Novelty

As I bade a cheery farewell to my former Superbrand colleagues last December, many were kind enough to inquire what I was intending to ‘do’ during my Sabbatical. ‘Live in France, drink a lot of wine, burn my Blackberry and lie in every morning’ didn’t cut the corporate mustard. I invented a tale about ‘writing a novel’ as I sailed from the shores of the shareholder to my creative retreat. The former colleagues, technologists to a man, looked impressed! Unfortunately they have now started to inquire about progress.

I purchased a couple of smock-like garments, started to wear my hair down with a fresh, Bohemian rake, waited for inspiration and for words to miraculously appear on the page. Nothing happened. I challenged Amazon to find me in the depths of rural France, ordering a couple of ‘How to write a novel’ publications. They found me. I studied and to my surprise, sitting around pouting like Virginia Woolf or tripping the light fantastic a la Aldous H wasn’t going to do it. To write a novel, the tomes espoused, I needed objectives, a plan, an outline design, milestones and targets. It felt like time was moving backwards.

Two weeks ago, someone (kindly) offered to read the first draft. The pressure is on. I have managed to sling 25,000 words into my laptop (25% of a first draft will keep her busy for a while). Early mornings, late nights, daily milestones, technical challenges, have crept back into my life uninvited. I haven’t even had time to don my smocks, let alone pout!

Today I drove to the nearest town with shops sufficiently substantial to have heard of printer cartridges. After much internet activity, a young man handed over the cartridges bearing the exact number of my printer. In went the cartridges, swiftly followed by an error message. A time warp had sucked me into its vortex! Several hours later and with hair resembling Tina Turner rather than the fragrant JKR, I find that my printer, purchased in Abu Dhabi, needs special Middle Eastern cartridges! Presumably with Islamic, alcohol free ink! I won’t find any of them in France!

 

On the bright side, I have a bona fide excuse for my nascent editor. If I can get some cartridges shipped over, I will deliver on my milestone sometime next week …… Insha’Allah!!*

See ‘Smallprint in the Sunshine’ – October 2013

How to influence a nation!

Global rulers draw upon a range of approaches to encourage citizens to comply with their chosen direction. For example, in Saudi Arabia dissuading women drivers relies upon the meting out of a few lashes, in Pakistan, mountainous paperwork attesting to ‘medical need’ dissuades the would-be merry-maker from ordering a beer on room service. In the UK, the powerful encourage the unclean proletariat to ‘be more green’ by taxing them for every molecule of CO2 emitted.

In France, where WH and I are enjoying a few months repose, the authorities are promoting recycling among the populace. Specifically, recycling garden and kitchen waste to fertilise home grown vegetables and similar goodies. Would failure to compost mean a trip to the guillotine or a hefty cheque to the ‘tresor publique’? We duly contacted our ‘bons amis’, the local dustmen who agreed to sort us out.

 

Within days we were telephoned; someone would come that afternoon. I looked out the window for a gentleman of Worzel Gummage appearance bearing one of those two pronged forks which hang on the walls of rustic barns. At three on the dot, Madame Composte, with swingy chestnut hair and a smart navy suit, arrived in a nippy silver Citroen. With elegance and grace she extracted her fare from the boot and laid it on view. Two large composting bins, a reuseable bag of ‘starter’, numerous colourful books, brochures and leaflets.

With standards of professionalism and client focus of which the Apple Store would be proud, she launched into her pitch. She was a lady who knew her compost and spent a full 30 minutes explaining optimum temperature, oxygen levels, PH and microbes. We were converted, a pair of veritable composting advocates. Whatever was all this quality going to cost, we wondered?   ‘Everything is guaranteed.’ she said ‘We will return your 15Euro* deposit if you return the bins or we’ll replace them in seven years.’ She bade a charming farewell, handing over her business card bearing a 24 hour free helpline. We will rest easy knowing she is at hand should we face urgent composting queries in the middle of the night.

Now that’s a good way to get the citizens to do what you want!

*Less than $10

Wings of drifted snow, eyes of flame and a skeleton in the closet.

Having had our children early, wonder-husband (WH) and I have been prematurely excluded from that most emotional and enjoyable of events, the school nativity play. To overcome our withdrawal symptoms this year, we interrogated the offspring of relatives and friends to fill the void and garner some vicarious tear jerking to the (imagined) first, quivering lines of ‘Away in a manger’.

Having analysed the transcripts from several interrogations, WH and I can report that for those like our own offspring who never clutched at the stardom of virgin or her consort (who are the kids that get to be Mary and Joseph and what have their parents done to bag the roles?),  the angels are most coveted openings available and that among them, Gabriel of the drifted snowy wings, flaming eyes and a full four Basque nineteenth century verses of his own, the most coveted of all.

 

Wonderful flying buttresses!

We carried out parallel interrogations among the mothers; seasonal seamstresses who expressed a preference for, and some of whom exhaled with visible relief at having bagged for their progeny, a shepherd or a king …. a few rustic or regally coloured offcuts, something to carry (lamb or bling), a tea towel or paper crown; not too difficult to craft while quaffing the Bristol Cream and mince pies. Now when it came to Gabriel’s costumiers, we were in another league. Wings of drifted snow require engineering of equivalent visionary genius to Notre Dame’s flying buttresses with commensurate levels of stress. 

Hubert van Eyck - alter detail

To round off our investigations I did further research on the Angel Gabriel. Apparently ‘he’ is not a ‘he’ at all but is represented in numerous transcripts, icons and art as a woman …. ‘her wings of drifted snow, her eyes of flame etc etc’ …. Furthermore, she is not only a Christian messenger of the Annunciation and similar but also an important herald in the Islamic tradition, she who heralded in fact, to the prophet Mohammed the three defining aspects of Islam, Iman and Ihsan. … I need to now go and ponder how to break the news to my erstwhile friends in Saudi Arabia (see To buy and Abaya and In the twang of a G-string - Oct 2013) that Gabriel is a woman. With their patchy approach to gender inclusion, I am not sure they are going to be too pleased to hear from me again!!