Freebies (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

Over the eight months that I have been minding Little G, I have come to the conclusion that grandmothers hold up half the sky. Well, it feels that way after an eleven hour day having fun. For the benefit of any newly-minted grand-colleagues, here are a few things that Little G and I like to do. Most of them are free.

Bus rides: The fun starts long before you get on the bus. There is passing traffic to criticize, people with funny hair, dogs, men in suits spilling coffee, other buggies ... it is never ending. I have a bus pass so I go free. Little G also goes free. NB: the singing of 'Wheels on the Bus' while actually on the bus is pretty obligatory.

The library: Free books? What's not to like. Even if you aren't a member, you can still go in and spend a happy half hour or longer sharing stories. Many libraries have a discard shelf, where you can buy books for 10p. I have blogged here about Baby Rhyme Time. Check it out. Not to be missed.

The Park: Source of swings, slides, climbing frames, other toddlers. A great summer or fine weather activity. Builds up your arm muscles and ability to shout Wheeeee on command.

The Park 2: We like lying on our backs under a tree watching leaves and planes.

Birds: In the early summer, we saw a pair of robins building a nest in a wall in Little G's garden. We also observed swallows in the opposite building. Feeding ducks is always good for an afternoon's outing, though Little G tends to run the bread distribution on a 50:50 basis.

Crafts: It is possible to spend a small fortune on paints, crayons, colouring books, sticker books etc. Or you can hang on to all those catalogues you used to shove unread in the recycling and use them to make collages. Little G chooses the picture. I cut it out. She does the Pritt stick dab of glue. I place it where she wants on the paper. She bangs it down. Arts Council here we come.

Vets 4 Pets: Our latest go-to place. Zoos cost a fortune, and then there's all the peering through the bars for non-existent animals or staring at the horizon trying to spot them on the far side of the paddock. That's if you can get near the cages in the first place for the crowds. Vets 4 Pets sells small animals, fish and reptiles. All the cages are at ground level or slightly higher and you can get nose-to-glass with rabbits, guineas, and manic dwarf hamsters in wheels. It's quiet, practically empty and fun.

The Best Activity EVER: One free grandparent, containing songs, stories, cuddles, kisses, tickles, unconditional love and all the time in the world. Priceless.

Why I dislike bookshops

So the great monopoly that is Amazon, having closed a gazillion bookshops by its undercutting pricing policy has now opened....ta-dah: A bookshop. In Seattle. Irony much? Can't see it catching on. I am becoming more and more disillusioned with the way books are marketed and sold, which is not good news as I write them.

The rot set in with the scrapping of the Net Book Agreement. The NBA came into effect on 1 January 1900 and involved retailers selling books at agreed prices. Any bookseller who sold a book at less than the agreed price would no longer be supplied by the publisher in question.

Ironically, it was bookshops themselves who fought against it, and Waterstones was one of the first stores who started discounting books in an attempt to undermine it. In March 1997 the Restrictive Practices Court ruled that the Net Book Agreement was against the public interest and therefore illegal.

So here we are. Pile them high, sell them cheap, give them away. Next time you, dear writer, moan about the discounting you have to agree to and the hoops you have to jump through to get sales, you know whose fault it was. Yep. The good old bookshops. The ones that Amazon closed down by implementing the outcome that they fought so hard in the courts to obtain in the first place.

 I am becoming less and less a fan of bookshops. It is personal - but before I am accused of 'sour grapes' let me say that 99% of my sales now come from ebooks and I'm not complaining. It is the undermining of authors, and who caused it that I get angry about.

Bookshops never had, nor do they now have the writer's best interest at heart. To get books into any bookshop, a publisher has to offer at least a 45% discount. Subtract from that what a writer gets paid in royalties, and the fact that bookshops run a sale or return policy, and you end up with so little for your years of hard graft that you might as well go and work in Asda (also selling discounted books).

It is not a level playing field. Large publishers can print books cheaply and in bulk, and take a hit on a couple of titles. Small publishers cannot. Plus most bookshops still operate their snobby policy that if it's NOT published by one of the big names it is, ergo, of inferior quality. As one who has given up on so many novels by 'famous authors' because I can't get beyond page 15, I find that, frankly, deeply insulting.

