The Sifting of Ashes

Prequel to Cannes independent film networking event

2011-12-27T10:33:00.004Z

A date for your diary... It's back... The Prequel to Cannes 2012 Independent film networking event, is bigger and better, now over two days of action packed activities for Writers, Actors, Film Folk, Film Crew as well as coming face to face with Corporate clients who use Film folk.

The Next Prequel to Cannes film, television and theatre networking event is on Wednesday 8th and Thursday 9th February 2012 at Lighthouse Poole, Dorset. Tickets go on sale through Lighthouse Box Office 0844 406 8666 just in time for some last minute Christmas or New Year presents.

This is an established and successful top notch event with professional support from industry led consultants, accredited film folk, creative agencies, organisations and guilds. A must for all those who need to talk about or secure collaboration, knowledge or interest, funding or advice about their film, television or theatre projects.

An action packed two day line-up, kicking off with 'Pitch Factor' a Masterclass with Lucy V from Bang2write. Then there is a great opportunity to put into practice your knowledge and 'Pitch to the Panel' for the 'Pitch Pot Prize fund' with a guaranteed minimum amount of £50 to the victor.

There will be two other Masterclasses about writing and directing for film and television, with jobbing writer and organiser of Tony Jordan's Red Planet Prize, Danny Stack; one thing you can be sure about is that Danny will tell it as it is, as well as bring structure to your writing career and give you hope that true writing talent coupled with hard work will always shine through.

Prequel to Cannes has teamed up with Dramatic Productions to be able to offer semi-professional or professional actors the opportunity to be 'spotted' during the photo shoots or screen tests, and actors who show great promise or charisma will be invited back on Thursday for a free audition. (Please note that it is not a pre-requisite to have any of the photographic services on offer to be considered for Agency representation; the low cost service is being provided for actors in an attempt to aid their careers).

At a very reasonable cost, Prequel to Cannes has teamed up with London Fashion photographer Ben Trill and Esther Yarnold of Interim, to provide an opportunity to have Black and White head and shoulder photographs taken, that will be suitable for Spotlight. In addition, actors who do not already have a screen test reel (this is not a show reel but a rehearsed piece to camera), will be able to perform a screen test and keep this record for their existing portfolios. The successful visual artist and stylist Hazel Evans, will be on hand to give last minute advice and hints on styling for photographs.

Dramatic Productions will open their Agency books, in an active search to represent new acting talent for film, theatre and corporate work. Prequel to Cannes is delighted to support Dramatic Productions as they launch their new Actors' Agency during the gala packed evening on Wednesday 8th February 2012. Meet the actors, talk to Sasha about her Agency plans and projects and learn how she can help to support your film or business projects.

In honour of the prolific and successful television, film and theatre writer Jeremy Paul, Creative Thoughts Productions is delighted to launch the Jeremy Paul Award for Theatre Writing. Full details will be available on the night of Wednesday 8th February 2012.

A whole host of fantastic activities will take place in and around the Cinema, with the Cinema Bar being at the centre of the networking hub. The cinema will be the focus for some exceptional sessions you will not want to miss.

If you have ever asked yourself one or more of these four questions then this session will be for you: 1) Why should I go to Cannes festival? 2) Do I need accreditation? 3) What do I need to take with me? 4) How much is it likely to cost? You will be able to discover the real facts about getting to Cannes from three Festival veterans, who between them have a string of nominations and awards.

Meet A. D. Cooper the 2009 winner of the Prequel to Cannes short film script competition, Alice has directed her winning script and her film 'The view from the window' currently in post-production. London based Alice, has already received international recognition in New York and Cannes, for her other short film called 'Feet'.

A showreel will showcase some of the leading film talent from across the South and Suzy Wheeler, sister of the uber cool from Strawberry Fields represents, will be on hand to tell you about an exciting new film venture happening in Bournemouth in 2012. White Lantern Film will also be available to talk about their monthly B-Reel film events held at the Dance Pavilion in Bournemouth.

It promises to be one heck of a two day feast... Join us even if it is on Thursday night at the Mafia style Meltdown networking meal...

The full 2 day programme will be available to download soon... please note this is an over 18's film industry event.

Prequel to Cannes blogspot

2011-07-08T11:00:00.002+01:00

Remember for those who would like to follow me on my other blog, it is called Prequel to Cannes. See you there...

R with best wishes...

The Prequel and Sequel to Cannes Feature film script competition

2011-07-08T10:54:00.002+01:00

And a new day dawns...

Congratulations to the winners of the Prequel and Sequel to Cannes feature film script competition. A closely fought dual over the first prize was brought to a nail-biting conclusion.

1st Prize £500 for 'Faith' by Dom Carver and 2nd Prize £100 for 'Since you've been gone' by Lisa Barrass.

Our best wishes from all the judges and staff at HQ... Submissions are now being accepted for the 2011/12 short and feature film script. Get writing, you have to be in it to win it!...

New Blog

2011-04-07T10:02:00.002+01:00

New Blog: Prequel to Cannes

It would be wonderful if all my previous followers would like to follow me on my new blog.

The sifting of ashes has been a great learning curve for me in the life of blogs... the main purpose of creating it was to kick start my daily writing regime, muse over the filling that goes into the stuffing of my daily writing. But life took over and I was thwacked by the everyday wand... you know the one that jumps out of the cupboard every morning and threatens to give you a good beating before you can actually get on with anything you want to do...

I have had time to reflect on the main message and purpose of the blog so finally I know, I hope I have found its purpose, so now I just need to master my voice.... please join me if you will on this journey and if you chose to jump ship, I thank you for your contributions, encouragement and support...

Well, well, well

2010-12-26T11:27:00.007Z

Who would have thought that the year turned out as it did? It has been a bit of a roller coaster ride, which found me hanging on for grim death at one point, while all about me fell apart.

May found me meeting up with all my foodie friends in a beautiful barn in Rye, Sussex and a spring wardrobe, not a jacket or coat in my case, only to find that on the Tuesday it snowed and I was racing around Tenterden in a cardi trying to find any shop that had a warm coat... Joules came up trumps and I didn't have the coat off my back for the entire holiday... then I came home to Dorset a week later to a mini heat wave.

It was a repreive from the ongoing saga of the bathroom, which was finally resolved by Team 3 in October, on account of the first one man team cocked up, the second two man team (one of which experienced a severe lapse in judgement) which resulted in my brand new furniture and fittings ending up Bukshee in someone elses personal development project; they thought I would never know or find out... I am a writer for the Lord's sake... it is my job to be nosy and uncover and discover the light and shade on the road to resolution... it is just in some people the dark side lies beneath and surface, nestled in their ego which they are only too happy to share! The motto? Builders beware... so the third team was sent in to clear up and clear off, eventually resulting in a full refund and a bathroom that was usable and finished to a high standard; true eleven months later than promised but none-the-less vacated and finished.

So what good has come out of this fluff and stuff? Plans for a 2012 Calendar with artsy friends called 'Water Babies', which will not only help to promote artists around the local area, but will raise some funds for a clean water charity too. It is all to do with the Ying and Yang of life...

My two film script competitions have been well and truly launched, having been endorsed by the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook under the competitions listings, I am revisiting my cookbook and knocking it into shape for submission to an agent and after attending the London Screenwriters' Festival in October, I am also totally rewriting one of my rom-coms. So all in all the events and projects I can control have taken a turn for the better, or worked their way nearer to some kind of resolution.

Christmas is here and I have managed to find time to revisit my blog... The only temporary annoyance is that my new phone does not want to upload my images, so photo's will follow at some stage. I am also thinking of totally revamping the look and appeal and maybe even the purpose of the blog, but for that I need more time to set aside.

So for the moment, I wish you all a very happy, healthy and blessed Seasonal break and good fortune in 2011.

From Foxi with love...

Coming Soon

2010-07-28T12:22:00.002+01:00

The Witch is back... after a long break and months filled with everything to take me away from my blog... I'm back. No I haven't been in prison, on a secret overseas mission from M or unblocking the drains following my disastrous bathroom installation, just stuck in the fast lane with my foot firmly glued to the accelerator pedal, trying to move into the slow lane and take the slip road off to a place called Sanity.

Watch this space.

Home is where the heart is...

2010-02-05T22:59:00.003Z

As much as one might enjoy home cooking, there are occasions when eating out is just soooo good. I must declare the reason I enjoy eating at home is because I know exactly where my ingredients are sourced. So if I do venture out, I want to ensure that the experience will be memorable on the food front at least. I have yet to be disappointed with the menu on offer at pick more daisies in Wimborne. The staff and service is faultless, the food stunning and the surrounding a bit quirky and reminiscent of the best type of clean hippy offerings available in Bristol, Camden or Glastonbury. Honest food served with imagination and flair. Check it out.

http://www.daisiesrestaurantwimborne.co.uk/dinner.htm

Sometimes simple is best. Well sourced food, perfectly cooked, well presented, just makes for a wonderful experience. Pick More Daisies has to be one of my most favourite local places to indulge in good food, friendly service and remarkable prices. Again this year I will be ordering the Pinenut tart to take to our foodie reunion in May, near Rye.

Divine, simple, good food, Scandinavian shaker charm.

2010-02-05T22:50:00.004Z

Another day in the life of...

2010-02-05T16:56:00.004Z

Soil pipes, waste outlets and mangleworzels

2010-02-05T09:23:00.011Z

OK, OK... so I'm making up for lost blog time, by incorporating a few images from Christmas at the Jones's household, into a collage of daily life as it is now.

I am using Christmas as the landmark because this was the date when I should have been able to relax in a candlelit bath while contemplating world events at the same time as my Christmas shopping list, sipping champagne and placing my loofah in areas privy only to me. (That doesn't quite sound right, but you get my gist).

Work on the downstairs loo begins in earnest next week, so hopefully by the end of the week guests visiting the smallest room in the house will no longer have to risk, nay choose whether to exfoliate their cheeks on the roughcast bricks or play Electrocution Russian Roulette with the hanging light switch. From this moment on, they will be able to sit and contemplate life at a leisurely pace or read one of the many publications in a well lit space; in fact, I'm hoping that the space will be so inviting that even I might use it on the odd occasion. Of course the choice then continues, whether to house my collection of film awards in there too. The Oscar, the BAFTA, the lifetime achievement award, there is only one drawback, I have none, so a visit to the fancy dress shop to pick up my golden Oscar to sit alongside my copy of the BAFTA nominations brochure from 2005 and my clapperboard, will have to suffice for the time being.

The good news is that once this is finished, then work on the bathroom will commence on the following Monday. Ten days of upheaval and mess should then find me the other side of hell with my longed for bathroom of tranquil calm, scented candles and a toy boy to help me with my loofah... sorry, I was daydreaming.

After a mixed up year peppered with ill health and upsets, my daughter and her fiance will be taking a well earned break, leaving me in charge of my grand dog for five days. I am girding my loins for the onslaught of twice daily walks, regular meals and a routine to abide by, I sense five nights with a turn in time of 9.00pm and no social life await me; no change there then. Actually, I am hoping that the dog, no doubt exhausted from his walk, will sleep peacefully at my feet while I get on and finish the synopsis, tighten up the treatment and edit the script of Love Shack before I can finally send it to my producer friend (Paul Sarony) who has generously offered to read it.

The top three finalists of the Sequel to Cannes Short Film Script Competition, will be announced on 14th February, after what has been a lengthy but worthwhile process. I just hope that Level Films is interested in turning one of them into a short film, we shall see in due course.

Until next time... Hugs and Peace. from Rosie x

OMG 6th November was my last posting

2010-01-22T11:19:00.008Z

I know it has been an age since I last posted when:

* I forget my login information

* I have too many photo's stored and saved that need uploading

* I can post images of my birthday meal with Paul from back in November

* I have photo's of Susan's stay which was also back in November, showing the Christmas lights in Shaftesbury

What have I been doing you ask? Or not, if you couldn't give a toss.

*WARNING* Major Rant! The following cannot be considered slander as it is all documented and I intend to keep to the facts.

I have been stewing over the will it won't it non-arrival of the bathroom furniture from Wickes, which was promised to have been delivered and installed before Christmas.

The bathroom furniture and installation was ordered and paid for in full on 13th November, 2009; I should have known by the date of the order that for some the 13th is unlucky, however, positive and confident that for me and a certain acquaintance in the Midlands the thirteenth is often a lucky date, I went ahead undeterred. Finally, the furniture arrived, not yesterday as promised for the fourth time, but today... 22nd January, 2010, around 50 + days later in total. When did I discover that it wouldn't turn up? Yesterday, when I phoned in the afternoon to find out where it was. When would it be delivered? Between 7am and 1 pm Today. Fifth time lucky!

Thankfully, on the advice of the very informative information sheet that comes with your congratulatory order message and delivery instructions, not to mention the rather fetching yellow balloon that you are advised to tie to your gatepost, I did not have the bathroom stripped and prepped; as the thought of going native in the toilet department for nearly three months would have been a step too far. Furthermore, when the yellow balloon had long since been burst and shrivelled into a bundle the size of a dead canary, it would have lost all significance, as the delivery men would have been able to have found me by the stench and odour wafting from the Bear Grillys (?) type earth pit at the bottom of the garden next to the overhead watering can swinging perilously above; where I am sure I could have been found holding onto the yellow string complete with Gung Ho attitude and a vague hope that a delivery would turn up this decade. Let me tell you, my balloon has since been well and truly burst. Four abortive deliveries later, due to several incomplete orders, I am now the proud owner of a full set of 13 boxes. Installation? 8th February... maybe... or maybe not.

Watch this space for the latest updates as to whether the Wickes installation team will appear to carry out the one week preparation followed by the ten day installation of said thirteen boxes. Yes, this isn't poetic license, it actually does state 13 boxes on the delivery note.

On a more pleasant and positive note, back in November I spent a wonderful evening in Wareham at The Priory (the restaurant not the retreat) with Paul, a good friend and my guru on all things IT. We share a birth date within a day of each other albeit more than a decade apart, so in true Scorpio style, we gorged on divine home made canapes, followed by a robust three course menu loosely based on French cuisine.

For the foodie fanatics it went along the lines of:

We both chose the same starter and dessert, must be a Scorpio thing; smoked duck and pigeon breast terrine, followed by my choice of Fillet steak on a bed of rosti with a truffle and Madeira sauce and Paul's choice was a Pigeon breast served on Jerusalem artichoke mash, with a raspberry jus and spinach. Dessert consisted of a chocolate pecan tart with vanilla ice cream followed by a truly aromatic blend of black coffee and an urgent appointment with the cholesterol clinic.

Highly recommended, with astounding customer service, amazing sumptuous food in a perfect boutique style medieval cellar setting, with sparkling company that found us enthusing over the blend of food flavours, laughing at the strangest facts and figures, exploring the world of science, that boy does know some amazing little known facts and teetering in heels back to the Silver Fox... me not him.

I must go lay down as the shock of the furniture finally arriving along with the planned mammoth blog (I said blog not bog), has surely zapped today's injection of energy.

Breakfast at Tiffany's...

2009-11-06T21:51:00.005Z

Well Rosie's actually, with James... Oh the anticipation of the gossip the laughs and the endless talk about writing and life...

Seeing at is it so close to my birthday, I could have said Breakfast with an old Banger... but that would be rude... and anyway my therapist tells me not to talk about myself like that.

From these images, you can see that we were enjoying a true British tradition, the classical concert in the Park with the BSO in SUMMERTIME... Yes Summertime. I could hardly press the 'take' button for the thickness of clothing surrounding my upper torso and forcing my arms outward like a character from Royston Vaysey. The photo's don't do James justice, for he is Peter Pan, and my only regret about this Saturday's breakfast is that Graham his other half, won't be able to be with us, because he will be far too busy with his own performance and version of 'On the Buses' and my daughter is playing in a hockey match... Maybe next time around.

Secretly of course, I shall be more than content not to have to share James on this occasion... Bring it on...

The day finally dawns...

2009-10-14T08:36:00.004+01:00

No images today, maybe later.

The moment of departure has arrived. My dear old car traded in for a much younger model. I feel like a disloyal friend who has found someone new to play with, but the truth is I need something more reliable; this means the old friend will have to retire in the playground where old motors go to pasture. It is my romanticised notion that the car will live out it days in a field somewhere, housing nesting birds, or homing forlorn foxes from wind and rain during a night of foraging for fancies. I cannot bear to think of the reality... stripped and dumped like a hooker outside a Loveless Motel...

10.30 and the deed will be done, adoption papers to the new owner, a fond farewell glance and a final outstretched finger to trace along her once sleek lines, like a mother relinquishing her treasured offspring... these are the emotions that will act as the catalyst for understanding, if not in a lesser way, the wrench a mother may have felt at having to give up her child, seduced by the promise of a better life. A writers' toolkit of emotion, stored in a brownie tin for resurrection another day, a faded memory, an act of final separation.

Unwrapped...

2009-10-07T23:04:00.009+01:00

Two posts in one day...

After a visit to the doctors with the Duchess (my dear old Mum), I took her on a bit of a shopping spree to cheer her up. We sifted diligently through kitchenware, bedding, shoes, bags, foods and of course... books.

Lost in my own world I was browsing through the covers of 'Classic Cuisine' by Tamasin Day-Lewis (one of our course leaders on the Arvon Cookery Writing week in October last year - this very same week in fact), Xanthe Clay, Nigel Slater, James Martin and Willy the Chocolate man, when I came upon it. Two books in their seductive silver and chocolate coating, lurking on the shelves; Green and Black's 'Unwrapped'.

I was inwardly squealing with delight, for I was previously the runner up in the G & B's Country Living Competition, with my recipe for Swedish Chocolate and Coffee Lamb (page 86, 2nd edition) I cannot remember why I put the Swedish bit in the title... but here lies the complication.

Whilst at University, we had been advised to think long and hard about our writing names, persona and that all elusive 'voice'. I had thought I should want to specialise in writing for children, but after an Arvon course in Writing for Children, held in the darkest bowels of Invernesshire, I soon realised I neither possessed the talent or the drive to continue in this genre; 75k words later and with a full edit under my belt of my hormone induced characters, I was left in a quandary. Had I decided to write for children under my middle name, which I have used since pussy was a kitten, all would have been absolutely fine, but it wasn't deemed serious enough to carry the weight of a grown up Hollywood script; Yeah, I wish! So I decided to register with The Writers' Guild of GB, under the name of Rosie Jones. I had thought of changing my surname to one of our family names like Penaluna (which with hindsight might not have been such a bad move) or Watkins, Pratten, Jacobs or Glyndwr (pronounced Glendower) but the moment has long since gone and in a way I'm pleased I stuck to my guns and kept to good old Jones.

Now for some of you who know me as Rosie, this new revelation will probably leave you disinterested if not underwhelmed, but it is a fact and a long winded way of explaining why in the G & B book they make reference to Annette Jones; in the first edition it did say from Dorset but that has been omitted in the second edition. I originally entered the competition under my middle name of Annette, confident that the fame I would enjoy as a children's author, would link me to that Best Chocolate Book in the World, which won the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards... Hey ho!

I am of course still waiting for the fame, but my runner up prize of a years supply of G & B chocolate has long since applied itself with extreme affection and force to my hips... so I can officially say that my recipe (this will no doubt turn into the plural as I recount the claim to fame in the nursing home in a few years time), that I appear alongside Nigella and her Clementine Cake and Nigel Slater's White Cardamon chocolate mousse... I must retire to my bed, for it is awfully exhausting for a girl, all this fame in a lifetime and I haven't even turned a page of Walking on Alligators, remember she is the author of no less than two novels... (In joke for the Gathering Nuts in May tribe)...

Starvation and all things inbetween...

2009-10-07T21:40:00.006+01:00

I have fallen foul of the first rule of the art of blogging... I am not worthy, since I notice my last post was indeed on 19th August and I am unable to provide you with a better photo than this rather dark and shady image!

Artist Rob Hughes and Model: Creatives from The Arts Poole:

Writing, networking, attending parties and meeting with friends has had to take a back seat as I have been busy seeing to domestic chores, like landscaping, decorating, pandering to my aching back and running my dear old Mum backwards and forwards to the doctors, as her serious ear infection took hold and refused to repair. However, today it was official, she is on the mend.

Finally, when I managed to sit down and focus on a script report that I needed to do from the excellent script reading course I took nearly three weeks ago lead by Lucy Vee, I also logged on to my email to catch up on non-essential messages that I had left for another day. One hundred and eight four messages later, I emerged for sustenance before tackling my SPAM mail. Trouble is, I cannot afford to just delete it, as occasionally I receive emails I really need or am waiting for... invariably they are cunningly wedged somewhere between my enlarged penis or Petrushka from the USSR and her request to show me a good time ;) With the additional numerous promises of Viagra as the cure all, and an offer to slice off my weight how did they know, I found an amusing caption asking me if I wanted an enlarged penis... to which I fondly responded, only if it is attached to a healthy and handsome thirty year old male! A girl can dream...

I have started returning to the local creative writing group again, as the lack of deadlines and the pressure to clean skirting boards, yet again, fights to distract my every spare waking minute. The scuffle for attention is scandalous and without shame as the easily distracted writer emerges from piles of faffing waiting to be either sorted, cleaned or moved 6 inches to another pile, in another attempt to wait for an opportunity of a good sort... if you get my drift.

The only upside is that although I say I haven't been networking, I did get along to the September meet of 'The Arts Poole', where we celebrated, if that is indeed the correct phrase, the life of Augustus John. It was a cracking night, meeting up with other creatives and friends, the music, live painting and conversation simply flowed effortlessly like honey.

I have also managed to host my usual Saturday breakfast for the lovely James, Jackie and Antoinette and my only regret was that Graham was working. These five hour breakfasts are a joy every time and sitting in the sunshine in the dying rays of early autumn discussing writing and the latest projects and texts and films, was an added bonus. Great and overly generous friends in every sense of the word, wonderful conversation and laughter and a generous helping of talking about the art of writing.

