Truth is stranger than Fiction!

 At half past 7 last night I was in the toilets of a London hotel trying to stop a nose bleed – how surreal is that? I’ve not had such a gushing flow for a long time and I wondered if it would stop before I headed across town to catch my train home. Would I have to sit all bloody on the tube with a wodge of tissue stuffed up my nose?

(I had visions of the beginning of If I Can’t Have You by Charlotte Levin – if you’ve never read it I urge you to look it up.)

Fortunately, I stemmed the tide, left the loos, exited the hotel, crossed the road to Marks and Spencer’s, and bought myself a coronation chicken sandwich and some sparkling water. It’s the little details that make all the difference.

I guess you want to know why I was even there, some shady assignation perhaps? Oh, believe me the truth seems even more unbelievable than what I’ve just written, although every word happened.

You see I won an award last night – does that sound like the work of fiction? Actually, most of my writing thus far has been recounting real life so I won a prize for best non-fiction book.

The Ink Book Prize has been set up to reward those of us who have self-published.

(Although I am published by Resolute Books, we are a collective of independent authors each with our own responsibilities for self-publishing, the Resolute logo is a badge of honour – each book goes through a strict review process to earn it.)

This was the inaugural award with prizes for fiction, non-fiction and children’s fiction, alongside an award for best debut. Established by award-winning author Abiola Bello and award-winning publicist Helen Lewis.

I was up for debut as well but put on my gracious loser face when it was awarded to Claire Linney for children’s book Time Tub Travellersand the Silk Thief.

She spoke incredibly well and her book sounds amazing. It is about children who travel back in time and discover black characters in British history – something so many of us do not realise. I can’t wait to read it.

My friend Claire from Resolute was up for the fiction prize for her historical novel Wheel of Fortune. She also didn’t win, but didn’t have to practice her gracious loser face as unfortunately she was unable to attend.

The fiction prize was awarded to Eva Asprakis for Thirty-eight Days of Rain. A young writer with obvious talent and so much better at public speaking than she believes!

Then they read out the blurb for the non-fiction and it was so obviously my words.

winning books

You dream of getting an award and composing yourself to deliver your thank you speech, but I can’t say I prepared anything, I stood there, waved my arms about and told the potted history – came home, Andrew collapsed, word turned upside down and started blogging – I think telling the story is now like muscle memory, I've repeated it so often.

winning authors

Did I ever believe when I started this almost 14 years ago that I would end up here – well honestly I hoped I would, I want my story out there if I’m brutally honest. Mostly for altruistic reasons, I want to dispel the taboo of bereavement and grief, I want to get people talking about these things so they become just a little easier to deal with. I want to give people permission to speak about their loved ones, I long to hear their stories too.

Real life is sometimes so much weirder than what we can make up.

“I can’t believe all this happened to you.” Said Abiola “You made me cry.”

Yes, I do have that effect on people but this is my reward, more icing and cherries on the cake – maybe this is sprinkles. Whatever it is I’m loving it.

And the nosebleed – maybe that was down to pure excitement – but it happened – honestly everything I write is true 😉

Forty Years of Friendship

 There are some key moments in your life that make you feel your age.

Discovering your first grey hair.

When your oldest child heads off to university.

When your youngest child graduates from university.

When you meet up with friends you have known for 40 years, and that’s not the friends you first met age 5 when you started school but the friends you made at sixth form, when you were 16. (I’ll let you do the maths with that one and work out our age now)

This weekend I was privileged to host such a social gathering.

Between the six of us that met, two of us have experienced cancer, two have been divorced and remarried, one of us – OK me – has suffered the loss of a spouse, only one still has both parents around - sadly not me. Between us we have 13 children and all of them are older than we were when we first met!

That’s quite mind-blowing. I suppose in many ways it’s amazing we are still all here and that we are still friends.

We don’t all get to meet up very often, one friend joined us remotely from Exeter later in the evening. Although most us live in the area we grew up in, four of us moved away but two of us came back.

floating head in the top righthand corner for our live link to Exeter

I realise there are a lot of numbers in this – 4 of us started A level maths together, 2 dropped out, one failed and one passed – but it’s only a grade D. (again this is me! 😊)

But of course, we are much more than incredible numbers. The lives we’ve lived and how they have intertwined over the years would make a cracking novel – I’d change the names. I don’t think any of us have had any major fallings out in that time either, maybe for a better read I’d have to add some tension!

Although honestly, I don’t need to write it down, we did all that back in the day. When we finished sixth form, we each had an exercise book to stick photos in and share our memories.

Looking back at these books evoked such crazy memories. The clothes we wore were hilarious, although many of the photos were of parties where we had dressed up. We wrote silly stories with song titles, memories from the geography field trip and English lessons. We wrote in code and used “in jokes” that make little sense to anyone but us.

The afternoon ran into the evening and we never ran out of things to say. Seemingly no topic was off limit, but let’s just say it was the “boys” who started the HRT/menopause conversation, talking about their wives. How refreshing to have such a bond.

When will we meet up again – we always say we need to do it more, realistically I suppose a couple of years may go by before we get our act together, although I hope it’s sooner than that.

 

And the crazy conversation carries on…

 

Coffee with milk, tea with milk, tea with just a splash

I make a list to get it right, I’m a hostess with panache

 

And in my notebook also goes, the silly things we say

Phrases to create a poem, I take the words and play

 

They just need sufficient stirring, perhaps I’ll make a roux

Blending with precision seems the proper thing to do

 

We discuss the years when we were born, for most that’s ‘68

Other notable births of that time; Kylie and Catherine Tate

 

“I could have had Kylie’s body, if I hadn’t given birth”

Instead, a fine pair of knees show tremendous worth

 

“I have a sexy elbow! It’s written in the book”

I roll up my sleeve seductively, so everyone can look.

 

Body parts and HRT, is any topic taboo?

Reaching that age when we have to know, "where’s the nearest loo?"

 

We discuss emergency sponge fingers, tiramisu, random Italians

While wondering if Charlotte “would like to sell my stallion?”

 

So now I’ve lifted-up the curtain, exposing our chaotic rambling

Have we matured over the years? I doubt it, but we’re still standing!