Being on the Radio

It's all been a bit strange this last couple of days. On Thursday night I was at the Broca Cafe, round the back of Brockley Station for a meeting of a writers circle I joined recently. It was formed two or three years ago by members of a a writing class at Goldsmiths - the same one I did last year. So we had an ex-teacher in common even if I was a new member. Anyway, before we started on a writing exercise someone asked me if I'd done any talks on China with Olympics making it so topical.

I was surprised, because it hadn't really occurred to me; I'd submitted a couple of articles about my year in Tonghua to the Dimsum Website as well as covering some cultural events but hadn't thought specially about anything to do with the Beijing events.

So I as surprised by a phone call next morning. An Irish voice said ' I 'd like to talk to Sheila Cornelius' and 'Do you have time to talk? I assumed it was someone trying to sell me something so I said 'I'm about to go out', which was true because R had proposed a drive to Whitstable. We needed to go early as we were meeting friends for drinks in the evening.

'I'm from Talkradio in Dublin and we wondered if you'd agree to contribute to a programme tomorrow night. It's called Culture shock and it's about China. You've written a book about Chinese cinema?' Of course, I had, and I would be willing if she could let me something more about the topic. Would the evening be convenient for me if she rang back? No, it wouldn't but I'd be in in the morning.

I'd forgotten that next morning, Saturday, I was due at the local library for a crime reading group, starting at 10.30am. Never mind, maybe they'd ring before 10am when I needed to leave,and after that R could field the call. I'd struggled to finish Val Mc Dermid's 'Beneath the Bleeding', specially for the meeting.

When I got back, no phone call. Disappointing, but after all I hadn't made myself available the night before. I assumed they 'd found someone else.

We went to the cinema at West India Quay in the afternoon. It was 'Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day' which I'd been eager to see for a while. Coming back, R suggested we go for a walk. I'd better be in at 7pm for the start of the programme because I'd agreed in theory to be on it.

Unlikely, said R - as they hadn't rung back. So at 6.30pm he went off for a walk on his own and I listened to a message on the answer phone. It gave a number to ring and I was told I'd be part of a panel of four people and I'd be asked about how the Chinese were represented on film.

I was in a quandary because I'd put a chicken to slow cook and I could imagine R would arrive back when I was already on the phone to Dublin, doing his usaal of coming in and calling upstairs to me if I wasn't in sight. So I wrote a note in big letters so he'd see it straight away, and sure enough they rang at 7.05pm when he was still out. I thought I'd use the plug-in phone in the bedroom, as the others are on stands and tend to lose their charge after twenty minutes or so.

'Hello this is Talkradio, and I will now transfer you to the programme desk'. I listened to some Irish sporting news for about five minutes, except I wasn't really listening because I was so nervous. Eventually, when Fionn Davenport introduced the programme and said they were going to kick off with an item about China I felt a bit calmer. The other three panel members were in the studio in Dublin and I was a 'on the line from London, Sheila Cornelius, visiting Lecturer in Film at Morley College.' That was a while back, and taken from the blurb on the back of my book, but I wasn't about to interrupt him. For one thing he was speaking very quickly and was already putting a question to the first panellist, a Mr Wang, who was head of a Chinese school in Dublin.

He was asked about how he's adjusted to cultural differences in Ireland and the part that traditional Chinese beliefs played in his adjustment. He gave a typically diplomatic response about being open and accepting to everything. He mentioned Buddhism and although the wasn't himself a practising Buddhist he'd been influenced by the the Confucian emphasis on on harmonious living . Another Chinese panellist, this time a woman, and a Catholic, responded to a question about religious tolerance in China and a man called Connor Cleary, who'd been a correspondent in Beijing for five years talked about media censorship. I was asked how far filmmakers could work inside the strict censorship rules and I was able to say they got roundit to an extent, citing Zhang Yimou as an example of someone who'd had his films banned. He's often been able to fool the censors.

The others came in again, talking about freedom of expression in the arts. I was thinking I'd said my piece when Fion said they'd just received a text message which asked wasn't it true that Zhang Yimou's films showed that if you messed with authority you would always come out badly and what did I think? It was unexpected but I gabbled on a bit about how the films showed that authorities had responsibilities too and how it all went wrong when power was abused. The caller had mentioned 'Curse of the Golden Flower' and I knew it quite well, having reveiwed it for Dimsum. Phew!

'So, openness, harmony and individual expression' said Fion Davenport in a voice dripping with irony, and went on to introduce the next part of the programme. A voice thanked me for taking part.

To my surprise I'd enjoyed it. I hadn't dried up, and I'd been more or less coherent. R said I'd spoken rather quickly, but I'd been taking my cue from the others.

R had come up for a nap as soon as he came up, so was lying on the bed beside me. Fortunately, I noticed in time that he'd set the timer alarm to wake him up after fifteen minutes - the seconds were counting down - and I turned it off. It's not all plain sailing for us 'on the line from London' pundits.

Dimsum extract about Curse of the Golden Flower:

http://www.dimsum.co.uk/culture/curse-of-the-golden-flower.html

About my book:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/New-Chinese-Cinema-Challenging-Representations/dp/product-description/1903364132

Index Cards Versus a Computer Database

'Ha! Ha! Bit of a Dickensian scene this!' says Adam (not his real name) , when he spots me updating my short story cards.

I haven't used them before because it's only recently I've been submitting enough. The stories were just a list of titles in a computer file and (I'm glad to say) had grown in number to the extent where I couldn't remember what they were about and how many words long they were. Apart from tracking submissions I thought it might be a good idea to be able to flick through cards that had these details. Competitions are advertised from time to time and it would be good to be able to find one already written to fit the purpose. Well, that's the theory.

I was a bit taken aback by Adam's comment because I do like gadgetry. I was an early computer user because R was a salesman for BT. Adam was a colleague of R's. I quite like Adam - he has more about him than some of R's friends. R seems to pick them for how kind-hearted they are instead of for interest or novelty value. (He says my friends are far too eccentric.)

R didn't want a computer cluttering his desk at work when he had no plans to master it. Hence I was able to use it for my film dissertation in 1997. When I'd done an earlier education one in 1986 it was literally a cut and paste job, with glue and scissors and an electric typewriter, so the Tonto was a big improvement. Later I discovered 'tonto' is Spanish for crazy, and that's what you had to be to use it because it was so erratic. No mouse, so you had to have a list of key combinations to perform the word-processing functions. You also had to ring up the help desk a lot.

Now I've got a whole novel on five and a half inch floppy disks and a dot-matrix printed copy. I did that in 1987 and an still transcribing it chapter by chapter.

Adam, unlike R, is an IT enthusiast. I remember he once came to lecture to my A Level Media students on the subject of 'Future Technology' . I don't suppose the content would seem so far-fetched now.

Anyway, there I am copying up records from the back of my notebook, a good task whilst I'm waiting for R to be picked up and taken to Hever Castle. As it's the school holidays Adam is free to venture further than their usual city-centre gallery or cinema. He's not a teacher. At R's 65th birthday dinner, when he'd already been retired for 13 years, Adam's journalist wife said in her ringing Scottish voice: 'Adam, I hope that you don't think you're going to spend your early retirement doing nothing , like your friend R! I'm not going off to my work every day while you lie in your bed.' So Adam is a technician at a school.

Well, I explain to Adam that it may look Dickensian but it's very useful to have this data about the stories on cards. We had a brief chat about dedicated programmes that might be suitable but the main point was it wouldn't really be so convenient or accessible. Maybe I need to look into it, though.

I haven't got much further than titles so far. I've started a separate set for magazines that take short fiction.

Free Furniture

I think Americans call it Dumpster Diving, this habit we've developed lately of helping ourselves to unwanted items left outside houses.

The block of flats where we live stands on the corner of two roads of expensive houses leading up to Blackheath. They're always changing hands, so subject to constant renovation or restoration, and the skips are a good source of furniture.

One road was laid out as Victorian villas built at the same time as the station, and although two of them were once halls of residence for Goldsmiths College students, like the rest they're now divided into flats. For a while we helped update the electoral register, so we're familiar with all the weird fire-escapes and death-trap entry systems. Thank goodness we decided one cold and dark October, when we were both racked with coughs, to hand on the baton.

