King Arthur...

Hello to One and All!
The more astute of you will notice there's been a year and a month between blogs-but i live in hope that if you look quickly at the dates, the lost year will fade into the background..
So, what have you all been up to? I've got loads of reading and catching up to do.
My world you ask?
Let me list, in no particular order,

I'm doing an Open University course in Social Policy and Criminology (ongoing)- mainly to keep up with the rest of the brains that seem to be bursting from the others in the immediate family (see below)- but also because i can't keep up with any meaningful conversation/discussion that happens round the dinner table at home.

Trying to get Darling Daughter sorted for Uni next year She's wanting to be doing Forensic Psychology ( must google :)))) Forms, forms, grants, forms, more grants, student loans. Ye Gods.

Hysterectomy. Less said about that the better. But i'm fine.

Holiday with my sister and The Writer stayed at home. He'd never have coped.

And speaking of The Writer-
King Arthur is almost ready for publication!!!!!!!!!!!!
It seems like it's been 'nearly ready' for aaagggeesss. But give it a couple of weeks and we're ready to go.
No thanks to the agent though. Haven't heard from him in months. So self publication is the way forward, particularly as it's so easy through the Web.
I'll put up the blog for it soon and there'll be a Facebook page shortly. I'm trying Twitter, but what's that all about?
The main thing though, is to stop calling 'King Arthur', 'King'. Because he wasn't one. As i've mentioned before.
There's loads more to speak of, but a years worth of stuff needs a lot of thinking about so more very soon.
Promise.

The Writer goes back to his roots...

Well-
The Writer spoke to his agent a few days ago. Nothing is moving in the publishing world. Apparently.
So Arthur and Will are having a bit of a holiday.
But- some rather promising news looms large on the horizen.
Sy has a meeting with Hilary Salmon, a brilliant exec producer at the BBC in a weeks time- he sent her a couple of ideas and she likes them very much.
Seeing as part of her portfolio is the rather brilliant Desperate Romantics, 5 days and Criminal Justice, we have high hopes.
Script writing is what Sy does first and foremost- and he's relishing the prospect of getting back to what he loves...Fantastic!

The Writer gets arrested

London.
Hellhole or ace place?

Sy lived in London for 10 years. He started life as a city boy, and has lived in cities most of his life- Birmingham, Glasgow and Bristol being among some of the many.

I did wonder how he would adapt to living in the countryside and to be fair, he's settled in really well. However, now and again he likes to catch up with his agent so takes the train back to his old hunting ground.
Sy organises a lift to the train station with the next door neighbour but something goes really tits up there, and he ends up having to get to the station a different way.
So, who's tit's up it actually was, we'll never know, but Sy decided it had to be his fault.
It probably was.
He rings me from the train.

'I don't know what happened Sprouty- he just wasn't there, and i couldn't miss the train.....i thought i might try and get a little pressie for him in London, you know, just to say no hard feelings..'

I make the right noises down the phone, and wonder what wonderful little presie Sy is going to bring back for the neighbour...after all, i only gave him a tenner and he's got to buy some lunch with that.
The days scurries by and before i know it, i'm sat at the train station, waitng for his Lordship.
Eventually, the train comes and he crawls into the car.
'Good day? Meeting go well?'
'Yes and yes.'

Silence.

'And?'
'I got arrested.'
Nothing surprises me anymore.
'What did you do?'
'Well, Sprouty...'
It turned out that Sy realised once he had bought his lunch, he had no money left to get a little pressie ( i'd been waiting for this...)
So what could he bring back for the neighbour that didn't cost anything?

'These two telephone boxes were full of these cards that you could just take away, and seeing as nieghbour reads 'The Sport', then a few of these cards would tickle him...'