Plus my good friend and web-host prepared for me a memorable Sunday breakfast before another lesson in website techniques, a marathon of stamina and patience on his part.

Another spooky thing happened, in that I encountered an old friend... I say old friend but actually he was my Saturday boy years ago when I was a manager in retail. He was my strongest weapon... full of charm, style and an innate instinct to hone in on customers with spending power; although I have to attest he treated every person who came through the door with the same grace and charm, regardless of their budget; he is old money, not new, no hype just fine breeding.

We spent two hours on the phone catching up on what has been nearly 18 years news, no awkwardness, it was as if we'd seen each other last week! He reminded me he came seeking a job, a law student home for the holidays and taking a gap year out, before taking his final articles then ultimately switching careers and moving into sales... why was I not surprised. Whilst I appreciate it is vulgar to talk money, which I'm not, he did happen to bank with the bank of royalty... which just goes to show how easily impressed I was... He told me his current age and for one nano second, my life flashed before me as my bones creaked, spine bent and flesh fell from muscle; I felt ancient but in a Mr. Miyagi kinda way. Now he has settled and made the move from London and after attending an Arvon course in Shropshire, he has decided to write, he too found the Arvon week wonderful, uplifting and felt the same sense of bereavement on parting. I have yet to find anyone who has not felt empowered after attending one of these courses. Currently, it sounds as though he is living the dream.

Our conversation inevitably lead to writing and I find with increasing regularity that writers are like tangled balls of knitting, a fragile tumble of self-doubt difficult sometimes to unravel, knotted in places, often easily distracted if not kept under check, but always driven and passionate about their writing projects.

As the years roll on, I find myself drawn more and more to writers' and creatives' and although I have great mates who live in the 'normal' world, whatever that is, it is only truly another writer or creative who understands the Muse, the process, the angst, the self-doubt, the search for the Holy grail... others' will listen and hear you out as you try to explain the inner core, but only another writer can truly understand the sea of turmoil that co-exists alongside the parallel universe which inhabits the writers' mind, as it mingles and swims through the currents, the life-blood of daily existence...

Thank you for reading my blog... hopefully, the girl is back...

Autumn Calls

2009-08-19T08:33:00.007+01:00

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness... A post of sentimental indulgence.

The time is almost upon us, where the nights start to draw in, the trees start to shed their leaves and the earth carries the fruity aroma of fungi forming below ground.

When I woke early this morning, the air carried the feel of a dull sun; the dying embers knocking on the door of a summer past its sell by date. Once firmly planted in our mind, the memories go slip-streaming through the chicanes, the carefree days touring through Europe, winding up zig-zag passes; dropping down through lakes; stopping at village shops selling peaches the size of footballs on the route southwards, to end up lolling on beaches with lazy holiday reads under beach umbrellas; watching golden crisp bodies amble along the water's edge; mummified skin hanging in the folds of aging couples, found walking hand in hand along beaches teaming with new life; passing men flexing muscles, who wink at girls in the hope of starting the life cycle all over again; and all this already melting into the story vaults, even though today's 30 degree weather prediction has been heralded as potentially the hottest day of the year.

It is already sunny, it will be hot, but in spite of this, the air has 'That' feel about it. 'That' feel reminded me of my teens, when the price for the long summer laziness had to be repaid by the sewing of labels on sports clothes, bedding, school uniform, blazers and hats; it seemed an endless pastime, that moved the remaining days of the summer holiday into an ethereal state of inevitability. It is 'That' feel, that now encroaches on the onset of Autumn and the hope that we will have those bright blue skies, crisp Autumn mornings, dank mists rising to refresh the balding flora and fauna, before they fade from glory.

So whilst I remain in nostalgic mood, a sentimental blast from the memories of my childhood.

The Brother and Sisterhood of Awen,

From Beyond Green Hills

by Rosie Jones

Passion lies just beneath a man's skin, more often than not fused to the soul through the umbilical.

Accused of fanaticism, clansman ship and an overbearing desire to convert all mankind to the love of all things Welsh. A nation divided by much more than channel or border.

The smell of dank rain on tarmac choking the back of your throat, artificial and false against the natural beauty, made good to form lush green pastures, raised from root by a regular cleansing.

Sheep roaming on undulating hills, grazing on the Almighty's grass, pure driven by the relentless beating of the wind.

Occasional lines of washing, whipping and flapping laundry, as white as angels wings; seasoned women in their pinnies, keeping a watchful eye for a turn in the weather; moisture only a kiss away from the mountain tops, as the base of flat bottomed clouds skim grass the colour of envy.

My grandmother used to black the grate like an act of devotion, kneeling on slate slabs hewn from ancient rock, sculpted to fit on earth floors and now worn smooth by the rubbing and pacing of life in front of the fire.

Lamb basting in the home range, fired to a heat that sears a welcome to all who enter the heart of the home. Proper lamb, where every mouthful contains the taste of Welsh dew, twisted with mint to freshen the breath.

Drop scones and Welsh cakes sizzling on the dying heat of the cast iron, the smell of earthy potatoes baking amongst the embers of the rapidly cooling furnace, not a drop of energy wasted.

There is a Celtic rhythm that beats on every street corner, that can be heard amongst the language of the gossiping women and their clacking tongues, or from the music in the babbling brook, or drunk from the heavenly backdrop of the choirs singing in the Baptist churches on the Sabbath.

In the valleys, the pits laid to rest in reverence to God to keep the Lords day pure. God fearing superstitious men, humbled by the ghostly whispers of their ancestors, that echo up the empty mine shafts singing like Sirens from an ancient shore, tempting the men back to work.

Daily, emerging like grey Gothic ghosts with underground eyes and gums the colour of beetle juice, but on the Sabbath, black haired, grey-faced men in miniature, hands in trouser pockets, hunched against the bracing wind. Scattered with occasional giants of men, Sunday sleeves at half-mast, caught short by Holy showers, their twisted Worsted shrunken and re-shaped into unfashionable style.

A land built from the colour of legends, dragons, damsels, kings and rebellion. Militant streaks of stubborn resistance fight against oppression and challenge the power of men, bellies fuelled with the fire of injustice, as the English invaded and stripped us of Our industrial wealth.

This is the Hwyl that cruises through the veins of Welsh men and women alike, a gift from the Goddess of Awen, from within, or beyond any of her Green Hills.

Today will bring with it yet more editing of my script Repentance, but on the balcony, mourning the end of summer, enjoying whatever last generous jewels she has to offer; and tomorrow, as they say, is another day...

Rxx

WOW:

2009-08-01T21:43:00.009+01:00

Am I still breathing or did my shadow just overtake me?

You are looking at some of the most expensive real-estate in the UK. Sandbanks in Dorset. Houses dripping in the water, perfectly visible harbour side, yet road side closed to prying eyes behind reinforced boundaries and gates of steel; buildings and owners left to bask in the retreating rays of a dying sun. This one includes a football manager's house that was recently covered on the Piers Morgan mini documentary of life on the 'Banks'

I went with a host of work colleagues on an evening jaunt around a tug in Poole Harbour. The smell of burgers singeing on the hot plate and hot dogs competing with onions sizzling in a tin tray wedged between a row of dead chicken meat, meant we were followed by an endless trail of hopeful gulls gliding in the slipstream, waiting to pounce at the first opportunity of any overboard offerings. It was to be the only calm in the last ten days of my life, as

'Sequel to Cannes' crept up on me with the speed of Warp factor 20. The weeks have bled all to easily into another; no punctuation, no end or start to a week, just one continuous rush of hours disappearing like the speed of sand passing through an egg timer.

Sequel to Cannes brought a host of wonderful people, wonderful stories and intrigues and insights by jobbing writers of what it is like to write for Eastenders, have your film commissioned or talks about how to get your work out there in front of the right people, or experiment with new ways of telling stories. As importantly, attendees were networking like crazy and offers of deals, support or funding was heavy in the air. Poole Arts Development had received three phone calls before noon on Friday and more in-depth meetings had been set for August. Good luck guys.

The feedback on the event has been tremendous, reassuring, they have filled me with a sense of a job well done and whilst I don't often indulge in self praise and there is still room for review and improvement, at the moment I need to indulge a little; to know that the time and the effort that took me away from my own writing was worthwhile to more than a handful of people. The successful case studies and endorsements will be loaded onto the website over the course of the next month and if the influx of positive messages are anything to go by, the event will be a definite on the 2010 film calendar of Dorset film events.

A well known producer reminded me he had yet to read my sit-com or costume drama I promised to send him for his Christmas read, I have been shamed; he has a two month time frame tying down finances before his latest international film project takes wings of flight in October. So no guesses what I will be doing for the next month at least, Oh well it hasn't been a very good summer anyway.

It is the giving birth that is the err, not born through the fear of rejection or adverse comment, I just want my script to be the best it can be or that I can get it to before submission, and I am unsure whether to release it for early ridicule, or fine tune it AGAIN for yet another edit. But I feel the time is almost right, I have to launch before he loses interest and walks away, so next week will see me furiously re-reading 'Repentance' for the Umpteenth time before I press 'SEND'. I'll leave it another two or three weeks before I send my Rom-Com. It requires a total re-write and I haven't had time to completely finish adapting my 'Sifting of Ashes' novella into script format, an Autumn joy I feel. Too many projects and just not enough time but I will at least see 'Repentance' birthed. Maybe I need to start being smarter, pitching more in the first instance and writing to demand or interest. Gosh, it's a big world out there and I know that sometimes you just have to spread your wings and fly and if you fall, walk around dazed for a while before risking being airborn again. Wish me well in my Quest... the next stage of my writing journey. A Teenager chancing her luck in the world of grown-ups.

Today I delivered my 'Radio Workout' to the Writers' Study in West Moors, seven hours of concentrated effort by all those who came and we finished the day with the basic characters, outline and heartbeat of their stories. They might have been amazed at what they achieved, yet I felt nothing but pride that they were able to walk away with all the main elements needed to build on the kernel of their ideas; armed with a clearer understanding of the form and what it takes to write good characters, effective dialogue and the importance of working to a story structure. Talented writers...

Birthday Boy...

2009-07-19T08:40:00.008+01:00

Tim Clague's Birthday bash...

Happy Birthday to a man who never gives up... BAFTA nominated Tim, is constantly finding new ways of spreading his writing and directing talent, making low cost films through his serial Mr. Vista, this amusing take on the life of a man on the edge is at worst worth dipping into, but at best worth following with regularity.

Tim's latest project in the form of a feature called Circumference, by far his most ambitious project to date; if you have to label it, Tim calls it a love story. He has nursed and nurtured this film since pussy was a kitten and finally everything is in place to heavily market the concept and try to bring the film into being. With a production company attached (White Lantern Film) and a noteworthy casting director, they are on the case. A press pack is available, so if anyone reading this would like to be involved in some way, shape or form, why not contact him and say Rosie says Hi!

The Team are looking to raise a minimum of £110,000 seed money to give the film a chance of commercial success; this is reckoned to be the magic film formulae number for making indie movies see a return on the money, the successful 'London to Brighton' raised £80,000. If you would like to see your Company's name appear on the film credits, or more simply if getting your name on a film credit is on your list of 99 things to do before you die, then don't hesitate to get in touch with him; Tim is a very straight 'what you see is what you get' kind of guy who holds a passion for new writing and new ways of seeing and doing. I once described him to a potential funder as a man born with a 'can do' attitude. In fact, following an interview with Tim three years ago for a feature article in an Arts Magazine, he proved to be instrumental in invoking the Muse in me, and Prequel to Cannes was born.

So I shall be joining in the lunchtime celebrations today with Tim and other filmies and luvvies... Love and peace... Rosie

Wahoo...

2009-07-18T15:29:00.004+01:00

It works... finally, having been shown how to post a link by Kristen and several times by others, and failed to grasp or apply it, I have conquered it... now I can apply a link... I shall be found linking away... www.timclague.com; www.projectorfilms.com;

Flat as a pancake...

2009-07-18T14:41:00.012+01:00

As in the tyre on my car...

Some days just when you have the end of the road in sight, you need to turn another corner and the new road disappears into the distance.

After spending a wonderful evening yesterday with James and Graham, consuming a concert picnic tea that should have been laid out on the lawn at Upton Country Park with the sounds of the BSO concert in the background, instead it was spent in their homely dining room on account of God emptying his bathwater again. Eventually this morning I awoke, or rather arose, somewhat sluggish in manner, I think it was the Gin, Lime and soda jelly what did for me, hence I took a while to get into my stride. I popped along to the farmer's market only to return and discover a flat tyre. Thankfully, it was early enough to catch Freeway Tyres, just a couple of miles away from the village.

I stopped for petrol and was reliably informed by at least five people that my tyre was flat. One very kind workman drove into the station to tell me as he had seen me traversing the roundabout, no doubt with sparks flying off the wheel. Whilst it was extremely heartwarming, not one of them offered to change the tyre and furthermore for anyone who has ever driven a car with a flat tyre, the change in the drive is unmistakable; think army tank and you're somewhere near to understanding the lack of smoothness of the ride. Some men must truly think all woman are blonde when it comes to cars!

Anyhow, suffice it to say it threw the day completely off rota and in an attempt to revist the aura of calm which I woke with this morning, I decided I needed to blog... plus mid-way I've just had a call from the builder pricing the extension, that turns out to be double the original quote and he won't guarantee the figure!!! Calmmmmmm..... still, better now than at the finishing line!

My days and nights are currently consumed with thoughts of Sequel to Cannes and I am in need of finalising the script competition rules. At least with the technical help of my great friend Paul, the website is now up and running on www.prequeltocannes.biz ~ Sequel to Cannes also shares the same site ~ it just seems daft to have two actual websites to update, even if I do have around ten domain names. The website is a sharp learning curve and is a work in progress; I guess it will be around the end of August before I will have everything up-loaded and I will be content with the visual look of it. I have been surprised how much I have enjoyed re-visiting or learning some of the technical aspects and am now seriously considering accepting the MA place I have been offered at Bournemouth University which incorporates screenwriting with learning in more detail the technical processes and tasks of shooting a movie, we only fringed upon this on the BA degree course. If I do start it will be in September 2010, I just feel I have too much on the boil this year.

I am filled with the sense of a tide of change. I cannot explain from where or why this feeling has entered my life, but I do feel that life changing events are about to take place. I sincerely hope this means some success with the writing, or maybe it is a result of the strange mood which has decended on my two day a week part-time work, but something is in the air, I feel it...

Enough now, I have websites to plan, screenwriting rules to write and a script to re-write. The countdown to Sequel to Cannes has started... just ten days away... Yipes...

From Chick Lit to Dixie Flicks

2009-07-12T09:05:00.008+01:00

A Maelstrom of weather and emotions invoke and evoke the Muse...

This scene of casual creative chaos is a record of a wonderful literary day spent at Upton Country House, invoking the Muse. After a bit of a writing lull, well a drought actually, I decided earlier this year that I would treat myself to a few writing events if they came along. It is really important to water oneself now and again, as well as watering others in the form of the creative workshops I deliver, the next one I shall be delivering, is 'writing for radio' in August.

On the day that God chose to empty his bathwater, I trundled along to this one, organised by the Poole Arts Development Unit, called 'Lit Up' and drew inspiration and support from published writers, as well as from the literary agent Carole Blake; a formidable woman, a well respected heavyweight from within the publishing world's circle of trust. There is only one way to describe her and I hope she will take this as a business compliment, she comes across as a 'no shit' kind of person. Someone who you would definitely want batting on your team rather than the oppositions. She was obviously seizing the opportunity to re-promote her paperback book 'From Pitch to Publication' and at the discounted price of £12.50 she was happy to sign her name, sadly for those in attendance only between the book's pages and not on a contract. It got me thinking just how little the publishing world can have changed, her book was published over ten years ago so the same principles, i.e. contracts, approaches to agents/publishers, format, manuscripts submissions et al, remains the same.

Carole gave a very charismatic speech, endearing in places, I imagine not a description one would automatically associate with her or mix in the same sentence, to arrive at the same old chestnut, which is in spite of all the 'how to' tips, what actually grabs any agent or publisher is a gripping story, well told with an original, preferably unique, voice. The main learning points I came away with`~? Perseverance, a strong belief in your own work, and the importance of sending it out to the correct publishing house or literary agent, these are the stuff that bringeth the writer in with a chance, basic ideologies we aspiring authors have had recounted to us endless times but for unpublished authors worthy of mentioning again.

Then of course, there is the timing factor to consider. As in Life, timing is everything. Carole recounted a manuscript which had 'done the circuit' and been rejected by every major publisher and almost sent to the abattoir, but a steadfast belief in the manuscript by both author and agent meant that after a decent period of mourning it was resubmitted to a publishing house with a new commissioning editor in place, hot to make a name for him/herself ~ identity was hidden to protect the guilty.

Present it too soon and it is classed as 'Before its time' or 'doesn't fit into any genre or category, too late and it falls into the pile where 'manuscripts go to die', recycled paper waste or contenders for the Turner prize ~ award winning stuff like 'slush pile door stops' a mountain of manuscripts super glued to form the shape of a paper Christmas tree ranging from 4 foot to 100 feet, followed by an epic burning on Hampstead Heath, straight out of a scene from 'Wicker man'.

Not a lot for Writers' to consider then when nurturing their babies before they send them off to potential slaughter or Resurrection. Carole was last seen clicking her heels across a very damp walled garden, clutching her raincoat and cash box under her arm whilst dragging her unsold books behind her, leaving chunnels of furrowed earth in her wake. Food for thought... write about what you know?

The hottest author on the block at the moment, Lucy Clarke spoke about her foray into the publishing world with her book called 'Surf Wax and Vodka Jelly'. Don't you just hate young, hip gorgeous looking women with surf shacks full personality? I suspect her 27 years of experience living on this planet and the obvious talent she has for re-telling a story, played more than a helping hand contributing towards her success, but nonetheless an author with personality clearly helps when embarking on book signings. A clear distinct voice, maximised to appeal to a specific type of audience (20 - 40 age group), never have I felt so old as to be not included in this hip age group. Lady in Lavender I am not!!!!! I have ordered said book online in an act of aging purple rebellion.

I did receive some fabulous constructive feedback in a 1-2-1 discussion about my script and the first three chapters of my novel, so encouraged and renewed, I shall again take up the pen ... that is of course after I have resolved the issue of the Prequel to Cannes/Sequel to Cannes website which urgently demands my attention...

Top tip for unpublished authors, do your research and once you have found your voice, exploit it and shout it from the top of the highest slush pile; just remember to jump clutching the manuscript before flaming match meets tinder dry paper...

Rosie xx

Spoiled Rotten...

2009-07-04T20:56:00.009+01:00

Trick or Treats...

It isn't every day that a girl of advancing years can knock on the door of a young talented writer and award winning playwright and be treated to a breakfast of smoked salmon, jams, breads and croissants, whilst his partner is hard at work. "Come into my Bedouin tent" or similar, were the words that greeted me. At the bottom of the garden stood an octagonal tent fit for a sheik. Equipped with the 3 S's, self sufficiency and summer, every need, well almost, has been taken into account and catered for, including the lighting; I wouldn't expect anything less as Graham is a whiz with all matter of things electrical and what he cannot do with his conduit isn't worth bothering with. The non-organic apple I brought for my god dog, was tossed in the air like a ball and it is fair to say that anything non-organic is of little interest... the result? a glossy coat that is silky and sleek - let this be a lesson to us all.

Our Saturday breakfasts are treasured, when Graham can join us he does and it is a delight, but relaxing in the company of a writing soul mate is a luxury of indulgent proportions. Friendships are, or should be, about equality, trust and honesty and whilst we could occasionally be accused of a love-in, it is usually short lived as we both understand the need to be critical about behaviours in life as well as about our writing, so truthful feedback wins every time, born out of respect for each other as a wordsmith and friend. Talking through ideas for stories, novels or plays are like a mental workout, the energy James generates is infectious and whenever I reflect on what he has done or is about to do, I feel ashamed that I have more freelance time yet generate considerably less, both in quality and volume.

Invariably, we exchange real life episodes of a day in the life of the last month, a tribute to that wonderful film 'Crush' and the gag sad F**k of the week. When forced to, I recall or retell some incident from my autobiography 'Rosie moments', yet to be written of course, but will include such events as 'Robins Breast Drip Trays', 'Frequent Lactose Intolerance', 'My daughter's schools orchestral weekend and I got to have the drug addict to stay, yes, the very weekend the school guinea pig chose to commit Harri Kari whilst in our care', 'The scenic journey through Dorset with an unfolding commentary on the history of Rook Pie, ably given by our chauffeur which made us late for a function' ... and the like...

I left with dates in my diary: an invite to watch 'The Young Victoria' in the Bedoin tent, The BSO proms in the park our annual ritual together with champagne and canapes lording it up, and Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Good friends, lots of laughs, these will be the memories I shall keep long into the future when I am rocking in my chair in the nursing home... God and a lot of luck willing...

Go hug a friend...

Another day of self harming...

2009-06-18T07:46:00.003+01:00

Self sufficiency...

I know it is not very PC these days to make a mockery of a particular disadvantaged group, so I will apologise now as no malice is intended, but you'll get the picture by the end of the blog post I promise... and before I am targeted by the Blogspot police, otherwise known as the marketing guys, with spam mail about self harm support groups wedged somewhere between my perfect matchmaker or are you happy with the size of your Todger, I may well have to change the title of this blog post.

This blog post I guess, is about several things, having a go, hunting and gathering, aspiration on a budget, yes that is aspiration not inspiration, although sometimes the inspiration is Bon Marche too.. Now before you think I am going to have a moan about the credit crunch, or complain I can't afford my Jimmy Choo's in these hard times, I think you ought to understand I have inherited many of my father's traits, one of which is, if you can build it yourself why pay to have someone build it for you. The trouble is both of us were and are somewhat limited in the self build department, which of course can leave you open to merciless bouts of ridicule and considerable expense putting everything right you did wrong in the first place, if that makes sense.

