Shakespeare's little helpers.

The things i get talked into.
Actually, this one is all my fault. I take the blame.
In good old Stratford on Avon, there is a rumbling.
No, that's rather misleading- a rumbling isn't the right word.....more of a ....clinking.
The clinking of trowels on stone as Shakespeare's last home is dugged. That's a made-up word from Sprouty's dictionary, in case you were wondering.
And the lovely people at New Place are giving non diggy people such as me and Sy the opportunity to dig alongside the archaeologists this summer, to see if there is anything of any interest tucked away under the layers of Stratfordian mud.
I pointed the advert out to Sy.
'What do you reckon' says i, 'should we give it a go then?'
The Writer ponders for a nano-second.
'Good God Sprouty- we'd be bloody MAD not to go for this chance- OF COURSE we're going!'
That's that then.
So last week we went along to the open evening to have a look at what's what.
You can't see any of the excavations from the pavement as you walk past the house- it's all been boarded up- but if you are on one of the open top buses, you get a birds-eye view for about 30 seconds, as the bus turns the corner into Chapel Street- longer if some poor tourist drops ice cream and Stratford guide books in front of the aforesaid bus.
Some of the gardens have been dug - got to stop using that word- excavated- already, and a few bits of Victoriana have been found.
But lets face it, nobody gives a flying fart about Victoriana- everyone just wants to know if there is anything Shakespearian down there.
I told Sy i felt that no other historian would be 'digging for Will'-they probably wouldn't dream of getting there hands dirty. And to be truthful, i'd have to send Sy into battle with extra thick marigolds and some udder cream. After all, he's still got to type.
But imagine if you found something- really, actually, found something belonging to William Shakespeare.
Sy can't wait to get started.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper x

The chances of anything coming from Mars,are a million to one, he said....

....The chances of anythiiiing coming from Mars, are a million to wuuuun- but still they cummmm....dah dah da...dah dah daaaaa.

Totally off topic really, but last night jolly good old BBC radio 2 played a live recording of Jeff Wayne's The War of the Worlds.

I went to bed at 10.15 pm (horifically early for me, particularly as i don't need more than 6 and a half hours sleep- i was awake again and raring to go by 5.00), put on me headphones, lay in the dark and gave myself up totally to it.

What a treat.

I really wanted to take Darling Daughter to see the show at the Birmingham NIA, but the tickets were £50 a piece (i think the show must be worth paying that amount of money for though), - alas, way beyond Sprouty's means, if we wanted to eat for the rest of the month.

Darling Daughter loves the music though, and her dad bought her the CD many moons ago. She plays it a lot. I bought her the original book by HG Wells for Christmas, and, seven months on, she is still only on page 27. The book is only 142 pages long.

She doesn't like reading very much- which is something you tend to keep quiet about in this house...

I am absolutely determined to get to a show next year though. Best start saving now.

On a quick note, Shakespeare is almost ready to be let loose on an unsuspecting world.

Sy wants me to have a look first (he always does)- just to clarify that the whole thing makes sense.

As he always says;

'If you can make sense of it Sprouty, then anyone can.'

Thanks a lot- i think.

Till next time,

Shakespeare's Housekeeper x

The Writers New Pen.