Sadly, for Sy, The wonderful London police force had decided to park themselves outside these two phone boxes and promptly set upon Sy as he left the second box.
Apparently, they thought he was putting the cards up, not taking them down.
And when asked what he was going to do with the cards,Sy answered; 'Give them to my next door neighbour who lives in the countryide.'
He made him sound like the godamn village idiot, who had never seen a naked woman before.
The police made him empty his bag and pockets and searched him.
And then took details.
'What was the outcome?' asks i as we pull up outside our house.
'Well....obviously my feathers were ruffled Sprouty..but there was one thing that upset me more than anything else.'
'Oh God....they didn't search you....you know..'
No! Nothing like that...worse, actually'
What could be worse?
'On my report sheet. They had to put a description of me.'
'Go on.....
'Sprouty, for my hair....they wrote......greying.'
I laughed so much i could hardly get out of the car.
He was nearly crying.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper x

Opportunity Knocks.

......for those of us old enough to remember Hughie Green and that fab show.
But that's not the opportunity knocks i'm on about.
When you're married to a writer, you have to take charge of all social occasions.
This is mostly because they have no idea of time when they are writing, whether that be time of day or time of year- the latter being decided by;
1- Amount of clothes worn ('Sprouty, how many jumpers have you got on, it must be at least 70 degrees out there!
'No, it's mid December and you missed the whole of Autumn completely...the warmth is the central heating.)
2- The lighting. Lighting is very important to a writer. Most of them are not typists, so bash away at their laptops with amazing speed, but only with two fingers. They need to be able to see where the keys are, as they don't touch-type. Writers seem really suprised when they finally get round to turning lights off, and it's actually mid summer....and they haven't needed artificial light for at least two months.
So- i'm in charge of the calendar. Sy will sometimes tell me if he needs a social life. Most of the time he won;t though, so i end up booking dinner with friends only to find that there is no way he's moving away from his laptop. Our friends are very understanding - these days if we are invited out, they normally supply us with a plate of sandwiches, or a tin of soup, accompanied by a cry of 'Well, we we didn't want to go to any trouble in case at the last minute you couldn't come.'
Sy always seems so disgruntled by this;
'But they asked us to Dinner, Sprouty...!'
'Yes- and you should be bloody grateful for the soup- it never fails to amaze me that we're asked out at all these days, it's you that always pisses everyone about.'

There are many other occasions that are missed by Sy while he's ensconced in his own world. I make sure i trawl the appropriate bookie, publishie, telly writing websites for networking opportunities and chances for him to meet others like him ( i make him sound like some sort of unusual pet or alien.....to a point he is.)
One such opportunity happened last week- Sy went off up to Brum to a debate on the state of television drama today.
Rather fab actually, because it was between two people that Sy used to work with- Hilary Salmon at the BBC and Tony Garnett who wrote the totally unforgetable and groundbreaking 'Cathy Come Home' back in the sixties.
Sy had a whale of time, got a chance to have a good catch-up with both of them, and has been able to send Hilary some ideas to look at. Sy hasn't written for telly for about ten years, but again, it's all about Opportunities .
And then getting The Writer to make the most of them.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper x

'Misery'

Sy's desk for his writing is set up in the sitting room. It really couldn't be in a worse place. Apart from the bathroom maybe-
There was a time this actually worked quite well.
Darling Daughter and me would set off at 8.30 in the morning and not be back until 4.30 in the afternoon.
Trouble now, is that DD is on 'revision leave' or 'skiving' or 'don't give a flying fart about my exams, so i'll stay at home' time....which means she's coming and going all hours of the day, and i've started coming home between jobs.
All this coming and going is not good for the concentration.
The Writer made this perfectly clear to us last week, when DD and i had obviously had the telly on a bit too loud, or talked to each other a bit too loudly.
'Can't work here anymore, Sprouty. Just can't concentrate. Too much noise and coming and going. I need peace and quiet.'
He's forgotton that i've given up half of my sitting room for his desk, and all my wall space for the bookshelves. Booting him and his bloody laptop up to the top of the garden seems like a really good idea at the moment.
But i can feel myself crumbling.
'Well......there is one place....'
I'm pissed off with myself as soon as i've said this. No going back, you see.
'You can have my dressing table in the bedroom'.
There. The last fucking bastion.
He's in.
So, i now have a lovely area about a foot square for all my girlie things.
Sy has my dressing table, with some of his bits and pieces from his downstairs desk.
Oh, didn't i say? He still has that desk going....if i want to go to bed, he comes downstairs and perches himself back where he started.
In the daytime when i come home, i find DD sat crosslegged on the settee, fingers in her ears, to try and block out the horrific thundering that echoes down through the floorboards-'Jesus Mum, does he really have to knock the crap out of that keyboard!?'
It would appear so.
I don't have my own little place anymore. Weirdly, the dressing table was it. Not much, but mine, and now i've given it up for the greater good.
But i'm a bit miserable about it.
A man writing in my bedroom as well as every other room.
I haven't quite got to the point where i strap him to the bed and smash his ankles. But that's only because i need to have Kathy Bates at my side to make sure i do it right.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

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

How to give a writers wife a good time.

