Another day in the life of...

Soil pipes, waste outlets and mangleworzels

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

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...