How many writers use a pen these days?
Mine doesn't.
But he calls his new laptop his New Pen..
'Are you going to give it a name?' I ask.
'Not sure, Sprouty.'
If he does, he won't tell me. It will be something fitting like Delilah or Cerys.
I can't remember the last time i saw him so excited about something-he hasn't brought it to bed with him yet, but i feel it's only a matter of time.
In fact, i'm sure the only reason he didn't bring The Dinosaur to bed was because he would have had to ask me to balance the monitor on my knees while he balanced the keyboard on his.
And i'm not entirely sure where he thought the tower would sit.
The Dinosaur- as he fondly started calling the old computer after he'd had it for about six months-is in it's death throes. I'm planning a funeral, but it's going to be a few days away yet, as there is still so much information on there for Sy to swap across to his new laptop, but i'm making all the neccessary arrangements.
The Humanist is on standby, and been given a potted history of the The Dinosaur, ready to read out at the funeral.
I've booked a plot- Stratford on Avon recycling centre has a lovely little place earmarked for it.
I've been trying to get Sy to put a few words together to give it a good send-off. After all, this this was his best friend for a good few years.
I'm not sure how he's going to feel when he switches the old bugger off for the last time- when he sees that little light go out...
Probably a bit like John Connor in Terminater 2.
It's a little disturbing how Sy has so easily transferred his affections to this newer, younger, sleeker model, particularly while The Dinosaur is still sat in it's corner, winking periodically at him.
I've watched him and shuddered. How easily men are swayed.
I'm trying to sway this change of writing arrangements to my advantage though.
'With the monitor gone, you'll have that space to put all the books you're working with.'
'Well, Sprouty, that might be a good idea...'
''Cos at the moment, i haven't got anywhere to sit.'
'like i say, that might be a good idea.'
'And i've got an idea about what to put in the space where the tower lives.'
Big sigh.
'Go on.'
'Well, you know all those books you put inside the pouff...'
'They're alright in there!'
'Well actually, they're not. I can't move it to hoover under it. And every time i try, i give myself a hernia.'
'It's a thought...'

And that's as far as i've got. I'm working on it, but these things take time.
On top of Shakespeare and Arthur, Sy has found somebody else to write about.
Some woman from the Victorian era, i think.
I haven't asked to much about it, because my head will go bang.
With her in his head and the possibility of the laptop in the bed, there's not much room for me anywhere at the moment.
Goes with the territory.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

The Writers Tale.

Well, after much hooing and haaing (are they words? Must look them up in Sprouty's Everyday Dictionary) i am interviewing The Writer.
I am doing this live, so i will write the answers as they are given to me.
Imagine the scene-
I'm in the kitchen, at the laptop- he's in the sitting room, at his altar, with David Attenborough telling us both, rather loudly about a salmons journey.
That actually may be more interesting...we'll have to see how this pans out.

S0, Sy- when did you first know you wanted to be a writer?

'I started writing when i was a kid. my dad had quite a lot of books around the place and i found them rather interesting. The Ian Fleming stuff seemed much more interesting than real life.'

What was the first thing that you wrote about?

'My dad insists he found this little Ian Fleming pastiche that i had written when i was very young, but i've no idea how old i was- i got into films and moving making when i was 11 or 12, so it must have been prior to that.'

What was your first commisioned piece and who was it for?

'That would have been for Opera North-for a Danish Opera that had never been performed professionally in Britain and they needed an English Language libretto, and it was the Director who asked me to do it- she thought it was my sort of thing (laughs.)

What has been the most obscure thing you have written?

Open University stuff and a piece for the Dundee Industrial Heritage Centre, about Scott's first trip to the Antartic.

And your favourite, to date?

Darkside- a four part thriller written for the BBC, that so nearly got to see the light of day.
I've read it- it's bloody brilliant, and i'm not just saying that because i'm the wife-It scared the shit out of me.

How do you get in the right frame of mind to write?

You just have to start and do it. You can't sit and wait for inspiration. (more laughter.) He's in a good mood tonight.

You've written everything from television, through to plays, and now books. Which do you prefer?

Each one is very different. I like how disciplined writing for telly is, but i really got to hate all the re-writing crap. Theatre's great because you get to feel the audience reaction to what you have written really quickly. Books...haven't decided yet.

Ok...on to books. 'Commanding Youth' (the Arthur book) is going well- what is the most interesting and unusual piece of information that you have found out about him?

Where his grave is. Without a doubt. That piece of information is going to blow peoples minds Hopefully.

And Shakespeare is hot on his heels- the same question.

Probably, that he was murdered, from the evidence i've uncovered.

So, do you think that people will be more interested in reading about their deaths than their lives?

No. There are lots of big surprises, about both men.