My local Waterstones once had a local writer shelf. I was on it. Then it didn't have one. They don't stock my books (other than the Usborne ones). Nor do WH Smith. They say they do, but several people have been in to ask, and they seem not to have heard of me.

So I read the news of Amazon's latest venture with a mixture of amusement and deep cynicism. I can see the day coming when Amazon the online retailer starts undercutting Amazon the bookstore, causing it to close down. Watch this space.

Red Bed (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

Now that Little G has gone from sedentary to ambulatory, shop windows have taken on a whole new significance. Gone are the days when we whisked past, barely pausing to look. Much amusement is now derived from standing outside and identifying numbers, which are shouted out with all the gusto of a Bingo caller, followed by spotting Ds (Daddy), Ms (Mummy) and Gs (Grandma). All good harmless fun.

Less so recently.

Last week marked the run up to Halloween and many of the local shops had decked out their windows accordingly. The upmarket shop with the posh designer beds and Egyptian linen sheets with a gazillion thread count had unaccountably decided to go the full Fright Night. There was a headless body on a bloodsoaked sheet, its legs dangling over the end. Two gravestones with RIP on them stood to one side.

It was utterly revolting, quite graphic and made me feel ill the first time I saw it but there was no way of avoiding it. Every time we passed, Little G paused, nose pressed to the glass and studied the gruesome scene avidly. 'Red bed,' she remarked.

The gift shop two doors down had decided to go more 'natural' in that the windows were full of spiders' webs, massive black spiders, witches' hats and bats. 'Incy-Wincy,' Little G said, nodding wisely.The grinning pumpkins with assorted teeth were clearly 'oranges'.

I am relieved that at her age, Little G has very little sense of what is going on, but on her behalf I am angry that what was a Christianized feast, influenced by Celtic harvest festivals, when people traditionally went to church and lit candles on the graves of their family members to honour their memory, has become a nasty over commercialized event bent on scaring people.

Soon it will be the run up to Christmas, when the shops will be decorated with Christmas themed goods. Last year one of them was requested to take the Nativity scene out of its window as it could cause offence to people of other or no faiths. A clear case of Red bed - good; Manger bed - bad.

To be continued ...    .....

Women In Cages

Whenever I mention that I write Victorian crime fiction, people always comment upon the infamous crinoline. Why on EARTH would women put up such a monstrosity? Well, they did, and surprisingly, with great relish. The crinoline, or hooped skirt was actually based on a design from the 1840s. In 1856, the American W.S.Thomson patented the metal cage crinoline and it became a huge hit in the USA, France and Britain. It was the first fashion to encompass all classes - rich or poor, you could still afford to wear it.

Although we find it hard to believe, women really loved the cage crinoline. At the height of its popularity, enough steel was produced in Sheffield to make half a million hoops in one week. It freed women from the constricting two petticoats: one flannel, one cotton, that they wore previously and gave them more ability to move their legs. And it was easy to hoick it up at the back when you needed to go to the privy or relieve yourself in the street (no public toilets).

Crinolines came in a variety of shapes, but they were not especially expensive, retailing at a third of the price of a dress. And if you were a skillful needlewoman - as most young women were in those days, it was easy to transform the style of an existing dress by the addition of a cage.

Spring steel shapes crinolines were light and flexible, and could be pressed out of shape temporarily, a useful attribute when trying to sit down, or get in and out of carriages and buses. Together with the tightly-laced corset, which emphasized a woman's tiny waist (the record was 13 inches), the crinoline gave the wearer a very ''sexy'' shape. This was enhanced by the way women had to walk: placing the foot outwards and describing a semi-circle, which gave a swaying motion to the hips. It was almost impossible to go at speed, so the slow, swaying gait was considered very alluring.

A 'waspie'

And cages and stays came in very nice colours. In Diamonds & Dust, Josephine King and her fashion mentor Isabella Thorpe visit a big department store, where they are informed by one of the female assistants that: ''We have some delightful articles in scarlet, Mademoiselle ... Zey came in last week, fresh from Par-ee.''  

However brightly colored and popular, cage crinolines were not all good news however. Sitting down had to be re-learned, and getting through narrow doors or down narrow passageways was a nightmare. And the there was the ever present danger of high winds, which could leave you scrambling to hold your skirt down lest (oh horror!) your drawers were exposed to male passersby. Add to this the danger from open fires and gas lamps and wearing the crinoline could have fatal consequences:

However attractive you felt, wearing a crinoline didn't make courtship any easier than it already wasn't. In November 1856, Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine published a poem called 'Crinoliniana' which ended:

I long to clasp thee to my heart
  But all my longings are in vain;
I sit and sigh two yards apart,
  And curse the barriers of thy train.
My fondest hopes I must resign,
   I can't get past that Crinoline!

