Welcome! You have found the home of 'Being Me', Fran Hill's blog. Please browse my posts and if you like what you read, you'll enjoy my book 'Being Miss' which you can order from my website or on Amazon. My next book 'Miss, What Does Incomprehensible Mean?' will be published by SPCK Publishing in 2020. My website is at www.franhill.co.uk. Come and visit for more Fran info!
Evidence that even rejected writing can find another home
I like this passage from near the beginning of a book I was writing a year ago. It's a shame the main premise of the book got a big NO WAY from a potential publisher. I enjoyed writing the two middle-aged characters, even if the story was flawed. The narrator has a friend, Beatrice, who stays with her overnight and is found murdered in her bed the next morning.
Look, here’s a quick
snapshot from the previous evening, a few hours before Beatrice died, just so
you don’t judge me. Here’s me in action,
apron-clad, frying mince and onions and pouring Beatrice, who seemed in need of
cheering up, a generous glass of red wine.
Here’s me saying, ‘So, how’s life at the B & B?’ and ‘I’m so glad
you didn’t have any guests and could get away for a couple of days’ and giving
her a second portion of blackberry and apple crumble. Here’s me nattering to her about this and
that, mainly this dead friend and that divorced one. Strange, isn’t it, how getting past a certain
age makes your friends’ separations (either from spouses, or from breathing) a
subject of great interest? It reminds me
of my old Uncle Fred, sitting at his kitchen table with a slice of bread and
butter and browsing through the local paper, muttering, ‘Outlived him, outlived
her’, then slurping tea from his saucer.
I never thought I’d be like that, but I am. The obsession with other people’s demises
comes in the same parcel as the free copy of Saga Magazine that plops through
the letterbox like a poor prognosis soon after your 50th.
Beatrice and I went back a
long way, all the way to the 1960s and ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ and Oken School in
Warwick where we both had ‘potential’ but not enough ‘motivation’. Poor Mrs Thompson, our Form Tutor, kept us
behind after many a registration period to dole out earnest advice and
portentous finger-wagging warnings about the fact that we’d both end up working
in newsagents. But Beatrice had an
alcoholic mother who kept her at home when she needed some shopping or cleaning
done, and I had no similar excuse but an incurable addiction to my
candy-striped bed sheets, so between us, potential had as much chance of
success as I have now of being mistaken for Kate Moss in the High Street.
I’d met Beatrice in the
lunch queue about two weeks after starting at Oken. She’d only recently moved to Warwickshire
from Scotland. Her dad was a policeman. I asked Beatrice if she’d moved because of
his job and she said, yes, he’d been transferred, but they’d had to move
because of a ‘family problem’. We started
off with a hatred for rice pudding skin in common and from there went on to
share a passion for the Beatles, for wearing illegal eyeliner that made us look
like pandas, and for backcombing our hair so that we had to front-comb it all
again when we got to school and Mrs Thompson caught us. These are the things which bind girls
together so that they’re still having each other as house guests in 2012 and
sharing in shepherd’s pie, wine and other people’s tragedies.
What were the chances that
Beatrice, having been brought up by a gin-soaked mother, would end up with a
gin-soaked husband? Well, every chance,
as it happened, because that’s exactly what she did. I liked Bryan, though. A nice chap, he was, who smoked a pipe and
was very careful that the moist bottom of his gin glass didn’t make a mark on
Beatrice’s mahogany coffee table. When
he died of liver failure, heart disease and throat cancer in 2001 (talk about
overkill!), I couldn’t help but say to Beatrice at the wake, ‘Your Bryan never
made a mark on your coffee table, did he, my love?’ and then we had a good cry
together. She said she’d rather have a
thousand marks on the coffee table than a B & B to run on her own and debts
up to her eyeballs, and I could see her point, but I still wished I’d had a
husband who knew what a wet glass would do to a good bit of polished wood.
Are you getting the
picture? No, Stewart, the man I married,
was not like Bryan. For one thing,
Beatrice’s Bryan stayed married to her until he died. Stewart and I only lasted just over three
years. And, to Stewart, that’s what
mahogany coffee tables were FOR, putting wet glasses on. There were so many white ring marks on ours
that he even played a little game with them called ‘Which one shall I use?’ and
chose a different ring each night to fit his glass onto, laughing into his
chest, his double chins wobbling like stubbled blancmange. It hadn’t taken long for this side of him to
emerge; I used to look at him, and then look at the wedding photo on the wall
above the mantelpiece, and then back at him, and think, ‘Was I taking something when I married
you?’ Tell a lie, I think I actually
said this to him once or twice.