It is not that either of us was (my dear old Dad finally got to do his last bit of DIY pre 1990 when the only way he could get out of it was to die - bit extreme I know and I miss him every day that goes by and I know it is a bit of black humour, but he would have absolutely approved at this take on it all), and to get back to my original point, neither of us could ever be accused of being mean. But it is clearly the hunter gatherer that emerges from our Celtic roots and takes over at the mere mention of DIY and power tools, but as I say, a little knowledge and a total lack of talent in the construction department is a dangerous thing. Neither of us were daft enough to knock walls down, unless of course it wasn't attached to anything, after all we knew/know our limits on account of not being THAT stupid, but the lure of being able to say 'I did that' and the desire to watch everyone gasp in amazement, has always proved too strong.

Let me paint the picture and enlighten you on one such escapade embarked upon by my dear old Dad... Back in the 50's when my father had arrived at middle management, my mother decided that to go with our newly acquired family status and to match our semi detached double plot in (here it goes downhill) Essex - commuter belt of Leigh-on-Sea and handy for London, she would like a garden seat. 'No problem' says my Dad who hadn't done woodwork since school; I cannot call it carpentry, I'll leave that association to Jesus. During one weekend, he set about turning our three folding wooden chairs, you know the type you shut your fingers in every time you use them, constructed with wooden planks that mark your BTM if you sit on them long enough, yep, those will be the ones.. out came hammer, hand drill and nails - yes nails, and a monkey wrench, why we'll never know, furthermore when he finally died he took the secret with him, so like the Holy Grail it will forever remain an unsolved mystery. My mother had spent the entire weekend hovering nervously and covering my ears every time his hammer found flesh. She had every right to feel nervous, as the last time he had been left in charge of a hammer, she had to call a plumber.

I ought to explain that actually my mother was and still is the construction worker and builder in the family, yet just now and again the need to try and steal the title from her draws us like a moth to a flame. She has ripped out fireplaces, knocked down walls, which continued to remain attached to something, built a double garage, put in RSJ's mixed cement, decorated, scrubbed up to princess standards in floaty frocks, permed hair and lipstick, and still got a casserole in the oven before dusk. Lilian always said it kept her off the drink and off the streets on the long lonely nights when my father was busy building his career, so they both built stuff, just different types of stuff. But not wanting to totally emasculate him, she left him the small tasks around the house which wouldn't result in death or electrocution or both.

Eventually he presented the bench to us and apart from the fact that you couldn't sit on it for fear of crucifixion, impalement or body piercing in the most unlikeliest of places, it did what it said on the can. The only other drawback was that you couldn't take a magnet within 100 yards without fear of finding a bench attached to it. So... working around to my original thread of MY DIY, you can see which school of 'Method' building I went to. Avante Garde and a bit kitch not to mention Heath Robinson.

When my daughter was around 7/8 years old after a miserable period in our lives, I weakened in a moment of marshmallow and allowed her to buy a rabbit. A tiny Watership Down kind of bunny rabbit with a toffee patch on the back of his neck. He was cute and cuddly and absolutely divine and we took him away from the safety and security of a well equipped garden, clearly set up for breeding, to... nothing. No straw, no food, no hay and more importantly no hutch. I could hear my father's words ringing in my ears... 'No problem', so I set about reclaiming copious amounts of scattered rotting wood, chopping up and sawing an old red display unit from Laura Ashley's window, a whole bag of 6 inch nails and a hammer. So whilst Jo nursed the traumatised rabbit who can surely have only just been weaned, I set about building Colditz to withstand attack by foxes, keep out the elements, and allow the rabbit to have a room with a view through the tiny chicken wire window. No drawings, no plans, lots of imagination and a gung ho attitude meant I ended up with... my father's bench! Well not literally, but if I had put the poor little mite in it, he could easily have been converted into a bunny kebab. It is so humiliating when one's child is rolling around the garden trying to conceal laughter whilst Mummy is trying to demonstrate the ten easy steps in DIY self sufficiency. Clearly B & Q will not be a new career choice in my New Age of Silver Years (I cannot bring myself to say New Era)!

At the party last week, I did make a bit of a gaff. I had been self harming on and off for much of the week, taking down pelmets, pulling out staples and nails, so the back of my hands were full of evidential traits of my activities. I noticed one of the doctors staring intently at them I assumed he wasn't looking for a wedding ring, so in an attempt to break the ice, I said 'I self harm...' he looked aghast, I had his attention, so I hit him with the punch line 'Well B & Q call it DIY' at which point the bat flew in, the lights were cut and when they came up again he had moved away!

And the moral of this story? Always work to a plan... and drawings, however rough. Whether you are building a rabbit hutch, a bench or laying down the foundations for your story... always work to a plan... it saves a lot of unnecessary time and expense later...

Love and Peace... xxx R

It would be easy to run out of steam...

2009-06-15T20:57:00.005+01:00

Hold the faith...

Why is it that I seem to be permanently chasing deadlines? I am trying to manage several important projects in the one remaining week before a final, final cut off date; and anyway whatever happened to that floaty notion that I would sit in my summerhouse or in a villa in the south of France or a beachside shack on some remote Caribbean Island and do nothing but write THE novel or screenplay that would define my generation? Tch.. Fat chance, currently I am not even sure if I have any talent for writing, but I guess I will die trying to discover if I do.

Saturday night found me at a friend's 40th birthday party, having a bit of a boogie, in my killer heels and, by way of a change, a skirt; before you ask... yes I was wearing a top. Every inch of space was filled with learned people, mainly from the medical profession, skilled in wielding the knife; and is it just me or are consultants getting younger? I engaged in a truly interesting conversation about the removal of limbs and all the decisions that surround it; thankfully not something I think about every day, but nonetheless very thought provoking. Simply put, the conversation went something along the lines of 'if it is a limb or life, life wins every time'... put like this it sounds straightforward. The surgeon in question cut his teeth, or rather his scalpel, on five years in the army some of it in field surgery.

I watched several of them slicing their meat; it soon became easy to spot the surgeons from the GP's;

Surgeons: precision cuts, fat trimmed to within a whisper of flesh... GP's: rough cuts with a bit of everything else on the fork; note to self for use at a later date - believable visual characterisation...

However, the entertainment of the evening (well for us anyway not for the poor creature concerned) was in the form of a bat who flew in through some opening somewhere, who flapped and swooped around the massive open plan kitchen looking for a way out. The shrieks were deafening and I prayed to god that bats are deaf, if terror did not sear through it at its initial plight, then the throwing of coats, shawls and flailing limbs would surely have been enough to permanently traumatise it. Eventually it was caught by a GP armed with a fishing net, upon which it instantly surrendered and played dead. Roars of hero worship erupted to which he responded 'It is all in the wrist action'. Lesson in life? Not sure...

The Stackmeister, like many before him, has observed that the harder you work at something the luckier you become. Yet at the moment I have to overcome my feeling of guilt at a series of half completed interior DIY projects that I don't seem to have time to shake a paintbrush at. I say that, but yesterday afternoon did find me chilling out on a layout bed in the garden for three hours with a glassful or two of bubbles. Does this mean I am not serious about what I need to achieve, or was I just yeilding to the lure of the great outdoors and a bottle? If I am a true, serious writer would I have used the time to better effect; to cram more words on paper? So many questions, so much angst...

Holding the faith I guess, means just never giving up and whilst I feel as though I am currently gnawing my way through an elephant with someone Else's teeth, my only saving grace is I hold the knowledge that by the end of the week, all being well, I will have achieved all I set out to do. The dining room will be painted throughout, the china will be finally loaded into units instead of littering the hall in boxes, the guest bedroom will have the pelmet sewn and hung and the radiator covers will be finally placed to conceal the ugliness of their metal casings AND all the marketing material for Sequel to Cannes 2009 the Independent Film Industry Networking Party, will be done and dusted as the tickets finally go on sale. It has been easier this year as I have recruited help on several fronts; in the composition of the marketing material and the Press releases, my trusty volunteers are in place for the night of the event and I am confident the venue will prove to be a fresh and perfect marine setting to generate plenty of effective networking; all the agencies advertised have now confirmed their attendance. I am still hoping to persuade the BBC Writers' Room, The Directors' Guild, Skillset and Sunseekers to come along, but for now at least I know I have some excellent support in place.

But boy will I be delighted when I finish eating the elephant and life can return to a proper writing routine...

Be good to each other and carry on gnawing away at the elephants...

love and hugs

Rosie xxxxx

Life in the fast lane...

2009-06-10T08:53:00.002+01:00

And another day dawns...

Just a quick update this morning. Firstly, I had a delightful dream which involved Adam - non-sexual damn it and probably too much information for my readers, but for a lady in Lavender you can imagine it will lighten my step as I set forth into the onslaught of what the day brings.

A dreamy, dream is a bit like a good breakfast, it sets you up for the day ahead.

I have to go to the accountants to sign my accounts and try and understand them, poor man attempting to make it all clear for me. I know I complain when I write out his cheque, it is because you cannot see anything for the money you spend; it is not tangible, I can't wear it or sell it on if I no longer use it... It's .... fluff... but essential. So between him and the tax man at least it keeps me legal!

Then on to more pleasurable things. A late lunch or early afternoon tea with Monique from 1stwrites, my new PR person for all the Sequel to Cannes press releases, my third eye for editing and re-writing and all time good friend. Monique and her partner Nick have been supporters of my film networking event since day one and I could not do without either of them, like Paul Lott and Ted Elms they have stuck with me all the way through this mad journey. Last year Ellie Douglas also joined in the support, so the band of brothers and sisters continues to grow annually; it means I am able to rely more and more on capable, committed individuals who know how to make the event run smoothly, who can trouble shoot and take some of the weight from my shoulders.

Then both Monique and I will be at the premier screening of a community film project by Level Films from the Fourish, Beachcoming project. There is something about seeing a piece of work from recruitment through to finished product; I was the supporting consultant for the Arts Development Unit on the process of recruitment to find the right type of production company to head this project - they are a funky young team who make damn good film. Check out Level Film in Somerset.

There will be another evening of looking at flyers and promo material as the tickets for Sequel to Cannes go on sale next Wednesday, hopefully... and the VIP invites need to go out next week at the latest.

The Script judging panel so far is... this year's patron Jeremy Paul, Producer Paul Sarony Of Mrs. Brown fame (plus of course many, many others), Writer Danny Stack, Director and Producer James Dean and I have yet to ask two others, so I won't disclose who they are yet.

Better dash the shower calls, although why I am bothering I don't know as the sky tells me I'm in for a drenching anyway...

Love and hugs

Rosie xx

The Big Smoke...

2009-06-07T00:01:00.006+01:00

I am back from a fabulous two days in London, made so by two of the Gathering Nuts in May; firstly Kristen and her truly exceptional family who tended to my every need and embraced me as one of their own - a privilege indeed and secondly by Caro with her vast knowledge of London culture and shops.

Usually my visits to London are more than rushed and turned around in a day, due to other responsibilities and deadlines that require my attention in Dorset. However, I gave myself another two days off, something I seem to be doing more of lately, and indulged myself with a reward of two days of friendship and culture due to a kind invitation to stay the night with Kristen. Not forgetting the real purpose of the visit, which was to pick up my UnLtd Award for 'Sequel to Cannes', the summer film networking party for film industry professionals.

The Award ceremony and workshops took place over in EC4 and again a star must be beaming down on me, as I met some fabulous colourful individuals who are totally driven and passionate about their excellent projects. The range was endless and worthy, from digital photography workshops taken into primary schools, to a gay online helpline for support groups in Brighton, to crazy dance classes for the 50 - 75 age group by a dancer who had a personality larger than life itself; I would sign up for them if I qualified for that category - but of course I do not... ;)

After a quick fix in Harrods on my way to Kristen's, I travelled on a bus with Miss Marple, Geraldine M, who held as much intrigue and presence as the character she has played. Elegant poise and precise simplicity. From Hammersmith bus station I didn't trust myself to find their home, so I flagged down a taxi and within no time at all arrived at their door. A ring on the bell and they all sprang forward to welcome me with open arms and huge smiles; how could I not feel at home. Excited chatter, talks of meals, drinks and awards were interspersed between a tour of their lovely home, which is exactly how I imagined it to be, impeccable taste. A marriage of new with traditional, as well as a cook's kitchen to die for in the hub of the home. Beyond, a wall of glass looked out onto the delightful garden with its exotic plants. I was fed the most delicious red pepper soup with creamy herb drizzle, followed by strips of the finest cuts of sirloin and duck, lovingly hand trimmed by Kristen, that I gently turned on the hot stone under the perfect tuition of John and Avery. At some point we were entertained by a flurry of cats with views of their 'persona' made possible through an overhead sheet of glass; an angle of feline derriere that I have never before witnessed... which reminds me, I must sharpen my pencil... The Frederickson's (or the other name which I dare not reveal) are fabulous natural hosts... I slept in a magic bed that swiftly brought sleep and ensured I didn't wake until morning.

Then on to spend a whole afternoon with Caro, whose knowledge of London along with every culinary emporium and exceptional tucked away restaurant, in every nook and cranny, is faultless. I wish I had sufficient money to just sit in the Wolseley every day and write... the characters, the gorgeous Russian waiters who were busy eyeing up Caro through their smouldering looks... and the food wasn't bad either... but the conversation was excellent. On to the Royal Academy and a glass of Pimms. Viewings on buyers day... I fell in love with a masterpiece on linen, and sadly having spent £8K on lunch meant I could not stretch to the £8K price tag from the piece - I think it was called 'Quiet Reflection', although I was too mesmerised to absorb the title as well - one day that painting will be mine... trust me I am determined, it was haunting... Then Caro accompanied me back to Victoria and frogmarched me to the Coach station just in time to be one of the last on the coach, not a moment of friendship time wasted. All too brief and definitely a promise of either another visit soon to town, or a visit to Dorset from Caro, where she can stay awhile. She is an exceptional character, full of knowledge on EVERYTHING, a razor sharp mind and wit, with a gentle kindness of spirit. My mission is to locate a man worthy of her talents; I shall work on it.

Returning to Dorset and leaving London, I felt the dream floating away, yet once we hit the New Forest it was like a love affair rekindled. For as much as I find London as exciting and as raw as I did when I first went to work in Harrods at the age of 18 in the 1960's, I fear a week would potentially wear me out these days. Dorset is calm, serene, reflective, spiritual and soothing, it is where I am in my life now, where I need to be and I am reminded about the conversation I had with Kristen where she said that she couldn't imagine herself living anywhere else outside of New York except in London, it suits her/them, they are cosmopolitan, trendy and totally at one with the city and whilst I envy her the advantage of being able to shop in some of the loveliest food markets and shops in the UK and mingle with colourful characters, I know I would soon yearn for the sea and the freedom, as well as the natural beauty that surrounds the area I live in... I would miss watching the sun set over a vast expanse of water, or the squally grey skies as a storm is about to break at sea, or the blinding summer glare as it bounces off the vast plateau of water as clear and smooth as glass...

It is official I am a water sign through and through... but taking in the Big smoke has jiggled the imagination, shaken up the grey cells, reminded me there is another dimension to life.

R xx

A Little bit of what you fancy does you good

2009-06-02T20:42:00.004+01:00

WOW... that came around quickly...

I'm in London for the rest of the week picking up my UnLtd award and visiting new friends. Kristen and family, bless their hearts, have kindly invited me to stay for one night so I can't wait to meet the most important people in her life and spend time talking about food and life.

Then on Thursday I will be meeting Caro for a good gawp at the Royal Academy's artworks sale and Pimms in the courtyard (weather permitting of course).

For anyone who doesn't know about the funding for social entrepreneurs, check out the UnLtd website and read their terms and conditions and see if you could benefit from strong support as well as some much needed cash to kick start your project. So far, UnLtd are proving to be easy to work with and I assume as the project deadline draws nearer, they will have a stronger presence.

Sequel to Cannes is starting to take over my life and I am thankful that this year I have the lovely Monique to help me with all the Press releases, tag lines, case studies and written text, which I hope to get into several national/regional publications. Interest in the event has started already and the printing design is nearly ready to rock and roll. Tickets will go on sale at Lighthouse from mid June and all the film support agencies are stepping up with their presence. This Film networking party promises to be entertaining, fun and informative and if we are blessed with good weather on the night, everyone will be able to spill out onto the private terrace for drinks and lengthy conversations about the industry and their own projects. The short script competition and the £500 1st prize, sponsored by Creative Dorset, will also mean that the winner will buy themselves some extra freelance time to write. Full details of the Script Prize will be launched on the night, but for anyone who writes for the screen, or in fact anyone who wants to have a crack at writing a short film, this is a perfect incentive to kick start the enthusiasm. Location Poole, will be giving a live demonstration of their new website which helps to promote local independent film professionals as well as the wonderful locations we have scattered around the area. Poole and the surrounding area is a rich, thick soup of spectacular landmarks and scenery and the maritime link just increases the appeal.

For anyone who would like further information about the event, they can call Lighthouse, Poole after the 17th June on 08700 668 701, for further details about the networking party. South West Screen, Location Poole, Creative Dorset, UK Trade and Investment along with Wessex Media Group and Poole Arts Development Unit, and not forgetting a representative from UnLtd, who helped make this event possible, will be there to offer their assistance and listen to individual project ideas. Every agency is keen to see how they can help by lending their support to independent film artists, film crew and production companies as well as the screenwriters, who play such a vital part in the storytelling process. All these agencies want to see filmmakers projects come to fruition and blossom.

It is fair to say I am excited about this years programme of events planned, especially the live demonstration of the Sea Survival Tank, along with the special sound and lighting effects, that can be hired out to production companies.

Meanwhile, I shall soak up the friendship and enjoy the mini break from fretting about completing the painting the dining room and kitchen and making the pelmets for two upstairs bedrooms, before the next onslaught of DIY and Interior design commences again.

I'm off to pack my Mary Poppins bag and just hope that I can pack as much into it as she did.

xxx R

What fun...

2009-05-27T22:36:00.002+01:00

Continued.....

This fabulous backdrop for our Susan's photo, was taken at Ringstead Bay, not far from Weymouth situated between Poxwell and Osmington; you cannot help but feel on top of the world when you look down at the sea below. The sun bouncing light off the water was almost blinding and, it was pretty blustery but none the less spiritual. At the end of a day exploring the Arts in Bridport, fighting against the sun and the wind, full of the obligatory bag of chips from the harbour side waiting to be stolen by gulls the size of an albatross, and after an educational crash course for Susan in the art of Pikeyness, we sauntered back towards home, taking every opportunity to have our fill of Creations beauteous landscapes. Homeward for another meal, another good nights sleep and the dream of a Saturday morning catch up with Sam.

Sam sent me a text from Bath on Saturday morning, to say he was on his way to join us for breakfast at the beach hut. He arrived in an illegal amount of time as he left home at 7.15 am and arrived on our door by 8.30 ish. Hmmm... Arriving at the chine, we became like excited school children which only added to the sense of expedition, but the enthusiasm was quenched somewhat as the lock on the beach hut door had seized fast. Two armed men later, one weilding a crow bar and the other flashing a can of WD40, the lock opened with a little coaxing from a hunky young lifeguard, whilst the man with the crowbar was sent swiftly packing. I had to physically restrain Susan from following the man with the can and ensconced her safely in the comfy chair, during which time I continued to unpack my Mary Poppins bag of tricks and treats.

The temperature was just about right to sit out and enjoy the sudden burst of summer heat; so it seemed fitting that we made and acknowledged an early summer tribute in the shape of a foodie celebration, by cooking a Risotto layered with chestnut mushrooms and parmesan, accompanied by a mixed green salad doused in Rosie's dressing. This dish is simplicity itself, especially as all the cooking has to evolve from no more than a single gas ring and a single pot.

We talked about the loves and life of a she devil and received two sets of curious visitors keen to establish if other members of Gathering nuts in May have two heads or two bellies, but the sea air ensured by the time we arrived home we were all ready to eat again. The starter I prepared was cured serrano ham, asparagus and quails eggs, although wasn't a patch on the freshly picked stems we had devoured during our stay at Little Cowarne and which was crying out for Kristen's lemony sauce to be drizzled over the legumes. For the main course I made individual Red onion and goats cheese tarts in a filo case, set with mascapone, double cream, eggs and tarragon (actually in my opinion, the dish at better cold).

Scandal of scandal, Sam slept in my bed... however, I wish to put the record straight I was not in it! After coffee and toast he went on his merry way back to Bath and an evening of entertaining his friends.

It had been an unplanned extra to Susan's visit and I was delighted he wanted to be with us. He has already made a provisional booking to return during his summer break from teaching and reclaim the guest room.

On Sunday, Susan and I spent a lazy day at Kingston Lacy House and grounds. I dozed on the lawns soaking up the rays, as Susan explored the house and marvelled at the drapes and lifestyle that the Bankes family must have enjoyed. She also found the nursery to be enchanting and captivating and utter bliss, although I suspect the reality of living under the scrutiny and discipline of a governess was in fact far from cosy or sentimental.

Finally, Monday was upon us along with an indifferent start to the day in the form of a downpour, but it did not dampen our spirits as we set off for Swanage, stopping off at Corfe Castle with its winding, wonky streets and tightly packed houses with doors designed to accommodate easy entry for a haffle of hobbits.

A wedding party had congregated outside the church and we hovered hoping to catch a glimpse of the blushing bride as we stood melting under the noon day sun, but we grew impatient and meandered over to the 1950's steam railway stuffed to the gills with 50's and 60's memorabilia from this charming bygone era.