How do you keep so focussed writing such detailed hisory?

It's like being a detective, getting and sorting all the facts and then putting them together, in the right order. There is more information than you could dream, about these men. It's just knowing where to look for it. Nobody has looked in the right places before.

What's your dream?

To be able to write what i want, and for that to be able to pay for the lifestyle i want.
( i do my best, you know...!)

Do you think writers who drink make better writers?

No. I don't drink when i'm writing. But that doesn't mean i'm not under the influence of something when i write....

Favourite book?

Red Shift by Alan Garner.

And writer?

Alan Garner again. He's very precise.

If you hadn't become a writer, what would you have done instead?

Apart from staying with acting, either war reporting or forensic psychiatry.

And finally ( for the time being, because i might do this again at some point)....how does your wife support you through the writing process. Details please, as this is her blog.

She keeps me fed and watered. She offers advice and suggestions. She asks very pertinant questions. And she believes in me. I think.


And on that note, Sy tells me he is off down the garage to get some ciggy papers, and so here endeth the first lesson.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

A day to myself....

Yesterday, i thought i would have a day to myself.

Darling Daughter was going off to do something with mates, and Sy is in the middle of a very busy period with 'Arthur'.

He hasn't had time to even pass the time of day with me (to busy with Authonomy...and those bloody forums!)

So, i thought i would take myself off to Stratford and browse the charity shops.

I cooked the two of them a huge breakfast, made sure they didn't need anything and got myself together.

'Where are you off to Sprouty?'



It's the first time in nearly a week that Sy has asked me anything, so it threw me a bit.

I glanced at him shiftily- i knew what was coming if i told him where i was going.

'Just out'.

'Where out?'

More than one question- this was serious.

'......Stratford', i mumbled.

I can't remember the last time i saw him move so fast.

'Two minutes and i'll be with you.'



Bugger, bugger and arse.



In the car, he say's 'where abouts in Stratford?'

'You didn't think to ask that before we set off?'

'Well, i'm sure it's somewhere lovely..'

Time passes.

'Can we call in at the Tip shop? There might be some new books there.'

Dutifully, i drive down to the hospice tip shop and park up.

Sy is out the car like a bullet and heads down to the book section at the back.

Sighing, i grab a handful of carrier bags from the boot of the car- he never, ever buys just one book.

Half an hour later, we drive into Stratford town centre, with seven new additions (note additions, not editions- we've not been that lucky yet) safely ensconced in the boot.

I'm already £6.50 down.



Right, serious shopping- look for the charity shops.

'Sprouty, you've never seen Shakespeare's grave, have you?'



Not today, please....

'Noooo.....'

He grabs my arm and propels me at an astonishing speed in the direction of Holy Trinity church.

'We will go now- then you can say that you have been there. After all, how can you listen to me talk about his death and where he is buried, if you've never been to the grave?'

He's got a point.

And i can't believe that i've lived here all my life and never visited the grave.

But they say, people who live by the sea, and all that...



I've seen it.

It's small.

He has his family either side of him.

It's right in front of the alter.

And i had so many questions, that poor Sy hardly knew what had hit him.

I bought him a little bust of Shakespeare to put on his desk- for inspiration purposes.

Another £4.00.



Ok- charity shops!!

We mosy back up into town.

Sy see's another little church.

'We'll just pop in here Sprouty...it's never been open when i've come before.'

We have to leave money for the restoration of the stained glass windows....another £3.00.



Twenty minutes later, i'm making a beeline for the heart foundation shop.

Yay! We're in!.

But i don't see anything i like, so that's that.

Unlike Sy, who has found another two books....£4.00.

'Never mind Sprouty- lets go and see little bruv in his Gallery..we might get a cuppa.'

As i mentioned in a previous post, Sy's brother has an Art Gallery in Stratford- so along we went, the shop was open, and we awaited coffee.

No such luck- they bring it in from Costas, and had just done a 'run'.



More bugger and more arse.