All the roads around here are reflect the terrain: Hyde Vale; Princes Rise; Blackheath Hill. It's pleasant enough set off for the park encumbered at most with a backpack or a lightweight folding chair , the better to enjoy the shade of mighty oaks on sunny days or sit within earshot of the bandstand when all the benches are occupied; to turn back carrying a swivel chair (see above) or a new glass-pannelled interior door is a different matter. Especially when we live on the third floor and there's no lift.

However, the stuff is often in very good condition - the door was still in its wrapping - so we can't complain. Maybe the credit crunch will bring a halt to all the moving about, but in the meantime the skips are very useful.

I'm not saying it's entirely down to improved seating, but progress on the writing front has been good.

I joined two writing groups, one a U3A one which has been very inspirational as far as writing execises and motivation has been good - the tutor is keen to get an anthology together. The other is a dedicated group of supportive local writers whose feedback is valuable.

I've written and submitted some short stories as well as some website reviews, althugh I've cut back on the latter. Here's my reviews of a play called The Pilgrimage of the Heart and a collection of Chinese short stories called Loud Sparrows:

http://www.dimsum.co.uk/culture/

I've also written a review of short stories by Anne Enright called Talking Pictures:


http://www.theshortreview.com/

Mainly, though, I've been finding and submitting to print outlets, of which more later, I hope.

My Declining Years

When I retired from teaching my friend D. said, 'Remember, Sheila, these are your declining years. Just decline to do anything you don't want to.' I laughed.

I also observed how closely D. followed her own edicts. Fancy refusing to accompany your spouse on a vist to see his relatives in America, I thought last year. Tough-minded, my friend D.

Just recently I've been doing the same myself, although not with regard to trips to America - chance would be a fine thing. No, as soon as I sense that anything brings more aggravation than it's worth I give it the heave-ho.

Take these films reviews I've been writing for a certain NY-based website. OK, I thought at first there might be money in it eventually, and I suppose the younger writers are filling up their CVs so it makes it worthwhile for them. What I was getting was free previews for foreign films in exchange for what was often a minimum of five hours researching directors, actors, etc and writing the review. Well, that's OK, too, because my finances are limited and I really like films.

When the site editor starting talking about posting direct to site instead of sending reviews as attachments it was a different matter. Did I want to start learning all the complicated protocols and jargon before putting it into practice? No. It would like publishing your own book after you'd written the novel. Well, on a smaller scale, of course. So I've resigned as contributor.

An organisation asked recently me to be an Online tutor for a China course. Flattered, and tempted because it would dovetail with my existing research interests, I agreed. The usual terms - no fee, but never mind, it would be motivational and interesting for me.

Then the frustration started. Information was slow to arrive. Questions were answered partially after some delay. An Internet search instigated on my own account ruffled feathers: I was made to feel guilty for accessing course information which should have been offered in the first place but which was immediately removed from the web.

Time went by, and I needed to look at the course reading list to prepare for an Autumn start. Had I been forgotten about? An oblique reminder brought vague promises and eventually the name of some-one else who might be able to help.

Once, I would have persisted, pussy-footed around and been grateful for any crumbs of help that came my way. Being paid to put up with it made a difference, I suppose. Now, I think of D. and just decline. I've emailed to say they need some-one within the organisation who knows the ''protocol and personnel' better than I do and I'll be sure to be in touch should I reconsider.

All this declining is very liberating. I wish I'd thought of it before.

New mini-laptop.

I decided to photograph my new mini-laptop alongside the normal-sized one . It looks more like a wannabe laptop. With the weight less than a kilo it means no more lugging the bigger one round to libraries. Developed in response to a 'computer for every school-child ' programme, it's called an Asus Eee PC.

As I'm a bit of a gadget freak, I keep out of IT shops as a rule. I was there for something fairly harmless like printer cartridge when I first first spotted the Eee on a shelf in a local branch of Curry's.

The salesman, a gangly youth in a smart royal blue shirt, wasn't interested. He was talking to a colleague about how he'd spend the evening, at some night-club called Zero.

Normally, I'd just study the batteries or something, and listen in, but I was quite keen to get the information. The Eee looked like the best writing aid I'd seen since I'd bought my first computer in Singapore, a desk-top Apple Mac with a 7 inch screen. I'm not counting the prototype monster requiring five and a half inch floppies my husband brought home when he worked for BT. It had no mouse, but a long list of key combinations to do things like starting a new paragraph.

The Curry's assistant decided the sooner he got rid of me the sooner he'd be downing Red Bull and Vodka at Zero's.

'I wish they'd never brought these out! There's no CD-Rom drawer, for a start!'

'Well, I didn't want one of those. I just wondered if it could be used as a word-processor...'

'You need one of these bigger ones. It doesn't have Word.'

'It says it's compatible, though, on that card. Could you turn it on so I can see the size of the print?'

He complied, his body half turned away so he could work with one hand and talk to the girl at the check-out desk at the same time.

I'd come back at 5.15pm as the shop was busy earlier. Waiting in the post-office queue had whiled away half an hour, but it was obviously too near closing time at Curry's to get this guy's full attention.

'Would it be possible to load Word onto it?'

'What? The programme would take up more than the memory. It's only 2GB, or 4 GB if you pay the extra £30.'

At £249.99 it still looked good to me. I could put my Bingo win towards it and call it an early birthday present. I'd raid the Edinburgh Festival fund.

I went home and did some research on the Internet, then when I was satisfied the Eee would suit my purpose, I took a bus to PC World.

There the first salesman I asked made sounds which I took to mean he'd go off to see if they had them in stock. I never saw him again.

The second was much more helpful, cheerful even, and looked on his computer catalogue to see which colours they had in stock: pink, blue, green, white and grey. He didn't even try to talk me into a pink one, although they had six of those.

It seems to fit my purpose. I plug my data stick into one of the USB ports and open up a file to work on, then save it to continue on the normal-sized laptop when I get home. So far I've only used it on the park. The keyboard's a bit small and takes some getting used to. It's got Wifi so I should be able to check emails once I get it configured. (If you click twice on the picture and then slide it round you can get a close-up)

This afternoon I'll take it down to my local library. I have an idea they don't make a charge for using their Broadband Internet connection.

At least they are fairly helpful there. They even have card on the counter that you can fill in if they don't come up to standard as regards being polite and helpful. Seems to me they could introduce that scheme in computer shops.

7pm

No probs surfing the Web at my local library where the Wifi connection is free. The IT-savvy librarian was very excited about the Eee. 'You're very trendy, Madam. Did you know Stephen Fry has one of those?'

Martello Beach Resort


We had a cold stay of it, mid-April, at a caravan site in Clacton - myself, son and two grandchildren. At least the Martello Tower inspired me to write a short story. Years ago I visited one famous in literary annals: the Martello Tower on the coast near Dublin. That was wildly romantic, with steep rocks and a pool where James Joyce swam in his youth.

My son brought an 'Essex 2008' brochure, mainly stuffed with notices of Summer events. I read that 103 of these Martello towers were built between 1805 and 1812 in case Napoleon invaded. Essex was thought to be so vulnerable that two were built within a mile or so of one another. I can see the attraction of landing on those flat shingly beaches. The towers themselves , though, are not at all attractive; they're squat and cement-coloured, like fish-and-chip-shop steak puddings. Mostly they're derelict and this one seemed deserted, as if turned out of its mould onto a patch of derelict caravan site near the ugly sea wall. Apparently it's used as a 'community resource' - the odd structure on the top is with the sloping roof is used for watching birds, I think.

Roy stayed behind in London as he was still recovering from 'flu, and I wished I'd taken a hot water bottle. I'm still working on the story, hopeful it will suit one of the women's magazines I've been studying. The children enjoyed the pool at the club house, and I liked splashing around although it was really too shallow for serious swimming. Clacton was a featureless town without the seedy frontage or romantic old town pubs of Hastings, the cultural attractions of Brighton or Whitstable's oysters. It was too cold for walking, and anyway my grand-daughter doesn't like to, so we watched interviews with Marathon runners on the TV and kept the gas fire turned up high. Shame the heat never reached my bedroom, at the other end of the van. The walls are not much thicker than cardboard.

On Sunday afternoon it was remarkably easy to park in a Clacton side street to visit a run-down aquarium on the pier, entrance fee a very resaonable £2. They could hardly have charged more, considering that the main tank was under repair. I felt sorry for the ugly lumpfish, squatting in the murky depths like half-deflated grey balloons with rows of carbuncles along their sides and gaping botoxed lips. They were surrounded by mini-shoals of agressive silver hake, dashing from one end of the tank to the other. Further along the pier the children filled transparent plastic figurines with layers of coloured grit, my grandaughter choosing a heart with a lace attached. 'Look, grandma, a present for mummy'.