The sound, smell and look of the carriages reminded me of the journeys with my Aunt, from Leigh on Sea in Essex to Taffs Well station in Wales. They had been exciting times, thick with anticipation and the holiday promise of walks in Coch Castle woods to tales of witches, dragons and trolls, or jaunts along the railway line with my uncle who worked for the rail network and took pride in showing me off to his colleagues - of course this wouldn't be allowed to happen now but back then these occurances frequently happened within this small knit community.

Finally, tearing ourselves away from Corfe, Susan and I headed to the other seaside resort of Swanage. If it were possible to step back in time I believe Swanage could become the portal for re-entering the 50's or early 60's. It has a quirky, pikey, reassuring charm about it, on this occasion the smell of salt and rotting seaweed perfumed the air. The oyster bar finds itself fitting into the school of rustic charm and if you can find your way clear to walk through the sea of kiss me Kwik hats and racks of rude postcards, then a visit to the Quarr gallery or Earthlights should be high on your list.

There was a wonderful photographic exhibition and sale of iconic images taken in the 60's of The Stones, Paul McCartney, Marianne Faithful and other names synonomous with that era, but with a price tag of £2800 for a limited edition photograph, sadly it found me floating home empty handed without even the empty frame.

From the Scott Arms in Kingston, the vista is breathtaking... far reaching views skim over the top of Corfe Castle and down towards Sandbanks. They made the film the Mayor of Casterbridge from this pub in the 1960's or 1970's, clearly easy to see why it was chosen as a location.

Finally, all this had to end as Tuesday morning arrived along with Susan's departure back up to Durham. Again the weather had been kind and promised to provide a fair travelling companion on her six hour journey homeward.

I was left with an urgent need to complete the half started decorating, in time for this morning's furniture delivery. The usual sense of guilt had escaped me totally for the whole duration of Susan's and even Sam's visit. The break had proved to be a tonic and even if internally I was obsessing and sweating the small stuff, I hope that my weekend charges had enjoyed their time in Dorset.

More images to follow...

Friends, fun and faffing about

2009-05-27T16:06:00.004+01:00

The lovely Susan and Sam...

Thursday arrived and following a delightful lunch at the Print Room with the writer John Foster, I picked Susan up from Bournemouth station with the sun beating down to welcome her. Of course we went topless as we took the scenic coastal route back home.

More to follow....

Memories

2009-05-16T12:02:00.004+01:00

All good stories must draw to a conclusion...

2009-05-16T10:14:00.006+01:00

Departure Day.... Sentimentality...

Monday was upon us far too soon. From the moment everyone rose and met over breakfast, the air remained thick with a sense of departure and regret that the three days passed with the speed of a rocket. Perishable ingredients were used up, the full fat milk went unused, it had been set aside for the custard we had intended making to accompany the rhubarb still growing in the garden; how lucky the rhubarb was to have escaped a death grasp by a gaggle of cooks too full to be able to squeeze even another bean in let alone another course. Like the last day of boarding school the beds had been stripped back, bags had been packed, left over provisions and booze were either reunited with their rightful owners or reassigned to new ones.

Susan's bus was due to leave Bromyard back to Worcester train station to pick up the homeward train; I drove her to Bromyard and waited in the drizzly rain, I listened with continued amusement to yet more escapades of a Food Technologist. Trust me dear readers the next time you pick up your luxury dessert from any of the well known specialist High Street purveyors of fine food, or watch the television advert boasting seductively about the ingredients contained within, trust me a lot of mishaps have been ironed out before they find their way to the shelves, so pay your £6.99 without conscience, that they ever arrive on the shelves at all seems a miracle to me.

I meandered back in the beast towards the house, which held all the early promise of a Hippy commune and reminded me of the rather unsanitary one a group of friends set up in Surrey in the late 60's; the only difference being that ours was much cleaner and contained all the comforts of modernity. On arrival I was greeted by an anxious Adam who came rushing out to meet me, concerned over the length of time I had taken to deliver my charge to her destination, endearing qualities in a true friend; to be rich in the knowledge that someone is rooting for you is a very comforting thought indeed.

No one wanted to leave. It was as if holding onto each other a little longer would prolong the dream - keep it alive, continue to fill the inevitable empty spaces that would inhabit our lives on final departure. We had all revelled in the sheer joy of a shared passion, which some people might find hard to understand and which I have never before encountered. These feelings do not replace the importance of family and loved ones, they enhance them, they add another dimension to who we are, they layer and spread the colour and the music born from within.

We hugged and vowed a reunion only once a year would not be enough, despite the use of email or telephone, so after promising to feed the dream we all went our separate ways and I was more than pleased to have Kristen and Sam with me, at least as far as Bath.

Since last October when we all met on the Arvon course, the whole experience has proved to be an Epiphany; I feel I have found my tribe; been anchored by a commonality; writers and cooks are givers, they exude a generous spirit, they are creative, hold strong a sense of drama, nurture a grass roots sense of improvisation, they share and want to share, they enjoy the very best nature and her earth have to offer, invariably they are organic, they don't like too much interference of alchemy in their food... yes... I am blessed, I have found my tribe.

'It is not the blood that ties, but the sifting of ashes that fuses kith with kin' (Screenplay by Rosie Jones 'The Sifting of Ashes', 2008)

High days and holidays

2009-05-12T20:51:00.006+01:00

Organic moments...

Sunday dawned, as did some of our gaggle, but for most of us it was a day to be revered. Caro was on a mission to track down Sunday papers, even though we had a forest of them in the sitting room still neatly folded, Saturday's orphans discarded, forgotten or forlorn, so she and Adam went in search of yet more reading material, as if the thousands of words sitting between the covers of dozens of cookbooks wasn't enough. An expedition set forth whilst the rest of us discussed yet more food and started to prepare for lunch before even the breakfast clutter had been cleared away.

The kitchen garden was a constant source of new found delight and Sam boasted about his freshly plucked spring onions with all the pride of a parent describing the finest characteristics of their first born. He couldn't have been more proud than if he had birthed it himself. The scent of fresh scallions is delicate yet heady, as well as capable of invoking an immediate response from all the senses. They were so green and before you say they are meant to be, they had a crisp green appeal like the colour of envy, rather than that of the Fir; when they were chopped their essential oils were released in fresh bursts into every corner of the kitchen. Kristen and Sam made a perfect blend of spice, seasoning and lamb mince and shaped the burgers into patties.

The Bloody Mary's were made, along with Bison Grass Vodka (I am a new convert) and tonic, Pimms o'clock, in addition to the large helping of recipes based on 99 things to do with Road Kill from our Jenny , who we had to all but physically restrain from scraping up the badger further on up the hill, thus proving her point, that it is just possible to raid the country lanes for discarded, unwanted or RTA wildlife in these credit crunchy times.

We mellowed before lighting the beast of a BBQ weighing almost the same tonnage as the 4 x 4 and after preparing a range of salads and accompaniments threw on the burgers, aubergine and tomatoes and dined al fresco on the south side of the property with its English cottage garden resembling a scene from a 50's movie. (Kristen's blog - Kirsten in London - contains a perfect picture of simplicity of the memorable plateful on offer).

All weekend Susan and Katie did not stop clearing up, cleaning and putting away or setting out for the next meal. Pauline delighted us with her poems and observations, Caro proved a goldmine of information about where to buy, procure, acquire, source, track down, virtually anything to do with food, Susan kept us entertained with the exploits of a Food Technician and Sam and Adam ensured we were all made to feel special and interesting and Kristen brought her own sense of enthusiastic wisdom, kitchen style and calm to the proceedings.

Full to the brim, a walk was in order to make room for the next feast, so we meandered through the archway dripping in foliage and beyond the rickety gate into the ancient church with its wooden rafters, lured via the graveyard, which held painful secrets carved out on stone or marble of young men killed. I could not help but notice how young many of the occupants were. In sombre, mellow mood, in the late afternoon sunshine, we trundled along the lanes like city folk picking our way carefully between the straw and the methane left behind by bovines on their urgent evening trail homeward after a day of munching on grass.

Either side of us, banks of wild spring flowers were bathing in the dying embers of a golden day, soaking up the last of the heat rays before finally drooping their heads in silent reverence. A friend picked a delicate purple-headed flower (periwinkle?) and placed it in my hair, a gesture of true symbiosis, of perfect understanding, a need unvoiced... delivered through a simple gesture.

Again returning to the kitchen, Mistress Muscle had cleared the decks in anticipation of the next onslaught and everyone set to, nothing was forced, everything felt organic, like the perfect blend of a notable wine, nothing was out of sorts. Adam lathered the beef ribs with a combination of mustard, seasoning and flour and cooked the beef in the oven for around two hours; I gave a quick demonstration on how to mix the perfect Yorkshire pudding batter (fool proof method of Brian Turner's - equal quantities thoroughly whisked lump free, of sieved self raising flour, eggs and milk and a quarter teaspoon of salt and pepper and, if you have it, two pinches of dried mustard or chives) I place the mixture in the freezer for half an hour (or in this case forgot about it until someone retrieved it for me when fetching the essential homemade ice for the drinks). Ten minutes before the meal is ready, place the individual tins (or 25 minutes in a big tin) with a teaspoon of groundnut oil or duck fat, or in one big tin pour in two tablespoons of oil or duck fat and heat in the oven to almost scorch temperature, before adding the batter. I have never failed to make one rise yet!!!!

Like food disciples at their last meal, we devoured the offerings, minus Jenny who had left to go and visit an old friend but who had loyally hand picked the asparagus but sadly missed out on their celebratory marriage to the peeled quails eggs with lemony dressing. The crusty topping on the beef was truly memorable, worthy of any highly acclaimed chef and everyone was aghast at the Brian Turner recipe for Yorkshire Puds as they stood at least 4 or 5 inches tall. Sadly we were unable to convert our wary American, but some had more than a second helping.

Our time together was running out, plans were underway for the next potential reunion the time, date and place with Katie volunteering her services to co-ordinate the next set of dates... just one more sleep before the inevitable farewells...

Nope, I don't think it worked...

2009-05-11T17:13:00.001+01:00

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

Lord only knows what I am doing...

2009-05-11T17:11:00.001+01:00

This might go horribly wrong, but I am attempting to add my content to google... or not... whichever it turns out to be...

Melting Moments...

2009-05-10T18:13:00.012+01:00

No, not the biscuits just life...

After a late night away to our beds on Friday, far too much essential chatter and alcohol to fit into the limited days and nights, the last of us hit the sack in the wee hours. Our plan was to breakfast around nine ish before leaving for Ludlow at around 10.30/11.00. Breakfast was slow and varied in preferences but the smell of the wonderful Giggly Pig sausages and bacon that Kristen had cosseted all the way from London, was just too divine. Hardly any fat oozed from their tight little skins and the bacon cooked to a melt. I enjoyed a breakfast starter of plump apricots and passion fruit yoghurt before Adam surfaced to present me with a bacon buttie; divine in the extreme. Pauline's selection of amazing teas and coffees made the choice all the more difficult. The banter and the humour continued until the time came to round everyone up and leave which took an English five minutes*.

* When preparing to embark on any outing with my Swiss nephews, they used to quiz us in an attempt to establish if this was a Swiss five minutes or an English five minutes; when I first asked what the difference was between them, my eldest nephew responded 'Well Aunty Nettles (their pet name for me), in Switzerland five minutes is 4 minutes 59.99 seconds and in England it is anything from 5 minutes to around 45 minutes.' On Saturday, it was somewhere between the two.

We trekked through the Shropshire countryside past the Cadbury's factory and a local hot spot called the 'OK Diner' , which looked liked a film set from a 1950's road movie, and chair danced all the way to into Ludlow to the lyrics belted out on Radio 2. The most memorable of which was, 'Your body is so hot I'm melting' , or something along these lines... I was day dreaming about lyrics (I know I should have been driving but I had four back and front seat drivers so I was hardly required), and I found myself singing along to one of my own favourites 'Your body is a wonderland', of course no one knew this except me and the voices in my head ... Katie had clearly been responsible for evoking the music in our soul, brought about by her wonderful compilation of tunes from the previous night. So inside at least, I was dancing.

The route we took to enter Ludlow meant we dropped down a hill. The sight before us was magical, with near distant views of the town and the traditional, probably listed, black and white framework of the period buildings. I cannot remember how I eventually found a space to park up, possibly aided by the four other drivers in the car; I was far too busy window shopping at the time; but I did and we all traipsed into a boutique designer shop whose mission was clearly to sell a bit of everything. Not a department store as such, more of a double fronted emporium selling beautiful handbags, jewellery, baby clothes, cook books and a whole range of what can only be described as trendy cooking weapons.

Adam, Sam, Susan and me were joined at the hip and ducked in and out of most of the shops on offer including the Deli in the Square, how I wish this shop was on my doorstep. Further along the road in the French Deli, I purchased a jar of Rose Petal Jelly, keenly spotted by Sam, who knows and understands my love of scented foods; I shall wait until he visits to enjoy this with ice cream or on a rose flavoured meringue base topped with whipped Mascapone and rose infused strawberries.

Susan, our Geordie and one line witsmith, came out with the saying of the reunion which would serve to keep us entertained all weekend and beyond. When deciding what meals we might make that night, and this still brings an inner guffaw just thinking about it 'anything without nuts (referring to nut tart from the previous night). Needless to say it involved the contents of the pie, velocity and a high performance car. Adam and I nearly fell to our knees with laughter; I was confident I would suffer some permanent damage as my cheekbones conjoined with my ribs. I am still laughing at this as I type, in fact I tried very hard to recount and verbalise the exact sentence and context when I returned home, to three different groups of people I know, but each time I failed to retell the story in under fifteen minutes. Susan is visiting me in Dorset soon and I fear for my wrinkles...

Susan was keeper of the privy purse and bargained for three ribs of Hereford Beef, lamb mince and a whole rolled shoulder of pork; Kristen remarked that the beef alone would have cost her about three if not four times as much in London and I shall be having words with my butcher next time I order beef from him.

After re-grouping we lunched at the most delightful pub overlooking the river, where they advertised fresh oysters, salmon, trout, pollack, bangers and mash and other typically British food fancies. The food did not disappoint, even if it wasn't to be had at the £50 per head Michelin star restaurant we had hoped for, which incidentally was fully booked! A read of ALL the Saturday papers and supplements and discussions ensued, which ranged from the latest football results and transfers to the questionable political shenanigans of parliament, all the while the sun shone and the mood was gently celebratory amongst a group of like-minded friends just happy in each others company and taking time out to be...

A short visit and a walk around Bromyard to the local greengrocer, before we headed back to our temporary home for roast pork, colcannon, chantenay (? cannot remember if this is the correct spelling but they are mini shaped carrot specimens, I must find myself a culinary dictionary), gravy and pink peppercorn sauce. THE fabulous chocolate cake, very different to Caro's wonderful passion fruit pav, but more wicked both in total calorie content and just the sheer dark seduction of it all. Prepping, chopping, exchanging recipes, handy hints and ideas for food has to be 'up there' in terms of pleasurable pastimes; I guess like any other obsession talking about food, drink and recipes must just be the best. Sam made an endless stream of Mojito's to die for and another late night was on the cards.

For me, one of the most touching moments of the evening was when my new found food fanatics presented me with a signed thank you card and perfect turquoise necklace. I rarely ever cry or feel choked up, but I was just astounded by their kindness and generosity. Enough of the Love in already, save to say it will be one of those seminal moments in life, the dawning that actually what matters is the people you are with, the interests that you share and the fun you have together in pursuing them.

Even though I have had a very mixed up busy week, I miss them all... every day...

As the fairy dust settles...

2009-05-05T09:42:00.017+01:00

This weekend was the stuff that dreams are made of... fine food, fine wine and friends tightly clutched to one's bosom. So tightly clutched that it made the letting go all the more heart wrenching...

yet sometimes you have to turn down the gas for fear of spoiling the dish.

This week I will be taking the 'serial' approach to blogging, in view of the vast amount of activities, events and sweet happenings that came about by a gang of food enthusiasts and fanatics getting together in one place, at the same time in a beautiful house in Hereford.

After a flurry of emails and excited chatter, Friday 1st May finally came. I am still perplexed at just how important a group of newly forged friends and, as Kristen puts it, partners in crime, can be. With no editorial intervention, we all just slid into place with such organic and natural ease . This is a group of people whose paths were meant to cross. Fate and shared passions have brought us together but it is the love of all things culinary that will continue to act as the glue that will forever bind. We all decided cooks are givers... they have the need to give, to feed, to please, to show off and anyway being able to cook together is sexy.

I hired a Land Rover Freelander model and was lucky enough to have one on a new number plate with less than 2K miles on the clock, after spending an hour to decide the best way to pack the boot and wasting an hour on an abortive trip to Crichel Mount Bakery due to an earlier horrific accident which resulted in blocked off roads and confusing detour instructions (I reflected and felt guilty that my own quest for pleasure was running alongside someone Else's pain). Finally, after deciding I couldn't get another food item in, I set off, the 4 x 4 drove like a dream on the traffic free roads all the way to the outskirts of Bath.

After trawling through the traffic mayhem that currently hangs over the town centre in Bath, I arrived 25 minutes late to pick up Kristen and Richard Corrigan's Crab Tart (more of that in another episode). Kristen was ever patient, ever present with the cultured grooming and social skills of a first lady yet full to the brim oozing a natural warmth and exuberance of a couple of girls about to embark with friends on a jolly weekend adventure.

We finally met up with Sam who managed to track us down and talk us through the twisty turns of the ancient Bath hills as we tailed him to his home, with yet more provisions and bags to pack in. With square wheels (is that possible on an LR? Yes it is) we set off on our Quest with Sam navigating every step of the way, a wonderful job and a luxury too. An hour later than expected we turned into the driveway to be greeted by the four excited faces of Susan, Pauline, Katie and Adam running towards us and brimming with the childlike enthusiasm of friends arriving for a sleepover, impatient to give us the grand tour wanting to show us the house, which would be home for the next four days. I probably hugged Adam longer than is decent for a woman of my years but I rest easy in that it was reciprocated and all received the same genuine Bonhomie and loving intentions from a person eternally grateful for any mutual signals of lasting friendship.

Our Susan took the lead, turning her versatile hand to that of real estate sales, weaving in and out of the listed rooms, pointing out original features, climbing the wooden stairs, which incidentally in an instant transported me to my sister's chalet in Switzerland; is it the wood treatment they cake it in or just the fact that it is wood... Eventually they saved the best until last... A Diva's four poster bed, draped in white voile and the wardrobe from Narnia, a fabulous window with a south facing view over the vegetable garden (more to follow) and the orchard beyond, then they proudly announced this was reserved for me! To be treated with such privilege and greeted by the beaming faces of friends brought a lump to my throat. Yep... cooks and writers are givers. They put the L in giving it Large, LOVE!

We congregated in the kitchen, in true Geordie style our Susan had boiled the kettle about five times waiting for us to arrive and a much appreciated steaming hot cup of tea was swiftly followed by rounds of drinks and Jenny and Caro. Susan and Pauline had set the scene ably assisted by Katie and Adam the party was about to begin.

Sadly we were two confirmed 'nuts' down, one laid off through an injury sustained whilst trekking across the Arctic on her journalistic journey to interview the Inuits and one due to a last minute commission in Barcelona to design and furnish an interior, no doubt for some rich and famous figure, which shall of course remain nameless.

The music was struck, the table had been laid perfectly, the bar was installed, the provisions poured out along with Kristen's famous Richard Corrigan Crab tart, Pick More Daisies Nut tart and Sam's perfect Chocolate Cake with crystallised violets. We were to dine like Kings... What seemed like hundreds of t-lights twinkled and sparkled from every conceivable corner as did the twinkle in our eyes: top tip, great for softening wrinkles too, everyone looked forever young!

The night was filled with serious talk of food and wine, not so serious talk of all things stupid and plans made for the following day. A leisurely stroll and lunch in Ludlow... The night merged into morning and after no more alcohol or food could be consumed and as the words became more difficult to decipher, we all retired to bed... to sleep perchance to dream...

Are we nearly there yet?

2009-04-26T09:10:00.006+01:00

This is it... This is where eleven food fanatics will be congregating for four days and three nights of mayhem and madness, talking about, tasting, obsessing about food, life and love; otherwise known as 'Gathering Nuts in May'. There better be a whole lot of laughing too and whilst I appreciate this isn't a film script so you can't force anything to happen that doesn't feel right, actually the same can apply to a film script too.

Writing, like life, has to be organic, it has to follow the rise and fall of the ebb tide in order for it to feel right. A few shocks along the way is a good thing because this is what makes things memorable, but here's hoping the shocks or surprises aren't harmful, they might threaten, they might put at risk, they may form barriers to success but at the end of the day it needs to feel right. Wanting to spend four days and three nights with a bunch of people I only spent four days and five nights with the first time around, is quite surprising. At the risk of sounding sentimental and I may change my viewpoint the week after next, but every single person has wonderful qualities that just make you want to be around them.

Sam has already booked himself into my guest room for some of the summer and I am hoping that a few of the others may want to catch up at some point, but I am hoping that this won't be IT, a flash in the pan, that in years to come we might all still be sharing a small fraction of our lives with each other again.

I find myself waiting for Friday to escape to collect Sam, Kristen and Crab Tart from Bath and expect there will be more than a few 'Are we nearly there yet' moments as we head just beyond the other side of Hereford just short of Ludlow.

The Loves, life of an alley Cat

2009-04-23T08:19:00.005+01:00

From a Pussy Cat Doll...

What a week it has been... non-stop I have been flat out and sadly not in a good flat out kind of way (as in, struck it lucky)...

