Sock and Awe

The latest council folly. Me posing.

A vexed week at Hedges Towers. One of BH's favourite socks has gone missing. It has been missing for two weeks now. The odd thing is that both of us swear blind that we have actually spotted the sock several times and in completely different places in the house. Also we have separately placed it in prominent positions so that it can be picked up and reunited with its grieving other. But every time, it eludes capture. It a mystery. The sock has obviously decided to go and live on its own, footloose and fancy free, which only confirms that life on earth exists in many forms, some of which we have barely begun to comprehend.

Meanwhile, in the light of their intransigent attitude re: our Playing Fields, and the subsequent failure of my sarcasmectomy I have suggested to our beloved Town Council that they should consider re-twinning us with somewhere in North Korea rather than the French town of Jambon-sur-Pain, or whatever it is called. Didn't go down well. Can't understand why. The latest wheeze, dreamed up by a young District councillor, has been to create a series of cycle lanes in one of the popular parks. He doesn't drive, needless to say.

On right: the Roman Wall - now unprotected

Now, you and I know the way to do this is to get a pot of paint and someone with a steady hand and draw a line along the path. Simples. The way the council has done it is to dig up the whole path, and then relay it with a very nasty gritty base and ugly ramps that the elderly, disabled, and those with mobility scooters struggle to surmount. It has cost a fortune and has totally spoiled the look of large sections of what was perfectly adequate pathway.
Halfway through Project Pointless, they ran out of money, so the white fake marble edging doesn't go all the whole way along.

OK, it is all too easy to mock -  hey, see how I have just done it for the last two paragraphs without breaking a sweat, but in these recessionary times, wasting thousand and thousands of pounds of our money on this folly beggars belief and credibility.
Whatever. Needless to say BH and I refuse to be told by some uppity non-mandated wet-behind-the-ears legacy-hunting quisling with more ideology than brains which side of the path we must walk on, so we deliberately walk along the cycle path side, as we always did before it was spoiled. In the four months we have been doing this, we have only ever encountered a single cyclist.

The PINK SOFA Welcomes Mandy K James

Mandy K James

Mandy K James is one of the first writers THE PINK SOFA got to know when it first stuck one elegantly carved wooden leg into the Twitter pool last August. She has a rumbustious sense of fun, and sparkling repartee, but is also a caring and loyal friend, supporting other writers and cheering them on from the sidelines. Since THE PINK SOFA asked her its questions about her life and her writing influences, she has successfully launched her latest book, A Stitch In Time, with the wonderfully named Choc Lit, and is currently working on her next book for them. It is an absolute pleasure to welcome her to THE PINK SOFA and there is fizzy French wine and a selection of nice French cheeses on the coffee table to celebrate.

So, Mandy, what sort of books do you write?
Contemporary women's fiction with an element of suspense.

What kick started your writing career?
I have always written  ..well not always, obviously, but since I was about 8. I just loved making up stories and started my first novel in 2001. It was very hard to do alongside a full-time teaching career, but I kept plugging away. I gave up teaching in 2008 and cracked on with what was to be my first published novel, an ebook called Righteous Exposure. I also had lots of short stories published around that time too.

What were your favourite childhood books and why?
Very early on it was all of Enid Blyton's as they were full of adventure and excitement. Later, when I was about 13 it was The Hobbit and Lord of The Rings for similar reasons, but particularly because I felt a real connection to the characters. I really cared about what would happen to them all for the first time I suppose. Tolkien is such a beautiful writer also; I felt I actually could see 'Middle'Earth'.

What writers do you most admire today (can be classical) and why?
Charles Dickens, Kurt Vonnegut, John Steinbeck, Steven King, Dean Koontz, the list is very long. Why? Most of these have a moral message or some meaning in their writing. I don't read nearly enough now, as I tend to be too caught up in writing. But the writer I enjoy most still has to be Dean Koontz. His writing style is just effortless, and he can paint a picture with just a few words. Most writers would need a few pages, also there is always an identifiable baddie and he/she gets his just desserts. I try to do the same in my novels.