The crinoline seems a perfectly ridiculous item of fashion to us today, but for the Victorians with their sense of propriety, it was the perfect device to distance a woman both physically and psychologically from her surroundings, from the real world and to preserve her femininity and chastity for her husband. In a sense, it was the real-life equivalent of placing herself upon a pedestal.

Autumn Ambling (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

Now that Little G is officially walking, and requesting to do it everywhere we go, our routine has taken on new vistas. Admitted they are only at ground level, but it is amazing how much stuff I seem to have missed over the years.

Cracks in pavements are a prime example. Who would have known there were so many? And all equally deserving of a stop followed by long hard stare. I remind myself, as it takes us 15 minutes to cover a distance that previously took 2, that You must be mad at a similar developmental stage had a thing about gates and couldn't pass a gate without touching it.

There are small flowers and weeds growing out of the cracks and in the gaps between buildings. Did you know? You do now. Happy to share. And bits of interesting shiny detritus that is just begging to be picked up and handed over for examination at a later stage.

Last week we found a brand new bright orange comb on our way into town. What riches. Forming our usual small human circle, we peered at it, studied it from various angles, commented on the colour, the resemblance to a carrot and whether it was, as Little G asserted, for cleaning teeth.

Of such is our day. The highlight right now is a walk to our small local park, where the leaves are falling in a profusion of reds, yellows and golden brown. So many colours. So many different shapes. So many leaves to be carefully studied, selected, collected and handed over, to be replaced by other better leaves as they too are discovered lying on the ground.

I am never sure of the criteria, which seem to vary from moment to moment. All I know is that I end the day with a pocket stuffed with what to you might appear to be bits of utter rubbish, but to a small 20 month old is treasure unlimited. And why not?


To be continued ...     ....

The PINK SOFA meets writer& blogger Vivienne Tuffnell

Vivienne is one of the many people I have come to know and admire via social media. Vivienne (like so many creative people) suffers from periodic bouts of depression. She does not attempt to hide what afflicts her and in this, she is a lot braver and more honest than a lot of people. The PINK SOFA is thrilled to be hosting her and has got in her favourite cake as a token of its undying admiration.

 ''Well this is nice. If you would just pull that soft fleece blanket over me, I can have a nap after that wonderful cake...How did you know I love Battenburg?
Oh, sorry, Carol says I can't snooze now. But I'll pull the blanket over me anyway. I like blankets. And duvets. They're good to hide under when the world gets too much. Some of my best friends are blankets. That's because we spend so much time together, quality time.

 I'm hesitating to use the word, but I'm a depressive. I first started experiencing depressive episodes from the age of six. In my late forties I have discovered that a weird genetic anomaly that affects my collagen is almost certainly a large factor in the anxiety and depression I've endured during my life, but there's little to be done for that except constant physio to keep muscles strong to protect dodgy joints. The neurological aspects are going to just be freaky for the rest of my life.

I began writing as a kid too, as much as anything because creating a world within a book meant I had some sense of control and some sense of order. Fiction has to make sense even when life, quite frankly, does not. Story is a profound way of exploring the universe and the questions that life throws at us without giving us many clues about the answers. I wrote my first novel when I was ten, and there are boxes and boxes of fading typescript hidden away in my home.

 I had a couple of long breaks from writing, one because I went away to university and read the best and most respected literature in the world (nothing like excellence to put a wannabe in her place) and one because trying to get published almost cost me my life. That's a long story I won't tell here. It ended with me shutting the door on writing until it kicked down the door, grabbed me by the throat, shoved a pen in my hand and stood over me until the book was done.
 
But a half dozen novels later and a folder full of wonderful letters from publishers and agents all ending with the traditional Dear John bit, I was left in limbo. I'd always thought of vanity publishing as the bitterest of jokes, and it took me a while to realise that the new opportunities in SELF-PUBLISHING were completely different from the old vanity model. Fast forward a few years and now I have four novels, two short story collections, a novella, a poetry collection and most recently a collection of essays from my blog, exploring my old nemesis Depression.
 