I started the week on an emotional high, full of vim and vigor, filled with a sense of joy at seeing two people loved up and connected at the heart, but as the week has worn on I have felt more than than a sense of growing unease, that there is something more to life than listening to the quiet corners of a house. Of course this is great when you need the solitude to write, but not so good when you need that special person to spoil or pamper or feel the lurrve with... so I have been people watching at every opportunity, and OMG there are hordes of people around loved up and joined at the heart... Now I wouldn't like anyone to think that I have taken up Dogging or become Leary, or odd (although some may say I have been odd for years) but have you noticed how loved up people are in Spring? Most writers observe the machinations of daily life from a distance, the micro movements that hide a tale, the macro movements that reveal a plot, but I am beginning to think I need to plunge heart first into a new relationship.

And of course one of my friends (let's just call her Madame X), has frequently asked 'Who takes your bin out or changes the light bulbs or plumbs in the washing machine' she was horrified to realise that it was me (well can't do the WM I have to pay a plumber). Madame X can't bear to be on her own for fear of having to change her own light bulbs! It was the first thing she said to me after she left her husband. I was astonished to find that was top of the list of the 99 things you'll miss about being married. What do I know? SO anyway... watch this space, you might find me flirting in my best Alley Cat style at every opportunity. The Uniqueness of you has also been brought home to me in the ever crisp observation of Tim Clague's blog, Screenwriter and guru, that like Saxon Bullock (real name) you have to be who and what you are regardless of the pressure to change your writing style, personality or anything else, just to suit this person or that company, so from now on I am going to write what I know, add my own quirky slant on it and be damned, which I probably am anyway.

One of my writing buddies has just had his script slated by a producer which has knocked him for six, especially as he has written thousands of scripts which have been broadcast and still continue to be re-run. Cut to the quick it has knocked him back, which worries me slightly as I welcome any feedback, good or bad so what does that say about me? Does that mean I don't care or I devalue my work? Or am I being pragmatic because like Saxon I just feel I am what I am? God it is complex or do we make it more so?

Bank Holiday weekend will find me giving it large at our Arvonite reunion weekend in Hereford, now officially and affectionately known as 'Gathering Nuts in May'. Like Nigella, I have two large storage boxes of larder products and I am practicing my very best lick of the wooden spoon to camera one, as I intend to make a visual diary of the whole weekend and edit it later and upload it to U tube, with permissions, of course... not...

Lunch with writer and lecturer John Foster was a huge delight, even if the food was indifferent and overpriced. The desssert was to die for a chocolate fondant, but otherwise everything else was pretty mediocre and charging £1 for soda water in your fresh £2.60 orange juice took the biscuit, especially as it must have cost all of .00001 of a p. Still what is money when you're enjoying the company? Talking about writing with a master, and I know that isn't doing writing, was a real luxury and reassuring to know that even the greats have the same degree of difficulty getting their work before publishers or production houses... in a very selfish way it left me with a sense of reassuring hope. I am still working on the law of averages that if you throw enough **** at the wall some will stick.

This week will see me finishing the decorating of my daughter's old room. The handyman comes on Friday to finish rennovating the elderly greenhouse (I can't bring myself to call it antique), then on Saturday I will be in Wimborne market hunting for bargains of I know not what and lunching again at Pick More Daisies, with a forever friend and my daughter's Godmother. I met her when I was in my early twenties; I liked her humour and she liked my jewellery, what that says about our personalities I am not quite sure, but we've shared more than a few infamous moments and can both recount entire stories of things that have happened to us, most unrepeatable in polite company and many probably bordering on the illegal, but reunions are always a delight and she will put me straight on my Lurvve issue with her usual wisdom... which will probably involve a man and a cheque book...

More at the weekend... Be good to each other...

Love, Life and Fancy Dress

2009-04-18T10:14:00.003+01:00

What a hoot, a night on the tiles!

Having heard about, been invited to, reminded of, THE fancy dress party of the decade, last night heralded the dawning of Zeus and Aphrodite. Patrick and Catherine looked resplendent in their finery, although I wondered how long Patrick would keep his flimsy one shoulder gown on, and the body glitter he was wearing transferred well onto my pussy... cat clothing, making sure that I glowed in the dark at every dimming of the lights. Catherine shares the same birth date as my daughter and used this to celebrate both birthday and engagement. Gold nails, jewels, eyes and body glitter and fabulous naturally blond hair piled to perfection framed a set of perfectly manicured eyebrows.

I have had at least four months to prepare for the occasion yet as usual I operate best to deadlines, so after a four o'clock dash to the fancy dress shop in Poole High Street for finishing touches (the alternative fancy dress shop not the usual trick box) I left with wig, ears, tail, mask and a pair of tights! The shop is run by two very helpful guys but has always been a bit of an oddity as one side of the shop is model trains, boats and planes and the other side of the shop is accessed through an internal archway which makes you feel as though you are entering the dark side... I dashed back home finished getting ready and after nearly knocking myself out, Lazered myself into my costume. Six inch patent heels helped make my shape a little easier on the eye and once the diamond necklace, earrings and two brooches were applied, on went the gloves and I looked like the full set, even if I didn't look the full ticket.

Anyone who knows and understands costumes, yes you do admit it and enjoy it, the mask had to be in place before the wig and the ears could go on. No problem, except I got in the car, realised I needed petrol and found the mask obliterated most, if not all of my peripheral vision. So there I was driving down the motorway, or the M3 to be precise, attracting more than a few strange looks. One flashy car went zooming on, only to fall back and take a second look. I gave him my best scratchy gesture and cat spat at him; needless to say he legged it laughing, not the reaction I was after.

More to follow...

Now where was I?

Ah yes... half way up the motorway entertaining bored passengers. I was trying to decide if I looked like a Dominatrix, Zorro or the Lone Ranger and as the tension was growing in my shoulders, the wig started to take on a life of its own. Trust me, one hair grip is totally insufficient to keep half a pound of glam rock fibres close to your noddle, but truth is I forgot about securing the wig and since I trimmed my own locks some ten years ago, french bobby pins are consigned to the back of a set of dusty drawers.

When I eventually arrived at the Old Thatched House, my ears and mask were set at a new jaunty angle, help was at hand in the form of Darth Vader who I hadn't seen for some time; what I should have said was 'Come here big boy and lend me your light sabre' instead I giggled like a pathetic school girl on prom night whose bra strap had bust. As the evening wore on my mask rose higher and higher where it eventually stayed on my forehead until I returned home. I looked like a politician with a comb over.

Next time I am invited to a fancy dress party, if indeed there is a next time, I will select something more befitting a woman who has turned the dark side of 50, probably from the Damart catalogue or Anne Summers plus range, or I could economise, make a few adjustments and go as a Dominatrix... Nah.... Maybe I'll be Dorothy, I have it on good authority from the two men in the fancy dress shop, that men like a girl in pigtails and red shoes...

It is official

2009-04-12T22:21:00.006+01:00

It is now official... the decision has been made that the Jones's address will remain so for some time yet.

Armed with wine and chocolates, I broke the news to the estate agent on Saturday, the house is no longer for sale. I've searched, cogitated, deliberated, enthused and in total watched four potential properties sell after being on the market for nearly a year, and with the offer currently on the table, the numbers just don't stack up. So what have I been doing this weekend? Decorating. Sanding, scrubbing, stripping, mowing the lawns and managing to make a baked egg custard, rice pudding and a pavlova. I don't mind telling you I'm bloomin cream crackered. At least though I can press on and instead of spring cleaning I'm making ground towards adding finishing touches. If I spend most of this year concentrating on three things, the house and garden, Sequel to Prequel and the script competition and trying to enter the Bridport prize, then I will feel I have achieved something and maybe next year I can just sit and do nothing else but write, although I am writing daily, it is in snatches as the opportunities present themselves, so there is no routine. Well four actually, on account of the new business venture which will become apparent soon.

I take my hat off to Danny Stack who is about to launch into producing and directing his own film teaser next week... I am not worthy. Good on you Stackmeister. So folks, South Bank Show and then bed for me. Happy Easter to one and all, although why we say Happy I'll never know.

Rosie with love and blessings....xxxxxxxxxxx

A Golden Glow

2009-04-05T12:50:00.004+01:00

Mixed blessings this week for me, a heavy working week for sure. Funding applications, more planning and attending meetings, mowing lawns, cleaning the house to shine like a new pin; one offer on our property under our belt and after two more viewings and several rude comments we're still in limbo, but absolutely resolute the price is the price. Like passing through the veil on a cusp of a dream, it has proved a milestone in terms of deciding what we would move for and what we would not, what is important to us in the homestead stakes and what isn't. Watching three men exert their testosterone and ego by thinking they have the business negotiating prowess of Donald Trump, when in reality all they can do is bully and lay rude comments at ones feet, has proved humorous and interesting viewing, sadly they have missed one fundamental point in so much as everyone has a price, the price is the price we will move for. If their wives want the house badly enough they will have to damn well cough up or shut up. Funny how they hate it enough to make an offer, as if they are doing us a favour, we are nowhere near charity cases yet, I can still afford champagne when I want it (which admittedly seems to be with less frequency than years gone by) and sadly they fail to understand that with the introduction of new money comes poor social etiquette and attitude, and that homes take decades if not centuries to evolve, so they can take their magnolia paint and MDF kitchens and not darken my Edwardian walls again and jog on... no amount of badgering, bullying or cajoling can change our minds.

On a happier note, I have been organising and planning the next stage of the film networking event called 'Sequel to Cannes' due to take place, guess what? after the Festival de Cannes. Some funding is already guaranteed and in place and the new Short film screenwriting cash prize is set up and ready to be launched at the event. The script readers have exceptional credentials, Lucy Vee from Bang2write, Danny Stack the Stackmeister! AND in addition to the small entry price of £15 entrants will receive a bullet point feedback sheet and, whilst there is no guarantee and it is certainly not part of the prize, who knows some of these short films might create production company interest and may even be taken up with film festival entry in mind.

After extensive discussions and weeks of consideration, I am also on the verge of a new venture and a partnership with a long standing friend. Whilst initially nervous of risking our friendship through a business association, he has reminded me we are very reasonable people and we both believe we can maintain our friendship whilst running a successful new business. Of course it will be properly structured, registered and formed, but yet another exciting challenge sits on the horizon, especially as we have very different skills to bring to the new venture.

So all in all things are looking Rosie... sorry, I mean rosy... I have spent this glorious sunny morning and early afternoon, not at my beach hut, but tapping out another funding application and writing budgets. This afternoon will find me in my little summer house lazing in the sun, reading a good book. That is after I have washed the car and filled it with fuel. Next week will see my thoughts turn to my cat woman outfit in time for Patrick and Catherine's mammoth party on the 17 th, and meanwhile only two regrets 1) I won't be able to attend Adam's Hollywood party which falls on the same night and 2) Sam will not be coming to stay next week after all, as we both realised we have really over committed ourselves. So we will have to wait until the summer when he will travel up from Bath and stay for a week in either my new home or old and travel around in my new car, whatever that is. Meanwhile our long weekend catch up in May looms, when Kristen will travel down from London to Bath where I will collect her and Sam before pootling on to our Arvonites reunion in Hereford, tenderly referred to as 'Gathering nuts in May'...

Like Water...

2009-03-29T16:43:00.004+01:00

Thought for the day...

A parent always hopes that, like water, their children will eventually find their own way and even when sometimes they appear lost to themselves as well as to others, the faith holds that the river runs deep; sometimes it just takes a while for the banks to be rebuilt and for flora and fauna to take root, regrow and blossom...

Wanted one new car to Bond with careful owner...

2009-03-26T14:57:00.002Z

The day of reckoning looks as though it has finally come for my dear old Cabriolet. We've been together for eight years, and spent many happy hours meandering through country lanes in search of the creative muse or powering up hills to watch the sun go down, or chasing dreams in quaint little places like Lulworth Cove or Moonfleet. It has served me well, been to numerous concerts, picnics, arts events, weddings, funerals and celebrations. BUT today after the MOT report, things could be better. So although I am not a petrol head, I am on the hunt for another newer model of a Cabriolet, maybe with a tin top opening. I feel somewhat disloyal that I am already considering a replacement, but seeing as monogamy and motors are not a match made in heaven, then I see no future in patching it up.

Funny how when things feel terminal we can compartmentalise; relationships are worth 'patching' up, motors are not; illnesses are, unless of course you're an animal and then maybe not (although I tried every form of revival with our family pets before making final decisions); favourite dress is, ripped jeans are not. Many would say, 'it's a car, get over it' but it is not that easy. there is history between us. Parts of it work absolutely fine and the engine is as sweet as a soft embracing psalm (were those lyrics in a song?), but it is the bodywork that is starting to go (bit like me... absolutely hunky dory on the inside with everything working when it needs to, but could benefit from some exterior renovation).

Oh well, it is quite possible that I will know before the end of the day, but the search begins in earnest...

My Cup runneth over

2009-03-23T21:03:00.004Z

I have always believed that people should only be with me if they really want to, not because they feel they have to. So I felt exceptionally blessed this Mother's day when my daughter visited twice in one weekend.

This week saw the newspapers filled with the sad news of two lives cut short before their time, leaving in their shadows several fragile youths having to come to terms with the death and loss of a parent. Every day I count my blessings that I lived long enough to know that my daughter is her own woman and she will survive and blossom whatever life throws in her path. A mother can never say her job is done, by the very nature of the role it is in fact one of the few jobs for life, but we can aspire to reaching the basic platform that will provide an individual with as many skills for the next stage of the great expedition as possible. For me, motherhood is all about having the courage to be your child's conscience when their fails and employing the wisdom to bare silence when a tirade is deserved but above all it is about providing the safety net when they fall and need encouragement to dust themselves off and try again before celebrating from the shadows when they succeed, for they will if they keep trying. Motherhood is that constant spinning circle which frequently tests not only who they are, but who we have become. Without wanting to sound too sentimental, I feel blessed my daughter was born to me, through all the hardships and difficulties, the joy and the tears... for she is her own woman and I feel privileged to still feature in her life.....

And another day dawns

2009-03-18T22:03:00.005Z

Reborn, re-earthed and ready to catch up with a good friend, the tribulations of yesterday are but a mist of smudged

memories.

I met up with dear Gilli the editor of Muse mag and we chewed over the fat, or not, as we chose to pop along to the delightful new cafe called Pick more Daisies. It does not pretend to be vegetarian as it also offers some tempting meat dishes, but the vegetarian options are too good to pass on. The theme of this tiny cafe, which cannot serve more than 36 covers in one sitting, is distressed Kitch with a real, if not slightly hippy feel to it. The Decor is a cool white interior with sign written motto's, sayings and announcements on the walls. Everything is spotless which blends perfectly with the red and white ornaments, pots and Nick knacks dotted around, all of which are for sale. Scandinavian simplicity dominates in the use of gingham's, stripes and spotted fabrics, embellished with applique hearts and flowers. The food however is a completely different matter.

The choice was made all the more difficult by the wonderful array of 'tarts' on offer. Savory tarts with melting mouth watering fillings blended with a selection of seasonings worthy of a Michelin chef and the presentation was stunningly simply, yet appetising and delightful. The whole layout of this little gem reminds me of some of the veggie cafes in Bristol in Clifton Village or along the walls, down by St. Batholomew's.

For the starter I chose a five fruit, freshly juiced drink, consisting of Bramley apple, pineapple, fresh lemon, carrot and celery, the meld of flavours and quantities perfectly blended to create a naturally sweet refreshing drink. Gilli ordered the watercress, broccoli and celery soup with bread and croutons. As I am on a diet and Gilli was full after her soup, on recommendation from the waitress, we shared a slice of savory nut and carrot pie with a hint of curry served with a bowl of salad. I adore pies and tarts in almost any guise and have tasted most combinations and concocted many original mixes of ingredients, but I can honestly say with hand on appliqued heart that this was an award winning pie of orgasmic gravitas. Never in all my born days have I tasted anything like this. The appeal and the pull is like that from a chapter of the novel Chocolat, for it was the waitress who recommended it to me after some reflection, the perfect match between diner and dish!

After the Luscombe farm lemon and Elderflower juice, we both vowed to revisit this little tucked away gem as often as the LBS would allow.

I asked for the recipe but was informed it was being kept a secret until the launch of their cookbook. So until then I am going to try and replicate the quantity, blend and mix of the filling. I suspect there will be many disappointments but plenty of excuses to revisit in an attempt to determine the recipe.

Sam is due to visit in April for a few culinary days and more than a few alcoholic nights - the champagne is on ice as I type - but this will definitely be on the places of interest to visit.

I may just get withdrawal symptoms and have to visit with notebook and pen beside me to record the ingredients through dissection.

No means No

2009-03-18T06:34:00.003Z

In danger of ending up like a female Victor Meldrew, yesterday was one of those days when I could have chanted hourly...'I don't believe it'.

Is it just me or are people today programmed to challenge absolutely EVERYTHING? There was a time when 'No that isn't possible' followed by an explanation as to why that isn't possible, meant 'NO THAT ISN'T POSSIBLE', not 'Well I don't like that answer so I'll go to someone else until I get an answer I like'. Attitude? Everyone is hustling and hassling. Is it just the current climate of uncertainty or has the new generation been born with a new gene called 'Chall engger Every thingoso'?

Yesterday my energy was zapped by just clearing up the wake of tidal wave of misinformation that was casually released by someone before they engaged their brain. There is a business plan and a process in place to ensure a fair and due process is in place to protect EVERYONE. PFhhh Honestly.... Rant over... I am off to boil my head...

More photos

2009-03-15T00:10:00.004Z

Upton Country House...

Somewhere to rest awhile...

2009-03-15T00:02:00.000Z

And another week closes...

2009-03-14T23:26:00.002Z

Yet another week has zoomed by in a nano second and as usual I am reflecting on what I have achieved, if anything. This week has been a good week.

I have completed a funding application for a new project and pitched the idea; moved further forward with charting out the conditions for the new script prize, organised more elements of an event and recruited my script judging panel along with the script readers and completed the first draft of a new business plan AND thanks to a prompt from my mate Monique, I attended a Creative Writing day at Upton Country House with my old (as in former) Tutor from my Uni days. A day of self indulgence indeed, two in less than ten days cannot be a bad thing, and it is official, I have re-discovered the purple in me. I wandered over the boardwalk and visited the bird hide and looked out over the ancient marshland leading down to Poole town and felt blessed as the sound of children's laughter and squeals of delight broke through the squawking of the squabbling birds.

It was a day when my heart was encouraged to feel again and my soul swelled with the beauty that surrounds us in this part of the country. Everywhere I turned, some miracle of nature sprang up to remind me how blessed am I. My thoughts turned to the ancient landscape and although the distant skyline was of this age, the time honoured fields and reed marshes were bruised by a silvery light.

I rejoiced in the fact that for today at least, I enjoyed taking time to just be...

Divine Inspiration

2009-03-10T21:17:00.006Z

I woke this morning with a story in my head...

Rare moments of subconscious inspiration strike me from time to time, but when they do they often arrive fully formed. This weekend was one of those occasions. I am wondering if by taking my foot off the pedal during a self indulgent 24 hours (well 12 actually but who cares), I have allowed my brain to recharge in an instant whip kind of way. For on Monday morning I woke up with a title, the characters, the themes, the plot and structure along with the narrative devices and by Gad does it feel good. I am resurrected.

I am currently resisting the pull of just sitting at my laptop until I emerge with a novel, but I have logged it all in my dream journals which have remained lonely and unloved by the side of my bed for the last couple of months. I want to write, I need to write and I want to launch into this novel and, this is very much a novel at the moment, although I think I could turn it into a radio play for today. Maybe it is the combination of removing myself from my own writing by talking about writing with other writers, or maybe just because I let my 'little grey cells' recover, reshape and re-form into an order, or it might be to do with the fact that I have stopped bashing my head against the brick wall.

Although I fully understand and know how to compile a radio play, it is something I have not really launched into, as film, television and prose have featured more heavily in what I write. So I am going to give it a crack and I will let you know how I get on. Acceptance for radio along with the turn around time if accepted, is so much shorter than the whole film and TV cycle, this makes it quite attractive as I swear I will be skeletal and the subject of archaeological reincarnation before I ever see one of my films on the big screen.

Writers are taking matters into their own hands these days, as more and more shoot their own scripts into calling cards. I am considering taking a sabbatical next year by applying for and hopefully attending the 10 week filmmakers course at the Arts Institute at Bournemouth. I'll be shooting raindrops on posies before I know where I am.

Foxi, over and out and for now, dancing on rooftops...

Another week roles on...

2009-03-08T23:08:00.002Z

Indulgence... Pure and unadulterated...

Today was the best kind of day, full of unadulterated pleasure. The radio playing all afternoon, three sets of Sunday papers, it took me 4 hours to plough through the Sunday Times, Telegraph and Independent and I still haven't covered every article. I always wheedle out and set aside the sections on motoring, sport, appointments and money matters, before I dive head first straight into the arts and travel, then on to the supplements, returning to read the main papers after lunch.

In a kind of effort to cut back on waste, now I only buy the Sunday papers when I know I am going to have time to read them. I cleared a pile from my office before Christmas dating from September, still in their cellophane! At the time another distraction from writing; I was like a child sent to clear her bedroom but on finding a favorite book finds time to sit amongst the mess before falling under the spell of the narrative, yes even old news holds and interest, losing all sense of time or purpose.

I made a delightful lunch with Savoy cabbage, sausages and gravy that reminded me of my cooking chums in Arvon, hardly worthy of a culinary award but none the less full of flavour and goodness. I whipped up a baked egg custard and a rice pudding to use up some eggs and a surplus of cream and milk and a maraschino jelly. It was a day taken at a leisurely beat, when the cooking just fell into place, nothing was stressful, everything flowed with ease ensuring a smooth end to a hectic week and a relaxing start to a new one. For once guilt escaped me, I was just filled with a sense of indulgence as I finally tucked into my rice pudding and blackcurrant conserve from somewhere in between the broadsheets ... Ahhhh.

