time is blue. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Afterwards, she searches through <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bellodgia, Apres L’Ondee, Nuit de Noel, Apercu<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Until drawn by nostalgia <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She finds Joy, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">dearly bought<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>roses and
jasmine,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">a summer garden in one small bottle. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She loves Joy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She marries in Joy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She wears Mitsouko<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">and she forgets the scent of blue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Older, she glances in her mirror and only <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">sometimes likes what she sees. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She finds Arpege,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">not just<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>rose and jasmine
but <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bergamot, orange blossom,
peach, vanilla, ylang ylang, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">one essence piled on another like the notes on the piano she <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">used to, sometimes still does, play. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Oh this is not a scent for the very young. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is too dark for that,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">a memory of something<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>lost,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">an unfinished story. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This scent has a past.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She sees him across a room. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Another woman ushers him, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">this way and that, makes introductions,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">a little charmed the way women <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">always were charmed by this man.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It used to make her smile the way <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">women flocked around this <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">man who belonged to<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">nobody but himself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She is wearing </span>Arpège.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Not a scent for the very young,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">vertiginous as the layers of time between. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">With age comes wisdom, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">but like mud stirred at the bottom of a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pool, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">memories bubble to the surface.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Not wisely but too well they loved.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Now, they are waving across a<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">chasm of years.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They speak in measured tones, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">they speak and walk away, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">they speak again in careful words, that<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">every now and then<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">recall the scent of<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">No. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It will not do. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Only innocently in dreams <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">can one recapture that <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">first fine careless<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So much more is forgotten <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Than is ever remembered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And the clock insists <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">let it be let it be. