Being Me

I mentioned the 'schooldays haiku' competition last week that I ran as part of my book launch. First, here's an anonymous one that was put through my letterbox. I love the fact that someone decided to do this. I don't know who it was for sure, although I do have a couple of ideas. But there's a sadness about it that touched me.  I'm posting the winning entries and highly commended here as I think you'll enjoy them. The winners get a free copy of my new book 'Miss, What Does Incomprehensible Mean?' and the highly commended get .... well .... highly commended. I didn't intend to do a 'highly commended' category but frankly had too many lovely haiku entered not to give them a mention, too.   All winners and highly commended have agreed that I can post their poems and their names. I'll hold off from posting their full addresses, dates of birth and internet passwords.  I have added some comments to show you why the haiku w

So, my book 'Miss, What Does Incomprehensible Mean' is born into the world, and I thought some of you might be interested to see the book launch, which happened from my front room and was beamed out to the world via Facebook Live. Writers are having to do things differently in these days of lockdown! It's an hour of entertainment with games, jokes, clips from the book, Q & A, and a time lag that meant I saw comments 10 minutes after they'd been made, which added to the sense of the surreal. And, when I say the book is 'born', I actually mean that, and it happens on camera. Enjoy! You could fetch yourself Prosecco and cake as my live viewers did. https://www.facebook.com/430140043700388/videos/585865818722188/

Let's talk breakfast. I have one Weetabix to start the day. That sounds like an innocuous statement describing a simple process, doesn't it. What could go wrong?  But that's not why you read this blog, is it, to find out what hasn't gone wrong?  Plenty can go awry with Weetabix.  First, I've never yet managed to extract a Weetabix biscuit from its paper packet without spraying wheat all over the kitchen counter. I've eaten Weetabix since I was a child. The paper packets containing 12 Weetabix were badly designed then, and they are now. I suspect that the same person has been in charge of 'Packaging' all that time. He's now 103, some kindly, frail war hero with a leg brace whom management don't have the heart to fire.  Well, compassion is all very well, and God Save the Queen and all that, and hurrah for Chelsea pensioners, but what about my ruined morning?  'It's like a Tarantino movie with crumbs,' I said to my husband, sweeping a th

So, the Prime Minister has called his (already mop-haired) new son Wilfred. Sorry, Boris, but that name is taken. I think you'll find this is Wilfred. I quite understand, Mr Johnson, if you decide to change your little boy's name in the light of my photograph. It can't be easy, realising you've named your son after a giant stuffed duck with a preternaturally enormous beak. How about something more modern, anyway? Jake? Kyle? Connor? Horace, to rhyme with your own name? Maurice? Or, as these are more enlightened times - Doris? Readers, while the Prime Minister ponders over my suggestions and looks up my number so he can ring me to discuss the options, I will tell you instead the story of how this toy duck became known as Wilfred. My grandfather was called Wilfred and my grandmother Kathleen. The day before their 50th wedding anniversary - some time in the mid-1990s - I said to my husband, 'I am going to town to buy a Golden Wedding present for Gr