The Writer took me out last week.
Yes, that's right. Don't go fainting or anything silly.
'There's this rather interesting meeting with a talk i'd like to go to Sprouty, about happiness.'
'Aren't you happy then?' i ask The Writer.
'Of course i am, but i think that it may be useful to hear what the chap says...research and all that. Will you come?'
I pondered this for a minute or two, and weighed up the other options.
Darling Daughter was off to the 'Mop'- local to us, a fair that comes round once a year, originally a gathering of local trades people who would show their skills once a year in a bid to get employment. I believe that maids would wear their mop caps, hence the name.
Now, it is a funfair, with smashing rides and you get a chance to win goldfish- and then have bets at school to see whose is going to survive more than a week.
i don't think i've ever missed one, in all my 43 years- but  things change, and i'm not too keen on the thought of a load of teenagers screaming in my ear and trying to escape them but falling over all the pushchairs in my haste to get away.
I'm getting so old.
And i couldn't find anything remotely interesting to watch on the telly, either.
With all escape routes cut off, i said i'd go with him.
'It is free, Sprouty.'
Well, what's a girl to do?
We drive into town, having set off early to make our way through all the Mop paraphernalia (i did very nearly pull up and park...just find it so hard to resist all the twinkly lights..) and eventually got to the hall where the talk was being held.
There's a man outside.
'Is this where the meeting is?' asks Sy.
The man looks at us both- up and down.
'Yes. both of you then?'
I detect a note of pity in his voice, but i think i'm imagining it.
'You go first,' i whisper to Sy, giving him a huge shove that propels him through a set of double doors.
It's like being in a hospital- very clean, sterile and bright.
A man hurries over to us, and welcomes us.
'Have you come far?' he enquires.
'Only from the over the hill,' i explain, while trying to take in the surroundings.
Behind him are two women sat at a table, laminating posters.
I can't quite make out what they say.
I would have hoped there would be a few more for this meeting.
The two women look up at us and smile quietly.
This doesn't feel quite right, somehow.
'We're here for the meeting,' explains Sy. 'Do we sit around the table then?'
'Yes, yes! do come and sit down- you can introduce yourselves when the others get here..they shouldn't be long now.'
I'm really getting nervous now- this isn't what i was expecting at all. I glance at Sy and he's got a horridly hunted look in his eyes.
'Go on- ask him again about the meeting. Ask him who is giving the lecture!' i hiss.
Sy clears his throat.
'This meeting then- how did you manage to book this lecturer? Would he be local? We can't wait to find out more about this whole happiness thing....' Sy's words die on his lips as the mans face drops.

'You do know you're at an AA meeting, don't you?
No, we bloody didn't.
I almost- so very nearly- said it.
'You stay then, Sy, and i'll come back in an hour.

We found the meeting come talk we were looking for in another room.
And actually, it was very good.
Sy didn't fall asleep once, so it must have held something interesting for him.
Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper. xx

Perception.