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">1911<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">One summer evening <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">a young man observes the way twilight closes the flowers, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">whose scent lingers on the last heat of the day, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">the way the light goes out of the sky,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">painting it dark blue, how<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">soon the war will tear this place apart. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">How soon all things resort to sadness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In a new century, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She finds among jasmine and rose, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">vanilla and violet,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">a dark twist of anise, like the <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">twist of a knife. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">First last always.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The scent of the diva.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The scent of passion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fine beyond imagining. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She sees it is essentially <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">sad, sad, sad, a <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">sad scent: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">L’Heure Bleue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">All things come to sadness in the end. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The beautiful bitter foolish scent of blue. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><b>Catherine Czerkawska</b></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span></span><b style="text-align: center;"><i>PS All my content is free, but if you like what I write, then maybe you would enjoy one of my books. There are links to most of them on here. You are welcome to share content but only if you attribute it to me, and link to my blog. Thank-you!</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-90230060783444869592023-08-04T15:47:00.002+01:002023-08-04T15:53:08.068+01:00Perfumes I've Loved - Part Two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HKV9bOgrswnNikD2VRPWTfryys7LkRVRKc3CDyDaXmbQt7Ajbbqhps-9lZYQjnQRoEIQHxSyeKRs6s1AqX0YWAS4hdp65WLkCfgj9dmBpq8eOmRdM5dtAm2y38qypLf7d3gWnVLJbkXpmTP0VCoaOcaA3Vc3_KIeKNIfwq3qMoZxcWsyfV17/s4000/Classic%20scents%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HKV9bOgrswnNikD2VRPWTfryys7LkRVRKc3CDyDaXmbQt7Ajbbqhps-9lZYQjnQRoEIQHxSyeKRs6s1AqX0YWAS4hdp65WLkCfgj9dmBpq8eOmRdM5dtAm2y38qypLf7d3gWnVLJbkXpmTP0VCoaOcaA3Vc3_KIeKNIfwq3qMoZxcWsyfV17/w400-h300/Classic%20scents%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p> Continuing my trawl back through perfumes I've loved - I flirted with various floral perfumes as well as my favourite chypres: Diorissimo and <a href="https://www.guerlain.com/uk/en-uk/p/les-legendaires-champs-elysees---eau-de-parfum-P014321.html" target="_blank">Champs Elysees</a> (my Guerlain habit again) to name a couple. Champs Elysees is, like so many lovely scents, hard to find now, but it used to be readily and not too expensively available in those cut price toiletry chains. </p><p>Another Guerlain favourite, until they stopped producing it, was one of their Aqua Allegoria range (gorgeous bottles too!) - <a href="https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/186010430484?" target="_blank">Ylang and Vanille</a> - a lovely, light scent with something of the hippy sixties about it. </p><div>For a while, I wore<a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Lanvin/Arpege-6.html" target="_blank"> Lanvin's Arpege</a> - first produced in 1927. I still love it but it has to be the vintage version: flowery, powdery, green, a very classy scent that sits well on my skin and that comes in a beautiful black bottle.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's another thing you need to know about scents. Something that suits one person may not suit you at all. You need to wear it and give it time. Don't be in too much of a hurry.</div><div><br /></div><div>More recently, Aldi's Jo Malone Dupes have given me a lot of fun. I have them, and sometimes wear them, but they're not my favourites, although their room fragrances are lovely. I love neroli and M & S did a number of genuine Italian orange blossom scents for a while, but they've cut back on their range. Very fortuitously I discovered that their <a href="https://www.marksandspencer.com/riviera-neroli-eau-de-parfum-100ml/p/hbp60566544" target="_blank">Neroli Riviera</a> - still available and not too expensive - not only smells lovely, but keeps the Scottish midgies away too! </div><div><br /></div><div>My current day to day favourite is Calandre by Paco Rabanne. Launched in 1969, it's like nothing