Talk to us about your writing process - how do you plan, have a set number of words each day, where do you write?
I am a pantster. I have the bare bones of a story and jot these down, sometimes in bullet points. Then I have a title - can't write without that! Then I just let the characters do the work. I love writing because I'm entertained as I write - I never know what's coming next! I like to write at least 2,000 words each day and usually manage it. I don't have a special writing room or shed, but would love to have one in the future.

From brain to draft - what's your time span?

It varies. My new novel, a time-travelling romantic comedy A Stitch In Time was written in 6 weeks (first draft) but normally around three to four months. When I was teaching, sometimes a year.

What part of the writing process do you find challenging and why?

Mandy's new book

I often get stuck around 30,000 words. I have heard most writers do. (THE PINK SOFA has been known to get stuck 4 lines in...) It's annoying because I have to leave it for a while and think my way round the problem. It's at this point that I worry that I'll have to scrap the lot because it's a load of old pants! Usually it isn't, and I finish it in the end ... usually.

What was your worst experience?
I think the number of rejections over the years. No matter how much you tell yourself that it is just one agent's opinion etc it does tend to punch a big hole in your confidence. The main thing is not to give up, even though you want to.

And your finest?
Getting the offer of a contract from the wonderful Choc Lit Publishing in May of last year. And now seeing my book A Stitch in Time actually in bookshops and online.

A Stitch in Time is available on Amazon.co.uk as both book and ebook.

Visit Mandy's blog: http://mandykjameswrites.blogspot.com/    Tweet her: @akjames61
 Facebook: Mandy James Author Page

Thanks, Mandy! Mandy will be staying around to chat, so do dig into the cheese and wine and ask her some more questions.

A Highly Regrettable Incident At Sainsbury's

A roller-coaster week at Hedges Towers.  It started with an incident of possible criminal activity at our local supermarket - though in his defence, BH pleads accidental error of judgement and mitigating circumstances. We were doing the weekend shopping at the time. Usually BH does this on his own because he says that whenever I accompany him, off-list items find their way into the trolley, although I claim that they would have been on the list had I known, when drawing it up, of their existence.

Be that as it may and it was, I was scouting round for extra stuff, when I noticed BH standing very close to a trolley parked in the veg aisle. He was staring fixedly at the contents. Then he bent down and reached in. At which point the owner of the trolley arrived, gave him a 'what the hell?' look, and wheeled it swiftly away. There subsequently ensued the following exchange:

Me:  What on earth were you doing?
BH: I thought it was one of those reduced trolleys.
Me: They don't do reduced trolleys in Sainsbury's.
BH: Don't they? I thought they did. It had some good bargains. There were some nice carrots.
Me: But it was that man's trolley.
BH: (peers at items) Are those on the list?
Me: (firmly) You are in no position to query anything.

Let it be stated that two seconds later, we were both leaning against the meat counter helpless with laughter, and being given a very wide berth by passing customers. I have mentally stored the incident up to use as ammo in future negotiations, a tactic I highly recommend.

Meanwhile in the parallel world to yours, i.e. the one which is inhabited by me, we have had some 'developments'. The decision on our Town Green application has been put on hold pending the outcome of an appeal on a previous and very similar case to ours called the Barkas Case. Oh unconfined joy! As the options were: nope or wait, we are happy to settle for wait, as it gives us legal threat lines when our beloved Town Council, having decided to make economies by cutting their integrity and accountability budget altogether, decides to have another go at our playing field.

Which they will. They have now had to withdraw their flawed planning application for the second time, thanks to a devastatingly effective and pretty well continuous email campaign. Hahaha. There must be staff in that Planning Department who are only now dusting themselves down and emerging out of hiding. Magic Finger Hedges, they call me. Well no, that is probably NOT what they call me, but hey, it worked. (Tip for anybody running a similar campaign against a local council: always copy the Chief Exec, the Head of Planning, the Monitoring Officer, plus any supportive Councillors into anything you send to minions. It worries them. A lot.)