So we stood in the Gallery, Sy yapping to his Brother about Politics and other stuff that people should be banned from talking about on a Sunday, all the while, it was getting later and later.

'Best go and find some more shops for you then!' he crys gleefully at about 4.00pm.



Bloody great.

Everything shuts at about 4.

We head back to the carpark, i pay £2.50 to get out of the carpark, (the barrier was shut on this one, not like the feckin hospital...) and we head home.



'Lovely day out, Sprouty. Thanks everso.'

Sy plants a kiss on my cheek as he gets out of the car.



I follow him into the house, where he is already back in another world, checking the ansaphone and starting up the computer.



I can't help but wonder how i let my day out become his?
Not just how- why????



Till next time,



Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

Trust me, i'm an expert...

Last night, i watched the second part of a BBC2 Horizon doumentary entitled 'How Mad Are You?'

A group of people, half of them with a diagnosed mental health problem, lived and worked together for a period of time and were watched by three experts in mental health issues.

The idea was to see if the experts were able to tell who, in the group, had the mental health problems.

At first they seemed quite confident in their findings- but the more they got to know the group, the more it seemed to throw them- and indeed, they ended up diagnosing three out of the five wrongly.



Now, this got me thinking.

What makes an expert, an expert.

I looked up the meaning in the dictionary.

'Having special skill at a task or knowledge in a subject.'



I then looked up 'expert' in the thesaurus.

'Skilful, experienced, practised, qualified, knowledgable, specialist, professional, proficient, adept, master,masterly, brilliant, accomplished, able, deft, dexterous, adriot, apt, capable,competent, clever, well-versed, wizard, ace, crack, top-notch.

Phew.

The word i'm still wrestling with is 'qualified'- because one meaning of it is 'make legally entitled'.



'Legal'- Of or based on law.



Please bear with me....i'm going somewhere with this.



I thought i might try to apply this to Sy's writing.

As you lovely people who read my posts on a regular basis will know, Sy has one book out with publishers about King Arthur- how he was actually a Scottish prince, who his allies were, where he was born (and concieved- can you believe he's found that information?' where he died, and most importantly, where he is buried.

And none of it has anything to do with Cornwall.

Another book is about Shakespeare's involvement with the Gunpowder Plot, his murder and who his illigitamate son is - that's nearly ready to send to his agent.

Some questions;



Does the fact that Sy has gleaned a lot of his information about these two men from other sources, apart from books, make him less of an expert?



Does the fact that Sy has not got a doctorate in Shakespearean or Arthurian studies, or whatever they call these things that you leave university with, make his findings any less believable?



Am i right in thinking that these studies are all done from books that have been dragged out, time after time, year after year, with the same information ( old information, that could be wrong, but because it is taught by 'experts', it must be right?)

I might be hauled over the coals for this one....if i have any readers with PHD thingys in the above, do let me know what universities do teach you, and what you research from.

If Sy was put in a room with half a dozen experts on the above two subjects, would his findings be believed, if the audience didn't know who the experts were?

And, if publishers want to see your work, how for F**** sake, do you make them see that your findings might just be the missing link on both these men, but because you haven't got a university PHD doctorate whiz-bang up-yer-bum all singing all dancing piece of paper to verify that you have read books in a classroom, they don't think you are qualified enough to publish.

All in all, Sy has been studying both these subjects for over twenty years.

That's a damn sight longer than any feckin' uni degree.



Now i'm going to go and lie down for a bit- my head hurts from thinking too much.



Till next time,

Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

The times they are a changin'...

Darling Daughter is studying Romeo and Juliet at school.
The conversation around the kitchen table last night, while i was cooking tea, went like this.

'I don't like Shakespeare mum. It's really boring for someone of my age.'
'But wasn't Juliet the same age as you? That's something you can relate to.'
' Yeah, but, like, she had those god-awful in-laws to be to cope with. I don't have to worry about all out war if i bring a boy home, do I?'