else. <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Paco-Rabanne/Calandre-522.html" target="_blank">Fragrantica </a>, my go-to site for perfumes, describes it as a 'floral aldehyde' and goes on to describe it: 'Top notes are Aldehydes, Green Notes and Bergamot; middle notes are Rose, Lily-of-the-Valley, Orris Root, Hyacinth, Geranium and Jasmine; base notes are Oakmoss, Vetiver, Musk, Sandalwood and Amber' which sounds like a complex mish mash but is, essentially, quite heavenly! <div><br /></div><div>It's an evocative scent for me because it was given to me many years ago by the mother of a lovely Catalan lad who stayed us for a couple of summers while he improved his English and learned about the family business. She send a parcel of gifts afterwards, among which was a bottle of Calandre - I recently rediscovered it and was taken right back to what was a very happy time. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's what scent does. It can take you back in time, or sometimes, magically, into somebody else's life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Useful for a writer.</div><div><br /></div></div><div>Finally - my all-time favourite is Guerlain's <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Guerlain/L-Heure-Bleue-Eau-de-Parfum-208.html" target="_blank">L'Heure Bleu</a>e. The Blue Hour. </div><div><br /></div>I first smelled this at a concert when I was in my early 20s. An older woman, stylish, elegant, drifted past me on the arm of a famous conductor, and left behind a faint trace of the most wonderful, exotic perfume I had ever smelled. I had no idea what it was. Many years later, I found it. Guerlain's own website calls it the 'fragrance of suspended time' and so it is. Dating from 1912, it is evocative of 'that time of day when day embraces night and silence fully envelopes the world ... a moment of stillness and grace tinted with deep blue.'<br /><br />If I could afford it, I'd wear it all the time. Instead, I hoard my vintage bottles and use it sparingly. We had a friend, no longer with us, who - whenever he visited us - would ask me to fetch down a bottle of this scent so that he could smell it! I love it so much that I wrote a poem about it. I've posted the poem online before, but I'll post it again. Watch this space.<div> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIl7dgC1OZiBL4rnot6FCG2v6hpGB-wzKugCUUyHs0q2xsFzNgrqys4gy7qDenW76QDKqErr472dMerLEgxS6WXfCe3jdlo4of4zsOpd7NSjXnpsdqXtcF99LMs4b1cAHkq93FcplPjJd8UDcWVxWMA76XM4u21ZP_1qG-1dG0M_u1BOwv8-W/s4000/Classic%20scents%20calandre.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIl7dgC1OZiBL4rnot6FCG2v6hpGB-wzKugCUUyHs0q2xsFzNgrqys4gy7qDenW76QDKqErr472dMerLEgxS6WXfCe3jdlo4of4zsOpd7NSjXnpsdqXtcF99LMs4b1cAHkq93FcplPjJd8UDcWVxWMA76XM4u21ZP_1qG-1dG0M_u1BOwv8-W/w400-h300/Classic%20scents%20calandre.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><b style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b style="text-align: center;"><i>PS All my content is free, but if you like what I write, then maybe you would enjoy one of my books! There are links to most of them on here. </i></b></div></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-9888897721348296322023-07-29T09:46:00.003+01:002023-07-29T10:08:13.045+01:00Perfumes I've Loved - Part One<div style="text-align: center;"><i>II est de forts parfums pour qui toute matière</i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Est poreuse. On dirait qu'ils pénètrent le verre.</i></div></i><div><div style="text-align: center;">Baudelaire</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(There are strong perfumes for which all matter</div><div style="text-align: center;">Is porous. One would say they go through glass.)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HKV9bOgrswnNikD2VRPWTfryys7LkRVRKc3CDyDaXmbQt7Ajbbqhps-9lZYQjnQRoEIQHxSyeKRs6s1AqX0YWAS4hdp65WLkCfgj9dmBpq8eOmRdM5dtAm2y38qypLf7d3gWnVLJbkXpmTP0VCoaOcaA3Vc3_KIeKNIfwq3qMoZxcWsyfV17/s4000/Classic%20scents%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3HKV9bOgrswnNikD2VRPWTfryys7LkRVRKc3CDyDaXmbQt7Ajbbqhps-9lZYQjnQRoEIQHxSyeKRs6s1AqX0YWAS4hdp65WLkCfgj9dmBpq8eOmRdM5dtAm2y38qypLf7d3gWnVLJbkXpmTP0VCoaOcaA3Vc3_KIeKNIfwq3qMoZxcWsyfV17/w400-h300/Classic%20scents%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of my favourites.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>I've loved so many perfumes, but especially vintage scents. In fact I probably get as much pleasure from perfumes as I do from reading. But perhaps it's just that, as a writer, I love stories, and so many fragrances have a tale to tell that - like all the best stories - reveals itself slowly. <div><br /></div><div>My go-to site for finding out about scents and their history is <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/" target="_blank">Fragrantica, </a>and I link to it often on this post, but there are plenty of serious perfume blogs out there, if you care to look for them.