Depression has never gone away. I've never concealed my fight; indeed, my blog has been remarkably well read, especially the posts on mental health. So after writing over 800 posts (about a LOT of things) I selected twenty of the ones I have understood have been of most relevance and comfort to those also affected by depression. I asked Suzie Grogan, author of Shell Shocked Britain, and also editor of Dandelions and Bad Hair Days (a collection of writing by people affected by mental health challenges) if she would write me a foreword. You see, the shelves of both virtual and bricks and mortar bookshops are packed with how-to style self help books on depression, and celebrity memoirs on their fight against the infamous Black Dog.

But there's not much written by ordinary folks. I'm not a c'leb. I'm a novelist and poet, and essayist. I believe I have things to offer, questions rather than answers, that may be of great value to others facing the same sort of darkness. There's no single answer for depression, because there's no single cause. Indeed, there's much debate about what causes depression and it's something neither psychiatrists nor psychologists nor philosophers will likely ever agree about.
 

That's why I feel Depression and The Art of Tightrope Walking is unique. It asks questions, it questions the answers, and it doesn't give easy ten step solutions to the problem. Having spent a lot of time (and money too) trawling through self-help manuals of various sorts, I am cynical about them. I probably ought to have marketed the book as a book to cure depression because there is an all mighty hunger out there for a quick and easy cure, a pill to swallow, a regimen to follow. I couldn't do that, tempting though it was. For me, that would be dishonest.
 
Anyway, is there more cake? Oh there is. Good. I might take that nap now, too. I'll try not to snore, or drool. Thank you for having me, here, Carol. It's been delightful.''

Blog:
https://zenandtheartoftightropewalking.wordpress.com/

Amazon page
http://www.amazon.co.uk/
Vivienne-Tuffnell/e/B00766135C/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Twitter
@guineapig66

Dandelions and Bad Hair Days:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dandelions-Hair-Days-Suzie-Grogan-ebook/dp/B00D3RVJ3Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1443361868&sr=1-1&keywords=Dandelions+and+Bad+Hair+Days

Baby Sitter (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

 Little G is now a fully paid up member of the Anglican community, having acquitted herself brilliantly at her christening. All the pre-prep and risk analysis certainly paid off. The four small babies in long white robes and a variety of headgear howled dismally. The same-age toddler kicked off, refused to go to the lady vicar and was forcibly christened (not sure if this counts).

Little G, in contrast, submitted to the various procedures like a veteran, merely patting her hair and remarking loudly: ''Man, water head,'' after regaining her seat. Couldn't fault her performance, and I am quietly taking full credit. The fact that she now thinks the same thing is going to happen every Sunday is neither here nor there.

And so to my first adventure in baby-sitting. Last Saturday You must be mad was invited to one of those 'no children' weddings, so I did my first ever evening stint. To make sure Little G didn't notice that her bedtime routine had suddenly devolved to the shaky hands of an unreliable amateur, I was given two pages of closely written instructions to ensure nothing could go wrong. And it almost didn't.

Bathtime proceeded as per most of Page 1. Donning of night attire as per end of Page 1. Stories and songs as per top of Page 2. It was only when Little G performed her nightly manoeuvre of turning off the light and closing her bedroom door (middle of Page 2) that I suddenly realised that: a) I couldn't find the cot in the dark and b) I couldn't read the final instructions.

Luckily an improvisatory deviation from the worksheet involving an unauthorized interaction with the landing light meant Little G finally landed up in her cot, facing the right way, all tasks completed in order and successfully. And nobody was any the wiser.


To be continued ...     .....

Yours Sensationally

In case it has escaped your notice, the third in my Victorian Crime series is being marketed on Amazon as a murder mystery but you, canny prospective purchaser that you are, have already noticed that it actually says: A Victorian Sensation Novel' on the cover.

What?

The Sensation Novel was a particular genre of fiction, dating from 1860 -1880. The Victorian Web defines it thus: The Sensation Novel features a beautiful, clever young woman who, like Magdalen Vanstone in Collins's No Name (1862), is adept at disguise and deception —such women are doubly dangerous and generate social instability because they possess and threaten to use secret knowledge. 