Which makes me wonder: Local Government machinations... corrupt councillors ... is there perhaps a book in all this? The Vacant Casualty springs to mind as a possible title... what do you think?



Apropos of nothing ... I was sent this great cartoon by a fellow children's author who'd recently discovered my 'Spy Girl' series. Thanks, Richard Hardie.

The PINK SOFA Welcomes Paul Emanuelli

Paul Emanuelli

Paul Emanuelli is one of that lovely group of writers I've had the great good fortune to meet via Twitter. Paul is the author of Avon Street - a historical novel set in Bath in the 1850's. The PINK SOFA is happy to say it has read the book, and recommends it highly! In honour of Paul's visit, and in an effort to be snack symmetric, there is a Victoria Sponge cake on the coffee table. Awaiting the outcome of its own historical novel, set in the 1860's, the PINK SOFA questioned Paul about being a historical writer, and why the Victorian period particularly appealed to him. This is what he replied:

'' A big Thank You to Carol for inviting me to sit on her PINK SOFA for a while and for asking me some questions that really made me think. I should begin by telling you a little bit about myself. II was born in Stoke-on-Trent, of Welsh parents and Italian grandparents. Most of  the jobs I've ever done have involved writing, but mainly reports, studies and factual documents. For far too long I thought of creative writing as something other people did. It seemed a big step to say, 'I want to be a writer,' let alone, 'I am a writer.'  Though I'd always told myself that one day I would write a novel, reality always seemed to intervene, and it wasn't until later in life that I started night-classes in creative writing and began writing short stories. My first novel, Avon Street grew out of one of them.

I've always loved history, but until Carol asked, 'why?' I'd always taken it for granted. Many people think of history as being about kings and queens, great events, battles and empires. And of course, endless lists of dates. But what I love about history is the lives of 'ordinary' people and trying to imagine what it would have been like to have lived in another time. People as far back as the Neolithic age drew pictures on cave walls, carved animals from bones - they made art, communicated, left signs that they had been here for a moment in time. They had no writing, but you're left wondering - were they really very different to us? Maybe their emotions and feelings, hopes and fears were much like ours.

An author owes a lot to their readers. Reading novels takes time, and a writer has to earn that time by creating characters that readers will care about, and devising a plot that will make them want to turn the page. But the historical novel also asks the reader to ignore everything around them and to imagine that they are living in another time. For a writer, that's where the research comes in. A writer has to understand what life was like in another time - fashions, transport, medicine, work, education, politics, crime and a host of other things. But as a novelist they also have to ensure that they include just the right amount of historical detail in the novel - too little and it doesn't feel real, too much and it becomes a history lecture.

The Victorian era particularly appeals to me because we know so much about it and because perhaps more that any other era it mirrors our modern world. It was an era of great change and the first age of consumerism. The Industrial Revolution was in some ways the forerunner of our own Technological Revolution. New discoveries and inventions revolutionized manufacturing processes. Railways and steamships made travel faster and cheaper, rapidly shrinking the world. And it was the age of popular novels, which allow us, perhaps for the first time a real glimpse into the lives of 'ordinary ' people.

Avon Street

Avon Street is set in Bath in 1850. It's a city whose image is defined even today by the novels of Jane Austen. But when writing it, I wanted to explore the darker side of the city that Jane Austen only ever hinted at - to go behind the Georgian facades, to show the streets of a city, where wealth and elegance were never far from poverty and squalor.

I won't tell you too much about the book, in the hope you might read it, but it revolves around a wealthy man who loses everything and has to do battle with a ruthless criminal gang who run the poorer quarters of the city. It's about the search for trust among the people who offer to help him (an actress, a sailor a thief and a priest) each of whom has their own secrets. And most importantly, it's about the choices people make and how those decisions shape who they become. Much of the book is based on real events, locations and people, but with a few fictional twists that I hope will keep the reader turning the pages and guessing to the end.''