<div><div><br /></div><div>The first perfume I really became aware of was <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Lentheric/Tweed-2885.html" target="_blank">Lentheric's Tweed</a> - in its original formulation, which dates from the 1930s. The later reformulation was a thin imitation, but my mum wore the original, sparingly because money was tight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Every Christmas my dad would buy her a bottle of the '<i>eau de parfum</i>', beautifully packaged, in a little bottle with its characteristic 1950s wooden top. I remember the excitement of going with him to buy it, a day or two before Christmas. I have a few old bottles of it still, acquired here and there online, and although vintage scents like this can take a while to settle down on your skin, give it time and the true scent emerges. It reminds me of my pretty mum. After she died, all her best clothes still had a faint scent of Tweed. A woody, earthy, oakmossy, spicy scent and - yes - something of the scent of heather, which suited mum down to the ground.</div><div><br /></div><div>Scents, loosely, fall into two categories - those in which chypres predominate (Tweed is one of them) and floral. So many modern fragrances, especially those to which celebrities lend their names, tend to be flowery. No bad thing if they're made with genuine flower oils and essences, but chypres are a lot more grown up! My aunt, whom I loved, wore Coty's Chypre back then, and as soon as I could, I begged or borrowed a bottle and dabbed it on too - another warm, dry, woody, mossy scent and not too expensive in the 1950s and 60s. </div><div><br /></div><div>I would just love to get my hands (and my nose) on one of those beautiful old bottles of <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Coty/Chypre-6072.html" target="_blank">Coty's Chypre</a> because I know the scent would not just go through glass, but through time as well, carrying me back to my childhood and teenage years - but this rare vintage scent is fiendishly expensive. Even the empty bottles are little works of art. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's the thing about good elderly scents - even though they may smell a bit odd at first, those are just the so called 'top notes'. Most old scents, made with precious ingredients, will survive. Give them time and most of them will reveal their true selves, the scents of the past. As a historical novelist, I think that's another reason why I like them so much. </div><div><br /></div><div>During my twenties, I spent money I could ill afford on perfumes. </div><div><br /></div><div>I acquired - I've no idea how - a bottle of something called <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Caron/Fleurs-de-Rocaille-34542.html" target="_blank">Fleurs de Rocaille,</a> launched in 1934, but although I was intrigued by it, it didn't suit me - far too sophisticated for the person I was back then. I also loved <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Worth/Je-Reviens-Eau-de-Toilette-5130.html" target="_blank">Je Reviens</a> by Worth - another old scent, a floral this time, but with a glamorous musky base and once again, nothing like the miserable modern reformulation. But it was an unlucky scent for me. Every time I wore it, my love life went disastrously wrong, so I began to avoid it! </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Penhaligon-s/Bluebell-4535.html" target="_blank">Penhaligon's Bluebell </a>was my favourite when I was a student, generally a prized birthday gift and not something I could afford to buy for myself. I have an old bottle in my collection and still splash it on from time to time in spring, but it's a springtime scent in more ways than one, and seems too young for me now. Still love its distinct fragrance of hyacinths though. Another scent my mother loved - a floral this time but a spicy one - was <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Roger-Gallet/Blue-Carnation-16975.html" target="_blank">Blue Carnation</a> by Roger & Gallet - a true clove carnation scent. I remember wearing it myself for a while, so it must have been affordable back then, or perhaps I borrowed mum's, but it is, alas, long gone and the few surviving bottles command truly eye watering prices these days, even on eBay. </div><div><br /></div><div>In my twenties and thirties, Guerlain's legendary <a href="https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Guerlain/Mitsouko-Eau-de-Cologne-52037.html" target="_blank">Mitsouko</a> - another chypre, fruity and delicious and mysterious - was a revelation. For a while I could appreciate it only by going into the perfume departments of expensive stores and dousing myself in it - then walking about and inhaling it. I still love it. It's a long lasting scent and even the cologne, liberally applied for an evening out, will be with you the following morning, a faint but evocative scent, like a memory of something wonderful. </div><div><br /></div><div>Later, I was lucky enough to acquire a big beautiful bottle of the <i>eau de toilette</i> on eBay and I'm still working my way through it. (The <i>eau de parfum</i> is even nicer if you can find the vintage version.) It never loses its potency. It is, I have to admit, rather too powerful a scent for everyday use - and those with allergies might not like it at all - which probably explains why I have quite a lot of it left.