Yay!!!
The BEST THING in the world happened today - at least I think so anyway!
Stephen King's new book hit the shelves and in my lunch break I bought a copy.
Under The Dome is almost 900 pages in length.
Yummy Yummy!!
I will let you know what I think of it as soon as I reach the last page....
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Random Musing #2
'Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.' Oscar Wilde.
Oh.
My.
God.
As most of you know by now, I work in a school. Last week one of our teachers was off sick for three days. Each day a different supply teacher came in to take the class.
On Fridays the children have been learning about the history of the English monarchy. This week the lesson planned was all about how George VI came to be King after his brother Edward stepped down from the throne.
Just before the lesson began, the supply teacher came to me, lesson plans in hand, and asked me if I would help her. She wanted to know what the word abdicate meant and why did King George have the roman numeral VI after his name.
I was flabbergasted to say the least.
She was a qualified teacher in her thirties (although, admittedly, she was Australian!), surely as such she should know the meaning of abdicate and why King George VI was the sixth King George!
What chance do the children of today have?
Oh.
My.
God.
As most of you know by now, I work in a school. Last week one of our teachers was off sick for three days. Each day a different supply teacher came in to take the class.
On Fridays the children have been learning about the history of the English monarchy. This week the lesson planned was all about how George VI came to be King after his brother Edward stepped down from the throne.
Just before the lesson began, the supply teacher came to me, lesson plans in hand, and asked me if I would help her. She wanted to know what the word abdicate meant and why did King George have the roman numeral VI after his name.
I was flabbergasted to say the least.
She was a qualified teacher in her thirties (although, admittedly, she was Australian!), surely as such she should know the meaning of abdicate and why King George VI was the sixth King George!
What chance do the children of today have?
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Happy Samhain.
October 31
They came for her just before midnight.
The darkened sky stained orange by the burning torches clutched in their calloused work-worn hands. Voices unified as one. Chanting: ...burn the witch...burn the witch...burn the witch....
For a time she couldn't move, paralysed by her fear, then of a sudden she sprang into action, grey skirts and petticoats swirling around her legs. Her eyes darted frantically, looking in every direction at once, hunting for somewhere to hide. But there was nowhere. Her dwelling was too small. She knew if she made a run for it, a mad dash into the woods, they would see her.
She was trapped.
Hastily she doused the candles, the smell of wax and smoke permeated the air like a musk. Above her fireplace, suspended from the beams, was a wooden rack. It was here she hung her herbs to dry, and it was here now she scrambled, balancing precariously on her table as she wriggled her body into the shadows between ceiling and thin boards.
The whole rack creaked as it took her weight. She prayed through trembling lips that it would hold, that it wouldn't tip her to the floor like a corpse.
She froze.
The chanting had stopped.
Her door burst open. It hit the wall with a thud and rebounded with a groan of warped wood.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A huge dark figure was standing in the doorway: a black shadow silhouetted against the orange firelight without. It was the village blacksmith. A mean looking forging iron hung down from his right fist.
His eyes glinted white as he eyed up the single-roomed dwelling.
He grunted: "She's not here. The bitch must have heard us coming."
Other voices joined his: "The wood! She must be hiding in the wood!"
And they were gone. As swiftly as they had come.
She waited until the orange had left the sky. Until the last of the footfalls had faded to a whisper. Then, and only then, she slipped from her hiding place.
She gasped. A sharp intake of thin breath.
A small girl, no more than seven or eight years old, was standing just over the threshold.
She knew the child. Only two days ago she had removed a splinter of green poisoned wood from the girl's finger, soothed it with the salve she always kept in the pocket of her petticoat.
She smiled.
She was safe.
She held out a hand towards the child.
The girl held her gaze for two whole seconds, then turned on her tiny heels and stepped out into the night. Her voice belied her size: "She's here. The witch is here. Come back. Come back. The witch is here."
A cry of triumph exploded from the trees in a blaze of orange flames.
Two weeks ago when I was at school, one of the children came up to me and asked why we celebrated Halloween? What was it all about?
I was stumped. I sort of knew the reason. Vaguely. But not in any great detail. So the pair of us went to the nearest computer and hit google.
I was fascinated with all the facts me and my ten year old sidekick found out.