I can't believe i've been doing this blog for over a year now.
What worries me, is that now i've written about most of the trials and tribulations that affect a writers wife, i'm afraid there won't be anything new to write about.
So, i'm playing it a bit by ear at the moment, and picking out bits and pieces that i'm generally musing about.
Today, i'll mostly be writing about Perception.
I asked Sy what he thought the meaning of the word was ( is this a question, in a question?)
'Well, Sprouty.....'
He put down his book and stared at me like i was some some sort of backwater hick (well, i'm proud of my roots)
'i thought you might be a bit old to be worrying about that sort of thing...'
Stop right there, matey.
Firstly, i'm not to bloody old, and secondly, listen to me you insensitive half-hearted bastard- i said perception, not contraception.
All said to myself, of course.
Serves me right for not giving him a five minute warning that i was going to ask a question.
We have neighbours across the road from us- an elderly couple, very sweet and polite.
Proper neighbours who you could go to in an emergency.
I don't need an alarm clock, or indeed, any sort of time piece while i have these people as neighbours.
Their sitting room curtains open every morning at 7.30 am.
Their bedroom curtains at 8.00.
He fetches his paper at 8.30.
He returns at 8.40.
he wipes down his windows at 9.00....
The day goes on.
At 7.30pm, he closes the bedroom curtains. (in Summer, it's 8.45.) He will spend 5 minutes looking out the window, and if i'm not ready for this, he will see me consuming a large bar of Galaxy, or something else of the chocolate variety.
The joys of someone living opposite- to be fair, i'm not sure how good his eyesight is, so he might just see something the size of a minky whale, eating it's own weight in minky whale food.
That or he thinks we have the most enormous cat curled up on the settee.
Come 8.30pm, he closes the sitting room curtains, having turned on the tall lamp they have in the room.
And then it all starts again the next day.
But, you see, i don't know these people.
There is definately a wife, but she doesn't do any of these jobs.
She tends to just be on 'gate patrol' when they go anywhere.
She opens the gate for him to drive the car out, and then closes it again when they come back.
They could be axe murderers for all i know.
Maybe he doesn't go and get a paper in the mornings- he might be popping out to scan the village to see if there are likely victims for when he closes the curtains at 8.30.
Because once those curtains are shut, you just don't know what goes on, do you?
You see, i perceive them to be sweet old people.
But they might not be, at all.
I can't help but wonder how they perceive me and Sy.
This is what i think they see, if they peer out when the cutains are shut, as well as open.
8.30am- me and various children spilling out the house, on a school run and off to work.
NB- i say various, because i take neighbours children to school and it depends who DD has had staying over.
Bedroom curtains shut.
11.30/12.00- me coming home after morning jobs, laden down with buckets, mop, bin bag of dusters, hoover and possibly a bag of shopping.
Several trips into house to get all stuff in.
Bedroom curtains still shut.
12.05pm- sitting room windows flung open and wild woman seen careering around sitting room with hoover in one hand, duster in other.
12.30-bedroom curtains still shut.
1.00pm-shouting heard from inside house.
1.05- bedroom curtains opened.
1.15-wild looking man seen pottering outside in his dressing gown, talking to various cats and flowers.
1.20- more shouting heard from inside house.
1.30pm- woman appears at front door, dressed in stained tee shirt, old scruffy jeans and hobnailed boots, still shouting.
1.32-man in dressing gown waves woman off and disappears back into house.
1.35- bedroom curtains closed.
4.00-curtains opened.
4.30pm- woman home- several kids spill out of car, slowly followed by woman who looks like she has a bad back.
She glances up- what we can only assume, is that she is checking that the bedroom curtains are open.
All quiet for an hour or two.
6.45pm- woman disappears in car.
6.55- woman reappears with bag of stuff. The clinking noise indicates that the man in the house needs sustanance.
Again, all quiet for some time.
10.00pm- all curtains and windows wide open- raised voices. What can they be doing in there? Can again, only assume that smelly substances are rife, and air is needed.
11.00- bedroom lights on. Curtains closed.
2.00am- sitting room light on, curtains now closed.
Shadow of man sat at computer for several hours.
4.00am. Darkness.
At last.
I don't think that my neighbours know that Sy is a writer, therefore keeps very unsocial hours and drinks vast amounts of alcohol.
If they did, and this is what they see day after day, they might not look at us quite so guardedly.
I will tell them, one day.
And when i do, i'm sure i know what the resonse will be.
'Thank God for that- we thought your hubby was a jobless scrounger who sleeps all day, drinks all evening and stays up all night watching acts of sexual depravity on that computer internet thing....'

Perception.....maybe i'm seeing everything in a new way.
Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper.x





'

Time to come clean....

Listen very carefully...i shall say this only once.


I have eight housekeeping jobs, varying from doing 'a bit' for some lovely elderly people, through to keeping on top of a couple of gorgeous holiday homes in the Cotswolds.