By the time we went home she'd handled it so much that the layers had mixed together.


The evening entertainment was Bingo, then a giant rabbit leading the kiddies in line dancing with a misogynist magician to follow. Maybe he was just jaundiced, but it was a bit early in the season for that. I didn't care by then as I'd won £100 for a 'full house', although young Sam had to help me keep track of the numbers. He was duly rewarded.

I've done more reviewing than fiction writing this month, mainly of French films, and reported on some China-related talks. I also joined an excellent 'live' writing group which inspired me to write two stories, one of which I posted to WriteWords. It attracted fewer negative comments than the usual run, so I'm quite cheered.

Yesterday was so warm I took my new mini-laptop to the park. It was too hot to work in the pavilion cafe garden so I went into the cafe itself but as I half expected I attracted admirers - well, one admirer who was in his late fifties/early sixties maybe but had a fine head of wavy grey hair and good taste in shirts.

'Excuse me, but I couldn't help noticing the machine you are using, and wonder where you bought it.'

(Did anyone think it was my personal allure ? You can lower your eyebrows now)

I told him all about it, and I'll do the same here when I've had time to take a photo of it to include with my next post - maybe tomorrow.

I was in bed with flu for most of last week. I cancelled an interview I was supposed to conduct this morning with the author of a gruesome-killings novel set in Hongkong. It'll have to be done by phone later in the week. What a shame. I was quite looking forward to meeting this Devon-born woman who ran away from home aged 16 and got involved with triads after being addicted to heroin(she was only trying to score ampethamines, so let that be a lesson) It's called The Trophy Taker, a reference to the villain's penchant for taking souvenirs of his victims, except in this case they are no items of underwear but body parts. Hopefully I'll write it up for Dimsum.

I have another review outstanding, although I've nearly done that, an autobiography called Blue China about a half-Italian half-Chinese woman born in Shanghai c.1940. She's a classmate of mine and I'm meeting her in Chinatown tomorrow for lunch. One thing, if a Chinese person invites you, you know they'll be paying. There'll be a lot of pushing food round plates, though. Rosemary, or Bamboo, to use her pen-name, is an impossible glamorous ex-model and I've still not recovered my appetite.

I have to finish a write up a of show I saw last Sunday, before the flu kicked in. Called East Meets West it featured The Chinese Elderly Art Group from Beijing. A troupe of septuagenarians cavorted about the stage of the Queen's Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue, performing traditional folk dances. That's where daily xigong exercises gets you.

My copy of the Goldsmiths Alumnus magazine called Goldlink 30, arrived, containing my report on a talk I there before Christmas. 'Sounded as if it was very boring'. Thanks, Roy. It's a trendily-designed alumni mag with a picture of a girl blowing bubble-gum on the front. So I'm feeling quite positive.

I'm going on a caravan weekend in Essex with the grandchildren. A sign I'm feeling better, this morning I went up to Stanford's, in Long Acre, to get an ordnance survey map of the area. As I went in I heard a young man ask an assistant, 'Do you have a map of London?'

Welcome Spin-offs

Whoopee! I earned a little money from three separate sources this month - all indirectly connected with my writing.

First up was escorting 15 media personnel from Shenzhen on a tour down-river to Greenwich, taking in the Changing of the Guards. I was nominated by my ex Chinese tutor . 'I remembered you lived over there' she emailed.

I've had some modest success in exploiting my interest in Chinese having written a book about film and some articles. Revently I've written and am sending out a book based on living in China. I had a letter only this morning from a publisher to say I should submit via an agent. Grrr....

I'm sure that if it were not for the writing spin-offs I'd have given up Chinese ages ago. It's quite gruelling, so motivation needs constant boosts.

All, the same, I'd advise any writer to pick an obscure subject like Chinese film or woodrot in Byzantine tryptiches for a short route to publishing success, albeit in a rather specialist field. Fortunately, China's become fashionable so I'm hopeful of selling my book. Not sure about the Byzantine Tryptiches.

The Shenzhen people were charming and considering they'd only arrived in London the day before, full of beans. I showed them Leicester Square where they took photos of one another by Shakespeare's statue. Next to Trafalgar Square for more photos in front of lions and fountains and then we had a chilly half hour wait outside Buckingham Palace. As we watched the tops of brass helmets go by, 'I expect you've seen this hundreds of times' said the breathless interpeter. I tried to look like a royalist. I'd been more confident in Trafalgar Square burbling on about our 'great naval hero'.

After that I got a free Chinese lesson all the way to Greenwich on the boat. The guests were in their thirties, and mostly married with one child each, left in the care of grandparents. The parents, all 'rising stars' in Chinese TV media, are in London for one-month long course on UK media, with weekend cultural outings.

Shenzhen is an affluent city. One of the women received news by mobile during the boat-ride that her car, stolen just before she let China, had just been found. The others all confirmed they had cars back home. I was casting envious looks at the photographic equipment some of the men were carrying. I'm thinking of upgrading via the Tesco catalogue to improve my pixel count.

Shenzhen is the first of three cities to feature in the China Design Now exhibition at the V&A, and much the best of the three, in my opionion.

http://www.vam.ac.uk/exhibitions/future_exhibs/china_design_now/index.html

I regained my strength and warmed up over a Vietnamese lunch in Greenwich before tacking the steep hill up to the observatory. More photos, this time standing with one foot in the east and one in the west. The wind was strong on either side of the meridian and whistled through indiscriminately. Roy had met us off the boat, as he's the one with the Greenwich Guide credentials, and it was good to share the responsibility as the group scattered alarmingly in the grounds of Flamsteed House.

We went back to town on the bus as it was getting late. Leaving us at Waterloo Bridge the interpreter explained she was staying in North London and would be reporting early next day. We said goodby to our charges under festive red lanterns outside a Chinatown supermarket. I was concerned they might not find their way back to their hostel in Bloomsbury but the one who spoke the best English assured me they'd be OK and promised she'd ring me from there on their return.

We were exhausted, and blew half the profits immediately on spaghetti and a glass of wine each at Bella Pasta. I got paid £80, which after tax came to about £62. There was a message on the answerphone at home.

Another entry on my online banking page was for £65 was labelled ALCS and had me pondering until the ALCS magazine arrived next day. It means Author's Licensing and Collection Society , which monitors and collects fees for library borrowings and photocopying. My film book appears on a few 'required reading' lists so it pays out a modest annual fee.

The last, and to my mind most indirectly-connected-to-writing payment was a cheque for £5 for sending a photo of myself to The People's Friend. They have a page called something like Down Memory Lane which I'd noticed when I was browsing the short stories to see if I might write one to their specs. I've been practising like mad.

I sent three pics, thinking the best by far was a snap of my mother escorting me and my sisters along the prom at Blackpool, c. 1950. She'd bought us candyfloss, and I was down to chewing the stick. Another showed myself and my two sisters standing on cobbles outside our home. But no, they preferred the studio-posed one where I'm sitting, aged six months, alongside a stuffed dog which looks the more intelligent one of the pair. My mum is in the picture, too, but she can't be seen - she's holding me upright from behind whilst the photographer does his stuff.

The letter with the cheque tells me they'll send me a copy of the issue in which the photo appears.

So even if the The People's Friend does reject the story I sent them, I shan't mind so much. I don't see how I can feel badly about a magazine that wants my picture, and the spin-off will encourage me to try again.

After the Storm

I was awakened around 5.30am by what I thought were aeroplanes, but the noise kept going at the same level. I remembered then about the storm warning. Looking out at the trees, I could see they weren't moving much, but even though our flat's on the second floor we're quite a way down-hill from the heath. Still, the windows were being battered enough to dissuade us from walking down the High Street to the swimming pool.

Later we walked up to the park, where so much damage had been done in the great storm of October 1987. It was pretty breezy across the heath - at one point Roy, struggling with an umbrella, warned me not to walk so near to the narrow road that runs north-south along the western edge. He was afraid I might be blown onto the road in front of a passing car.

All seemed well on the park - no trees fallen over, as far as we could see. We came back on the DLR and as we were walking from the station we saw this heap of abandoned umbrellas. Just as well that we weren't out earlier.