I will share -
2,000 years ago Ireland, Great Britain and France, celebrated their New Year not on January 1, but on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest, and the beginning of the dark, cold, harshness of winter. It was a time of year that was often associated with human death and sacrifices. It was believed that on the eve of the New Year: Oct 31st, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred; overlapped. It was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth for one night only(this is where I became interested!). During this time the evil spirits would cause all sort of damage to crops and animals, but also, it was thought, that these spirits made it easier for the Druids and Celts to predict the future; gifts were given for 'good' prophecies (Trick or Treat!).
To commemorate October 31st, New Year's Eve - which was then known as Samhain (pronounced sow-in) - huge sacred bonfires were built, where the people gathered to burn crops, animals, and witches, as sacrifices (gifts) to the Celtic deities.
During this celebration the people often wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each others fortunes. When the celebrations were over, they re-lit their hearth fires (which they had extinguished earlier that evening), from the sacred bonfire, to help protect them during the coming winter months.
By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into the Celtic lands. November 1 was declared All Saints' Day. A time to honor saints and martyrs. It is believed that the pope of the day was attempting to replace the old Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration became known as All-hallows (Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day in Middle English), thus the day before became known as All-hallows Eve, and eventually Halloween. It was still celebrated with big bonfires, but now the people dressed up as saints, angels and devils.
Thus ends my lesson for today.
Happy Samhain!
They came for her just before midnight.
The darkened sky stained orange by the burning torches clutched in their calloused work-worn hands. Voices unified as one. Chanting: ...burn the witch...burn the witch...burn the witch....
For a time she couldn't move, paralysed by her fear, then of a sudden she sprang into action, grey skirts and petticoats swirling around her legs. Her eyes darted frantically, looking in every direction at once, hunting for somewhere to hide. But there was nowhere. Her dwelling was too small. She knew if she made a run for it, a mad dash into the woods, they would see her.
She was trapped.
Hastily she doused the candles, the smell of wax and smoke permeated the air like a musk. Above her fireplace, suspended from the beams, was a wooden rack. It was here she hung her herbs to dry, and it was here now she scrambled, balancing precariously on her table as she wriggled her body into the shadows between ceiling and thin boards.
The whole rack creaked as it took her weight. She prayed through trembling lips that it would hold, that it wouldn't tip her to the floor like a corpse.
She froze.
The chanting had stopped.
Her door burst open. It hit the wall with a thud and rebounded with a groan of warped wood.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A huge dark figure was standing in the doorway: a black shadow silhouetted against the orange firelight without. It was the village blacksmith. A mean looking forging iron hung down from his right fist.
His eyes glinted white as he eyed up the single-roomed dwelling.
He grunted: "She's not here. The bitch must have heard us coming."
Other voices joined his: "The wood! She must be hiding in the wood!"
And they were gone. As swiftly as they had come.
She waited until the orange had left the sky. Until the last of the footfalls had faded to a whisper. Then, and only then, she slipped from her hiding place.
She gasped. A sharp intake of thin breath.
A small girl, no more than seven or eight years old, was standing just over the threshold.
She knew the child. Only two days ago she had removed a splinter of green poisoned wood from the girl's finger, soothed it with the salve she always kept in the pocket of her petticoat.
She smiled.
She was safe.
She held out a hand towards the child.
The girl held her gaze for two whole seconds, then turned on her tiny heels and stepped out into the night. Her voice belied her size: "She's here. The witch is here. Come back. Come back. The witch is here."
A cry of triumph exploded from the trees in a blaze of orange flames.
Two weeks ago when I was at school, one of the children came up to me and asked why we celebrated Halloween? What was it all about?
I was stumped. I sort of knew the reason. Vaguely. But not in any great detail. So the pair of us went to the nearest computer and hit google.
I was fascinated with all the facts me and my ten year old sidekick found out.
I will share -
2,000 years ago Ireland, Great Britain and France, celebrated their New Year not on January 1, but on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest, and the beginning of the dark, cold, harshness of winter. It was a time of year that was often associated with human death and sacrifices. It was believed that on the eve of the New Year: Oct 31st, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred; overlapped. It was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth for one night only(this is where I became interested!). During this time the evil spirits would cause all sort of damage to crops and animals, but also, it was thought, that these spirits made it easier for the Druids and Celts to predict the future; gifts were given for 'good' prophecies (Trick or Treat!).