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spend so much of my time sitting at a desk, working on a PC, inhabiting other worlds. Sometimes I just like to wear the scent that suits what I'm working on. Mostly, you see, I just wear it for me. Perfumes for which all matter is porous. What a wonderful, uncanny thought that is.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYtpHl6vd6DcKjOQUqi5VOa7KoI3rQ9J9qvYaDjznXEDUFypDbhVRLUcV8txZAR9gFvPQQ_S53AkA0eK8vHbSgMPgCLX33R_cPpeMguEets6Y2pROTt7n0VW_KYLsp7xNPVcDz6gUK_jGJq6sSldaT3bzjvbEXSeCbOiDme7A1RjVkRGPfCpN/s4000/Classic%20scents%20lanvin.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYtpHl6vd6DcKjOQUqi5VOa7KoI3rQ9J9qvYaDjznXEDUFypDbhVRLUcV8txZAR9gFvPQQ_S53AkA0eK8vHbSgMPgCLX33R_cPpeMguEets6Y2pROTt7n0VW_KYLsp7xNPVcDz6gUK_jGJq6sSldaT3bzjvbEXSeCbOiDme7A1RjVkRGPfCpN/w400-h300/Classic%20scents%20lanvin.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vintage Lanvin</td></tr></tbody></table></blockquote><p> </p><div>Next time, I'll write about L'Heure Bleu - my all time favourite. You may even get a poem as well.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>PS All my content is free, and free of advertising. But if you like what I write, then maybe you would enjoy one of my books! There are links to most of them on here. </i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-13563243691114386312023-07-16T10:24:00.002+01:002023-07-18T15:01:39.628+01:00NHS - Failing Gradually Then Suddenly <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjTPuC5gGazVQHsuuQ8zxavTx1G0d_FOFOd60uS_nu_lJtdi9XjCbKQhu5zivCqXngN0Uir7K9BkBg0hswTi5LyarewITnInzNenmTqVhOCecn5NzvtTt8G3HkBXYUloslELK2VuEGWvaJWa5ts7u1MCG06UO5fWWZthF3Z9xZvyOE5l-sfhk7/s245/Red-Rose-Dog-Rose-Damask-Rose.-Plate-17-from-Culpepers-Complete-Herbal-with-The-British-Florist-1812.-Shrewsbury-Museums-Service%5B1%5D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="181" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjTPuC5gGazVQHsuuQ8zxavTx1G0d_FOFOd60uS_nu_lJtdi9XjCbKQhu5zivCqXngN0Uir7K9BkBg0hswTi5LyarewITnInzNenmTqVhOCecn5NzvtTt8G3HkBXYUloslELK2VuEGWvaJWa5ts7u1MCG06UO5fWWZthF3Z9xZvyOE5l-sfhk7/w296-h400/Red-Rose-Dog-Rose-Damask-Rose.-Plate-17-from-Culpepers-Complete-Herbal-with-The-British-Florist-1812.-Shrewsbury-Museums-Service%5B1%5D.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Should I resort to Culpepper?</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>About seven weeks ago, I was in a tearing hurry over something, tripped, fell and in the process managed to crack my head on a door frame. I didn't 'have a fall'. (Have you noticed how they always say older people have 'had a fall' as though there was a certain inevitability about it.) I just had an accident. I didn't lose consciousness, but I did have a large egg shaped bump on my head, which was sore but pretty soon faded. Then, a few weeks later, I started to get pains in my neck, just below where I'd hit my head. They were quite mild at first so I used ibuprofen gel. <div><br /></div><div>They got worse. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some ten days ago, my neck and shoulder became so painful that I was interspersing paracetamol with ibuprofen every couple of hours. It was like extreme toothache - the pain you get when you have an abscess, only relocated elsewhere. I did a lot of night time reading but very little sleeping.<div><br /></div><div>Worried, I phoned my medical practice. The best they could offer me was a telephone appointment with a nurse practitioner in a couple of days time. I took it, carried on taking the pills, and then had a brief chat with her. I pointed out the crack on the head and wondered if I needed an X-Ray. She suggested that because the pain was so acute, I should go to A & E. I waited an hour to see the triage nurse. </div><div><br /></div><div>'We can't help you,' she said. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not blaming her. She was under strict orders. 'Nothing to do with the bump on the head. It was too long ago. You've probably turned the wrong way in bed.' I was close to tears by this point, between the weeks of pain, the worry and the lack of sleep, so she went out to speak to a doctor and came back within seconds. 