Avon Street (highly recommended by THE PINK SOFA) can be found at:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Avon-Street-Mystery-Press-Paul -
Emanuelli/dp/0752465546/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Avon-Street-Victorian-Mystery-ebook/dp/B006VOJ3LG/ref=tmm kin.title 0

Contact Paul via his blog: http://unpublishedwriterblog.wordpress.com/ or on Twitter: @UnpubWrites

Paul is going to stay around to answer your questions, so while he pours the tea and arranges the Victoria Sponge decorously on the cake stand, why not take a seat and have a chat.....

Carmageddon

It's been a frustrating week at Hedges Towers. BH's car is playing up again. It is an Italian car, and so was built for the wide open Italian roads, where the sun shines down, and the breeze gently blows and it bowls along at speed, with Volare by Dean Martin on the sound system. What it gets instead is rain, snow, slush and potholes you could go caving in.

The car expresses its dissatisfaction by continually going wrong, and informing us in no uncertain terms of how it is feeling. Every time we set off, a series of alerts come up on the dashboard: Rear left sidelight not working, we are informed. Motor control system failure, we are told. Front headlight not working. And so on and so on. And that's on top of the Possible ice on the road and other potential weather hazards that it feels it has to warn us about. Why it can't just come straight out with it and say: I hate this sodding country, I do not know, but its discontent is costing us enough to keep a small African township in food for a year.

The other way the car lets us know it is unhappy is via the parking sensor. Every time BH backs it into a parking space, or up the drive, a small squat evil Italian Mama clad in black waves her gnarled finger and shouts: No.. No..NONONONO! Or at least that's what it sounds like. My friend E has a similar problem. Her car is one of those people carriers (she has 3 kids and a dog) and it has parking sensors on all sides. It is like being attacked by a trio of smurf castrati.

A further problem with E's car is the colour: it is metallic silver, like practically every car on the road nowadays, which means whenever we go out, we almost always lose it in some multi-storey car park. The time we have wasted going from floor to floor, suddenly locating it, but then realizing at the last minute that it is not hers. We have even resorted to walking up and down pressing the key fob in the vain hope that it will beep and let us know where it is hiding - because honestly, that is what it feels like at times. The conspiracy of cars. I'm sure it exists.

Annie Rose

My car on the other hand, is French and so it couldn't give a damn. You kerb it, or park it askew, or scrape it along something, it just shrugs and goes tant pis. It also has this habit of taking on other cars, especially   'baby on board' landcruisermobiles driven (badly) by the blonde yummy mummies who live in my town. These behemoths are completely unsuitable for the narrowish streets and my 2CV hates them. Whenever we get into a confrontation on a bridge or up a hill, it simply refuses to go into reverse. Just waits, sneering with Gallic insouciance, until the other car is forced to back down. Nothing I can do, honest.

We are thinking of putting my car up as a candidate in the next local elections, on the basis that it has no political affiliations, it knows no developers, you can't bribe it and it does no deliberate harm to anybody. After all, if Caligula could make his horse a consul, I don't see why my car couldn't be a councillor.
Do you?

Seeing Red At Waitrose

A thought-provoking week at Hedges Towers, which began with my best friend E having one of those encounters that keeps the iron of revolt firmly embedded in my soul. She was queuing at the checkout in Waitrose with her lovely young daughter, who has Downs. Because daughter does not do waiting patiently, E with permission from the understanding checkout staff, always gives her a small handful of those green counters to post in the Community Matters slots while she bags and pays.

She had just handed over the counters when one of the hard-faced middle-aged women we refer to locally as ''Tory wives'', the sort whose husbands think they own this town and us, tapped her on the shoulder and informed her coldly that her child was only allowed ONE green counter. Now E is a Canadian with a tongue that could remove paint from walls, but as she said, 'It was after school and the store was full of kids.'

So she took a deep breath, called daughter over, and proceeded to prize the green counters, one by one from her reluctant fingers. By the end of the exercise, daughter was sobbing, the queue had reached epic proportions, and Tory wife was so red and rigid you could have used her to stop traffic. This says all you need to know about my town, and explains why, despite losing our Town Green application, we continue to fight for our green space, and our beloved snails.