Bridge Cup


Well, for all my writing projects are looking dismal, at least I can report a trumph at bridge. This is ironic, given that I'd decided to give up playing - at least in clubs, where a recent encounter went thus:

Opponent 1 : Why on earth did you play that card? It was a stupid thing to do.

Me: Yes, I knew straight away that I shouldn't have done it.

Opponent 2: It really lets your partner down. She's such a good player, too.

Me: Don't worry, she's OK about it. I told her I was rusty because I hadn't played for a while, and at least this way she gets to play.

Opponent 2: That's no excuse! You've been playing for years.

She's right , of course. It must have been the early seventies when I first sat down to play in County Hall on Monday 'tuition night'.

It was a bad experience from the start, I should have given up then. I'd only gone because we were broke and I'd read in a GLC magazine that teachers were entitled to play there. My husband said he'd played a lot of cards in his national service days, so we'd give it a go.

He seemed born for the game, and plays four times a week now but I always struggled, glad of any excuse not to play. 'Not having any mathematical sense is a real drawback. Another is the kind of people the game seems to attract, although most are really kind and helpful. It's the few snappy ones who spoil things.

That first time I was sitting south, with the sun's rays glancing off the Thames straight into my eyes. No wonder I couldn't see the card I was trying to get from dummy until I lifted it.

'You touch the card, you play the card!' came a sharp voice from my left, and so I did.

Later on a fight broke out when he'd moved on to another table. I couldn't help being glad that he seemed to be getting the worst of it.

Anyway, my kindly ex bridge partner insists I keep the cup we won by some lucky fluke in a competition and which he collected at the AGM. He seemed worried about having charge of it, although I can't say it looks very valuable. It's changed colour since I got it, having taken on a brassy tinge. I suppose I'll have to polish it up before returning it at the end of the year.

Happy Year of the Rat ( or Mouse if you're Taiwanese)

I was a bit puzzled to get an email from Taiwanese friend Luke, wishing me 'Happy New Year of the Mouse!' Up 'til then I'd thought it was the Year of the Pig', misled by a badly-drawn poster in a Gerrard Street shop window.

'No, no, it's the Year of the Rat!' insisted the elderly Singaporean who sits next to me in the Soho class. I had to agree, as for one thing he should know, and for another someone in the same class gave me a leaflet about New Year-related events in London. On the front was a smiling cartoon creature which could have been either but it was clearly labelled 'Welcome to the Year of the Rat.

Meantime in class the noise levels were even higher than usual as New Year sweets and greetings were exchanged. I was a bit late getting there because there was a pair of lions - well, costumes with men inside - in Soho, visiting every shop in turn. The crowd-attracting drum and cymbals plus banner-carrying bodyguards were blocking the pavements.

I suspect that 'shu' is one of those Chinese animal names that doesn't distinguish between different species, - like 'yang' , my own Chinese zodiac sign, which can be a sheep or a goat. It's surprising, really, if there's a choice in the matter that anyone should choose 'rat' over 'mouse', especially in London with its plague-ridden past.

Luke says the characteristics of the mythical animal are not connected with those of the actual one. Just as well, really.

In The South Bank Centre Guide there's a notice about Jeanette Winterson, Ali Smith and Jackie Kay onstage at the Queen Elizabeth Hall in March. The only work of theirs I've read, that I can remember, is Oranges are not the only Fruit.

Just what I need - an incentive to read some modern women's fiction. Just lately I've read books by men, and some female crime writers. I never used to get on with chick lit even when I was a chick - or a bird as men who risked getting a bollocking in the 60s might call me. Come to think of it, that was mainly in films. I don't think I ever met anyone who said it. Maybe even then the media just had its own life and language.

I book a ticket online and decide to go to Charing X Library to beat the rush for the books. On my way out I grab the book on the Vienna Woods serial killer I've finished and a novel I'd read ten pages of. I'd only picked it up in the library because the front said 'Short-listed for the Man Booker Prize 2005' The heroine's a twelve year old girl on holiday in a cottage in Norfolk with her family, a terrific little snob who keeps referring to everything as 'substandard' and contaminated because used by other people. Also, the chapters start with the second half of sentences, which seems a bit pointless.

On the train I have a sudden thought. I take the novel from my rucsack and look at the cover. It's called The Accidental but it's not the title that I'm looking at so much as the author's name - Ali Smith!

It must be an example of how the retina can take in information without the brain engaging and then ping- it all comes to the forefront when required.

Anyway, I read 100 pages last night and it isn't all as bad as the first chapter. The second is from the point of view of the girl's older brother who was indirectly responsible for a classmate's suicide. He decides to kill himself.

The third chapter's from the point of view of the stepfather, a college lecturer and serial seducer of his students. He's about to carry on with the cleaner at the holiday cottage.

The next is the wife, who seems to know all about the husband's indiscretion and is an academic herself. It's all a bit alienating. All the chapters have the half-sentence start. I think it must be modelled on Shakespeare's method of starting his plays in the middle of conversations.

The library had another one, in paperback, called Hotel World with a suspiciously Barbie pink cover, one by Jeanette Winterson called Tanglewreck which looks a bit whimsical and some Jackie Kay short stories called Wish I was Here. That's handy as I'm into reviewing short stories now, but there's a strange comment on the back, by a Guardian writer : 'She gives hugely of her talent; pours it onto the page.' As if a writer might think to herself, 'No, I'll be a bit mean with my talent. After all, how do I know they'll be worthy?'

Doris Lessing is on this month but I heard her speak years ago in Singapore. Besides, as I used to read her books when I was younger it wouldn't give me the same incentive. I should have time to read a few by March 5th.

Yesterday's Independent had a little booklet called A New You, Part 1: The No Diet Diet. Just the thing to settle down with after a night at the Bromley Cafe Rouge. As it was Mr T's retirement treat I'd over-indulged. Only one glass of wine, though, because I was driving us back to Lewisham.

Sitting in front of a computer for hours, as enny fule kno, is not good for the corpus. What's to be done? This slim volume sounds promising, although the drawback is I have to buy the Independent every day for a week to complete the series.

The preamble pours scorn on dieting. Good. Continue with the fried egg sandwiches, then. Next there's a quiz to see whether you are ready to go to 'embark on phase one'. I try the questions out on Soldier Neddy as he tries to get his vest off without falling over.

I'm already sceptical as he doesn't fit the author's profile of thin people. Roy is usually thin, despite the after dinner python-swallowed-a-goat bulge of his stomach. According to Prof Fletcher he will: 'See opportunities where others see barriers', will 'have a go'', 'challenge himself daily' and 'try things and experiment' . This is all quite the opposite of his normal approach. It's true he 'can be a bit of a social chameleon'. I once threatened to give our address to a Scout Master in a youth hostel so Roy could prove he really did relish a week in the Lake District under canvas, as I'd heard him claim.

The quiz answers prove he is a right stick-in-the-mud. Or, in his case, stuck-in-a-vest. He definitely won't qualify to embark on phase one. What that is I have yet to discover.

I've deviated twice this week from the Cineworld Path of Righteousness. First time was excusable, I think, as they didn't change the programme after Christmas and I couldn't face another dollop of fantasy. One of them is even called 'Enchantment'.

The film Roy chose on Saturday turned out to be much the same, though, in terms of wish-fulfilment . It was 'Closing the Ring' about a woman who felt she had to go ahead and marry her husband's best friend because that's what he'd decided before he was shot down over Belfast in WW2. It was directed by 84 year old Richard Attenborough, who is supposed to be a 'national treasure' but I've never liked him since he was in the union- bashing 'The Angry Silence'. He was well-cast as Pinkie, the slimy criminal in 'Brighton Rock'.

We had the auditorium to ourselves at the Peckham Multiplex, which was odd considering it was Saturday afternoon, but I suppose all the kiddies were watching the fantasy films.

Yesterday's jaunt to a pricey arthouse cinema was less excusable, but I thought it would be 'educational' , ie with Spanish dialogue.

When Roy announced he was going to see a film called 'Stellet Licht' at the Renoir I thought good, I can go to back the Tate Modern where we saw half an exhibition the other day. Then, when I was looking up start times for him, I saw it was directed by a Mexican director and I changed my mind. Bound to have lots of Spanish dialogue.

The German title and Mexican setting were in a way the least odd aspects of the film. It started with a long drawn-out sunrise followed by an ill-favoured couple and six children in an Amish-style kitchen taking as long to say a silent grace as it did for them to eat their cornflakes , more or less in silence apart from 'Pass the milk, Johan'. It was all so slow I could hardly believe it. The last time I'd seen anything like it was a Tarkovsky film where someone waded across a lake with a lighted candle.