'He says it's nothing to do with the bump on the head. It's not your fault. You shouldn't have been sent here. You need to go home and phone your GP again. They have emergency appointments.'</div><div><br /></div><div>This was about 10.30 in the morning. There were six people in the waiting room. 'It would be six hours before you could see a doctor anyway' she said, briskly. On the way out, a stressed elderly woman grabbed my arm and said 'it's a disgrace, that's what it is.'</div><div><br /></div><div>I should probably point out here that I have never, not once, been into A & E on my own behalf before. Only with my mum when she had terminal cancer. I tend to ignore problems and assume they will go away. On the way home, I tried to call the GP several times but it was always engaged. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately my husband was driving. And even more fortunately, there was a traffic jam which meant that we took a detour and stopped at a village pharmacy where a kindly pharmacist listened to me with sympathy. 'It sounds like a trapped nerve and it can be excruciating,' she said. She suspected that it might indeed have to do with the bump on the head, since it had gradually been building ever since. She had several useful suggestions. She gave me more painkillers, suggested that very gentle yoga exercises might be a good thing, and thought I might try Tiger Balm. She also suggested that I should persevere in trying to see a GP, but that if it did turn out to be nerve compression, an osteopath might be the answer. Tiger Balm, surprisingly, helped. Ibuprofen helped too, but I had to stop taking it after a day or two because it was upsetting my stomach,</div><div><br /></div><div>I followed her suggestions as far as possible, and the acute pain abated just enough for me to sleep, with the aid of Nytol. That was more than a week ago. The pain has now mutated into something a little more bearable but just as unpleasant. Like a series of intense, exceedingly weird electric shocks through my neck and head as well as very painful and tender skin, with no evidence of any inflammation on the surface. The 'shocks' come and go throughout the day. It's wearing me down.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last week, I got through to the GP practice, but was told that it would be a couple of weeks before I could see one of the four GPs face to face. By dint of polite pleading, I got a phone appointment with an actual doctor for next Tuesday. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the same day, with desperation setting in, I contacted a private clinic recommended by a friend and now I have an appointment with a fully qualified osteopath on Monday afternoon. When I told them the history of this injury, they too suspected that the bump on the side of the head might well have something to do with it, and the pain and other symptoms sounded like nerve compression. </div><div><br /></div><div>We'll see. It's going to cost me money we can ill afford, but I can't go on like this, and the NHS has - so far - been no help at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>Throughout my adult life, I've been lucky enough to be reasonably fit, and seldom needed to visit a GP, so I don't think I had realised just how poor the service had become, although I had heard similar or infinitely worse tales from friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm old enough to remember when you could go to your doctor's surgery and wait to be seen. The doctor knew you, your family, your situation, your medical history. Unless you could get there early, you might have to wait a couple of hours. but he would see everyone in the surgery. It was hard cheese if you needed to get to work, but it was a valid excuse. If somebody arrived in acute pain, or obviously very ill, they would jump the queue. If you were too ill to come to the surgery, the doctor would visit you at home later or - as a last resort - call an ambulance for you himself. The last doctor to do this in our town retired when our son was very young - more than thirty years ago. For a while the new health centre with its appointment system worked reasonably well. Until it didn't. </div><div><br /></div><div>'Gradually then suddenly,' to quote Hemingway.