Resounding success

2009-03-05T22:21:00.006Z

Whislt the sun sets on yet another day, I can conclude today has been a resounding success. The talk to the writing group went down a storm and brought in the possibility of a one day writing workshop. The warm welcome, enthusiastic and energetic approach by all the members to the tasks in hand, made it extremely rewarding and, as ever, I am amazed at the hidden talent which just nestle in pockets of suburbia.

And although my sunset did not set its golden glow on a view of the Malverns, it certainly warmed my inner soul.

Roll on the weekend and the Swanage Blues festival, snow or no snow a whole weekend of musicality.

Foxi, hot to trot....

Rolling in Snow

2009-03-05T08:48:00.004Z

Yet another sprinkling of snow, which by urban Dorset standards almost makes it a ski resort, except the community comes to a grinding halt because no one can steer their steeds of steel over six inches of snow and of course, food supplies will run out in twenty four hours.

Otherwise, it is a wonderful reminder of the biting winters of childhood spent between Wales and Essex, when rivers were frozen and I could skate along the pavements to school in my leather soled shoes. When I returned home the stoked and roaring fires meant I could dry my socks and discarded slush sodden gloves and watch them steaming above the furnace of embers, whilst wrapped in a blanket drinking hot milk and listening to the radio accompanied by the constant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

For me these are the sounds of childhood, embedded in my memory bank, the ease with which I imagined the people who lived in these aural worlds beyond the veil of Bakelite.

Tonight, unless it is cancelled due to the weather, I am due to give a talk to a writing group on writing for radio. Radio is the one medium where every word needs to be carefully chosen for its properties of recall. To be able to write radio well is indeed an art as well as a craft. To be able to paint and bring alive invisible images through the subtle use of sound or noise, to put flesh on the bones of the characters who are strangers to our eyes but friends to our ears, this is indeed the sharpening stone that many writers cut their teeth on.

In Poole town centre, the TAPS group will gather for a night of comedy and sketches with Mr. Jug and yet again, diary clashes prove the age old theory of famine or feast. It is with a degree of excitement and trepidation I look forward to meeting a new writing group, facing the questions and sharing the knowledge of writing for radio, learning what people like about it, how it moves them, talking with my potential audience.

If it is a 'snow day' where you are I hope you make the most of it, if you can put your feet up in front of the fire, toast marshmallows or crumpets, listen to the afternoon play on Radio 4 or read a good book, enjoy the moment for it will all too quickly disappear.

Love and hugs Foxi

Discipline

2009-02-26T10:41:00.005Z

One of the hardest words to put into practice.

Why is it some days I can be incredibly disciplined and other days it totally alludes me? Is it to do with my bio-rhythms, moon phases or inner clock cycle; the recent programme on the inner clock was fascinating and although I learned a lot about the theory of the body clock like the most productive times of the day, applying it with any degree of success is an entirely different matter. Still, I press on fighting against the desire to just get out and have fun and fresh air. It is the dormant sportswomen in me fighting to rise to the surface.

In an attempt to retain some degree of discipline, knowing I have a mountain of things I need to tackle, I am going to take a leaf out of Brian Keaney's book and plan to walk one mile at a time until I get there. So for today anyway I will make a start, Rosie over and out.

I have resisted the temptation

2009-02-19T21:38:00.008Z

My Arvonite friends would have been proud of me today, in particular Roger. On account of resisting the temptation to press the add to basket button on my Amazon account as the also recommends button appeared, whilst ordering from my intended shopping list.

I had my fingers, or rather my wallet, badly torched in the autumn. I was ordering a couple of screenwriting books including one on philosophy, when half way through the order the little bell on Amazon's till dinged and shouted 'buy me Sucker' as it recommended a book of writing inspiration. Clearly the warehouseman who waits patiently for my orders, decided I must be in one of my low boredom threshold moods, so he wapped me with a list of recommendations that took me to places I didn't even know existed; including Indian chants for the creative soul, I resisted. However, I ordered said book which initially promised to inject me with enthusiasm, inspiration, writing tips and insights into good writing and also promised to swell the coffers of the author; a writer of articles, reviews, short stories and two novels! I bought it on the basis that she must know a thing or two as she pipped me by two novels on the writing hierarchy ladder. Little did I know, I was about to be duped.

I waited with anticipation. This was going to be the book that laid the golden egg. In fact, when it arrived and I read the contents, it was full of famous writers' quotes. I had spent all that fekking money to have a list of famous peoples quotes, which I could have downloaded for free from the Internet. I shan't name the book on the grounds that I need to hang on to my depleted greenbacks, and with the reunion looming I am not prepared to defend a law suit. I am delighted to say that the money wasn't totally wasted, as it created some degree of hilarity in a barn in Devon as the author was savagely ripped to shreds. The main learning point of the book was 'Don't think, just write'. Sage advice maybe, but personally I would quite like to think and write at the same time; after all I am a woman, I can multi task and get a casserole in the oven at the same time! The hour I spent thumbing through her book, damn I have revealed the author's gender, might have been put to better use... like writing. Note to self... just bloomin get on and write...

It is the doing that eventually turns us into writers, not the procrastination. The law of averages means the more we produce, the more we learn about ourselves as writers and hopefully in time, the better we will become. What is inspiration for one, may well be the Nightmare on Elm Street for another.

For those suffering from post traumatic stress, where maybe your centre has been thrown off kilter, there is a place of peace and creative realignment called 'Heartspring' in Wales. Not as spartan as a monastic retreat but nonetheless a spiritual retreat. More things to take you away from writing or more opportunities to reintroduce you to your inner voice, possibly a reconnection with your own soul.

Larkrise to Candleford

2009-02-15T22:39:00.004Z

Fab...u...lous...

Like all compelling stories, it is the characters who are at the heart of the piece who reel us in, hold us in the palm of their hand and ensure we become transfixed and addicted. I am embarrassed to say, that it has almost become a religion. A costume drama soap to please on every level. Perfectly cast, perfectly acted, perfectly adapted and not one character is colourless. The post office is the Rovers Return or The Queen Vic but with much more charm and intrigue. The ensemble piece is a lesson in the seamless weaving of narrative content, without loosing a sense of time or purpose. My only regret is that I know it must end, albeit for a season. It might be a bit of romantic intrigue and nonsense, but on a personal note I love it.

BBC and other broadcasters, more good drama please over pointless reality shows. Ahhhh, Monday tomorrow only six more days to go.

Fondue strikes again

2009-02-12T21:36:00.003Z

They say imitation is the biggest form of flattery, I will take it as a compliment therefore, that The One Show chose to feature Fondue as an open discussion point tonight with the two Masterchef judges. Clearly they read my previous article on Fondue albeit not in sufficient detail. The thought of cooking meat in a vat of boiling oil placed on a table of ski resort combustible plastic cloths, where women and children gently cook whilst drunken men play out their 'Up Jenkins' drinking games within fireball distance, ensures my spleen is filled with bile and terror. Don't they know it should be court bouillon? Oil? The bloomin thing would be spitting globules of boiling fat at the nosy children as they poke their dear little faces literally within spitting distance of the oil vat. Ye Gads... AND not one of those fondues on show (apart from the sample in the Swiss Restaurant) was the correct colour, consistency or I suspect flavour, of an excellent cheese fondue - and the bread was far too doughy. Masterclass for the masterchefs... Rock on 1960's...

Rant over...

Frostings from February

2009-02-07T10:26:00.005Z

For my sins I have started planning my film networking event/party which I have moved to June this year. Additional funding looks likely through a new Millennium source set up to help social entrepreneurs, which in turn will help all those who live and work in film across the Wessex region. The event/party is a double edged sword as on the one hand I actually enjoy the planning and project management pulling together film agencies and organisations to provide support, funding or practical help for attendees and making new contacts who are as enthusiastic as I am about the event, yet on the other hand it takes me away from my writing as it is just one more thing in my life to be juggled. Even though I fight against the project management side of what I do, I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame, clearly it is in my blood, my wings are often singed sometimes getting too close to the moving flame as I juggle specialists, organisations, venues, costs and marketing to try and make it a worthwhile experience for newcomers and previous attendees. It is important that every year meets the increasing expectations of the burgeoning audience.

Everyone in the business knows that you have to be proactive and keep pushing through the barriers that seem to present themselves at every opportunity. The advantage and the reward of putting on such an event is the feedback and the news I receive often months after, from individuals or companies whose projects have benefited as a direct result of attending the networking party. Last year one documentary filmmaker received a finishing fund to complete her Indian documentary, one production company received further awards which has enabled them to expand their own documentary projects and a couple of actors have picked up work as a direct result of networking on the night. One actor has been commissioned for a radio play, as well as being broadcast and cutting a demo tape for voice over work. So all in all it is worthwhile, but it does mean I have yet another excuse to put my own projects on the back burner. I vow this year to spread the load more by offering a part time opportunity for someone to help me manage some of the daily or weekly tasks involved with pulling the event together. You see, even as I type and talk about the planning, I can feel the blood coursing through my veins in tune with the increased rhythm and beat of my heart.

The frosting came on Monday and I approached the quest to get to work with a real Gung Ho attitude. I was thwarted at the first hurdle even after slithering down my snow laden driveway, when at 7.30am I couldn't even join the log jammed traffic which snagged up and down my road. I retreated back into the house, phoned work vowing to try again later, which I did at 9.10. I left home enjoyed car free snow clear roads until one mile away when I hit a pocket of queuing traffic, abandoned cars and signs of earlier accidents. The road had not been gritted and unbeknown to me at the time a major road, along my usual route to work, had been closed off. With traffic at a standstill when it did eventually move again, it was was re-directed on a five mile detour. I persevered determined to make it through the frosting of snow, thin by comparison to the six feet of snow Switzerland is usually blessed with every year and where I have not only visited every Winter since the age of eleven through to my mid thirties but also driven on the roads on numerous occasions too. Fifty minutes later when I pulled back into my driveway, I had to admit defeat. Some of my colleagues along different routes had taken up to three hours to get to work; most live no more than nine miles from the workplace. Given I only work two days a week, I was absolutely determined to get to work so Tuesday saw me leaving the house at 6.30am through a fresh fall of snow. When I arrived at work at 7.10am with the snow still falling, I placed newspaper across my windscreen to ensure the anticipated heavy dump of snow, could be effortlessly peeled off at 7pm. They say pride comes before a fall; 4pm found me scraping it off the windscreen into a bin bag, kindly provided by our facilities manager, as a consistent stream of rain had ensured the paper turned to mush and with thoughts of a papier-mache abstract entry for the Turner Prize, I retreated to lick my wounds. In fact I returned home at 11pm not because of the weather conditions but due to providing succour for family members. I fell exhausted into my lovely bed and woke the next morning to find I could not have moved a muscle all through the night.

Thursday night was a fabulous night. I was able to catch up with good friends at an art event as well as networking with some new and interesting folk. I have allowed myself to be persuaded to go along to a music event at the end of the month. The music group take over a pub in Poole for a private evening of music, singing, jamming and learning to play instruments; I have harboured a secret passion to be fluent and proficient in at least one of the many instruments I have sitting around the house, left over from when Jo lived at home. The choice is flute, violin, guitar, piano? As the piano is too big to lug down to the pub, I fancy learning the violin; Jo played perfectly, so I was rather spoilt as she never went through the 'resembles a screeching cat' stage, she was note and tune perfect from the start, as she was with the flute, guitar and piano. Learning to play a musical instrument well, is on my ninety-nine things to do before I die list - watch this space.

Finally tonight, weather permitting, a friend will be coming around for a homemade curry. He lives in the same village and can therefore walk along to me which is handy when he wends his way homeward. We both share a passion for champagne, although I am not convinced shampoo and curry are a match made in heaven, something more robust to drink alongside it maybe. We shall see.

Here in Dorset we are blessed with amazing weather, looking through the window in my office I am greeted by an air blue sky and the frozen crystals of snow are shining like gems. After a deep sigh and a large intake of breath, I am wondering if curry is appropriate, maybe a fondue Chinoise would have been a better choice.

This recipe is simplicity itself, very easy to prepare with no fuss, it is a very sociable meal, a great icebreaker for sharing with new friends and could be used a starter with smaller quantities and without the potatoes. Somehow snow and this meal are perfect partners. If you don't drink the broth at the end, it is also very slimming.

Fondue Chinoise:

Serves two people

1 lb fillet steak cut into thin strips approximately the size of your forefinger and seasoned with salt, pepper and a scraping of Swiss, french or German mustard

Enough beef bouillon or stock to come three quarters of the way up your table fondue pan

A wine glass (4 oz) of Madeira or Marsala (saved for the end).

Heat the fondue pan containing the bouillon to simmering point

Spike your meat onto your fondue skewer dip, one at a time, into the pot and cook for no more than 1/2 minutes for rare or around 3 minutes for well done

Eat in between cooking

Keep repeating the process

NB: Because fondue forks have coloured ends each person will know which is theirs

Serve with a glistening crisp green leaf salad including watercress, tossed in a mustard salad dressing and boiled potatoes with a dollop of unsalted butter and chopped parsley.

When you have finished cooking all the strips, turn off the heat pour the remaining bouillon broth into a jug, add the Marsala or Madeira before serving in some heat proof glasses then all that is left to do is neck it back. Bliss...

Happy Weekend...

Dishy Dinners

2009-01-30T11:11:00.005Z

Ingredients, Seasoning and Tasting... as in life...

Recently it struck me just how bland British cooking can be, mainly brought about as a result of a friends recent request to learn why the British shoulders shudder at the very mention of macaroni cheese and, also due in some part, to my mother's recent stay in hospital and the culinary offerings presented before her. The hospital provided wonderful nursing but served the most unappetising food on this planet compiled by man or beast; with closed eyes a taste test would have been impossible.

At boarding school, the first lesson in food and nutrition was how to cook sausages with two spoons (so you don't break the skins) and how to make a flavoursome macaroni cheese by slightly under cooking the pasta.

Our F & N teacher, who was also our housemistress, was a spinster called Miss Hay. She was a real dear in her 50's; it remained a mystery to me why she remained unmarried until after her retirement date, could it be she had been the inspiration for Miss Jean Brodie. Anyway, the point of this is that she drummed into us the importance of tasting everything prior to preparation and seasoning everything we cooked; admittedly all the spices and seasonings were dried but nonetheless they did improve the flavour of our first foray into cooking. Her words are embedded into my psyche 'There will be occasions girls, when salt and pepper is not enough, these are the basics of savory recipe seasoning, but it is the other exotic spices which bring the dish into being'. It was only on reflection many years later that I really understood the poignancy of her words, as most of her statements were not born to be an essential point to our learning but dredged up from another internal place, the true meaning of which was buried somewhere deep within her.

Consequently, I do taste everything and find that I often don't need to use salt at all, as the ingredients can contain their own natural Sucre or piquancy without overkilling it at source, meaning the addition of salt would merely detract from the natural flavours integral to the item.

For me writing has a parallel to cooking, it is all about finding the right balance of ingredients and seasoning in order to produce a flavoursome and tasty dish, the instinct to know when 'salt and pepper is not enough' or salt is not required at all. Too much seasoning can overburden, mask or ruin the natural characteristics of an individual flavour, killing dead the personality of an essential ingredient. One of my all time favourite screenwriting books which constantly reminds me to revisit structure is by Phil Parker called 'The Art and science of Screenwriting'. I recommend this book to anyone who writes story, even novelists who are looking for a more formulaic approach to story form.

I have emerged from my cave...

2009-01-26T19:39:00.009Z

Finally, I have emerged from my cave into the light. (Image of Totleigh Barton writing centre on a sunny day in October)

The last two weeks have been a roller coaster ride of emotions and I feel I have been a passenger on the 'ol red eye'. The last time I felt this tired was when my daughter was an infant. Thankfully, Lilian's hip operation appears to have been a huge success and the post op difficulties and complications are now well behind us, so the efforts of nurture have been more than worthwhile.

With Lilian's independence and confidence growing daily along with her ability to conquer an increasing range of small tasks, I have now returned to my own wonderful, glorious, comfortable - nay luxurious - bed, to sleep perchance to dream; I had forgotten how utterly fabulous my bed is, an investment indeed. Although the sleep fairy still hovers in the wings waiting to claim me at every vacant opportunity, the rota of essential tasks and activities feels more natural and a routine of sorts has been established.

My professional writing has taken a back seat, just as well, as I have re-read some of the emails I have sent out during the past two weeks and the spelling and grammar leaves much to be desired; basic errors are commonplace and litter the text. Untidy and careless. However tired, I have been writing several times a day in the form of snatched emails, which proved to be my salvation. Finally, the reunion of the Foodie Arvonites I met in October, on the Food writing week in Devon, has been agreed and settled - a long weekend in May. I have found a cottage not far from Ludlow. A definite eleven, ten of whom will have a bed the remaining one will have a section of floor or a sofa, will descend for a weekend of serious culinary discussions, followed by bouts of food and drink ingestion. I suspect there will be far too much drinking and eating, but hey... who cares?

Our larder is being coordinator by the wonderful Kristen; our mysterious American in London who writes with such confidence, soul and authority on all the latest food triumphs and the best places to eat out in London. Caro, an encyclopedia of culinary purveyors nationwide, is bringing Nigella's pavlova with passion fruit - I just hope Nigella doesn't need it for the weekend - and although I may never get to cook for the duration such is the talent within the group, I have every intention of applauding their excellence. Susan has committed to bringing a variety of cakes for afternoon tea. May, cannot arrive soon enough for me for we shared such camaraderie, fun and merriment, I am hungry for more.

On Saturday night I went to the pantomime with the lovely James and Graham, and a good bitch, I mean time, was had by all. There was plenty of singing, shouting and heckling to be had which was incredibly cathartic, it allowed for the release of the suppressed spirit, rising from the dark depths within. Sadly, the storyline, plot, characters and overall performances were as weak and insipid as skimmed milk but nobody cared, or if they did they didn't let it show. But here's the thing, it annoyed the hell out of me. I left feeling that the writer had missed an opportunity, the job only half done; and I wondered whether any producers felt like that over any of my feature scripts. The pantomime characters were introduced for convenience and an over-egged use of a narrator ensured that precious time was taken away from experiencing the hero's quest, which meant at no time did I care about whether he won the fair maiden's hand or not. The hero must have been on stage for no more than eight of the one hundred minutes duration of the play, yet the bloomin narrator was ever present. Hmmm. food for thought indeed.

Lesson... Message to self....

Let your audience see your hero grow in front of them, without the aid of a lazy device - it is the law...

PS: I watched the fabulous drama last night 'A short stay in Switzerland', stellar script, stellar lead taken by Julie Walters and exceptional performances by supporting actors. The subject matter meant it could so easily have been melodramatic, but it was a near perfect masterpiece, the use of silence or stillness was perfection itself. I hardly moved a limb through the whole of the performance, I was riveted to the spot, yet I was moved to more than tears.

Praise the Lord...

2009-01-16T09:40:00.003Z

Life revolves around 'stuff'...

There are times in life when we receive a sharp message, it might remind us all that in spite of our plans and our rigorous planning, we don't always have the last say.

Thankfully, my mother's operation on her hip was a huge success, it was the complications which followed that were traumatic and threatening. It brought home just how precious she is to me and that it is not always the cause but the effect which can turn our lives on their head but, surrounded by the right set of people, the effects can be minimised or better still remedied. Lilian is now on the road to recovery in spite of the awful setbacks she has had to endure. Seeing her so vulnerable and fragile made my heart weep for her, she knew how poorly she was but she is a fighter with the Dunkirk spirit about her. It also reminded me life is not a dress rehearsal and if we want to live a full and colourful life, we should do so with gusto as if every moment counts and might be our last.

So on a more positive note, I am chanting my new Mantra which is now firmly set in my mind.

I have to 'display' myself soon. One of the tutors who had the unenviable task of teaching me during my return to mid-life education, made the whole experience memorable, fun and lively for us all. He and I have been friends now for nearly nine years (how time flies) and I have lived through the ups and downs of his turbulent love life with alarming regularity but I am delighted to say that last year he finally met his soul mate; a fabulous blond with an effervescent personality, coupled with the tenderness of angels. I am thrilled I have been invited to their engagement party. They are the ying and yang of life, two peas in a pod, the perfectly blended brew and I think the fact they are celebrating the occasion by holding a fancy dress engagement party, cements the fact they are both as mad as a box of frogs; in age at least, these are mature people.

I have been left with the dilemma of choosing or inventing my costume. For someone who would usually prefer to blend in rather than stand out, I have decided to be bold for once, remember - live every day as if it is your last? If I am going to look stupid I might as well do it with style. Now I could leave you all guessing, but to be honest you will probably fall somewhere between 'Why should I be interested' or 'whatever', so I will tell you now which character I have selected in order to save myself the disappointment which might come with further indifference.

Catwoman... for one night and one night only, I am going to be Catwoman. I know, I know, I can hear you screaming at me already that I run the risk of either looking like Nessa from Gavin and Stacy or one of Dawn French's S & M sketch characters, but I shall be Catwoman, it is now in my head. My only concern is that the party is in April, approximately 40 miles away in the New Forest and as my active imagination has now placed me stalking through the Forest as a result of a broken down car, frightening the wild livestock in my quest to find a signpost to let the breakdown people know where I am, the next visual image floating around in my head is the newspaper headlines the following day which would read 'Hampshire Post: Giant Panther sighted again'. I realise I spend far too much time living out scenes in my head creating my scripts; methinks there is a long term health warning hidden somewhere in there. Images continued...I wonder if tranquility darts are painful? I suppose it is one way of getting your hands on some good carumba, or whatever they call it, although personally I would prefer a stiff... wait for it... gin and soda with a slice... Apart from the immediate fast track diet I will be following for the next three months, consisting of one tomato three times a day, I intend to pop up to town and visit three truly lovely new friends I met whilst on the Arvon food writing week, one of which is an avid visitor to HRH endorsed Rigby and Peller; I will be signing up for one of their best Catwoman undergraments money can buy. I do have a 'suck in, push up and stick out' little under number of my own, but last time I tried to wear it I gave myself a black eye on the final heave home as my hand slipped from the lycra and nearly rendered me unconcious. The outer garment will be more challenging, although a friend suggested Anne Summers as my starting point. Any other suggestions on a postcard please. Otherwise you will be able to find me in Fabric Land purchasing volumes of black PVC and just enough yardage to make a matching bum bag, well I have to have somewhere to put my keys and my mobile phone! For now at least, I am off to doodle some bespoke designs, just in case I cannot find bog standard off the peg.