A formulaic although unlikely love-triangle (the 'mistress' was even plainer than the wife) was presented as a kind of Greek tragedy with a touch of magic realism thrown in.

Turned out they were speaking a form of German because they were Mennonite settlers, a persecuted religious sect, living near Chihuahua. I found this out from the Internet. At least I recognised from the little Spanish dialogue there was , mainly the radio in a tractor repair shop, and from the maize crops, that it was set in Mexico. Roy said he had no idea where it was. He'd arrived after the maize harvest in Tonghua. But he liked it, and could I look up the review in Sight and Sound.

Halelluja! He's resuming his bridge programme this afternoon after a whole month off. No more twilight tourism for a while, and after my morning stint I'll be off to town with my flask and butties.

A Noble Calling


At the check-out desk a female assistant scolds her helper. A pale-faced girl, aged about ten, is rubbing the book- spines back and forth across a de-magnetizing plate.


'No, no, you only have to pass it over once!' The woman has a French accent.

I smile as the girl raises her eyes. 'So enthusiastic! She'll make an excellent librarian some day'

'Huh! I hope she has a better future than this!'

I'm surprised and say, half joking, 'What? Providing the world's knowledge to the public? What nobler calling could there be?'

The woman relents a little and shrugs. 'Well, yes, the job has it's good points. ' Small- boned and efficient, she reminds me of a down-trodden version of Stephane Audran. 'I like to talk to the customers about their choices.' She glances at my pile of books, the top one a collection of short stories called 'Paris Noir'.

'I've been to Paris a few times, and the stories all have a Paris setting,' I explain.

'The woman looks rueful. 'Ah, yes, I lived there seven years, until this July.'

I stepped back in mock horror. 'What? How can you bear to have left?'

Another shrug and a resigned frown. 'Pfft! I was made redundant!' She turned to the girl. 'She prefers the school here, though. The change was the right way round - it would have been hard the other way. In France the students' bags are so heavy with homework they all have back problems. Here, she does nothing all day!' The girl is nodding happily.

My husband brings a book and we have a discussion about Camberwell, where the woman tells me she lives and where my husband was born. The advantage of growing up there, I explain to her, is that it made Roy forever indifferent to his surroundings, no matter how drab.

With my checked-out books the girl hands over a hand-drawn book-mark, illustrated with a Christmas tree and, on the back, 'Happy New Year from Charing X Library.'

'How lovely! Thank you so much!'

'Mm- it's what she does', the woman says half-apologetically, looking pleased despite herself.

As I go I wish her Happy New Year and hope she soon finds somewhere more scenic to live.

'What, with the price of property in London? You are joking! '

Roy reminds me that Camberwell these days is pretty pricey. One of my closest friends, also a rather waspish Frenchwoman, lives there and could make a killing if she sold her home, a council flat in a terrace of Edwardian town houses. In fact, she likes the raffish atmosphere of the area.

I'm Glad That's Over

Of all the joints in all the world, the Salon de Juegos at Las Terrazzas was the last place I expected an introduction to Kate Brannigan.

Since I gave up teaching I don't care for holidays . Even a week seems too long to be away and it was quite a rush to get the reviews finished. In fact, I didn't finish writing about a November talk at Goldsmiths . The deadline wasn't until the 20th December but it wasn't easy to continue after a gap.

I think in future I'll settle for weekends in places with theatres - maybe I'll compile a list from the Internet. Even a trawl through a list of places in an atlas will be a start

What a pleasant bit of research. Off the top of my head I thought Stratford (upon Avon) Chichester and Scarborough I'll work my way up to a week for the Edinburgh Festival. That's a good idea - literary festivals. If the overdraft isn't too bad.

One advantage of being away was the chance for long-stretch reading. We'd decided to avoid check-in hell at Gatwick by taking only hand-luggage so book space was limited. By the time I'd put all the gadgetry in my case - hair-dryer, DVD and CD players and disks and chargers, plus the Chinese text book I'm working on, and Michael Billington's history of British theatre since 1945 , there wasn't much room for clothes, never mind fiction.

So I was thrilled to come across a Val McDermid volume as soon as we arrived at the accommodation, on the outskirts of Carmen del Puerto. It included two novels, called 'Crack Down' and 'Star Struck'. Even her single novels resemble half-bricks, so this was particulary good value at my favourite price : completely free. The battered cover had a printed sticker advertising The Bookswop, a venue I noticed later at the start of the 'Strip' , a line of shops and restaurants stretching for miles beside the 'playa grande'. Somebody had left the book on the snooker table in the Salon del Juegos. Readers, I lifted it.

The Goldsmiths talk was called 'Investing in the Creative Industries'. Industry makes me think of factories and it wasn't until I got home and did some research that I even found out what they are. There were some defininitions in Wikipedia, referring to things like the music business, films and other performance art. Funding issues are not ones I've thought much about, although they're mentioned enough, with bitterness, by Fringe directors. I don't know why I offered to write it . Maybe it was because the editor of the alumnus magazine was a particularly pleasant member of the Goldsmiths writing course. It was badly written, so I'm hoping it hides in a corner.

I did keep manage to fill a small excercise books with descriptions of Puerto del Carmen, suprisingly quiet and scenic, quite unlike the Costa del Sol. I always feel a bit dazed and disorientated in hot and sunny places, and the sense of lassitude is increased partly because I have to suit my pace to Roy's.

He exaggerates when he says I'm normally like a whirlwind - it seems to me I spend hours cooped up in my study at home, but I dash around the flat in between times, getting ready to go out. His own life is so regular: long slow breakfasting, a walk to Greenwich or Blackheath for 2-3 hours in cafes reading bridge books, then a session of actual play at one or another club in the afternoon. He meets up with an ex-BT colleague on Wednesdays, always in the same cafe near the RA, to go to a film or an exhibition. Once a month there's another crony, an ex bridge partner, who comes up from Epsom and they sit in the National Theatre foyer and chat. It would drive me mad. No wonder I am short-tempered after a few days of adapting my pace to his. It's what the Chinese call 'Growing old hand in hand together'.

Every day we walked down to the port to drink coffee overlooking the slipway of the tiny harbour. We read and I watched and photographed the wading birds and one or two fishermen on the rocks below. They seem to catch a lot of fish. A heron-like bird was identifed in an email from daughter Catherine as one of two types of egret. It was much more active than a heron - stalking about in the shallows and sticking its neck out at an odd angle to bring its head parallel with the water surface when it spotted a fish.

This is me in Greenwich Park wearing the purple jacket I bought for a job interview for one day's teaching in Dartford. I decided against it before the interview. I decided by the time I'd done the preparation and the marking, not to mention meetings, it would add up to more time than I want to spend not writing.

I was determined not to have the same trouble as last year with the London Film Festival . Feeling I had to review every film I saw I drove myself demented with the work. It was so bad I gave up film reviewing for six months.

The festival only lasts for sixteen days, after all, and it takes me, average, five hours a review, with research and checking, so it's practically a whole day's work. I decided I'd cover only the Chinese films, but there were at least eight of them! Roy sensibly suggested I try not to review each one individually but try to rationalise, as he puts it. Anyway, if I don't count the non-mainland films and lump the rest into one article, which I'll send to Dimsum, I think that's me acquitted.

Besides, I've got my new drama responsibilities to think of. I finished off an article about the King's Head Theatre for the My Cultural Life website, which has its official 'final' relaunch on Monday, ie we need to re-submit photos before then, because Ali the site-owner thinks at the moment that it's the mug-shots of inhouse writers that are letting the site down. She rejected a couple I sent because of poor quality , and I know my camera doesn't have enough pixels. I blame my sister who told me a few years back I could get a digital camera at Argos for only £99 and I hadn't even heard of pixels then. Anyway, I'm going to get myself one as a Christmas present, although it'll be too late for Ali's relaunch.

I met a My Cultural Life fellow writer, Alan Diment, at the last festival film on Thursday, and he said Ali's own picture looks like a studio portrait. It probably is because she used to act, I think. Well, she used to be engaged to a leading actor who's in a West End show that's just opened. Alan agreed with me that it would cost too much to get professional photos done for the site.