To commemorate October 31st, New Year's Eve - which was then known as Samhain (pronounced sow-in) - huge sacred bonfires were built, where the people gathered to burn crops, animals, and witches, as sacrifices (gifts) to the Celtic deities.
During this celebration the people often wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each others fortunes. When the celebrations were over, they re-lit their hearth fires (which they had extinguished earlier that evening), from the sacred bonfire, to help protect them during the coming winter months.
By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into the Celtic lands. November 1 was declared All Saints' Day. A time to honor saints and martyrs. It is believed that the pope of the day was attempting to replace the old Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration became known as All-hallows (Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day in Middle English), thus the day before became known as All-hallows Eve, and eventually Halloween. It was still celebrated with big bonfires, but now the people dressed up as saints, angels and devils.
Thus ends my lesson for today.
Happy Samhain!
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
...a random musing....
This morning as I was driving my daughter to the train station, we came across a solitary work boot - a Doc Marten type - lying abandoned in the middle of the road. This is not the first time I have noticed single items of discarded footwear.
Where do they come from?
Does the owner not notice as one of their shoes/boots/trainers fly off?
I have visions of people getting some sort of a shock, and being scared right out of their shoes, and then running off, limping and unbalanced down the road!
...just a random musing...
Where do they come from?
Does the owner not notice as one of their shoes/boots/trainers fly off?
I have visions of people getting some sort of a shock, and being scared right out of their shoes, and then running off, limping and unbalanced down the road!
...just a random musing...
Sunday, 18 October 2009
A quick footnote....
I must apologise for my lack of blog activity of late: there are various reasons for this. Firstly, a very close aunt of mine unexpectedly died just over a week ago and all of my family are in a state of semi-shock. My Aunt Mose was a lovely lady and I will really miss her; over the last few days I've been feeling a bit numb and haven't been in the right frame of mind for writing. Today is the first time I've sat at my laptop since her death, but I am determined to get back into the swing of things again this week.
But that is not the only reason I've not posted lately. Three weeks ago I was invited, along with a handful of other local writers, to the launch evening of an annual arts event. It took place in a local pub - always a good place to get a bunch of writers together! We were informed that there was a sum of £700 up for grabs. Last year it went to the performing arts, the year before to artists, this year it has been decided that the bursary will go to a writer of poetry or prose. I am going to enter the section for novelists. I have to produce the first two chapters of a work in progress and a synopsis of my book; so this is exactly what I've been concentrating on.
Phew...I never expected writing a synopsis could be so hard!
Anyway, the thing's done now and I will be sending it off in the next couple of days.
And lastly, I have been spending every spare second of my free time working on my novel, Bathory.
I promise my next post won't take so long in coming or be so brief!
But that is not the only reason I've not posted lately. Three weeks ago I was invited, along with a handful of other local writers, to the launch evening of an annual arts event. It took place in a local pub - always a good place to get a bunch of writers together! We were informed that there was a sum of £700 up for grabs. Last year it went to the performing arts, the year before to artists, this year it has been decided that the bursary will go to a writer of poetry or prose. I am going to enter the section for novelists. I have to produce the first two chapters of a work in progress and a synopsis of my book; so this is exactly what I've been concentrating on.
Phew...I never expected writing a synopsis could be so hard!
Anyway, the thing's done now and I will be sending it off in the next couple of days.
And lastly, I have been spending every spare second of my free time working on my novel, Bathory.
I promise my next post won't take so long in coming or be so brief!
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Pipped at the Post!
I have been through a vast range of emotions just lately...and still can't quite decide how I feel! Let me explain. One of my all time favourite books is Dracula by Bram Stoker, so you can imagine my delight when I discovered that a direct descendant of Stoker had written a sequel - Dracula: the Un-Dead. This sequel is based on notes that Bram himself had made. Unfortunately, the Irish writer died before he could pen this second book about the Prince of Darkness. Enter Dacre Stoker. He finished the job Bram had started, with a little help from historian Ian Holt.
Three days ago I bought the book.
I settled down in my comfy armchair, legs tucked up beneath me, to have a good read.
All was well for the first couple of chapters, but then who should enter the pages?
Who indeed!
Someone I knew very, very well.
Erzsebet Bathory, the Countess Nadasdy.