Other strategies employed by Sensation authors include the exposure of hypocrisy in polite society, intentional and unintentional bigamy, adultery, hidden illegitimacy, extreme emotionalism, melodramatic dialogue and plotting, and the brilliant but eccentric villain with gentlemanly pretensions. Reginald C. Terry in Victorian Popular Fiction, 1860-80 employs the term "detailism" to describe yet another aspect of the Sensation Novel, its rigorous realism that catered to a contemporary "taste for the factual" in its descriptions and settings, a feature that novelists such as Collins skillfully blended with the exciting "ingredients of suspense, melodrama and extremes of behaviour".

In addition, Terry notes how the plots of such novels often utilized "the apparatus of ruined heiresses, impossible wills, damning letters, skeletons in cupboards, [and] misappropriated legacies". P. D. Edwards adds yet further "ingredients" to the Sensation formula: "arson, blackmail, madness, and persecuted innocence (usually young and female), acted out in the most ordinary and respectable social settings and narrated with ostentatious care for factual accuracy and fulness of circumstantial detail" . To all of these features we should add the realistic and sympathetic investigation of individual psychology and an exploration of the female psyche.''

I loved the idea of trying to write a Sensation Novel, albeit slightly pared down for modern taste, but as the book features Detectives Stride & Cully, who also appear in the first two books, it is easier to shuffle the book into the previous genre as Amazon doesn't have a category for Sensation Novels.

Anyway now you know what to expect from the book, here is a little taster from the opening:

London, 1862. It has been a cold summer – the coldest on record, they say, and the autumn nights have come early and bitten hard. Wind batters the city, rattling the windows and inn-signs, whipping up the Thames into white-capped rage. 

Wind whirls rooks into the sky like cinders. Wind prowls across narrow quadrangles and round unsuspecting corners, blowing dead leaves into nooks and stairwells. In weather like this, right-thinking people wrap up warm and stay indoors in front of the fire. 

Not all of them though. Look more closely.

A tall man is making his way towards King’s Cross station, his shoulders squared, tilting forward as he walks. He is darkly handsome, the sort of man who causes women’s heads to turn when he enters the room. He knows this. His name is Mark Hawksley (though not all of the time). 

As he reaches the entrance, a gust suddenly rocks him on his heels forcing him to make a half-step backwards. He takes a deep breath, the wind pummelling his face, the richness of the oxygen making him feel temporarily light-headed.

Steadying himself, the man enters the shadowy arch of the station and heads for a specific platform where a train is expected to arrive at any minute. In the station air he can hear it coming, the sudden frantic chugging of a locomotive, a series of clanks as it passes over the final set of points, then a long exhalation of steam as it pulls alongside the platform and comes to a halt by the buffers. 

Instantly all is bustle and bedlam. Dogs bark, porters shout, and trolleys are hurriedly trundled towards the baggage carriage at the back.

Two respectably-dressed men alight from the front carriage of the train, turning to help down a small female figure, heavily-veiled and clad in deepest black. They escort her along the platform, steering her carefully through the milling throng of passengers, the meeters and greeters, the mounds of luggage, and the cabbies touting for fares.

Reaching the barrier, they hand over three tickets and are allowed through and onto the forecourt. They glance around apprehensively, their faces clearing as Mark Hawksley steps forward into the light, lifting his top hat in a smooth elegant gesture.

“So here you all are at last,” he says.
“Here we all are. Just as we telegraphed you,” one of the men replies.
Hawksley gestures towards the heavily-veiled woman.
“May I?” he asks.
“Be our guest,” the other man nods.

He lifts the thick veil, then steps quickly back, uttering a gasp of surprise.
“Amazing,” he breathes. “She is exactly as you described her in your letter. You might almost believe … But come, we need to get our guest to a place of safety before she is recognised.”

Mark Hawksley steers the little party to where a line of cabs are patiently waiting. He signals to one driver, gives him careful instructions, then bundles the group into the rear of the cab. He closes the door. The driver whips up the horse. As the cab rattles away into the night, Hawksley’s handsome, chiselled features break into a wide smile.

“Oh yes,” he murmurs. “You will do nicely. Very nicely indeed.”

If you have read the book, you will have picked out some of the 'Sensational' traits! I hope you enjoyed spotting them.

Gran the Baptist (Adventures of L-Plate Gran)

This Sunday, Little G is going to get christened at the big cathedral church she goes to every Sunday with You must be mad. Normally, christenings happen in the first 6 months of a child's life, but for some reason or another, it has taken until now to get it sorted.