In fact, I've overdone going out on rainy nights. I've had some kind of virus since Monday which makes me cough a lot, probably from mingling in packed venues. I was wandering around Shoreditch on Tuesday night , looking for the Amnesty International offices where I heard Jung Chang talking about problems with getting her books published in China. I'm not surprised, especially by the latest, 'Mao : The Untold Story' where he emerges as a real villain. The lecture theatre was packed to standing room at the back. They kept asking Chang questions about things she didn't know, but she just ignored them and answered the questions she had in mind to answer or told 'amusing' anecdotes I've heard before, like how she learned English from sailors at Shanghai docks.

I turned in the wrong direction leaving the the back alley location afterwards and wandered up Shoreditch High Street to find a bus stop, then retracing my steps because I needed a bus going the other way. No chance of finding Old Street Tube again.

At least I managed to get the talk written up the next day.

I was supposed to go to a fringe play in Battersea on Friday and had even accepted the kind offer of an extra ticket for Roy. I felt so tired I couldn't face it and have had to postpone until next Tuesday. This isn't good idea with a fringe show as it only runs to the 17th.

Everything Starting Again

I've been busy seeing and revewing films, plays and the odd exhibition, such as the 'First Emperor: China's Terracotta Warrors' at the British Museum. It was uncanny, being so close to the figures which had been buried for more than 2,ooo years.

I went to the London Film Festival Launch on the 13th and my press badge came in the post a few days ago. In theory I could go to all the daytime screenings for free as well as the Press Shows but after last year I'm going to be much more careful. I saw far too many and didn't allow enough time to write reviews. It even put me off reviewing for a while. Well, I'm older and wiser now - I hope. It doesn't start until the 17th October. I've ticked off the Chinese films in the catalogue and they alone are enough to keep me busy.

Besides, my language classes have started so I need to set aside some study time.

A good week.

Two nice happenings this week. First, I got an A grade for my GCSE Spanish - a sure indication, some would say that standards are not what they were.

I joined an evening class because the council built an adult college two minutes' walk away from where I live. I'd attended a beginners' class at Goldsmiths in the past - I took it up as an antidote to Chinese - and I like to go to Spain when I can. We've had a few homeswaps over the years.

I was surprised to learn it involved taking an exam. What does a retiree need with a qualification aimed at sixteen year olds? Never mind. The teacher, Carmen, was so encouraging and so conscientious that it would have seemed churlish to refuse . So I duly set about learning to express why I like discos - 'Me gusta mucha la musica!' and how I help my parents around the house.

Since the class disbanded I've been going to a Wednesday morning U3A session in a house at Herne Hill, where the emphasis tends to be on spoken language and the cultural aspects of Latin America. The half-dozen class members, older than me, are quite fluent. I join in as best I can, sticking to the present tense and resorting to French and English when I get stuck. They will surely roll their eyes in disbelief when I tell them my result.

When I announced I'd booked a couple of weeks on a cheap package in Lanzarote for December class member Miguel said they speak very bad Spanish there. He's just back from a few weeks stay in California, where he had plenty of chance to practise his Spanish. I read somewhere it's overtaking English as the majority language in the US.

The other good happened on Thursday, at a pub in Clekenwell. I was appointed 'resident- in-house-writer, along with a couple of others , for a website called My Cultural Life. It's about events in London and I've been posting reviews on it for a year or so. Ali, the young woman whose idea it was, designated certain areas of responsibility to the three of us she's chosen to cover specific areas of the 'magazine' section . I was surprised but pleased to be asked to cover 'theatre' . It'll be great to get back into a world I used to love, and I won't have to pay to see the things I review. This is the only perk of the job so far, although Ali is murmuring about eventual revenue from advertisers.

There was a third good thing this week - I learned that the back gate at Lewisham station is to be pemanently left open, so we no longer have to go down the steps to the underpass and the the long way round to get to out of the station. No doubt I wasn't the only one to write in to complain - and receive a very irrelevant reply from South East Rail management. My letter to the Evening Standard was probably more effective, though. They have this column for people to highlight failings in the transport system. It's nice to think that if enough people protest these companies take notice.

It even looks as if the weather will keep fine for the Notting Hill Carnival.

Back to Normal

We've been hosting an ex-student of mine from Singapore on his first visit to the UK, to attend a Medieval Literature conference in Leeds.

I had to turn down his original request to stay for eight days. He was with us for three days before and one day after the conference. Our flat is small, and the spare room doubles as a study. A combined bathroom and loo don't help, but that wasn't too bad.

I didn't have to paint the bedroom beforehand - that was my choice, but we're having a home-swap with my nephew in August so it seemed a good idea. His kids will be sleeping in it and it hasn't been painted in the twelve years we've been here. I managed to reassemble my desk in the main bedroom and apart from Roy complaining of the clutter it minimised the inconvenience as I could access my laptop and files.

I enjoyed sight-seeing part although alarm bells rang when Jiajun emailed to say he preferred to be escorted around. As it was I'd had to do all the Internet research about National Express coach times and costs, ditto trains from Birmingahm to Stratford as he was going there on the way.

I decided on day 2 after pointing out Admiralty arch as we stood in Traflagar Square the day before, that could find Buckingham Palace and go to the Changing of the Guard on his own. Shame the Tour de France interfered and he had to go when he came back from Leeds. I enjoyed the Sacred Texts exhibition at the British Library, with Jemima Khan's wedding dress in the 'customs and traditions' section - maybe she was still married when the exhibtion was at the planning stage. There was an interesting little video showing how to apply gold leaf to a manuscript, and the books themselves - Islamic, Judaic and Christian, shone out from the cases.

I enjoyed the out-of-town trips best. Jiajun reminded me that the big Singapore hobby is window shopping in malls, but we couldn't fit in a visit to Bluewater and he had to make do with the one in Lewisham. When I'd asked what he wanted to do in London otherwise he named the the tomb of the Black Prince andthe seaside. As a Singaporean living in Calgary - about which he complained vociferously - he says he feels landlocked. I was at a loss, until a wise friend told me I could do both on the same day, so Roy, Jiajun and I went by car first to Canterbury, because I found out that's where the tomb of the Black Prince is, and then on to Whitstable. Canterbury was crowded as the Tour de France team was expected! We had lunch in a fourteenth century inn called The Three Tuns. Jiajun said he didn't think he'd have the roast dinner because he didn't have a sweet tooth, which was a diplomatic way of saying he didn't want meat and dessert on the same plate, When I explained about Yorkshire pudding it was OK.

I chose Whitstable because it was a short detour on the way back to London, but we didn't get there until around 4pm. It was a hot day and I enjoyed a paddle in the sea at with Jiajun, picking my way gingerly over the shingle. It's a pleasant spot, with tall black fish-smoking sheds as a backdrop to the hundreds of small boats above the water line. The beach shelves quite steeply where we were, near the harbour, and is divided into fifty fot wide sections by wooden breakwaters. Roy was really happy because we arrived just as the stall holders halved the price of oysters. 25p each for the fine big specimens was quite a treat. Not for me, because I don't like them, but maybe I'll gve them a try in future. 'Surely, Sheila, we can afford to come down and stay overnight one weekend.'

What with eating-out expenses, even at cheap places like pubs and the local fish and chippie it's been costly, especially as Jiajun is on such a tight budget. I bought his his travel cards for London and although arriving Gatwick in the rush hour meant I couldn't meet him I drove him back there to save him the train fare. Going to the theatre was out of the question, but fortunately he hadn't asked. We settled for Harry Potter at West India Quay.

It was interesting to hear Jiajun's plans for his future in academia - he hates teaching so will try to minimise that in any future post. He's thirty and faces another year to qualify for PhD candidacy and then another four on the PhD itself - some aspect of medieval literature- but can't face living in Calgary so long, where, he says it snows in nine months of the year and people stay indoors.

After a while I began to think the academic life makes people very inward-looking and removed from the outside world, but maybe he's always been a bit that way. He kept in touch over the years mainly by writing about films. He was cheerful enough and kept up a stream of highspeed chat which is typical of Singaporeans. He works a couple of days at a pharmacy - he brought me some nice body lotion as a present- and some further hours as a research assistant at the university.

!Adios Amigos!

I'll miss the Spanish Class, especially as it was only two minutes from home. I felt had to go to something as they built the new college but it was stressful to do exams. I'll stick to U3A next year.

I've already written a short story set in Spain and maybe I'll do a whole novel when I've finished the one set in China.

Thank God That's Over!


I took my Advanced Fiction portfolio to Goldsmiths submissions office, in the the old Deptford town hall.