Meanwhile closer to home, I decided BH needed a new aftershave as the one he wears is getting on my nerves. Ever mindful of the Estee Lauder Youth Dew Incident*, decided to wait until the weekend, when he was around to test drive products. (*This was the infamous Christmas present that I was given quite early on in our marriage, because a girl where he worked wore it and he thought it smelled very nice. On her, maybe. On me it smelled like week old cat litter. Money completely wasted but hey, a lesson usefully learned.)

Arriving at John Lewis on Saturday, I headed straight for the 'Men's fragrances' a place BH dreads almost as much as a visit to the dentist - apparently it's the word 'fragrances' coupled with the scary ladies armed with bottles, fixed smiles and slightly more teeth than expected - and spent a happy time getting various strips of card sprayed before meeting BH outside the coffee place. Over coffee, persuaded him to sniff, smell and critique the various colognes. He said they all smelled exactly the same and he didn't like any of them. Just as well, as I'd forgotten which one was which anyway. And they all seemed to cost a ridiculous amount of money in the first place.

All I need to get by

So I have thrown the elderly bottle of aftershave away, leaving BH to smell of BH, which is actually quite nice for a change. See, that's another good thing about strolling gently towards one's dotage: there are so many things you no longer need: expensive cologne, eyelash curlers, mini hair-straighteners, eyebrow threading kits, waxing strips, designer sunglasses, hair extensions, false nails, and fake tan. The older I get, the more low maintenance I become. Nowadays I just check I'm not still in my slippers, can remember my name and destination, and I'm good to go.

The PINK SOFA Welcomes Catharine Withenay

Catharine Withenay

Catharine Withenay is a recent Twitter friend. We linked up when she used a conversation I was having with someone else as the basis of a very clever blog post. So when The PINK SOFA heard that her memoirs of her life in Zambia: In The Shade Of The Mulberry Tree was to be published, an invitation was soon winging its way. In honour of Catharine's visit, there is chikanda, nshima and sadza on the coffee table for everybody to try. Don't know what it is? As Catharine, she'll tell you all about it. So, without further ado, it's over to my guest:

''How wonderful to sit on your squishy PINK SOFA! ... all I need is glorious sunshine and I'm sorted for the day. A sofa was something that I missed when we first arrived in Zambia. It was about four months before we got one. Until then we had some cheap plastic garden chairs that slid over the concrete floor and one uncomfortable wooden chair with a foam cushion that might have well not existed. Somehow I still managed to breastfeed my daughter in that time.

So let me tell you a little about why and what I write. Moving to Zambia in 2003 was a life-changing experience. I never wanted to go, but my husband is a paediatrician, had done a Diploma in Hygeine and Tropical Medicine and the PhD was his next step. At the time we moved, my son was 2.5 years old, my daughter just over 7 months. I was petrified as to what would happen!

I ended up staying there four years and when I got back to the UK my book almost wrote itself. By then the children were at school and since I was living in a new part of the UK (new to me) I had no friends and plenty of time to write. So why so long to publish? Well, partly because writing isn't simply sitting in front of a computer screen and typing. The first draft is easy, the difficult bit is editing. After trying a few agents, I decided to self-publish.

Memoir is a difficult genre to sell to agents and publishers. It is neither fact nor fiction and in general their memoir budget is taken up by celebrities. (Boring. They all end up in Oxfam Book shops.) But I find other people's lives are interesting: even seemingly 'normal' lives have a tale to tell. My life is not really different from thousands of others, bringing up children and trailing their spouses where the jobs go. But, in fairness, most people don't find themselves trying to emigrate having lost their passports ...

Catharine's memoirs of Zambia

Zambia offered so many challenges to the naive expat! The currency needed dividing by 7,500 in order for me to understand it in UK £ sterling. I had to employ a maid (I'd never employed anyone before but it would have been very strange for the white lady not to have one). I had to develop a skill in bartering, which I'm not sure I ever mastered! All together I had a very steep learning curve, much of which I share in the book.