Sy, who was reading at the table (terrible manners, these writers) raised an eyebrow, and i carried on stirring, while thinking it all depends on who she brings home as to whether there is all out war or not.

' I take it this conversation is leading to some sort of homework issue.'
'I've got to, like, write an essay about why I think Romeo and Juliet fell in love.'
'And what do you think?'
'Well, it's obvious. Their hormones were running riot. Nobody knows what they want from a relationship at that age...apart from knowing that you want to go to the pictures, or go for a bike-ride. They certainly didn't know what love was.'

Sy piped up.
' You do realise, don't you, that Romeo and Juliet didn't have mobile phones, the internet, cinemas or pushbikes. None of these things had been invented then.'

Darling Daughter thought about this for a moment or two.
'Well shakespeare shouldn't have bothered writing a play about two teenagers falling in love, if they had nothing to do. If the play had been written today, it would have been far more interesting.'
'Do you want me to help you with this essay?' Sy sighs.
'You can write it for me if you like. You know all there is to know about it.'
'Can I help at at all?' says I.
'No mum- you know nothing about shakespeare and his plays, lets face facts here. Why don't you carry on with what you're good at. Making tea, cakes and lovely chutney.'

And with that, her mobile buzzed, and she was off, yapping twenty to the dozen to some unseen mate, Romeo and Juliet completely forgotton for the time being.

And today, i'm wondering, at what point did i actually become surplus to educational requirements?

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

Art for arts sake..

Sy has gone to Stratford today.
I'm sure he will visit Will's grave (again..), peruse some obscure book shops and possibly pop in to say hello to the lovely people at The Falstaff Experience.

At some point he has to do a stint at his brothers art gallery in Shrieves Walk.
He doesn't do this very often- it depends when his brother wants a day off. Today, Alton Towers beckons, so Sy has done the family thing and is standing in for him.

The gallery has been open for a couple of months now.
Beautiful paintings and sculptures of all things Shakesperian and Stratfordian, all commissioned pieces.
The opening of the gallery was lovely. Several local dignitaries, some press, some of the artists who created the pieces and some ''specially invited individuals.'

Sy was asked to give a talk on some Shakespeare stuff, which he duly did.
He decided to talk about his research, his theories on Will's illigitemate son, the relationship he had with the true love of his life (and we all know that wasn't Anne) and how he was eventually murdered.
These good people weren't expecting any of this.
And boy, did they want to know more.

Excellent.

One of the pieces in the gallery is a bust of Shakespeare. A lovely piece and Sy stood examining it for ages.

'Want me to buy it for you,' i joked (you should see the price tag- not in my price range.)
'It's not right'.
'What do you mean, it's not right?'

He had a quick scan of the room to make sure the artist wasn't in ear shot and told me ;

' The quills wrong- it shouldn't have feathers all the way along it- they should just be at the top.
Will didn't have straight hair- this chap looks like he's had a session with Darling Daughter and her straighteners. And finally- he looks as if he's got anorexia. Will's face was a lot fatter than that. He looks as if he hasn't had a good feed in months. He needs a month or two of your cooking Sprouty.'

Now, i don't know if Sy is right or not. He's the Shakespeare expert, not me.
But if i owned a gallery, and Sy was standing in for me, what would be the chances of selling anything if prospective buyers were given information about a piece, like the information he had just given me?

It'll be a bloody miracle if he brings home any commission.

'Till next time,

Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

All in the name of research...

Sy takes his research very seriously when it comes to his writing- and rightly so.

He has been gathering and investigating information for his Shakespeare book for about twenty years.

I have been 'helping' him on his quest for the last four years, and thank God i haven't been there for the other sixteen too, or i would have probably shot myself by now.

Or him.


I can just about cope when he's got his head stuck in books or is on the web- it's when i hear those immortal words;



'Fancy going for a drive?'



I break out in a cold sweat and wonder if there is enough money in the Christmas fund for petrol.

In our early days, we did go for romantic drives- a forty or fifty mile round trip through the Cotswolds, stopping at a friends teashop in Broadway for scones and cream...but those drives are delegated to history now and 'a drive' has a whole new meaning.

