Author: susanjeaton

I popped back into the sixteenth century on Sunday for an Elizabethan Christmas. I was rather hoping it would get me started on preparing for my own celebrations.

The infamous ‘Grape of Death’ trick had us holding our breaths for fear the jester might choke. Not nearly as scary as his hobby horse, though.

I really go to listen to the Elizabethan Christmas music, preferable to the commercial stuff we hear today.

Some little sweetheart out there thinks that my story, ‘The Toy Shop’ is epic! Thank you. Well done to Wondra Vanian (In my Day) and Mark A Smart (A Dark Reflection), also mentioned in despatches.

I love Wondra’s story too and Mark’s does not help my problem with mirrors – and what may lurk behind them.

Why not try my debut novel, ‘The Woman Who Was Not His Wife’?

It is not a typical science-fiction  novel but contains elements of fantasy, horror and romance and is designed to be a thought-provoking reflection of our own society.

… is easy to wrap and fits snugly in a Christmas stocking.

I am lucky enough to have an extensive herb garden. It is the only place to be on a warm summer day. It is quiet and peaceful, rich with relaxing scents and warm in the sunshine. It is a place I invariably go in order to think and write. Mind you, things can happen to spoil the peace. Awful things. During the summer I had made a cup of my special coffee in my special gardening mug and was sitting watching the weeds grow when I heard a loud and determined buzz and an equally loud plop … in my coffee. A bee – a kamikaze bee at that. I poured this delicious cup of my special brew onto the flags and out fell the bee. Unfortunately, those few seconds it took me to decide that a bee had flown into my elevenses meant that it was curtains for the bee. Legs in the air, it lay there on the flags in a cooling puddle of beverage.

I now use a mug with a lid. The bee population is in enough trouble without them dropping into hot drinks.

Now that the weather has turned I spent a delightful morning this week grinding the herbs I had collected and dried at the end of the summer.  The smell in my kitchen was divine and I was able to find an ending for a short story, ‘Perchance to Dream’ that had me stumped for some time. Happy days.

Keep following if you want to read ‘Perchance to Dream’. Coming soon.

Last week was Anti-bullying week but we all know that this is an age old problem that seems to persist. So, like that puppy, anti-bullying awareness is not just for one week in November but for everyday.

Unfortunately, however evolved we consider humankind to be, we are human and bullying will continue unless the target finds a way to confront and deal with it. It’s easy for those on the outside to offer suggestions but the very nature of bullying precludes that. You need to be an exceptionally strong, self confident person to overcome such abuse and bullies will always play to our weaknesses.

Sometimes the bullying is more subtle and creeps up on us unawares as happens to Alex in ‘Visible Ink’. Sometimes we are so used to the dynamics of a friendship that we can allow ourselves to be dominated by the stronger personality. We never consider that this is bullying but any behaviour that makes us uncomfortable over a period of time is so.

S. L. Powell’s gentle story of two young friends explores this concept and we discover that there are two sides to the relationship. Alex feels that he is being unfairly treated by his friend but how is Lennie feeling?

This is just the book to help young people deal with the challenges that occur in all our lives.

The author suggests the book is for 9 – 12 year olds which covers the move from primary to secondary education, but I feel that it has a magic that will appeal to all ages.

As a former teacher of children with social, emotional and developmental needs I whole-heartedly recommend this book to anyone who has a child who may be struggling with self-esteem.

I’m still convalescing, unable to drive so I have had more time to read than of late. I have been lucky enough to have had a story included in The Corona Book of Science Fiction and this has prompted me to read the other tales.

It’s up to you to decide what you think of my story, but I found the rest of the book fascinating in its diversity. Star Wars it is not but a carefully arranged selection of thought-provoking short stories.

If you are considering science fiction but are not sure where to start this is as a good a place as any. From human nature in ‘First Contact’, to alien nature in ‘Ribbon World’, there is something for everyone. You can be thrown millennia into the future in ‘The Souvenir’ or experience a near miss today in ‘Let the Bells Ring Out’.

If you are an ardent sci-fi fan, then it’s a definite must buy. Something for the Christmas stocking? 

http://www.coronabooks.com

http://www.amazon.co.uk

November is the month of remembrance, starting with All Souls on November 1st when we think about those we have known and lost. My Dad’s birthday was on November 1st. My mother always considered him a lost soul.

Bonfire Night is also an act of remembrance as we commiserate –  sorry – celebrate the fact that Guy Fawkes failed to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

As Remembrance Sunday approaches I thought I would share the impressions I brought back from a trip to the trenches and war graves in northern France and Belgium.

There’s an absence here.      
It pulls at the soul as if
Looking for substance.