My husband's medical research was into malnutrition and the immune system. Malnutrition is a big issue in developing countries, as there are many people with little or no money and who scrape around for food. Throw in the spectre of HIV/AIDS which is ravaging sub-Saharan Africa and there are many many children who have slim chances in life. I met and worked with international aid workers and it is shocking to know that so many children remain without food and education. I was delighted to witness a rural project that tried to deal with both: feeding lunch to every child that came to school. Unsurprisingly, their education, health and weight improved!''

In the Shade of the Mulberry Tree : Organising a husband, toddler and babe in arms, three suitcases, two rucksacks, a pram and a travel cot onto a plane ready for a new life in Zambia is complicated enough. Given Catharine's fear of malaria and tropical diseases and the anxieties of moving beyond the reach of friends and family, she wonders how she was persuaded to move at all. The, just as they approach the airport, it appears that they don't have their passports.

In her debut book, Catharine chronicles her first year living abroad as an expat wife. Nothing is simple, from buying furniture to getting a haircut. As she copes with motherhood and the injustices of poverty and healthcare in Zambia, she wonders: could she ever come to call this pace home?

In the Shade Of The Mulberry Tree is available on Amazon.co.uk/Amazon.com

Follow Catherine on : Twitter @c_withenay,  www.facebook.com/CatharineWithenayWriter, www.catharinewithenay.com

Whoah - what an amazing adventure! Thanks Catharine, the PINK SOFA has really enjoyed hearing about your book ... and is looking forward to trying the Zambian food. Tuck in people... Catharine will be staying around to chat.

Barking At The Bank

 I left them around here somewhere...

A vexatious week at Hedges Towers. Cat A is definitely losing his marbles. He doesn't like being left alone, especially if I'm doing something while he's awake. He seems to need constant reassurance and follows me wherever I go (yes, there too). It's like having a toddler, only not. I'm actually typing this with him on my lap, where he is currently happiest.

He has also started waking up at night, and wondering round the house looking for me. Given that he is 16.5 years old and has bad cataracts, this is not a smart move. I am awoken by distressed miaowing and the sound of cat bumping into walls. So then I have to get up, rescue him, take him downstairs and feed him biscuits, after which I settle him down again under the radiator where he sleeps. It's a TOTAL pain, but he's an old cat and we've had him a long time, and someone has to be there for him.

Which meant we were pretty tired by the end of the week, when Beloved Husband and I went into town to close his dormant bank savings account which was earning zero interest whatsoever. He has to be physically there because I, despite being married to him for 36 years, and in full possession of every identity document of his that you could shake a stick at, am not now allowed to open or close or do anything without his actual presence, thank you, even though I apparently own 60% of the Bank.

We both think it's preposterous and a waste of our time. Especially as we used to be able to open and close accounts for each other, and we have a joint account there anyway. So, picture the scene therefore: It's Saturday morning. We are knackered, thanks to insomniac cat. We are cross. We have heavy colds. We are fed up with stupid bank protocols. What followed was something Samuel Beckett would not have been ashamed to own. As I recall, it went like this:

BH: You don't need to stay with me.
Me: Really? Are you sure?
BH: I can manage perfectly well. You go and wait over there.
Me: Over here? OK. I'll wait.
Young Female Bank Person: So Mr Hedges, what is the name of the savings account?
BH: I don't know. It's just a savings account.
YFBP: I need the actual type of account.
BH: Oh for goodness sake. (calls) What's the name of the account?
Me: I thought you told me to wait over here.
BH: I don't know the name of the account.
Me: You said you could manage.
BH: I could, only I don't know the name of the account.
Me: So you want me to come over there now?
BH: Yes.
Me: You don't want me to wait over here?
BH: No.
YFBP: (smiling rather too brightly) Right. Good. Let's start again...

That was pretty much as good as it got. We agreed afterwards that we'd never made it through a bank visit quite so speedily before. Bank Person couldn't get rid of us fast enough. None of that 'while you're here ..'' stuff that usually heralds them attempting to flog you naff insurance. It was: Pretend to smile, press the buttons, print the paperwork, please please go away now. Grumpy Old Sods. It's an art. We are thinking of hiring ourselves out to other bank customers.

