I returned home last Wednesday after a long day sat in Bologna Airport. My fault, I had booked myself on a flight at 6.50 p.m. instead of at lunch time, but had to be dropped off at 10 a.m. British Airways declined to let me fly earlier even though I pleaded with them and they had a spare seat. After all the messing about, cancelling flights and then reinstating them because of their earlier strike, I had hoped they would have been more amenable. Message to self – do not book with BA.
Luckily I had a good book with me. This is the second of Patrick Gale’s I have read and I must seek out more. It kept my interest until I finished it on the plane. A painter dies, her family have suffered with her bipolar disororder for many years. Using notes from a retrospective exhibition, the author reveals her life and the lives of her children, in no particular order. The narrative arc is not straightforward, the way I like it. It keeps you guessing all the way through and the writing is superb. Loved it.
The plane journey itself was fast and interesting for two reasons. One, we had sunset all the way and the main colour in the sky was a broad strip of dark umber highlighting the snow capped alps and the coast of England. Although I was in the middle seat, I couldn’t help staring out at the images. The young guy next to me was taking a lot of photos on his phone. When he wasn’t doing that, he was wrapped up in comedic podcasts, his shoulders heaving, swallowing back laughter, wiping his eyes as tears came. I wanted to know which comedian was giving him so much joy but he declined to say. Did he think it too risqué for an old lady such as I? Shame on him. I could do with a good laugh.
I returned to find that my husband, who had been holidaying with his recently widowed friend in Sicily, had ended the stay with his own health issues so much that on two occasions, a doctor and ambulance had been called. Two days after returning, his view was not so much of Sicily but of A and E in our local town. I hope you never experience a true nose bleed. Imagine a scene like a butcher’s shop. After six hours in hospital, it was eventually brought to a halt by stuffing the equivalent of a tampon up his nostril. He wouldn’t let me take a photo. It hurt too, poor thing. All caused by a stinker of a cold, nothing more serious. So, it’s been touch and go whether we can get away to Portugal. You’ll have to wait to find out if we make it.
This week I have been putting the Christmas paperback together. It has to go up in the first week in October. I need to order copies for the Crawley Book Fair on October 19th. Needless to say, things didn’t go smoothly. I emailed a copy to myself as a back up and the original file then reported a serious error. I also found that two random words had inserted themselves for no discernible reason, so the whole book had to be reread and checked. Why do I give myself all this work? It means I can’t get on with my own stuff.
I also had a calamity this morning, a serious problem which could have affected my children’s book. My granddaughter is looking forward to her Christmas present and I can’t let her down. I think I have found a way of tweaking it. A slight change of location is required. It could have been a major rewrite. I am keeping my fingers crossed.
I did have some good news this week. A listener contacted me to say how much she had enjoyed Search for the Light on audible.com. I looked at the US site and I have 4 x 5* reviews for it now. The question is whether I can summon up the energy to get the next two in the series read for audible.