Now, for those of you who don't already know, this is the evil villainess that I have been writing about for the past eighteen months(if not more!). I have researched her, and researched her, until I know the Countess better than she knows herself. I am on the fourth - and hopefully final - draft of my book. I am hoping to send my MS off to publishers at the beginning of the new year.
She is MY baby! Mine!!
Now I've been pipped at the post.
Grrrr!!
Obviously my story and Dacre Stoker's story are very different from each other, but some of the facts are the same. Some of the methods Bathory uses in both stories are the same; based as they are on real happenings.
Mmmm....
First I was angry, frustrated. I felt like all the time I'd spent writing my book was wasted. I could only speak in words of one syllable (most of these words began with f and ended in k!).
Anger turned to irritation. Dacre has twisted many of the true facts surrounding the Countess, whereas I have stayed true to the truth!
Irritation gradually, reluctantly, turned to admiration. Dracula: The Un-Dead is a good read.
But now I think I have reached a better place.
Now I am thinking that readers who enjoy this novel by Dacre Stoker may want to read more about Erzsebet Bathory...and I can provide them with this.
So perhaps it's not too bad after all.......
Three days ago I bought the book.
I settled down in my comfy armchair, legs tucked up beneath me, to have a good read.
All was well for the first couple of chapters, but then who should enter the pages?
Who indeed!
Someone I knew very, very well.
Erzsebet Bathory, the Countess Nadasdy.
Now, for those of you who don't already know, this is the evil villainess that I have been writing about for the past eighteen months(if not more!). I have researched her, and researched her, until I know the Countess better than she knows herself. I am on the fourth - and hopefully final - draft of my book. I am hoping to send my MS off to publishers at the beginning of the new year.
She is MY baby! Mine!!
Now I've been pipped at the post.
Grrrr!!
Obviously my story and Dacre Stoker's story are very different from each other, but some of the facts are the same. Some of the methods Bathory uses in both stories are the same; based as they are on real happenings.
Mmmm....
First I was angry, frustrated. I felt like all the time I'd spent writing my book was wasted. I could only speak in words of one syllable (most of these words began with f and ended in k!).
Anger turned to irritation. Dacre has twisted many of the true facts surrounding the Countess, whereas I have stayed true to the truth!
Irritation gradually, reluctantly, turned to admiration. Dracula: The Un-Dead is a good read.
But now I think I have reached a better place.
Now I am thinking that readers who enjoy this novel by Dacre Stoker may want to read more about Erzsebet Bathory...and I can provide them with this.
So perhaps it's not too bad after all.......
Sunday, 27 September 2009
...and now for a bit of culture.
Yesterday I went to see a play performed in the majestic setting of Rochester Cathedral. The play: Ancient Stones, Stories Untold was written by writer Alis Hawkins, a dear friend of mine: there was no way on earth I was going to miss out on this performance; especially as Rochester is a mere forty minute drive away from my home town.
Alis has done herself proud.
Ancient Stories was a promenade performance. The six part play took place in various areas of the cathedral, the audience followed where the players led. And they not only led us around the beautiful greystone building but also through the history of the Church. It was a fascinating journey, thoughtfully written and excellently preformed. And God must have been looking down on Alis that day: the weather was sunny and bright, lending the outside scene true autumnal atmosphere.
The city of Rochester is one of my favourite places in Kent. It is not an overpowering pretentious city, but rather a large friendly town. The narrow cobbled streets are lined with the most wonderful mixture of antique shops, art galleries and craft shops. I spent an hour...or two.....or three......just wandering, window-shopping, before getting back in my little red car and driving home.
You can visit Alis at her blog Hawkins Bizarre. She is listed on my blog links. Eyes right....
Alis has done herself proud.
Ancient Stories was a promenade performance. The six part play took place in various areas of the cathedral, the audience followed where the players led. And they not only led us around the beautiful greystone building but also through the history of the Church. It was a fascinating journey, thoughtfully written and excellently preformed. And God must have been looking down on Alis that day: the weather was sunny and bright, lending the outside scene true autumnal atmosphere.
The city of Rochester is one of my favourite places in Kent. It is not an overpowering pretentious city, but rather a large friendly town. The narrow cobbled streets are lined with the most wonderful mixture of antique shops, art galleries and craft shops. I spent an hour...or two.....or three......just wandering, window-shopping, before getting back in my little red car and driving home.
You can visit Alis at her blog Hawkins Bizarre. She is listed on my blog links. Eyes right....
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