So, I stop doing whatever it i'm doing, don my wellies, feed the cats (because i know we won't be back within the next six hours), raid the Christmas fund for fuel money and set off with Sy with a fixed smile on my face.

Now, I know exactly why Sy needs me with him for his Shakespeare research.


I would love to say it's so that he can bounce ideas off me, show me places where Shakespeare hung out and the suchlike.

In all actuality, it's for the reasons listed below;


1; I can change a tyre if I have to. (He can't- if he hurts his fingers/hands he can't work).

2; I know the best pubs within a radius of sixty miles.

3;If we should break down, the RAC card is in my name.

4; I know this area like the back of my hand.


We have been on a few of these jaunts lately.

Stratford itself, Feckenham, Earls Common (Shakespeare hid in a pub here for eight months- i'm sure the only reason was because he couldn't find his way out of the village. It's like that today- one village blends with another and you don't have a clue where you are if you don't know the area- and there's no pub anymore, so you would have to stay under a hedge.), Worcester, Alcester, Kings Coughton ( pronounced 'Cowton,' if you live here), Huddington...there are others too, but i've hit meltdown.


'Stop here, Sprouty.'

'I can't, we're on the main road into Stratford and there's a juggernaut behind me.'

'Well, pull over into that layby.'

'That's not a layby, it's the entrance to a field and it's full of mud'.

'But i need to stop there. There's a tree in that field where Shakespeare had a pee...'


And dutifully, i find somewhere to stop and Sy goes off to investigate the tree.


As I stand there in the gateway, up to my knees in cowshit and wondering how the hell i'm going to back the car out onto a main road where the average speed is seventy mile an hour, I see Sy taking notes and smiling.

Either he's completely lost the plot or maybe, just maybe, he's found out something that no other Shakespearean scholar has ever managed to find out.

I just hope i don't have to endure another twenty years of research involving 'a drive'-


Neither me nor the car will last that long.

Till next time,

Shakespeares Housekeeper xx

'My way is to begin with the beginning'. Lord Byron- Don Juan.

...i enjoyed hugely an episode of 'Casualty' on BBC1.
The episode is ingrained in my memory because of it's rather eyepopping content.
It's not often you see the results of an oral sex session gone wrong on the BBC.

Moving forward a few years, i'm sat at a local am-dram audition, when i spot a new member.
He looked scared to death.
Now, i'm one for meeting and greeting, so i mosey over to say hello...next thing i know, he's the lead male and i'm snogging him on stage.
The last time i'd done anything like that i was absolutely legless, in the local nightclub-old habits die hard i suppose.
The male lead comes home with me for a coffee- well actually, it was a bottle of wine. It turns out he lives in the next road and is staying locally to get a script finished.
You can see where this is heading...

Sy has been writing professionally for about twenty years.
He has written for a few of the soaps on the telly, including the infamous 'Casualty' episode, and has won an award for his writing on a police drama.
He is currently writing books on Shakespeare and King Arthur (who wasn't a king, incidentally) and has written for the stage as well as the screen.
We have been married for six years. God knows what the women before me put up with, but i'm the first one he married.
He has been privately educated and has a voice like melted chocolate.He has 'O' and 'A' levels coming out of his ears.
He has introduced me to famous people and taken me to some incredible places.

Me?

Local comprehensive, two GCSE's, a voice that's a cross between the Cadbury's Caramel rabbit and Pam Ayres on sixty fags a day...and did i mention i clean houses for a living?

We couldn't be more different-it's like bloody Educating Rita in this house.

In fact, my nickname is 'Sprouty Wench'....i'm so used to it, i don't find it insulting anymore...

So, now you know. two very different people living together under one roof as man and wife.

With a daughter, but that's another story.

So not only am i going to tell you what it is really like to share my home with a writer, but what it it is like to share my home with someone from a completely different background too.

Till next time

Shakespeares Housekeeper xx