But i only do these jobs in the mornings.


In the afternoon, i do something very different.
Do you recognise the car above?
The good old Ford Capri- the must-have car of the mid seventies to mid eighties.
Beloved of the 'The Professionals', 'Minder' and often seen careering through cardboard box mountains on 'The Sweeney'.
Well....in the afternoons, i make my way to a converted stable, five minutes drive from my house, and play with these cars.
I help strip parts from them and then send them off to the four corners of the globe.

I loooove this job.
No two days are ever the same, i can make as much noise as i like, and the recession is non existant for this particular trade.
So, some facts about my job.

Like i say, i work in a converted stable- the only thing thing that has made it a room, is the fact it has a radiator. I can't tell you how basic it is. On the minus side, in the winter, i might as well be outdoors. On the plus side, in the summer, i have views across the Cotswolds, and have buzzards flying above me, and chickens stroll in and keep me company.
Just don't tell Health and Safety.

Remember the photo from Burns Night of my friend who was dressed like Captain Sensible?
He's my boss.
And i love him. He's the best bloke ever.
He plays practical jokes all the time, including such gems as making animal noises on the second phone line when i'm on the phone to customers, firing his air controlled whirring gun at us with discs inside saying such things as 'make me a cuppa' and 'no holiday for you this year' ( i kid you not.)
He will listen to me rambling on about The Writer when i'm pissed off with him, he tells me that i will always have a job at his place even if it's just sweeping floors (he says he's heard i'm really good at that- it doesn't help that i clean his house for him too...) and he will always come and fetch me or take me home in his huge van if the stable gets flooded. Which it has done on several occasions.

There are over thirty Ford Capris on site ( i bet you thought they were all dead) in various staes of health, including the 'Minder' Capri. My boss owns that one, and says he will never sell it.
Most of them are stored in his wifes menage.
She had horses once, but the minute she took them out to the fields, the cars took over.

The place i work has been on telly- a show on Discovery real time, called 'Wreck Rescue'- and many of the cars have been loaned out to tv companies for period shows. Bet you missed that one in the background on 'Larkrise to Candleford' didn't you...?
You know what i mean.

Some of the car parts are disgusting- covered in oil, rust and crap.
I take great delight in wrapping any parts like that in fresh copies of the 'Daily Mail.'
Now that IS a good feeling.

I get to wear steel toe capped boots and swear like a trooper.
Although it's a very male dominated environment, me and the girl in the office use language that makes the boys blush.
And there are only five of us that work there...small is beautiful.

The company has been running for 25 years, and this year is the 40th annivesary of the Capris' launch.
And by the way business is going, it'll be going for another 25 years.

Finally, my dad would have been really proud of me doing this job. He always had Fords, and i'm sure he's up there somewhere watching me with a spanner in my hand, and saying 'good on yer Sprouty.'

So, in a (not so small) nutshell, you have the details of my 'other' job. I won't mention it again.
And believe it or not....it really does keep me sane.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx

My 'Aint Life Grand' award.

Well- I've been nominated by Abruptly Calico to state five reasons why life is grand for me.

After racking my brains and counting my blessings, here they are;

1; I've got work.

So many people haven't, and i've still got more than i can cope with. But that's good.

2; My Darling Daughter hasn't gone off the rails. Yet. I might need to do this again in a years time and see if answer is different.

3; I've got bloody brilliant neighbours. When you live in a tiny community like i do, and are more or less with these people every day, it really matters that i can go to any of them at any time for anything.

4; I'm so chuffed that The Writer actually prefers me without make-up- which is grand because if i wore it, then after the days work that i do, it would have slid off my face.

5; It's Spring!!! No more getting up in the dark and staggering around the bedroom trying to find my knickers, and worrying whether i will wake up The Writer after he has only been in bed for an hour.

There they are then.

And in true tradition, i now nominate;

Cassandra at Jacobwrestling.

Charmaine at Middle-Aged Dating.

Kat at Random Ramblings and Recipes.

Completely Alienne at ....err..Completely Alienne.

Cinnamon at Hull is Never Dull.

Go Girls!!!

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