;o)) for the special agent in my life, this might be construed as a maybe!

From G-Strings to Applecatchers

2009-01-11T19:08:00.008Z

Big is Best...

It is quite amazing how the female form, once ergonomically shaped to invite and tantalise the opposite sex, all too quickly turns to jello.

My mother is due to have her hip operation this week, so I have been busy compiling the endless tick list of items that MUST accompany her upon admission (cos Matron says so - you know a bit like MUST remove all acrylic nails - earlier blog) and I will have to banish my mother's essential list containing more comforting items like Whisky, Canadian dry, chocolate and SKY TV (so that she can watch Snooker all night behind Matron's back). I will be checking her mouthwash for giveaway signs of alcohol and if the satellite dish is missing along with the tool kit, I will be straight back there like a dose of colonic irrigation.

How the tables have turned. My mind returns to a time when my mother would 'help' me pack my trunk and tuck box for the dreaded return to boarding school, which on sober reflection I realise I never really conquered the whole homesickness thing, or understood the rationale behind locking a load of pubescent girls together in one dorm with no access to anything with a dangly bit. On the day I should have been sitting my history O level, I had legged it over the wall and was taking a bit of retail therapy in the town, whilst everyone else was frantically searching for an absent teenager. I returned, trophy bags in hand, to a furore and a 'never in the history of mankind' lecture by the headmistress and was firmly sent to bed with no tea, pending a decision as to my fate. The Church of England can be amazingly tolerant and sadly I was not banished from their midst but kept under close guard for the remainder of the O level examination timetable. Needless to say I chose to leave early by flying away to Barbados on BWIA with a friend. I subsequently discovered my punishment for leaving school before the end of term awards had been dished out, was that all four of my sports awards had been re-allocated to someone who was secondary in achievement, but present.... Then after a 'glorious summer of my great content' I returned to study at a technical college, with slightly more enthusiasm for knowledge, but a whole new dictionary of distractions. The thought of spending a moment longer in an institution designed to turn out well bred 'young ladies' was a chapter too far. I am ashamed to say, despite the efforts of a handful of teachers who privately admired my spirit but publicly felt they could change me, I left school with a cheque book, a figure and an attitude, a very dangerous combination in a headstrong young woman. Anyway one thing is for sure, Lilian (my mother) won't be legging it over anything for the next three months.

Whilst I have resisted making my mother sew all her own name tapes on every personal item, I have in part made her accumulate, hunt out and select some of the less fetching items in her wardrobe. In the words of Matron, BIG is best... I hope she was referring to clothing as the other Kodak alternative sends shudders through my spine. The G-Strings, basques and stockings will be replaced by nothing less than apple catchers, bolder holders and surgicals to reduce the risk of DVT. Lilian's usual fragrance is Hermes 'Caleche' but this will be replaced by the waft of embrocation, and if this doesn't arouse the pheromones in the aging opposite sex, I don't know what will.

In digging around in her drawers for items which will remain nameless, I came across photos that haven't seen the light of day for years. Photos of a beautiful woman, with ice blue eyes and a beguiling smile, arm in arm with my father, the light of her life. She has lived without him now for nearly nineteen years, longer than many marriages and sadly some lives. Lilian's life has been a homage to determination, womanhood and perseverance to see a job through. Even though I tease her mercilessly, I admire the woman who only a few years ago took me war shopping, diagnosed engine failure during the second world war, miscarried four babies between raising my sister and giving birth to me, who allowed my spirit to shine through, who taught me how to drive in the empty car park of the Dormy Hotel when I was twelve years old, who showed me how to change a plug and cook a casserole, gave me several lessons in how to control a man by making him think all the good ideas are his own (sadly I never mastered it), who I used to meet weekly in Harrods for afternoon tea and who travelled around Europe with me staying in the finest hotels, who took me shopping in town, who had the best pair of pins even attracting wolf whistles in her sixties when she wore a pair of pink cotton shorts, who turned the eye of Prince Philip when she sat three places away from him at a formal dinner in the days when Sir Mark Millbank was head of the royal household, who held court at the Farnborough Air show by flirting outrageously with the Red Arrows. A woman of many faces, who could turn her hand to anything from removing a chimney stack single handed, to making fairy cakes or entertaining dignitaries. How easy it is to forget the lives that were lived out over the decades, the resilience and the resolve to still live life to the full.

I suspect once the hip has settled in, Lilian will be back to her old self, speed walking, training for the 2012 Olympics and cycling in the air to keep trim. Long may it continue...

P.S.

2009-01-11T19:01:00.002Z

Watch out Veggies...

Of course I should have read the previous article before posting, as I have included a meat product in an otherwise vegetarian soup. If you are a veggie don't sue, just omit the Italian cured bacon.

A glorious day like today

2009-01-03T22:11:00.011Z

The sense of contentment runneth wild...

Some days hang in the ether of time, made pure by the cleansing of certain people, certain locations and the uniquely special, yet simple events... These are the stuff of substance that set aside the ephemeral happenings of the ordinary and move them into the extra ordinary star log of tomorrow...

Today was one of those. Armed with a vat of homemade minestrone soup, an array of award winning sausages, caramelised fried onions, along with every type of mustard known to man and more importantly a gathering of special people assembled in a hut on the beach, ensured a special fingerprint of memory was made and logged into an album of an old bird's scrapbook of tomorrows rememberings. To start the New Year blessed with this opportunity for me to be amongst good friends, is indeed a privilege I do not take lightly.

Rosie's Minestrone Soup

makes approx. 3 pints serves 8/10 people

(Bung into a pan in the following order; lightly fry, but do not colour the following:)

Add Two sliced and diced baby garlic globes fried off in two tablespoons of olive oil

Add one finely diced whole onion

Add six shafts of sliced celery, hand shredded to the texture of feathers

Add three finely diced carrots

Add approximately four rashers of finely diced pancetta

Add two whole snipped spring onions to the size of fine mini ribbons

Add one Tin of rinsed Cannelli Beans

Add oneTin of rinsed Flagoulet beans

Add half a tea cup full of finely shredded white cabbage

Add two tins of diced Italian plum tomatoes plus two freshly chopped tomatoes

Add two teaspoons of white sugar

Add two pints of good quality chicken or vegetable stock

Add Malvern Salt and black pepper to taste

LIGHTLY BOIL FOR THREE QUARTERS, TO ONE HOUR

Season to taste with the following, or be adventurous with your own flavours

Add either fresh Oregano or dried oregano herbs (I like around 1 tablespoon fresh or 2 teaspoons of dried)

Add one teaspoon of Knorr Aromat seasoning:

To Serve: One ounce of Parmesan or strong salty cheddar cheese/garlic croutons/a variety of artisan breads.

HINT: For extra flavour - if it is a non-vegetarian dish - add approximately one tablespoon of diced Anchovies

Boil and keep separate approximately a teacupful of fine egg soup noodles (a dessertspoon to be added into the soup bowl on serving).

This soup is so full of taste everyone will be left wanting more.

For me the whole day was full of life's riches, friends, family and a sense of well being. Laughter, a sense of sharing and spending time with the people in our lives who matter to us. This will be the first of hopefully many such occasions this year... otherwise known as 'The Gathering'... great title for a book or a film...

Peace, love and hugs,

from Foxi Rosie.

The Remnants of Seasonality

2009-01-02T10:11:00.007Z

Whilst the remnants of Christmas and New Year sit patiently in the fridge awaiting a corporate decision on their fate, I find I am already planning January's menu. One of the disadvantages of being a foodie is that it is integral to ones existence. My downfalls, fabulous breads, cheeeeeze, cream, eggs, ice cream and champagne, although not necessarily on the same plate at the same time... although, hey.

Considering I have started the New Year in 'woman on a mission' mode, I am determined to match the success of 2008, by losing at least another one and a half stone. Since the beginning of 2008 I have dropped two frock sizes and the weight remains stable, even over the festive period traditionally known for it's bout of over-indulgence. Whilst the chocolates, peanuts and snacks passed from hand to mouth around the room, I resisted the temptation with remarkable ease. If it had a calorie and it didn't float my boat, I left it alone - as in life!

For 2009 I intend to cook to portion control standards, leaving no opportunity to pick like a buzzard over the remnants of a former meal. However, the challenge this year will be cooking without calories... Oh joy I can't wait. All no calorie menu suggestions will be gratefully received and anyone who knows how I can cook a tasty mushroom stroganoff without using one dozen eggs and a gallon of cream (OK I know eggs aren't present in a mushstrog, but allow me some poetic licence) please help me out here. Fortunately, I adore all fresh veg (with the exception of sprouts - I ate my obligatory two at Christmas, mirroring Dawn French in the Vicar of Dibley when she was on her one hundredth) I can also confirm my other favourites are copious amounts of fruit, salads and fish; what I cannot do with a Watermelon isn't worth doing! My problem has always been volume. The reduced plate size and the discipline of no seconds of anything with a calorie in it seem to have worked, albeit slowly but at least it does work, so my next mission is to focus on portion control along with a no grazing policy in between meals.

Chicken and Ginger soup

Add to a pan, but do not brown:

A quarter of an onion finely diced and gently coated in a teaspoon of olive oil

A teaspoon of peeled and crushed fresh ginger and garlic (add to the onions to mingle and meld)

Using a scissors, snip your way down a whole spring onion and add to the mix in the pan

Add half a pint of good quality homemade chicken stock (left to go cold, fat removed - it should be like jelly)

When the soup has been boiling for around 5 minutes, add a dessertspoon of uncooked mini soup noodle strands (Kosher deli's usually have an excellent selection of interesting shapes - alternatively you can break up a very small bundle of Chinese egg noodles)

Cook until the pasta/egg noodle is tender

Season with celery salt and pepper and Devour!

This soup has a clean, fresh taste.

Optional before you start the recipe: for those who love a suggestion of aniseed, you can fry off a couple of star anise in the oil, discard. then commence the recipe above.

As it is Friday today, I will be cleaning my fridge and discarding anything with, an out of, or in date calorie in it, before commencing my other New Years resolution of getting down to my writing. I have two articles pending, an interview brief, tick sheet and score matrix for the Arts Development Unit for their 'Flourish' project, then I can continue to edit another one of my rom-com scripts before sending it off to my new best friend producer. Later on today, I need to go shopping as mid-day tomorrow is the gathering of friends and family at my beach hut, for a healthy walk, hot soup and organic sausage tasting.

My wish for 2009 is that my friends and contacts have most of their dreams come true, not all, as otherwise what goals would there be for 2010?

Love and Hugs from Foxi Rosie

My cup is empty

2008-12-22T21:53:00.002Z

My cup is empty...

Following on from the post of the lost bras, I was extremely relieved to go into work this morning to discover that my bolderholder was not taking pride of place adorning the company Christmas tree. Phew! Apart from my red face and a twittery facilities manager who couldn't look me in the eye, it would appear I had escaped unscathed. I was even more relieved when no one else made reference to it, my secret was safe. So there it is... my cup might be empty but my virtue is very much still in tact.

As Christmas eve is very nearly upon us all, I reflect on the past year with a degree of nostalgia and a modicum of infused impatience; not everything went according to plan. My year has been blessed with exceptional new friendships, one in particular forged from some cosmic force pulling against the tide, and the trusted old unions seem to be strengthened. I still remain undiscovered but manage to remain upbeat and hopeful. Although, with the help of some mentoring, I have unearthed a few technical flaws that I am attempting to improve upon. My cook book has moved a little closer towards the finishing line and one of my rom-coms has attracted some interest by someone who may be able to turn the tide and who should know what they are talking about. The freelance work continues to trickle in at a regular pace and I guess many would say all in the garden is Rosie, or even rosy! My cups might be empty but in my own mind my cups are half full...

In the words of the wonderful Anthony Minghella... who knew a good story when he saw it... Blessings on your head.. I wish you a happy, healthy and successful 2009... XXX Peace and Love from Foxi Rosie.

Time Flies

2008-12-20T05:46:00.007Z

Life in the fast lane:

It has been one of those weeks, ten days actually since I last had time to blog. Life seems to have run away with me again and I have not managed to do half of the things on my wish list. On a good note the blood and the feeling has finally returned to my left foot, it no longer feels like I am walking on a wooden stump, this Christmas bonus has arrived early; it may just be possible I will be Jiving whilst stuffing the turkey on Christmas Day after all...

Last Tuesday saw me walking around work (my part time job) in the full garb as a Green and Black witch, (from that well known chocolate pantomime by Dawn French), for our murder mystery evening at Sway Manor. We were ready for it, but was it ready for us I ask? Jennie, the payroll queen, managed to show off her ability to raise her leg vertical to her torso, which did raise an eyebrow or two from other diners, especially as she was still sitting at the table at the time and the waiter didn't quite know where to place her turkey, piggies in blankets and stuffing. Four of the ER team went as Christmas Elves (from the other well know pantomime called 'Elf and Safety'), which just left Dracula (from the other pantomime whose name escapes me at the moment) and bringing up the rear were Hook, Prince Charming, Principle Boy, Peter Pan and Dick Whittington.

I shall make no apologies for the stream of seasonal puns which may well follow, but it was a spellbinding night full of magic, mystery and hilarity. My sides haven't ached as much from the peels of laughter, since my week in Devon in October on the Arvon Cookery Writing course, with none other than Tamasin Day-Lewis (sister of the infamous allegedly text dumping Daniel) the divine and lovely Orlando Murrin, along with my other foodie fancy fanatics.

It is just possible that the organiser of this panto murder mystery event is now a gibbering mess banished to recovery at the Priory or locked away in an alpine Swiss clinic for his own safety, not to mention the safety of future gaggles of Murder mystery pundits.

But a most embarrassing thing happened to me on the way to the forum. I want to share this with you despite the fact that I may live to regret it as it rears it ugly head when I am rich and famous, but there is a seasonal message of goodwill attached...

I misplaced my bra. In the rush of getting ready in unfamiliar surroundings, I placed my clean bra, I thought, on the basin counter or it might have been on the hanger of my long dress, but somewhere in between work and the boot of my car it has gone walkabout. You can imagine the hilarity as I phoned in to our facilities department next day to find out if anyone had handed it in. When the laughter subsided enough to make the recipient of my call coherent, the uses for a lost bra are apparently endless, to date they are; a novel way of carrying your melons home from the supermarket; a medieval dual slingshot waiting to be hurled at other seasonal shoppers in an attempt to clear a path to checkout; ear muffs; support for one of the male cleaner's man boobs; an airline hammock for a newborn twins; dual nests for twin buzzards; a brake chute for the next speed trial car, the list is endless and will no doubt go on to haunt me for the rest of 2009, other suggestions on a postcard please.

My point is? When time is short we rush, we do daft things. Misplacing one's bra is one of them, after all it is not as if it is a small matter. Furthermore, I have an awful vision of returning to work on Monday to find my twin cups have been suspended as an additional decorative embellishment on the Company Christmas tree, which is sited in the main foyer. In addition, swinging from one of the straps will be an enormous tag, with big red festive letters scribed across it saying "Rosie's lost property".

And the moral of this post? Take some time out amongst all the mayhem and madness, treat yourself to a bit of 'you' time. Indulge in some downtime. Heed this warning which is born from my own painful experience.

Monday will come and Monday will go, even though I am already bracing myself, no doubt there will be emails, puns, questions to answer. Maybe I will keep them guessing as to how it could have ended up in the car park, or maybe my bra has gone to the place where bras go to die. Who knows? It may even appear in a Nativity coming to you, keep a sharp eye out as Mary enters on her donkey stage right, if you see a pannier swinging over the donkey's back it may well belong to a broad on the edge!!

Ho, ho, ho...

ALL THINGS CHRISTMAS

2008-12-11T22:08:00.003Z

Finally I have managed to start putting up the Christmas decorations, but like all good craftsmen, preparation is all. So the house has received a thorough cleansing in every nook and cranny. With my blackened sorely foot, it seemed to take forever, but once the job was done and everywhere looked shiny, clean and stinking of beeswax lavender polish, out came the decorations.

This is the mirror in the hallway having received the treatment. Then it struck me that in less than one month it will all be coming down again. The appeal of fleeing southward to a much warmer climate, to be pampered and spoilt over the festive period, seems to increase with age. I am beginning to wonder why I do it every year and whilst friends and family always say the house looks divine and the decorations look as though they have jumped off a film or a stage set (don't go too close they probably have - I have a gold sleigh in the bottom garage that Santa left here when Jo was aged six or seven). I don't seem to have a problem conjuring up the love, it is the continued enthusiasm I seem to have a problem with. By Boxing Day I have fallen out of love with it all.

It can be compared to my approach to writing. The start of a new project is just sooooo sexy and interesting and wonderful and so clear in my head, but by the time I've laid out the plot onto cards, jiggled around with some of the character arcs and sat down to write the fecking thing, I have gone off the boil. I am beginning to think that as I was a child I slipped through the net, undiagnosed with some terrible personality affliction that is only surfacing now, or could it be I am only coming to terms with it now? I can write, I can go the distance, I can complete and to deadlines, but maybe I haven't met my story match yet or worse still maybe I haven't actually found my natural voice. Maybe, the perfect story is like the search for Mr. Perfect, it/he doesn't exist. Like any worthwhile relationship you just have to darn well take the rough with the smooth and add a little tweak here or a little tweak there and morph the story around the characters like a piece of seamless knitting. Storytelling is a little like playing with puddled wax, you have to be careful not to go in too soon or you get your fingers burnt, but if you leave it too long, you cannot mould it to the shape you want. Hmmm... Hey ho...

I will be writing tomorrow as my maintenance man is here all day odd jobbing, the whole point of having him was so that I could be free to write rather than DIY (destroy it yourself). It is true and I am full of shame that I have absolutely no desire to be the woman with the golden drill, or know or understand my AC from my DC, or wire a plug, or plumb in a dishwasher; cook a casserole a resounding YES, knit a rug, sew a pair of curtains in a couple of days and add the flourish of a pelmet YES, but put my head down a soil pipe and rod the drains, definitely not.

Foxi - Over and Out and off to puddle her wax...

There are no wrinkles on a balloon

2008-12-09T23:01:00.002Z

This was a conversation I once had with Bobby Davro when he chose to insult me for a laugh, but at my expense.

He was referring to my youthful looks, that's what I like to think anyway, by noticing I hardly had any wrinkles. There is a payoff. I can only say that the extra padding came in remarkably handy this week as I missed my footing on the stairs at home; thankfully my airbags inflated as I went into full frontal free fall, I must have resembled a flying tree frog, because I could feel the sense of freedom as the rush of wind rippled through my tendrils. With my tooth (gap) healing nicely and the appearance of the wide mouth frog disappearing by the day, I have now morphed into the next stage of frog evolution, by taking to the air. As I mentioned, the air bags did break my fall but not before I had crushed and decimated 'my left foot' (good title for a play) which failed to release itself in time from the free falling body that was about to trap it. This was Sunday night, I was stone cold sober but possibly under the influence of the pain killers and the anti-biotics. I had to snake crawl my way back up to my bedroom to assess the damage. I figured at least someone could find me safe in bed with my gangrenous left foot sticking out of the bed, therefore making diagnosis much easier.

I was in so much pain and decided that Bobby was quite correct as the balloon like stump on the end of my foot did not have one wrinkle visible through the blackened stretched skin. As the toes were pointing west of my body it did cross my mind that it might be broken. I telephoned the out of hours service, described the scene and a very sympathetic woman did comment it didn't seem to be my week... but her advice? A & E. On a Sunday night, you've got to be kidding me. I telephoned to enquire how long the waiting time would be and would I receive special treatment as I was returning to use there services within the same week, and the receptionist, who clearly didn't acquire her customer service skills from The Ritz Hotel, informed me NO, and it was 5 hours and growing. The thought of sitting amongst the drunks and reprobates of Poole did little to entice me to join the party. My decision? To grimace and bear it, wait until the morning and if the foot was still attached, I would shower, wash my hair, make up, apply a heavy dose of perfume along with the full set of acrylic nails minus two (see earlier post) and wend my way down to A & E. Clearly the ink had hardly had time to dry from my records on Monday.

After establishing the waiting time was only two hours, I telephoned for a taxi to take me to

A & E. If you were there, I was the one sporting a rather attractive pink cashmere bed sock on the blackened foot and a boot on the other. I did consider wearing a high heel on the good foot but I had a vision of an amusing scene from one of Peter Sellers comedic characters, in so much as the rise and fall on the stride of my six inch mis-matched shoe would announce my arrival, and that the noise of the heel on the hospital floor would draw too much attention to the unfashionable footwear, making jumping the queue nigh on impossible.

Thankfully, it is not broken although I have ripped the tendons and ligaments in my foot. My foot has been a source of light relief and entertainment in between the plethora of dross daytime television shows, as I have watched its changing kaleidoscope of colours on the hour every hour.

To one of my blog followers Brian K who has just undergone surgery, you have my full sympathy. I will shut up about my woes as they are transitory and minor by comparison...

Tomorrow is another day as they say and I intend to shake off this spell of misfortune by being more upbeat and chirpy. I am going to apply for another freelance arts gig. The decision will be made in the New Year, but it could be a step forward if I am at least shortlisted, or better still selected.

There will be no more mention of my medical woes, just the usual things, like cooking, writing and credit crunch war shopping, for there are clearly advertised bargains to be had if the companies stay in business long enough for delivery.