New Cross was dismal and I waited whilst the assistant searched he cupboard for the right folder.



Thank goodness that's over. I don't know why I put myself through these hoops. I'm in the middle of Spanish GCSE exams, too. I've done the oral already. It was OK except that the teacher, Carmen, was waving her arms about and I only realised later she meant I should use the past tense for one of the answers. The listening exam is onThursday afternoon so I'm going to see 'Goya's Ghost' tomorrow night to 'ambiencise' myself.



Last night at bridge someone said, 'Oh, splendid! I do think people of our age should continue to learn!'




It's not the learning I mind so much as exams and deadlines. I'm not going to have any next year; after all the courses I'm going to concentrate on writing to sell.

The tiny balcony by my bed is useless for sitting out. It's really a kind of fire-escape, although we'd have to tie sheets together then jump onto the threadbare patch of grass below.

Plastic nut containers are destroyed by squirrels but metal ones keep bluetits busy for ages. It was a mistake to buy the net of peanuts and fat-balls because the peanuts were released almost immediately by the squirrels. Fat-balls lasted longer and attracted birds big enough to perch on the pots and reach the net- mainly wood pigeons, with the odd jay and magpie.

Despite a spell of flu, generated, I think by a coach trip to the north and another to Brighton in the same week, I have written quite a few website reviews since my last entry. I was really put off by the the pressures of the BFI course last year, then by the London Film Festival. I saw too many films and didn't allow enough time to write between screenings.

Now I'm writing for about four websites and usually attend advance press screenings.

Dimsum is a website about China for the Chinese community in Britain. The arts editor is someone I met on the BFI course, and it's such a well-respected site I can mention it and get into China-related things for free. A couple of weeks back I went to the Tate Liverpool and reviewed an exhibition called The Real Thing: Contemporary Art in China. A few days before I'd been asked to contribute a piece on The Curse of the Golden Flower so that's on the same page:

http://www.dimsum.co.uk/culture/

A film website I write, called Cinemattraction, for is New York based. I reviewed 'Mr Bean's Holiday' and, more recently,

'Dans Paris' and 'The Singer' :

http://www.cinemattraction.com/

One of my favourite sites is about London events, especially fringe or minority interest is called My Cultural Life and I've written some China-related pieces for them:

http://www.myculturallife.co.uk/authors/126/Sheila-Cornelius

Later in the week I'm going to cover a production of 'The Bald Prima Donna' by a company called Etcetera, in Camden.

I think I've managed to get the balance right now - not to try to do so many reviews that I get overwhelmed and to leave room to develop my fiction writing.

Tales of the Decongested

I was pleasantly surprised when I went into Foyles on the last Friday in March. It was much less chaotic, altogether more roomy and tidy-looking than on my last visit. That was probably a few years ago, as I'd more or less given up trying to buy anything there what with the unhelpful assistants and cumbersome paying procedures. Besides, I've been using the library a lot.

I was there in the evening to listen to short story readings. These take place, apparently on the last Friday of every month at 7.00pm in The Gallery. When I tried to get to The Gallery on the second floor all was as I remembered from the old times. I turned left out of the lift, went as far as I could and when I reached an enquiry desk I was told to go to the opposite end of the building. There I saw four rows of chairs with bright red upholstery ranged in a a shallow arc in front of a platform.

The reading event is called 'Tales of the Decongested' and I'd encouraged one of my Goldsmiths class members to submit a short piece, having obtained the website address from my online writing group, www.writewords.com . He was really surprised to have his piece chosen but hadn't wanted to read it, so persuaded a friend to do so.

The event was well-attended by more than 100 people who filled up all the chairs. There was no wine because, said one of the young organisers, they were still negotiating the alcohol licence. Another sign that the old traditions have not changed too much. The standard of composition and reading was really high so I'll definitely go to the next one, on April 27th. My colleague said later he enjoyed the occasion and would submit again. It remains to be seen whether or not he'll read himself next time.

What I didn't like was that one thoughtless woman had two junior-aged children with her. Why? It wasn't billed as a childrens' event. Maybe the 'tales' of the title misled her - there are lots of library readings for children these days. The subject matter and language of the stories were very unsuitable and the organisers should have warned her.

I thought 'Tales of The Decongested' might be some kind of ironic reference to the traffic congestion charge, but more likely it's a reference to writers' block . I don't really know. The website address is http://www.decongested.com/ You can click to see stories in the archive. My colleague's story is titled 'Penalty Shoot-out', a really funny read.

Roy and I went to see 'L'Amigo de la Familia' (The Family Friend), directed by Paul Sorrentino, at the Renoir yesterday. We'd seen a previous film by this director, 'The Consequences of Love', which was an impressively told story of an ex mafia character stuck in a hotel waiting for a weekly consignment of money. He falls in love with a bar-maid. I liked the air of mystery with which the director surrounds his characters and the unexpected plot developments.

'A Family Friend' is ironically titled, a striking film with surreal tableaux-like images and an intriguing story line, although the title of the former film would suit it just as well. Mostly it was a character study of a grotesque, seventy year old miser,Geremia, who lives with his bedridden mother and preys on the local community as a loanshark whilst pretending to be helping them out of the goodness of his heart. His hobbies include shoplifting and beach combing with a metal detector although he also fishes with a Gino, a man in his forties who dresses in cowboy clothes and dreams of living in Tennessee. One of Geremia's more disgusting traits is his lust for young women - he watches female volleyball players from the window of his flat and then hires a prostitute to act out the game in his bedroom, using balls suspended from the ceiling. He is too mean to pay for an attractive woman, though.

All is well until he decides to take advantage of a local beauty queen whose parents are in his debt to pay for her wedding. She turns out to be more than a match for him. Shot mainly in a small seaside town in Southern Italy it also a night-time scene in Rome - one of the film's most striking shots with three middle-aged men in gladiator cotumes passing the coliseum. A major theme of the film is how dreams and obsessions rule peoples lives, whether it is a passion for bingo, or line-dancing or money. The acting, especially of the lead, was very convincing, a malevolent dwarf-like figure trotting round the neighbourhood with an overcoat draped around his shoulders and a plastic bag swinging like a huge flaccid phallus from an arm in plaster. In the tradition of humanist Italian directors such as De Sica (Bicyle Thieves) and Bertolucci ( The Last Emperor) Sorrentino has compassion for even the most repulsive of his creations.

I'm so annoyed to have lost the little cable that connects my camera to my computer. I took a great shot of City Hall on Wednesday, the first time I've had reason to visit, on a sunny day when so many were strolling and joggingor just hanging about along the river by Tower Bridge.

I should have known it was a waste of time anyway. I'd gone to see a Chinese documentary film that I'd received notice of by email. I must have got the dates mixed up, because the people at the front desk didn't know anything about it, and neither did the assistant downstairs. I asked could I check with the Internet but despite its hi-tech appearance the building is bereft of a computer for public use.

It must be dizzying to work in a circular building where the architects were set on emphasising its roundness - it was hard enough for me to to have to negotiate spiral ramps or come out from the lift to see a yellow wall veering to left and right in a continual curve and not know how long I'd walk before knew I'd chosen the wrong direction. There's something comforting, as I now realise, about a corner you can see ahead, no matter how distant.

Another maddening place where you can never be sure the people on the front desk know what's going on behind them is the School of Oriental and African Studies. After my Chinese class in Soho yesterday I went with Canadian Barbara to confirm there's to be a Beijing Opera show there next Tuesday. It did seem unlikely but someone had sent her an email.

Barbara was surprised when I said I'd go with her but I had made a mistake about the day to meet another sinophile chum, for lunch in Chinatown - at least I'd forgotten to confirm, so now it's to be next week instead. This happens to me a lot lately.

It was another sunny afternoon, with a crowd of international students milling about between the two buildings at the corner of Russell Square and we could hear chatter in a dozen or more languages as we walked up the steps, of first the Brunei Gallery and then the main building. No joy to be had in either - Beijing Opera was not on the schedule. 'Next Tuesday?' asked the counter assistant, hinting that it was an awfully distant date for her to know anything about, and, 'Is it an outside organisation?' as if SOAS has a resident Chinese opera troupe that had escaped her notice.

This morning Barbara tracedthe source of the email and confirmed there is indeed a Beijing Opera performance at SOAS next Tuesday. What's more, it's free. My favourite price,and definitely Barbara's.