See - every now and then being old has its advantages, and we need all the advantages we can get as neither of us are getting any younger. Certainly we're not getting any saner. Quite the opposite. And I notice that we oldies are constantly being referred to in the media as 'a burden' and 'a drain on resources' and an 'elderly time-bomb'. Makes me wonder, when I reach what Shakespeare so vividly describes as 'Second childishness and mere oblivion/Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything'' whether there will be somebody there for me to give me biscuits in the middle of the night and let me sleep under the radiator. I do hope so.

INCEPTIO Book Launch. The PINK SOFA was there.

Alison Morton

Yesterday, fellow author and Twitter friend Alison Morton's novel Inceptio was launched. The PINK SOFA went to the launch, accompanied by its usual bottle of 40% proof and roll of police incident tape. Alison has been extremely busy in both the run up, and on the launch day, but she has very kindly popped in to collapse on The PINK SOFA and talk about the book. In honour of the event, there are mini spotlights, amphorae of red wine, bread and delicious fish soup on the coffee table. 
The Roman Snails, fresh from their victory parade round their field (which has taken them all week) will also be putting in an appearance at some point, so please check the floorboards very carefully when you stand up. Alison, over to you...

''Thank you for welcoming me to your blog, Carol. Yesterday, three years of slog - researching, writing and publishing led to the exciting moment when my debut novel Inceptio was published. I've played with words most of my life - storyteller, playwright (aged 7), article writer, local magazine editor and professional translator. The idea for the novel came one evening in a darkened auditorium of our local multiplex on half-price Wednesday. We were watching a particularly dire film. The photography was gorgeous, the story total crap. 'I could do better that this,' I whispered to my other half. 'So why don't you?' Three months later I had completed thee first draft of Inceptio, the first of my Roma Nova alternative history thrillers. (The PINK SOFA is just butting in here to say that it produced its first novel, Ring of Silver, Lord of Time, as a result of  a husbandly challenge; it wonders how many other writers have gone down the same path?)

I knew I needed to learn novel-crafting skills, so joined the Romantic Novelists' Association New Writers Scheme in 2010.  Participation in two RNA conferences, an Arvon Foundation course in commercial fiction and the Festival of Writing at York all helped me develop my writing. And I meet some knowledgeable, generous and fun people along the way. My history MA had taught me how to research and my six years in the Territorial Army trained me to do 'guns and mud'. Perfect preparation for Inceptio.

My husband took early retirement, I sold my translation business and we decamped to France in May 2010. Surrounded by peace, fresh air and sunshine, I have written to further books in the series. I write most mornings after a short spurt on social media, and do domestic stuff in the afternoons. In the evening, I'll write a few more lines, research and mess about, er, ' interact with professional colleagues' on Facebook and Twitter.

One question I'm often asked: is Inceptio about Romans? Stories with Romans are usually about famous emperors, epic battles, depravity, intrigue, wicked empresses and a lot of shouty men with sandals, tunics and swords. But project the Roman theme sixteen hundred years forward into the 21st century, and with a feminine twist. How unlike ours would that world be?

Inventing a different development in history is not for the faint-hearted. I firmly believe you have to know your history reasonably well before sending it in a different direction. I've been a 'Roman nut' since I was eleven, fascinated by my first mosaic. More importantly, I know what I don't know and am prepared to track it down.

Inceptio starts in New York - present day, alternative reality. Karen Brown, angry and frightened after surviving a kidnap attempt has a harsh choice - being eliminated by government enforcer Jeffery Renschman or fleeing to the mysterious Roma Nova, her dead mother's homeland in Europe. Founded sixteen centuries ago by Roman exiles and ruled by women, Roma Nova gives Karen safety, a ready-made family and a new career. But a shocking discovery about her new lover, the fascinating but arrogant special forces officer Conrad Tellus who rescued her in America, isolates her.