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know exactly what has gone wrong. Who does? 13 years of Tories? Money? Staffing? Brexit? Some deadly combination of all these things? Too many patients and too few doctors? I've just checked on the practice website. There are four doctors, two advanced nurse practitioners, a practice nurse, a staff nurse, a 'health care assistant', a practice manager and eight medical administrators. </div><div><br /></div><div>There are two practices in this smallish town. </div><div><br /></div><div>But knowing just how much of my own time is taken up with the demands of the (cue hollow laugh) 'paper free office' in which admin for a house and two micro-businesses, my own and my husband's, seems to take a million times longer than it ever did in the olden days - I sometimes wonder if the systems have just got completely out of hand and overriden considerations of patient care. In much the same way, with less disastrous consequences, as the Scottish Book Trust now seems to have more than 70 staff members to 'support Scotland's writers' while Creative Scotland has roughly the same number. All doing what? Admin? Create a space and the demands of bureaucracy will expand to fill it, like cavity wall insulation. </div><div><br /></div><div>And you know what the worst of it is? It's everything. All this admin doesn't work. None of it really works. Nothing including the NHS, education, the Post Office, the police, the water companies, transport, local government, banking - nothing works the way it should. </div><div><br /></div><div>If we paid a small sum to see a GP as people do in many EU countries, would it make a difference? Or would it just compound the problems? I have no answers to these questions. When I do, very occasionally, get to see a GP, I find them as helpful, as kind, as my old GP ever was. So that isn't where the problem lies. But as far as access to resources go, we compare <a href="https://www.health.org.uk/news-and-comment/news/uk-spent-around-a-fifth-less-than-european-neighbours-on-health-care-in-last-decade" target="_blank">very badly with our European neighbours. </a></div><div><br /></div><div>All I know is that, sadly, the elderly NHS, 75 years old, is showing her age. She has grown confused and forgetful, weary and uncommunicative, and those of us who love her are finding her increasingly difficult to access when we badly need her help and advice. She is, in short, falling apart at the seams, and we're falling apart with her. Whether she is now beyond saving is up for debate but the alternative is too hideous for all but the wealthy to contemplate. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>PS</b></div><div><b>I've now seen an (excellent) osteopath and in a few days I'll be seeing an (also excellent, caring) doctor. The condition hasn't gone away, but it's improving a little. It's clear that the problem doesn't lie with the health professionals. It lies, sadly, with the systems surrounding them. The professionals are like those musicians, valiantly playing on, while the Titanic is sinking around them. </b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20047250.post-90358855205993481922023-07-10T21:57:00.000+01:002023-07-10T21:57:12.877+01:00The Last Lancer, Now Published in the USA<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDNsvKuJpl2OL8z9d_1RwAU09W-xyxSmEJ9kn8TePzcxaKMvbthnvYhPjpjVw9AXDZJXGfqtYa52Qqf-_RiA_rE3HYalWiPnaU5CqtUOpPTU_5slcSwsqPF3ZpnezjDbnRNlPXgOQKWFc8n6QB7t75ia4flzWdOKcOD4upeNksA5k0Mq25UYZ/s4479/Lancer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4479" data-original-width="2908" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDNsvKuJpl2OL8z9d_1RwAU09W-xyxSmEJ9kn8TePzcxaKMvbthnvYhPjpjVw9AXDZJXGfqtYa52Qqf-_RiA_rE3HYalWiPnaU5CqtUOpPTU_5slcSwsqPF3ZpnezjDbnRNlPXgOQKWFc8n6QB7t75ia4flzWdOKcOD4upeNksA5k0Mq25UYZ/w260-h400/Lancer.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br /><p></p>On 11th July <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Last-Lancer-Survival-Poland-Ukraine-ebook/dp/B0BXPGBS8W" target="_blank">The Last Lancer </a>will be published in the USA and I'm really hoping that the Polish diaspora, many of whom are US based, will get behind it. This is mainly because so many of my Polish friends, here in Scotland, have told me that reading it reminded them of their own fathers and grandfathers, the pre-war childhood and tragic wartime experiences they seldom spoke about. People would tell me how they wished that they had asked their parents about the past, but so often hesitated, and now regretted all those stories left untold. <div><br /></div><div>These good friends were in my mind as I researched and wrote this book. I <i>did </i>ask my father, thank heavens, although he died much too young, back in 1995. I still miss him. Still wish I could chat to him. Walk with him. Hug him. Nevertheless, he wrote all kinds of vivid and fascinating details down for me. Later, I visited Poland myself, worked there for a year, and managed to piece together even more of the story. <br /><br /><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIlBLNFbtWd6T7OkeVprUT6kj1GmFCje4v8HGjoz2UY_ArM5yEt5iQZDY2f5owh20CmwdjzJWv5-cspYQrpXzm2jNcZWHZ_yqMnREPxYxc7WZ2H9QVR1cR7g4y3va_pNc1pTQp0Poeqfke-pO_y2w9bAOpfnb-e0IXxRnAX0VNyLliIDOgRB_/s1190/Daddy's%20girl%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1163" data-original-width="1190" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIlBLNFbtWd6T7OkeVprUT6kj1GmFCje4v8HGjoz2UY_ArM5yEt5iQZDY2f5owh20CmwdjzJWv5-cspYQrpXzm2jNcZWHZ_yqMnREPxYxc7WZ2H9QVR1cR7g4y3va_pNc1pTQp0Poeqfke-pO_y2w9bAOpfnb-e0IXxRnAX0VNyLliIDOgRB_/s320/Daddy's%20girl%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my dad in 1950s Yorkshire.