I've checked all the other bits of download cable that are about, but I won't go straight out and buy another before I've waited a couple of days. Like most things in my possession for more than about half an hour it has been mislaid and will turn up.

Long Gap between Entries

Can it really be more than a month since I wrote something in this blog? I've been quite active on the writing front with small projects, mainly writing flash fiction and film reviews, and revising short stories. One of these I read out in my new creative writing class, Wednesday nights at Goldsmiths. I felt awkward joining in January, two thirds of the way through the course, and of course most people are much younger than me, but the standard seems high and the teacher's exercises generate at least one idea for a short story each week.

On my bigger projects, the China book and revising novel I have made almost no progress but I've manage half a day's research in the BL most weeks for a story to be set in China, about one of the last Emperor's sisters.

I suppose I've been tied up quite a lot with my language studies - Chinese in particular, but I've made a more determined effort recently. It's a challenge now I'm at a level where half the class are Chinese speakers, but since Canadian Barbara arrived to join us I'm more than ever aware of my shortcomings. It's no good me saying to myself she has two or three hours a day to devote and two other small classes to attend. In fact, my listening and speaking skills are better than hers as she is tone dead, but she definitely has better reading ability because of all the literary translations she does.

I had lunch with former classmate Pam in Chinatown on Thursday after the Frith Street class and she tells me she'll come to daytime classes next year because she'll retire in September. Well, she'll reduce her duties as doctor's receptionist to two days a week so she can come to classes twice a week. We meet near the tiny pagoda-topped pedestal that looks like a miniature bandstand and joke about being mistaken for one of the Chinese prostitutes who loiter there by the shops. They are not glamorous at all, but wear anoraks and trainers.

Carmen the Spanish teacher sets lots of homework, too, which I can see the necessity for with the GCSE exam looming in May - it seems quite soon, especially as we'll get a whole month of holiday before the exam. In fact, it's half term this week - excuse for an extra sheet or two of homework and a chance to celebrate son David's birthday as I'll have an evening free when the rest of the family are available too.

So most days before I even start writing I have an hour or two of language study and fifteen minutes of computer Bridge bidding practice to fit in. In a way I envy these single-minded writers who stay home all day and get on with it. I'd become too bored.

*The picture was added later, recording a heavy snowfall late in the month, when the greyness of my road was transformed.

Re-arranging my work-room took longer than I thought. It's also the spare bedroom and I somehow thought I could swing a six-foot-six bed through 90 degrees to fit a seven foot space. The bed used to fit where the desk is now, lengthways in a long narrow room. I'd moved out the bookscases and contents from the opposite wall. I couldn't turn the bed, of course, and had to dismantle and re-assemble. What you can't see on this picture is another bed, a sort of metal shelf on wheels, with another mattress, that slides underneath. That had to be removed and upended, too. No wonder I couldn't move my right arm above elbow level for about four days! After looking on the Internet I became convinced I had something called 'frozen shoulder' , which is really nasty and can take a year to recover from, but it was just a muscle strain.

I was delighted to find that removing a top shelf and balancing it between the filing cabinet and a chest of drawers made a surface of just the right height for writing. I was steeling myself for a trip to Ikea to buy a desk. The radio/disk player is for the music - usually Mozart -that I put on and then hardly notice except to realise it has come to an end. Anything dramatic or any music with words is too distracting, as is silence.

It's surprising the difference it makes in the sense of space, without having increased the available floor area. A long thin space definitely felt cramped, whereas a square space feels twice the size.

It makes me smile, too, to remember that when I used to play golf, at which I was never much good, I always felt my game would go better after a purchase at the 'pro' shop, even if it were only a new set of tees. That's how I feel about the new room arrangement - my writing is bound to improve in the new environment.

New Year Resolution Number 1 : Find a publisher for my book about my year in China, called 'Sikworms and Snow'.

Links to other sites

I don't know if this will work, but I am trying to build in some links. The URL below should take you to some reviews I've posted to a newly-established website called My Cultural Life. Members can publish reviews of London events.


http://www.myculturallife.co.uk/authors/126/Sheila-Cornelius

Wow! Success! It has taken me lots of sessions of puzzling over the instructions to be able to do this, and yet it isn't really difficult. I hope I can remember what I did so I can do it again.

Here's a link to the BBC Collective Site where I have posted other reviews:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/collective/MA1654280?type=4

and here's a link to my photojournal website:

http://www.greatestcities.com/users/ecpsheila/

I think I need to be able to put links in the side bar. I seem to recall it took me ages to work out how to put in photos.

I'm feeling quite dazed by the number of films I went to see last week, partly because I saw some press screenings courtesy of the London Film Festival, so I didn't have time to write them up, and partly because there were two extra films I saw anyway. One filmed on location in Tibet, was called Kekqitili: Mountain Patrol and one set in Los Angeles was called Qinceaneros (UK title Echo Park, LA) . The first was a fantastically engaging film about a group of tough characters guarding antelopes from the threat of extinction, and the second an entertaining, funny and moving slice-of-life portrait of a Mexican immigrant commmunity.

September is my favourite month and not just because of my birthday. It seems to be the start of 'real' life again - new courses as well as continuing ones, the weather turning chillier and the air more bracing; it feels cosier to be holed up with a computer instead of moving to try to find cooler spots in the flat. In the old days, of course, I'd be having the anxiety dreams about starting to teach again. The most frequent was the one where I couldn't find the classroom.

The holiday season is past and I'm glad it's over. All that driving up and down motorways,was very tedious, although listening to audio tapes of the Goon Show helped. It rained all the way back from Southport on Saturday, so we were slowed by surface spray- quite romantic, in it's own way. I was in some discomfort having bruised my rear on the Pleasure Beach Logflume ride. 'You should just accept you are getting too old for funfairs' said Roy. I could just about manage to do my share of the driving by half standing over the wheel to relieve the pressure.

I don't write much on holiday, except to keep up my diary, but usually manage a half-hour stint of writing Chinese characters and perhaps a bit of Bridge bidding. We didn't manage to play in Southport although Roy seems to think I've improved enough to partner him on holiday. What an honour. Now that I'm back I shall revert to my gentleman partner on Monday night and a female friend on Wednesdays. Geoff, my Monday partner is very courteous and an experienced player. He doesn't raise his eyebrows at my inexpert bidding, but takes me aside later and explains what went wrong. My Wednesday afternoon partner is also a good player, but too polite in mmy opinion. I have a bad reputation for standing up for myself. My next novel, a murder mystery in a country house setting, will include some Bridge players, as they are so devious. Bridge brings out the worst in people - or perhaps it attracts bad characters. Of course people are for the most part kind and helpful.

The very first thing I did on my return was to apply for accreditation to the London Film Festival. Last year I only managed to get daily accreditation, that is permission to see films and use the press room in the NFT for some Chinese films, because I applied so late but this year I'm on their list so they sent me an application form. I am really looking forward to it as the Film Festival atmosphere is exciting, plus the films are (usually) exceptional . I hope, after the rigours of the Film Journalism course, with all those killing deadlines, that I'll be able to write some good reviews. I'm got my invitation to the Press Launch on September 14th, when they'll announce the programme, so then I'll decide what to see and start some background research.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that a derelict property near to our rented country cottage had been owned by a novelist. I had heard the name, but it wasn't until I reurned that I was able to find out more about the writer Sheila Kaye-Smith. She wrote a number of 'well-received' novels set in her native 'Kentish Weald' setting, an area which crosses the borders of Kent and East Sussex. I don't like country novels, which I blame on having to read the whole of Hardy for my degree, but it's partly all that in-fighting over the vicar that puts me off, that and the Agas. As they out of print I probably won't come across one, except in a charity shop.

I saw 'Run for your Life' , my sister's theatre treat, just before we left for Northiam, a farce set in a village in war-time, with a spinster spitting venom at the vicar's wife, an ex-actress. I still shudder when I think of the three years I lived in Lincolnshire with the children small, marooned amongst the cabbages.

It is a pleasant landscape of green-hedged fields and copse-like woodland dotted with white-cowled oast houses .The old house, in whose overgrown gardens we rambled, peering through windows at rusty chandeliers and faded carpets, reminded me of a French chateau on account of the rounded turrets at the back. However, it had been made from extending a pair of conjoined oast-houses. The photo above doesn't show both of them but gives a good general sense of the atmoshere of faded grandeur, including the swimming pool, which added a decadent touch. I found out from the web that the house and grounds were for sale at a £1 million.