God is forbidden,
Excluded, shut out, dismissed,
Buried beneath mud.

In the silence, no
Birds sing; only the poppy
Grows, red in the sun.

 
I’ve been away for a few days. I chose one of those nice National Health Spas.

I went somewhere different this time for a bit of an adventure, plus, they could fit me in sooner.
I lazed about in pleasant company with food laid on and no housework while working on taking deep enough breaths to up my oxygen levels to the point where I wasn’t given a hard stare every time it was measured.

On day 2 I was invited to use the shower. I began to think I had booked the wrong break. I hadn’t realised that group bonding and survival skills were part of the package.

Problem 1
1. You are going to have a shower. You need to stand directly in front of the shower in order to apply enough force to press the button that releases the water. The water will run cold for 10 minutes. The water goes off after 5 seconds.
2. There is no shelf to hold your shower gel. You can’t bend.
3. You need to exert pressure time and again to keep the water flowing. This will aggravate the pain in your wounds.

What do you do?

I know this for a fact – my walk-in wet room was going to be a doddle after this.
Did I get a shower? I hoisted my shower gel under my pit and managed to get wet enough to feel better. Cold water is so invigorating, don’t you think? It cleared all that nasty anaesthetic from my system, so I shouldn’t complain.

Working on how to apply underpinnings over damp skin without upsetting anything that wasn’t sore, bruised or swollen took a tad longer.

I eventually managed to secure parole and as I left that I was given this, what was to me, strange advice.
“Try to do things as you would usually do but don’t scrub at the wound.”
My immediate thought was, ‘Why the f*#k would I want to scrub at a sore, bruised, swollen slash across my midriff in the first place?’
I mean, at that moment in time I was avoiding eye contact with said SBSS because I imagined that the light waves bouncing around hurt it. I was never going to even consider scrubbing at it anytime during my life span. I nodded in agreement. I wasn’t going to do anything to impede my escape.

My wounds – I have 3 – have been glued rather than stitched or stapled. A Good Thing I decided at first. No nasty pulling of the skin or visits to the nurse to have them removed. However, a thought did occur to me later as I was standing under my lovely warm shower.

We all know what happens to the glue on the back of a label if it’s soaked for too long …

  I thought I might start the day with toast. I like toast. Comfort food at its best. It goes with – well, everything or even nothing should you be that way inclined. Unfortunately, you could save an entire nation from any form of infectious disease you care to mention or make up with the rancid remains I found in the breadbin.
So, before I could indulge my fancy I had to make some more. Why didn’t I just go to the shop I hear you think. I could have. I was up, showered and suitably clad for shopping but the reason is simple really.
I used to buy a particular loaf from my local shop. I bought it because it was a healthy option and more importantly, I enjoyed it. Earlier this year said shop went through a makeover. Very nice it is too. However, on reopening I could find no favourite bread. “Oh, I don’t think we stock that anymore,” was the reply to my request. This aggravated me beyond all reasonable measure. I rarely get to the point of becoming so riled, but should I do so – beware.
On a scale of 1 to 10 of being aggrieved I think I must around 8 because I do still use the shop. It’s handy and the staff are lovely. I do not buy bread. I will not buy bread. I’ve started to make my own and that’s brill because today it’s raining, and I don’t need to go out. I do not pollute the atmosphere as I do not have to drive to the shop. I therefore save fuel as well as the planet. I have the satisfaction of making something useful and the house smells nice. I have even found that I can think about my writing as I watch the mixer kneading the dough. (I’m not lazy I have quite severe arthritis.)

In fact, I can only think of one down side – I eat it – all – with lots of butter. This, of course, doesn’t help the arthritis but who cares when you can use gadgets.

P.S. In case you’re wondering, I started the day with a very healthy pear. My tree is full this year and they are delicious.

Despite being up against a very strong field I was lucky enough to have had my submission chosen to be read last night. I have to say, that despite it sounding a tad far-fetched it is actually a true account of one particular day in January 2017. It’s funny now but …