Little G was aware that something was going to happen, but the exact details were hazy, so I have been doing my best all week to prepare her for this significant event in her life. We have visited the cathedral and looked at the font, with me explaining how the vicar would sprinkle her head with special church water. From the expression on her face, I'm not sure she believed me.

We have also practiced baptizing some of the toys - yes, I know I am on extremely shaky ground theologically here, but I couldn't think of any other way to explain it. Thus Clanger, Panda, Baba the sheep, Owl, sundry cars and a selection of wooden fruit have all been baptized, twice in some cases, and thus are all (if you believe it) now regenerate.

Mind you, despite all the pre-prep I am not holding out much hope that things will run like clockwork on the day. Little G has taken to lugging around with her a blue flowered quilted coat, a pink knitted cardigan and a 2 from the stick-on bath numbers. These accompany us everywhere, so I expect she will arrive at the font laden with baggage.

She has also started to walk (finally) but as it takes her ages I reckon by the time she gets up the very long cathedral aisle, clutching all her treasures, it will be Evensong. But hey, we shall all enjoy the occasion whatever chaos ensues. Meanwhile it's nice to think that if there are any furry toys in Heaven, they will all probably be hers.


To be continued ...   ......

The Big C & Me

October is #StandUpToCancer in the UK, so in acknowledgement of this extremely important event, I thought I'd interview somebody about their experience of having and surviving breast cancer. Step forward then, one survivor ...... Me.

So Carol, how was your cancer discovered?

I learned that I had early stage breast cancer from a routine NHS breast screen three years ago when I was 63 -  you know the sort: you go to a big white van in a carpark and it's always cold. I had noticed no lumps, bumps or changes so it was a shock to be recalled to the Luton & Dunstable Breast Cancer Clinic a week later.

What sort of cancer did they find?

I had DCIS ( Ductile Cancer In Situ). It's a kind of pre-breast cancer. It was in several tubes in my left breast and was ''high grade'' which meant it was getting ready to progress to the next stage.

So what happened when you received the diagnosis?

I was stunned - after all, I hadn't had any visible symptoms. I had been on low dose HRT for a long time - I reacted very well to it, but I came off it immediately, even though there was no proof that it contributed to the cancer. And I thought naively that I was too old to get the illness.

How did your family react?

My husband was shocked also, but supported me brilliantly at every stage of my journey. I kind of played it down with my daughter, who was in the last few months of pregnancy. I'm not a big over-sharer anyway, and I didn't want to upset her.

What was next?

A very unpleasant needle biopsy, which led to an appointment being made for an operation to remove the cancerous ducts. It all happened so quickly and efficiently I barely had time to take it in. I went in as a day patient, had radioactive dye injected into the area (sadly, I didn't glow in the dark afterwards) and then had the operation. The surgeon cut into the breast underneath, leaving a long but not overtly visible scar.

Did you have to go for follow up treatment?

Ah. Now here it gets a bit controversial. The surgeon recommended radiotherapy, but after researching it, and talking to others on social media, I chose not to have any follow up treatment. I wasn't happy with the side effects, nor with the fact that it wouldn't stop further cancers developing. My surgeon was convinced he'd removed all the cancerous cells and I trusted his judgement.

And then?

I got on with my life and put it in a box labelled 'OK, that happened'. I had my first annual mammogram check up last November, and it came back clear. My second one will be in two weeks' time. It takes 5 years before they are prepared to say you are totally free of cancer.

What was the worst part of all of it?

You may think this is frivolous ... unless you are a survivor also, but I had to take all the wires out of my lovely underwear, because it hurt too much to wear. And I wasn't sure for some time whether I'd look ''normal'' and be able to wear lovely stuff again. Luckily I can ... and you would hardly be able to tell I am a tad lopsided!

Finally, do you have any advice to offer?

I think the MOST important thing is to TURN UP for your FREE NHS routine screening. I was horrified when the nurses told me how many women fail to attend. Yes, it's uncomfortable and not very pleasant having your boobs squeezed between two X ray plates, but cancer doesn't always present as an obvious lump or change in the breast - mine didn't.
So ladies, don't think you can skip an appointment because you've checked your boobs and you didn't feel any lumps. Go - I urge you. Had I not gone, I might not be writing this blog today.