Foxi - over and out...

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

2008-12-05T08:56:00.005Z

Webmaster, Tools and gobblydegook...

I am constantly in awe of some people's knowledge of all things technically weblymatical. Take my Facebook friend Matt Smith for instance. He never ceases to amaze me with his knowledge and insight of how to improve your web profile hits, or draw more traffic to your site and, furthermore, his patience in trying to explain it to someone who doesn't even speak the same techno language, is a tribute to the core of his character. And, he always seems to pop up like an angel when life events or things are getting you down, as if he doesn't have enough of his own demons to cope with. If you are reading this Matt, thank you my virtual angel.

I also particularly liked the article by Tom Green, or was it Lucy Vee, from the WGGB blog, about creating your own websites, webpages, Twitter or blogspots. I had thought Twitter was something to do with Ornothology, but I have been put straight on that one. One step at a time RJ, one step at a time, for a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and whilst I agree that my media degree (albeit in Scriptwriting for Film and TV) did help me to face some of my own techno demons, I am still at base camp when it comes to anything too technically demanding. The main difference post degree, is now I give the techno stuff a chance and stick with it as opposed to pre-degree when the offending items would have ended up in one of three places,

1) charity shop 2) the bin 3) ebay, if only I knew how to use it. However, I will get there with a little help from my friends; hmmm - thought bubble - good title for a tune. My FB account is up and running and I have been using it for over a year now and am 'chuffed' to bits (can I say that, or is it one of those modern useage of words that is forbotten?) anyway you get the gist, I am beginning to be dragged into the new era, slowly but surely.

Getting back to my tooth extraction, I am going to milk this sympathy bit till it has worn thin with everyone including me, I have been on the jelly. Last night I had to miss out on the first of the seasonal parties, on account of I still look like a cross between a chipmunk and a hamster. When I left hospital and they said a light diet of jelly, I had KY in mind and saucy thoughts of endless nights of entertainment until the 'gap' healed... where is this going? I am talking about the gap in my gums and NOWHERE else... So whilst everyone was at TAPS enjoying the party by drinking bubbles and stuffing cake, I was pushing my jelly and ice cream around my plate sulking and that like Cinderella, I was at home imagining what fun everyone else was having. Then I had another ephipany moment (two actually). Number One, the key to writing exceptional memorable characters is to get inside their skin and write from the inside out and Number Two, I just remembered that the anti-biotics I am popping, should not be taken with ANY dairy produce... damn... so half an hour later when the lactose intolerance kicked in, I was thinking back to one of my first posts which was RTFM... Some people never learn... I guess I am one of them.

Foxi over and out...

I suffer for my art

2008-12-02T20:26:00.003Z

Peath and Love, Love and Peath...

No this isn't because I am unable to spell, the Peath bit is on account of the fact that I now have one tooth less in my head. In fact, apart from my wisdom teeth, this is the only other body part I have ever intentionally lost. The throbbing tooth, or rather gap, is similar to toothache, yet now I know how it feels to be in pain from bumping your gums.

Anyway, onward and upwards. My writing has taken a bit of a back seat as mentally my mind has been planning my funeral, fixed in the belief that the anaesthetic would do for me, but in fact the only anxious part of the whole procedure was the removal of my acrylic nails. It was so humiliating and when asked to remove the pair of furry gloves just before I went down for surgery, insult was added to injury further, when they informed me I need only have removed two of the nails; just so they can see if I'm turning blue and they need to get out the electrodes! If that is the case then why did they print, 'all body piercings and acrylic nails need to be removed or we will not carry out the surgery'. I bet this was written by a man who had engaged in an argument with his wife that morning, or a mistress who had just used his credit card for some immoral amount of frippery, or a matron with PMT. Anyway with no time to readdress the issue I decided to stay schtumm until after the surgery, my letter of formal complaint should now be with my local MP and the copy should be with Gordon Brown for a bit of bedtime reading material no doubt; he has probably sent his secretary on a quest to locate the make of the nails to cover up his nail biting excesses. Anyway, Hint of the Day you heard it here first... if you find yourself in this situation, just remove two nails.

I would have been considered somewhat sad to take a cuddly toy into day surgery, so I chose to take my good friend and classic 'Rebecca'. I know I have read this book beyond counting, but I truly adore the text. It is like visiting an old friend as text and film image merge together seamlessly. The pace and rise and fall of the language is, for me, exceptional. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. It was my comfort blanket to set my mind into a calm place, to forget about acrylic nails, starvation and funerals.

When I eventually lost the palour of grey frost, I managed to muster enough enthusiasm to watch a second rate film last night through the mist of the drugs. It helped me to realise where I have been going wrong in my writing. Another revelation, three revelations in one year must benchmark a good year. It was clear to me that I am not allowing my characters enough time to get to know each other, so the writing of their relationship and how they interact is 'thin' to say the least. One of my scripts I feel absolutely committed to is 'Repentance'. The story of a forbidden love in 1804 between black slave and unmarried white socialite. Nothing like the raunchy Mandingo for those who remember it, Repentance is essentially a love story in the true Love Story writing model. My next project therefore is to rewrite my 102 pages into a tighter format cutting out as many unnecessary adjectives as possible and writing about the real emotion. Wish me luck. In addition, I am almost ready to send off a Rom-Com to my new best friend the heavyweight producer with access to Hollywood, although I won't hold my breath or I will be planning my funeral again.

Christmas looms, the parties and invites are starting, so I tally forth as an optimist, firm in the belief that a new story lies somewhere out there for me to develop.

Foxi Rosie signing off xx

Red Planet Scriptwriting Prize

2008-11-29T11:14:00.003Z

Survivors...

Survivor seems to be the key word for me this week, as I received notification that for the second year running my script was not shortlisted for this wonderful prize; positive footnote, 1) they let me know 2) they personalised it with the name of my script. I thought this was a nice touch as in most cases of non-selection you are left wondering if your work is just propping up a wonky desk somewhere, or acting as a doorstop. Onwards and upwards. Like the true pro that I hope I am becoming I shall learn from it, revisit the concept and structure, along with the dimensions to my main character's arc and hold onto the fact that I have managed to secure a couple of writing 'gigs and talks' for 2009. Also, my good friend and editor Gilli, would like two more articles from me for early 2009. Yayy...

I am also planning the 2009 film networking event I currently run called 'Prequel to Cannes' by way of a ruthless review, including the full title. It needs to be ramped up with more heavyweight opportunities for those looking to move their careers forward, so between myself and some of the film agencies and organisations, we are hoping to provide a more focused, industry led event. Watch this space.

I guess the lesson this week is 'How to survive and enjoy it'...

Next week I shall be feeling sorry for myself as I will be in hospital on Monday having a tooth extracted under general. (Unless of course they said under the General... in which case I shall start worrying now).

TTFN:

Survivors101

2008-11-25T22:44:00.006Z

Survivors the drama...

If you think you are having a bad day and have become somewhat immune to all mention of the credit crunch, then in an attempt to cheer yourself up a bit, why not tune into the new drama on the beeb called Survivors. Devoid of mortgage or loan repayments, the characters have discovered the world is their oyster, assuming of course you can find a fleet of 4 x 4's, enough petrol to enable you to gad about for a bit of unorthodoxed retail therapy, a gun and a couple of chickens. (Footnote: I am not having a pop at the series as I think it is fab, a very well crafted script from the novel... so far)

It triggered in me an instant memory when just eight years ago I was dragged around Sainsbury's for some war shopping; following our decision to stand side by side with our buds the Americans when we followed like sheep and invaded Iraq. Now I'm not known for my political viewpoints and I do not intend to start now, but I was whipped into a frenzy by my dear Mother who, with the thought of the last war (as in II) still firmly imprinted on her mind and a handful of useful war recipes lazered into her spleen, she wanted to be first in the queue before rationing kicked in. Armed with two trolleys I commenced loading them to order like a looter who had won a thirty minute trolley dash on the first day of a Harrods' sale. I was pleased I could still extend my elbows so far out to keep others at bay, whilst keeping a vice like grip on each handle and loading with my feet.

I was instructed to load the likes of essential supplies that an every day domestic war goddess has lying around in her larder, like five gallon drums of water, shampoo, deodorant, soap, toothpaste, pulses, dried peas, pasta and rice, Oh and syrup sponges, flour, syrup of figs, semolina, sugar, fray bentos, spam, corned beef, meat pies in a tin, brown sauce, baked beans, tinned soups, jellies, evaporated milk, sardines, liquid paraffin and volumes of powdered egg. £250 later along with a car load of processed food, most of which we have never eaten in our lives, I did my dutiful daughter bit by pointing out that if we survived the germ warfare and the tsunami which would be triggered by the whole nuclear shebang imploding underwater, it might just mean we could be living on our own island as the entire contents of our store cupboard re hydrated in an instant and fused to the texture of a comet; but looking on the positive side at least we would have our own food mountain. If we armed ourselves with hand drill or hammer, we could chisel our way through for several years, assuming the sinews in our arms still had some movement left from the war shopping and hadn't been fried to the texture of elastic, or we could just give that up and lick our way to oblivion.

I had visions of spending many a night sitting around a candle, exchanging recipes of 101 things you could do with a Fray Bentos meat pie but was robbed of the pleasure when the s*** hit the fan and it was revealed that the weapons of mass destruction turned out to be a packet of dried egg left over from the last major war (as in II)... I appreciate this is an irreverent viewpoint and my apologies to those who do in fact live under the threat of everyday war initiatives, but I hope you see my point.

Two years later when it started to become a possibility that we might outlive the shelf life of the £250 worth of black market carumba sitting on the shelves of our domestic war goddess larder, I decided to throw it all out in tact, still with the unsolved mystery on my mind of how to put powdered egg to good use and having only managed to reach number five on the list of the 101 things to do with a tin of Fray Bentos meat pie... For your benefit, in case you find yourself in the same situation, I shall list them below, but if anyone has any other innovative ideas then please feel free to add to them ready for next time. Don't hold back.

101 things to do with a tin of Fray Bentos Meat Pie

1) Daily exercise lifting the tin to decide how to cook it without gas or electricity and replace on the shelf for tomorrow

2) Weekly exercise by throwing forth as a Frisbee and retrieving at speed before the other marauding neighbours know you have a tin left and place back on the shelf for tomorrow

3) Combo of Practicality and exercise: Using the tin like a monkey to crack open the nuts in their shells so you may ingest your daily protein, AND replace on the shelf for tomorrow

4) Check that it is still in date and replace on the shelf for tomorrow

5) On Sunday hold said tin over the candle to heat, until the tin becomes too hot to hold, then when cool replace on the larder shelf for... Oh who knows when

By Day five you should have shed enough weight to win slimmer of the year award (unless of course you have eaten the whole packet of powdered egg and belatedly remembered the saying 'you stuff you puff') AND you will feel secure in the knowledge that you still have nine months left on the sell by date to think of the other ninety five things to do with a tin of Fray Bentos Meat Pie.

I shall sign off now as I have to go darn my knickers in preparation for the next apocalyptic threat to mankind.

In the words of Ringo, love and peace, peace and love...

Foxi... xx

Some days are much better than others

2008-11-20T22:36:00.005Z

Today is one of them.

It was a good day today. A meeting with the Arts Council and the sense of a job well done. They don't come around that often, so when they do I feel I have to make the most of them. With a new contract for some freelance work under my belt, I walked through Poole high street lit by the overhead Christmas decorations, which moved like trapeeze artists dangling on wires, suspended between buildings and swinging from post to post.

Usually by now, the streets would be alive with the sight of scurrying Christmas shoppers grabbing bargains and struggling with interesting packages and bags, racing homeward to hide them in secret places, away from the prying eyes of the miserable hungry and protesting children clinging to their arms. Ordinarily they would pass enticing windows full of Christmas promise, whilst the smells from the street food hawkers cooking burgers and hot dogs, fill their nostrils but not their stomachs.

Yet amazingly today, the streets are virtually empty. The temporary ice rink with its rising clouds of ice cold mist, throw a hollow echo to the sounds of 80's disco music tinny and shrill, as the discs warble on a cheap machine. In all my shopping days I have never witnessed such a wilderness, a stark reminder of just how hard times are and how sparse it is going to be for many this Christmas.

My mind drifts back to many a Christmas eve. I have always had the house filled with at least 40 good friends and family, children playing flutes and pianos, violins, guitars and the clarinet are interspersed with the sound of excited chatter, even the smallest child frightened to fall asleep lest they should miss some exciting event. The house rang with the sound of laughter and merriment but above all it peeled with Love. Piles of food from sticky chicken wings (not sourced from Iceland), meat balls in paprika sauce, blanquette de veau, a homemade glazed ham - sliced of course - and the smell of mince twists (mincemeat in filo pastry with whole candied cherries doused in Maderia). As I invariably ran out of time, somewhere in the drawing room was a stack of all the Christmas magazines and cookbooks I had consulted in an attempt to change the menu from last year and seek new inspiration. My paprika meatballs were always a must though.

This year I was sorting through my Christmas range of old publications, when I came across a simple dessert cream, which was actually there to advertise a new double ball whisk. The editor of Good Food, Orlando Murrin, was smiling back at me from the pages of the 2001 edition, his broad welcoming smile evoked happy memories of a fabulous week spent in Devon; Orlando was my tutor at this year's food writing course at the Arvon foundation. So for you here is his Christmas Orange Brandy Cream...

Orlando's Christmas Orange Brandy Cream (page 198 for anyone who still has a copy of Good Food 2001)

A quick and delicious alternative to traditional brandy butter. Work time 10 minutes, serves 8 - 10.

300mls double cream

finely grated zest of 1 orange (Foxi: my new friend Caro would be excellent at extracting this)

3 tbsp brandy

3 tbsp golden icing sugar

3 tbsp orange juice

* Pour cream into bowl

* Add orange zest, brandy and icing sugar

* Whisk until light and fluffy

* Gently fold in orange juice with a spatula

* Serve as soon as possible

Delicious with mince pies or Christmas pudding

Ahhh... exhale.... tomorrow is another day...

Foxi xx

Cattern Cakes, Lace and Research for a new film script

2008-11-19T16:03:00.015Z

Cattern Cakes and Lace

Following on from some extensive research around the Lace industry in Devon, in preparation for my next film script idea, I revisited an old favourite cookery book of mine called Cattern Cakes and Lace. It is a book of a calendar of feasts and I am not even sure if the book is still in print as it dates back to 1987 and was written by Julia Jones (no relation) and Barbara Deer. It celebrates a series of feast days and comments on why or how they originated, followed by more than a good recipe or two.

I quote:

'November 25th St. Catherine's Day:

Cattern cakes (so called after a corruption of the name Catherine) were, as I explained in the preface, the unlikely catalyst that produced this book, bringing together as they do my interest in festivals, food and lacemaking.

St. Catherine of Alexandria, reputedly one of the most intelligent and beautiful women of her day, was martyred in 310 AD. her fame reached Europe with the returning Crusaders and the Catherine wheel firework and Catherine or Rose window were named after her.

St. Catherine was taken up as the protector of young unmarried girls, and it was believed that maidens in need of a husband could crown her statue with a wreath of greenery on this day for their prayers to be answered. The wheel of her death also became the emblem of spinners and lacemakers, for whom St. Catherine became a patron saint. On her day, lacemakers would hold their annual holiday.'

So here are Julia's authentic recipes one savoury and one sweet:

Rabbit Casserole:

4 rabbit joints

8 oz cooked ham (thickly sliced)

2 medium peeled carrots

8 small peeled shallots

1 pint milk

half a teaspoon of salt

black pepper

quarter teaspoon of grated nutmeg

Fresh parsley

half an ounce of cornflour

2 extra tablespoons milk

half an ounce butter

* Wash the rabbit portions and pat dry

* Arrange in a heatproof dish

* Dice the ham and slice the carrots and put these into the dish with the shallots

* Heat the milk in a pan

* When it has boiled pour over the rabbit portions

* Add the seasoning

* Cover the dish and cook slowly until the rabbit is tender (approx one hour)

* Transfer the rabbit portions and vegetables to a clean dish and keep warm

* Strain off the cooking liquid into a clean saucepan (add any of the onions or veg caught in the sieve back into the dish)

* In a small dish, mix the cornflour to a smooth paste with a little cold milk

* Pour the paste into the strained cooking liquid and stir well, keep stirring for at least three minutes until it comes to the boil and thickens

* Remove from heat and add the butter for a glossy look

* Pour over the rabbit and vegetables and garnish with a good handful of freshly chopped parsley

Cattern Cakes:

9 oz self raising flour

1/4 tsp ground cinnamon

1 oz currants

2 oz ground almonds

2 tsp caraway seeds

7 oz caster sugar

4 oz melted butter

1 medium beaten egg

A little extra sugar and cinnamon for sprinkling

Oven: 200 degrees C/400 degrees F/Gas 6

* Sift the flour and cinnamon into a bowl then add currants, almonds, caraway and sugar and

stir until evenly mixed.

* Add the melted butter and the beaten egg and mix well to form a stiff dough.

* Roll out on a floured board into a rectangle (approx 12 x 10 inches)

* Brush the dough with water and sprinkle with the extra sugar and cinnamon

* Roll up like a swiss roll and cut into slices approx three quarters of an inch thick.

* Place the slices well apart, onto a greased baking tray and cook for 10 minutes (or slightly less in fan oven)

* Remove and cool on a wire rack and sprinkle with a little extra caraway seeds if you like

Julia concludes this section by saying:

'St. Catherine's Day was also chosen to honour good Queen Katherine of Aragon, who was patron of local lacemakers during her imprisonment at Ampthill. The story goes that the Queen, after hearing the sad plight of the women of Bedfordshire, ordered all her lace to be burned and commissioned new, in order to give work to the local industry. A certain bobin lace was named 'Katherine of Aragon's lace' after her, and , thereafter, lacemeakers would set aside a small sum of money to provide cakes and tea to be enjoyed on this day. Festivities would be held in the evening and a meal of boiled, stuffed rabbit and onions was served.'

So now we know...

I have made both dishes in the past but if you are squeamish about using rabbit (as we were because Jo had dear old Toffee, a watership Down bunny with wide eyes and charm) then you can use chicken thighs, although from memory the cooking time was slightly less by about 15 minutes. The Cattern cakes however, herald the onset of autumn and fill the kitchen with a perfume that can only announce Christmas is coming.

Enjoy....

Lesson number one

2008-11-17T22:15:00.003Z

Read the F.....g manual...

I knew I would be cringing from my attempts to blog before the week was out.

Lesson one... double check the heading relates to the content, regardless of interuptions.

This is the disclaimer, reference and justification to the reluctant gardener inference.

Continued from Saturday.

Having spent a delightful Saturday breakfast of home made croissants and blackcurrant conserve with James, my writing soulmate and good friend, I returned homeward to deal with the minefield of wild poo that had appeared on my lawn with increasing volume over the week. My life couldn't be more polarised within a day if I tried. Well someone had to clear it all up, so armed with marigolds, basic implements and wearing flip flops, I waded into the lawn to pick my way through the offending piles of evidence, which proves that at night my lawn turns into a central meeting place of tawdry animal latrines only upstaged by those highly reported in the LA times.

Now before you all question why flipflops, I work on the principle that my hardened festival trekking daughter, who has 'done' them all (festivals that is) knows it all... but don't tell her I said that. She insists that flip flops mean all you have to do is flip off your flops and hose down your feet. Jo has walked past mud people writhing on the filthy floor in abject pain without anaesthesia, whilst a chain of equally mud covered individuals attempt to remove an inverted suctioned wellie with a vice like grip sporting the strength of a clam, in the hope that some kind soul will return the favour. So flip flops it was....

Hence, tying in with the heading of my previous post 'The reluctant weekend gardener'. No reclining for me with feet up, chocolates open, reading a birthday present treat by my body double Dawn French and her 'Dear Fatty' but a down to earth reminder I now know why women marry... so they can send their licenced goods forth with bucket and spade; or if you've had a blast of an argument, minus the marigolds AND the spade...

Explanation over... note to self... in future don't serialise, get it right first time... and consider finding husband before next autumn.

A weekend post from the unwilling gardener

2008-11-16T10:15:00.004Z

After speaking with Kristen from London, my new found friend from my recent Arvon writing course and blog guru, I am taking her blog advice and launching into the unknown with my very first post, taken from a slice of an email I sent to her.

I have named my blog 'The Sifting of Ashes', after a script I have written about two sisters and their personal journey of self discovery. The story is full of revelations about their parents' past lives and the secrets which were so carefully papered over in an attempt to maintain the impression of a stable married life.

Sifting through the dust of yesteryear, making patterns of what went before and shaping what is yet to come, is how I see my own 'Sifting of Ashes'. So to those who are interested, welcome, and to those who seek a temporary distraction from what they ought to be doing, glad to oblige...

So I start along this nervous road, like a novice time traveller attempting to make sense of the world and where I fit in.

The image I have selected for the moment is at the heart of me. I have to live near water in order to function. It draws and controls me like the ebb and flow of the moons cycle, without it I wither, fail to function, dry up and cease to be. Dramatic maybe, but I know this to be true.

So this image shows the walkway down to my beach hut, it is just out of shot on the left and facing the sea. The simple beach hut cooking facilities mean that all the meals I prepare there have to be uncluttered, stripped back to their core, good ingredients, simply prepared and as everything has to be carried down a steep chine, transportable.

One of the dishes my friends and crocodiles love the most, is my pan fried fish (depends on which type according to the time of year and availability), coated in well seasoned flour, embalmed with a mixture of Rosie's herbs and once cooked, baptised with lemon and served with a simple side salad of colourful leaves, washed down with iced Sancerre served in the thinnest glass.

There, tis done, my first entry, which no doubt I will look back upon further down the line and find cringeworthy, but the journey has begun. More later.