The Call of the Keyboard
I lie for a delicious moment in that euphoric state of warmth and well-being that only exists between waking and the realisation that you actually have to get up.
It is too quiet. This is not good. I reach out to discover that my husband is not asleep. He’s up! During My Time! On a Thursday, my designated, guilt free writing day. It’s five thirty-five and my husband is not only up, he is playing cards on my laptop with the radio on and no tea made.
I make tea and stand at his shoulder to help him play his game; something which usually annoys him enough to give in. “Do you know what I fancy?” he says without stopping. “Some ginger biscuits.” He moves a card. “And I need more flavoured water.”
“That means going to a supermarket,” I say. We live in the country and the location has many advantages but shopping is not one of them. It means a fourteen-mile round trip. I’m not spoiling him. He has been ill and the fact that he wants to eat anything is cause for celebration.
“You can post your letters while you’re out,” he suggests as if this will make it alright. I have some correspondence to send out for the church.
I head for a bath. Water soothes me and helps me think. I write and rewrite the chapter I’m working on in my head as I wallow in the warm bubbles. I only get out when the water cools and shouldn’t be amazed that it’s now seven fifteen.
The radio is still on although hubby has moved and left my laptop for me. I cannot think with the news on so I quickly dress and rush through the household chores. I have got all day – after shopping.
It is now getting on for ten o’clock and I have eighteen envelopes to address, eighteen letters to fold and enclose and eighteen stamps to place. Of course, the computer has a mad moment as I attempt this. Why on earth it should jump into flight mode without warning me is beyond belief.
It then occurs to me that I am going to a major supermarket, a place I go without fail on a Friday to do the weekly shop. There’s no point going twice in two days so I make a quick list. By ten fifty-five I am ready.
While I have been busy redirecting flights and making lists the local surgery has phoned my husband with a request. “It’s a good job you’ve decided to go out a day early,” he quips. “You can drop this off …” He hands me a freshly filled sample bottle. “… and make me an appointment while you’re there.” And breathe … I can always start to write after lunch.
After five minutes in the supermarket, I remember why I don’t shop on a Thursday. The aisles are full of the more mature out for their weekly social. I nimbly negotiate the little knots of chattering elderly but it’s twelve forty before I get back into the village and I still need to pick up a prescription.
God is good (ish). He has provided me with a parking space but the prescription isn’t ready. I have no intention of coming back because the space won’t be there. I wait.

I put the shopping away and make lunch. I will not feel guilty for sitting for half an hour because my head is spinning and I’ve got all afternoon. I am about to take my fingers from my sandwich as it settles on the plate when the doorbell sounds. Oh goody, visitors.
It turns out to be a cousin who can never stop but is usually still here three hours later. Today I’m lucky – I think. The phone goes shortly after she sits with her first cup of tea. It’s another cousin who wants to visit as she’s heard hubby is ill. Could she and spouse come over at three? Fabulous, couldn’t be better. Cousin One decides she’s better out of the way but still waits until the last minute.
Fortunately, Cousin Two and spouse do not stay long and I shut the door behind them after half an hour only to open it for the vicar a few minutes later. He, too, has heard that hubby is ill. He’s barely sat down when the phone rings. It’s the frozen food man to say he will be arriving shortly with our order. Jolly good.
By the time everyone has left and the frozen food has been packed away I realise it’s teatime on my special writing day and the laptop has given up and shut itself down.

It is eight thirty and I am about to reopen the computer when my husband announces that he is very tired and needs helping to bed – and could I make sure he has everything he might need within easy reach?
Nine thirty-five, all is quiet and I am ready to start. I have the corkscrew I just need to decide – red or white?

Anyway, it seemed to go down rather well. Thank you everyone who appreciated it. Oh, if you did, why not try the novel I was trying to write on that Thursday.

The Woman Who Was Not His Wife. Available from me or Amazon.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Woman-Who-Was-Not-Wife/dp0993247229

Have you ever had a day when your pants just won’t behave? You pick a pair of ordinary pants out of your drawer and from the minute you do that they set their face against you and refuse to be worn.
First of all, they refuse to hang straight resulting in your putting both legs in one hole. It could be the leg hole or it might be the waist hole. This depends on how contrary the pants feel. You remove them gripping the side of the dressing table for moral support.
You try again, carefully holding the pants at an angle in order for the opening to be as wide as possible. You carefully insert a toe and ease it down until it touches the floor. All well and good. You try the next foot; using the same technique. Well done you. You stand proud only to find that while you were concentrating on putting one leg in each hole the pants have surreptitiously turned around and you are now wearing them back to front. Off they come again.
You are aware that the morning is beginning to get away from you. You have places to go; people to see. Do your pants care? Not a jot. You are sure that they are sniggering to themselves as you prop yourself up against the wardrobe in a valiant effort to try for the third time. Third times are supposed to be lucky. Not on your life. You find your foot has become entangled in the sheet that’s hanging from the unmade bed and you come to rest with your nose up against the wardrobe door; your pants entangled around your ankle and a rather cross sheet twisted around your foot. You are going nowhere.
You know full well you should have gone downstairs and had a nice relaxing cup of tea before you even thought about getting a pair of pants out of your drawer. It would have put you in the right frame of mind to combat the idiosyncrasies of contrary underpinnings.