Inceptio cover

Renschman reaches into her new home and nearly kills her. Recovering, she is desperate to find out why he is hunting her so viciously. Unable to rely on anybody else, she undergoes intensive training, develops her fighting skills and becomes an undercover cop. But crazy with bitterness at his past failures, Renschman sets a trap for her, knowing she has no choice but to spring it....''

Inceptio is available in the UK on Amazon: www.amazon.co.uk/Inceptio-Alison-Morton/dp/1781320624  and in the US: www.amazon.com/Inceptio-Roma-Nova-Alison-Morton/dp/1781320624

Find Alison on: www.alison-morton.com, www.facebook.com/AlisonMortonAuthor, and follow her on Twitter @alison_morton

What an amazing concept. Alison is currently working on Perfiditas, the second book in the Roma Nova series. And now, let the soup and bread flow free! And mind the snails!!

A Nasty Virus

Roman Snails are armed and dangerous

A highly vexatious week at Hedges Towers. First I was hit by a computer virus. Every time I tried to type, all I got was row after row of Xs. They even typed themselves regardless of me. Twitter, email, Facebook: rows of Xs. And I couldn't delete or file anything  - just got flashing lines. Absolute panic hit as I thought of all the manuscripts I'd failed to back up (as you don't), the photos of DD's wedding and other precious family events that were even now melting away somewhere in cyberspace.

Shut down the computer, and rebooted it. Still the same. Rows and rows of Xs. By now I was total despair and near to tears. Desperate enough to contemplate ringing Computer Mendy Guy on a Sunday afternoon. It was only while I was rummaging through the little box of business cards by the keyboard that I suddenly noticed the X key looked slightly lower than the others. Closer inspection revealed that it appeared to be stuck down by something which, upon the application of a paperclip proved to be ginger cake. I'm sure there are many, many lessons to be drawn from this, and I shall leave you to draw them.

The best blackberries ever.

Maximus the Roman Snail (unarmed)

On a more serious note, the flawed planning application to force an 'access road' onto our playing field, destroying an ancient bank, seven mature trees, a colony of protected Roman Snails and all our lovely blackberries, was passed by a Planning Officer, which meant it was now heading for a committee of councillors to be ratified. Once again, I was faced with the prospect of having to prepare a 3 minute speech to give at the committee meeting. Have you, gentle blog reader, ever had to prepare a 3 minute speech? I only ask because if you haven't, you probably think 'piece of cake' (possibly not ginger ..).

 I have done many 3 minute speeches since I started this campaign. They are total buggers to compose. I would actually rather write a 70,000 word novel than write a 3 minute speech. It's like one of those You-tube things where a large cat attempts to climb inside a jam jar. Trying to condense all your points into 3 minutes is almost impossible. Finally got it down to 3 minutes 9 seconds, managing to get in the cost, the illegality of killing IUCN Red Listed animals, the health and safety concerns over kids running onto a field with diggers and spoil lorries AND the fact that if we got Town Green, the council could face action in the Magistrates Court to remove the road.

This is where the road would go: bye bye little one

All the time however, I knew that, given the twisty nature of the council, this stupid application would inevitably be passed despite all the lobbying I and the many wildlife organisations backing us had done, and the wonderful support we'd had from the local press. But sometimes, unbelievably, miracles happen. Two hours before I was due to appear, suited and booted in front of the committee, a Planning Wonk put in a call. The application had been pulled. The Head of Planning was 'dissatisfied with the Officer's report'.

They are now looking at it again, and 'may include a wildlife survey'. Or they may not, of course. Who knows? No admission of error, no acknowledgement that the report had more holes in it than Gorgonzola cheese, no apology for the glaring errors and deliberate omissions. Or the stress caused to local residents. So it seems we have a brief stay of execution while they faff around and try to extract themselves with enough credibility.

While we wait, I have submitted a formal complaint to the Monitoring Officer. I am in no doubt that it  will be ignored, and nobody will be held accountable. And then, like the Terminator, they will be back. What is it with these councillors? I am loth to speculate who they have got into bed with - but I certainly know who's getting screwed!