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>My father, Julian Czerkawski was born in 1926 near Lwow, in Polish Galicia, on his father's large and fairly prosperous estate. He was the son of a Polish lancer - one of the celebrated cavalrymen who inherited the legacy of the famous '<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polish_hussars#" target="_blank">winged hussars</a>'. For hundreds of years, they had made their home in these heavily disputed borderlands. It seemed to me, hearing and reading about it later, as though these were people who were living on the slopes of a volcano. Dormant but rumbling away. </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipqavCjEzSBDMBkNuKvZc3NySmlr6ciT_SQEce3Cgms8Q6NnHgBrwvN-oaU2HnGgpPQsxpSwRtcZ5d3pe4JDUpAsYPKAIQqR2Xq7Ona5KYUHZFzBsn-N-kcXeCXIp2xozQzvNnGN3P_3ZSSeGoKZLhKmcLAZxOMFD4_g0R1Wl-gghI87fPU3Qv/s3161/Czerkawski%20siblings,%20Meryszczow.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1897" data-original-width="3161" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipqavCjEzSBDMBkNuKvZc3NySmlr6ciT_SQEce3Cgms8Q6NnHgBrwvN-oaU2HnGgpPQsxpSwRtcZ5d3pe4JDUpAsYPKAIQqR2Xq7Ona5KYUHZFzBsn-N-kcXeCXIp2xozQzvNnGN3P_3ZSSeGoKZLhKmcLAZxOMFD4_g0R1Wl-gghI87fPU3Qv/s320/Czerkawski%20siblings,%20Meryszczow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Czerkawski family in 1926 -<br />my grandfather in the centre.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div> War devastated the family in ways which are seldom fully understood, here in the UK. Fortunate to escape with his life, Dad eventually made his way to England as a refugee, an 'alien' as they were called. Poland might as well have been outer space. His identity papers reveal that under 'next of kin' he had entered a Polish phrase that means 'closest family to nobody.' He was fortunate to meet and marry my Leeds Irish mother. (You can read about her family story in my book called <a href="https://saraband.net/sb-title/a-proper-person-to-be-detained/" target="_blank">A Proper Person to be Detained</a>.) But an ache remained for the people and places of his childhood, even if he spoke of them only rarely.</div><div><br /></div><div>In 2022, Putin's war in Ukraine and the sight of refugees passing through Lviv, formerly Lwow, added urgency to my desire to uncover something of what had been lost a generation before.</div><div><br /></div><div>This book is the result, a book that Neal Ascherson, expert on the history of Poland and Ukraine, has called 'very moving and intensely interesting.'</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, there is a sense in which Poland is still, for most people here in the UK, a 'faraway place with strange sounding names'. But perhaps for that wider Polish diaspora (20 million people worldwide) especially in the USA, it will fill some achingly large gaps in people's family history. </div><div><br /></div><div>I do hope so. </div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, I would dearly love to find a US and/or Polish publisher who would be interested in translating and publishing this book in Polish. Enquiries here in the UK have so far failed to elicit any interest. There seems to be an inability to understand the nature of the shifting borders in this part of the world, which results in an equally fixed inability to understand that this is a book about Ukraine too. It is also a book that goes some way towards explaining why Ukrainians fleeing Putin's war received such a warm welcome from Poles. We knew. We understood. We felt for and with them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Please feel free to contact me for further information about the book.</div><div>If you're interested in translation rights, do please contact my publisher <a href="https://saraband.net/contributor/catherine-czerkawska/" target="_blank">Saraband.</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRwy7gJU39y7UqAgVjRK-0raGFaHPjf7hSHjIOdcb7MpQQlnLxYYxWkbJ-3VPBM9f2fndpUIrBWQJwFgJcq0BX8hmeaqKnE8cAbaXHvrEvs917jv0iC6s5uxLDbuYAucRtlhZ65MWSXdOdDtAp-oLPFDNqV4fkzH-_-UYbP_I3Amg3ToqU339D" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="794" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRwy7gJU39y7UqAgVjRK-0raGFaHPjf7hSHjIOdcb7MpQQlnLxYYxWkbJ-3VPBM9f2fndpUIrBWQJwFgJcq0BX8hmeaqKnE8cAbaXHvrEvs917jv0iC6s5uxLDbuYAucRtlhZ65MWSXdOdDtAp-oLPFDNqV4fkzH-_-UYbP_I3Amg3ToqU339D=w400-h289" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Winger Hussars by <a href="https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/200yearoldhouse" target="_blank">Alan Lees</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Catherine Czerkawskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14554969254207924049noreply@blogger.com0