There was never any gin in
Stewart’s glass though. In that respect,
he wasn’t like Beatrice’s Bryan. Stewart
was a teetotaller, and preferred fruit juice or lemonade, a pleasant trait he
combined uneasily with being a lying git with a floozy in most
Warwickshire streets. Insurance
Beatrice didn’t want to be
our Patrick’s godmother when he was born in August 1976. ‘Och,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe in all that guff.’ But I wanted him to be christened, and he
needed a godmother, and I wanted her to be it, so she came in the end, bribed
with the promise of a night out at the cinema to see ‘Rocky’. We were both suckers for a bit of oiled
muscle. A couple of years ago, long,
long after the christening, Beatrice confessed to me that Stewart had put his
hand up her skirt while she was reaching over to help herself to some sherry
trifle at Patrick’s christening tea.
‘Why did you wait until now
to tell me that?’ I asked her.
‘I wasn’t going to say, was
I? I thought you were happily married.’
‘So did Solomon’s 700
wives think they were,’ I said. ‘But he had 300
concubines. Anyway, what did you do?’
‘What did I do when?’
‘When he put his hand up
‘I told him, if you do that
again, sunshine, I’ll clamp you around the goolies with these salad tongs until
you scream for mercy, you bloody filth-bucket.’
‘And what what?What do you mean, what?Then I lay on the table, of course, and let
him have three goes.What do you think,
you muppet?He was off like a shot, all
red-faced, towards the dips and carrot sticks.’
Beatrice reminded me of
Stewart’s groping that night she died, while we were finishing up our
shepherd’s pie and mopping the gravy with some French bread. I choked for laughing and drank so much wine
to try and clear my throat that I got tipsy very quickly. ‘Do you want me to get you some water?’
Beatrice had said, and I’d just raised my eyebrows at her as if to say, ‘Have
you gone mad?’ She poured herself
another glass and had caught me up pretty soon.
It was later, while we snaffled
our way through a box of Milk Tray, that she told me why she’d rung me out of
the blue on a Wednesday morning to ask if she could come and stay. And why she was so terrified, she didn’t want
to go back.
Either that, or they show me I should try another hobby. But I'll stick with HER idea.
A crossword book travels with me everywhere now. It's a hobby that's developed into an addiction over the past couple of years. If I'm stuck at a bus stop, waiting - a daily occurrence, and sometimes twice or thrice-daily - I'll whip my crossword book out, turn to a new puzzle, and while the time away filling in the clues.
I've nearly missed my bus many times. Buses sneak up on people with their heads buried in books, then hurtle past to punish you for not staying alert. There are some bus drivers around here who probably keep a joyful tally of the number of people they've outwitted this way.
Never mind missing buses, though. My bigger problem, currently, is that the book I'm carrying around is filled with general knowledge crosswords. My husband bought me this for Christmas, forgetting that I do not possess General Knowledge.
I possess only Generally Forgotten Knowledge and it's so far down, at the very ends of my brain neurons, or wherever knowledge r…
Is it just me? Is anyone else affected by the colours of food?
I've just made an omelette for my lunch. On my days off (Mondays and Wednesdays) lunch is usually an omelette. I'm trying to avoid bread. We have fallen out, bread and I. I can eat most anything else and not put on weight. I have one thin slice of bread: suddenly I'm the size of a Juggernaut and can't get through normal doors.
Two or three slices of bread, and people pass me saying, 'Look at that hot air balloon, out walking.'
I reached into the cupboard for eggs for my omelette, pulling out a box of eggs that looked different from those we usually buy. My husband bought them - they're called 'Burford Browns' and there's a message - I call it a warning - on the box: 'With deep brown coloured shells'.
Fine. Deep brown coloured shells I can cope with. Who cares about the shells? They go in the recycling, to shell heaven.
But when you crack these eggs for an omelette, inside the…
We are on holiday in Tenby, Wales. Paul and I come here most years, renting the same house each time because it has an original version of Monopoly with the metal tokens such as the top hat, boot and iron. We also like the pretty duvet covers on the beds. And there's a sea view, which is also nice.
It's a bit quiet this year - usually we bring some of our offspring with us. We are missing them. In part, this is because our she-was-on-Masterchef-once older daughter always does the cooking. We've been sitting around waiting for dinner to arrive before remembering she's not here and leaping to our feet to run to Tesco.
I'd like to share some of my holiday pictures with you. Fear not. My holiday snaps tend not to feature panoramic views or cathedrals.
This is post-op and relieved Rat, although his look says 'If you'd known the difference between a wall ornament and a light fitting, none of this would have been necessary ...'