CONFESSION TIME

I don't want you to think that I'm reluctant to continue with my second novel - Winchester Blues. It's just that I've got writer's itch concerning Cyprus Blues and I want to scratch it. Must scratch it, actually.

Woops. Supper is ready. (John cooks on Saturday and he is a marvellous cook!) Must go. Will continue this post tomorrow.

Okay, so supper last night was great: roast pork, crunchy crackling, squash, cabbage, roast potatoes and oodles of red wine. Plus, John's home-made ice-cream afterwards.

(John has created several ice-cream recipes using his own ice-cream maker. One,for him, overflowing with cream and calories, and a more weight-watcher version for me. And that latter recipe was actually published in Saucy Shorts for Chefs (a paper-back collection of stories and recipes) to accompany my short story Rennaisance.)

Anyway, I was explaining to him over supper, gesticulating with my fork to emphasis my point, a valiant piece of squash bravely hanging on in there, about the lot of the writer.

"A writer needs two things," I slurred. "perseverance as well as talent. And, of course, patience."

"That's three things," he said, rather unnecessarily, I thought.

But the point I then went on to elaborate is that you can't just write something and accept your first draft as 'ready to go'. You have to edit, edit,edit and then edit again until, in your own eyes, it's as good as it can be.

So, having decided not to find a literary agent for Cyprus Blues, I had originally thought 'blow this', I'll just stick the whole novel on the web.But the more I thought about this, the more I realised that I don't actually know how on earth I would advertise it.

This led me to thinking that perhaps I should first try to find a small publisher, with low over-heads, who's prepared to take the chance with an unknown writer (relatively speaking).

(I have chronicled my editing of Cyprus Blues in my writing section so, technically, that is where this should be. However, it works better for me if I write in this general post section. To read my earlier comments, refer to those sections about novels I have written, short story writing and journalism.)

Anyway, it has been some time since my last edit of Cyprus Blues, which I thought would be the final one. But in gathering up the chapters, introductory letter and synopsis, I decided to have a re-read, just to refresh my memory. And horror of horrors, I saw that it could all be improved again.

So, I then had a choice - put it to one side and count it as useful practice in novel writing and leave it at that or re-edit.

And I chose the latter. This novel is way too important for me to give up on it now.

It has been a two-pronged re-edit.

Firstly, I have been reading a chapter at a time, making corrections as I go along, whilst having a coffee/hot chocolate and ciggie in any number of pub gardens, after I've had a swim and before I take Archie for a walk.

In fact, I totally surprised myself last week. I was at The King Alfred's Pub, outside, of course (groan, moan)trying to read the chapter where Big Al gives a potted version of the history of Cyprus.

Originally, I'd found this a very difficult chapter. The danger was that it might sound too much like telling (the big no no in writing). So, I'd had to work especially hard on it previously AD INFINITUM.

The weather was really blustery that day and I'd had to anchor down anything that could fly away. But I was so intrigued as the story of Cyprus unfolded, that I forgot that I'd written it and just kept reading, despite the fact that it was cold as well as windy. And that pleasure in reading it has given me the kind of motivation I need to push for a publisher.

Secondly, at home, I've made the corrections on the computer version. Pleased to say that I've only changed a small amount of text. The real changes have been in punctuation and sentence length.

I'd already re-edited the novel to minimise the use of ! (another writing no no) but had obviously not done a very good job of it because they were all over the bloody place!

I also recognised the fact that too many of my sentences were way too long STILL. So, I did a lot of separating into two. I'd also used a lot of : ; and -, which made my writing look more like a report than a novel.

And, I'd used loads and loads of conjuctions, particularly which.

Today, I was up to chapter 13 reading from my print out and chapter 8 on the computer, which isn't bad going. Should be finished before Xmas, when my itch to continue working on Winchester Blues will become irresistible.

However, in reading aloud chapter 8, I insinctively included a new term of endearment that Jack uses on Kate to butter her up, so to speak. 'That's so good,' I thought.

Trouble is, I'll have to include that in the following chapters and the only way for me to remember it is to write it in large letters and stick the message right in front of me on my computer. (Shall't tell you what it is. You'll have to guess when you eventually read the book (which I hope you will!).

So...I have perseverance...I have patience...but do I have talent? Now that's up to other people to judge. All I know is that I'm making this novel as good as I possibly can and then who knows...

WANT A GOOD LAUGH ?

Do you ever get cold callers phoning you up at the most inconvienent times and expecting you to divulge information to them - total strangers?

Well, if you do, click on this link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IW5j--N5Plo to hear one unusual and effective way of dealing with such a caller.

John found this on the internet and emailed it to me;I find it an absolute tonic to brighten any grey day.

I don't know if this conversation was fabricated or actually real but it's so funny that it is doesn't matter either way.

Enjoy.

And a thank you to the person who posted this in the first place.

TOO CLOSE TO HOME

* Too Close To Home by Linwood Barclay (Orion Books 2008) - read Sept/Oct 2009

One thing is for sure - Linwood Barclay does not write literary prose, which is why I like him!

The emphasis in his writing is character and plot and just like his last novel (his 1st?), he takes an ordinary family and puts them into a nightmare situation. For most of the novel you've no idea what the actual answer is, which makes for a perfect page-turner of a novel. He's easy to read and the story and characters pull you in effortlessly.

The plot of this novel goes like this: the central family of dad, mum, and teenage son live next door to a house where the family have just been murdered but they are far more involved than they care to be. I shan't say anymore. Buy the book if you're interested and need an easy, exciting read.

Maggie gives the thumbs up on this (like the music reviewers in The Independent newspaper)!

(Due to a slight technical understanding between myself and my computer advisor, and perhaps influenced by the tiredness of a very hectic week-end (or the large Bloody Mary I was drinking at the time), I inadvertently created a new post for this book review instead of putting it in the existing book review post.

I cut and pasted this into that review but couldn't delete it from here so here it stays as well. So, if you wish to read more of my book reviews, go to that post and feast your eyes on or disagree with my comments.)

THE THUNDERSTORM

Found this poem the other day which I wrote about ten years ago and had totally forgotten about. Hope you enjoy it.

the thunderstorm

Trapped in my car
I watch the hard pellets of rain
machine gun into the windscreen
Shrapnel of spray
bounces back
into the darkness beyond

I recall the film 'The Birds'
and imagine each raindrop
as a
blackbird's piercing beak gouging
deep holes
into the re-enforced metal of the roof
Despite the claustraphobic heat
I shiver

I dare not move
The world beyond has shrunk into
a black unknown

I am only sure of what I see within:
my own sharp knees and rigid hands
and
the wide-eyed stare which stares back
from
the small mirror
used
in calmer times
for make-up

I am late
he will be gone
This is the only thing now of which I'm certain

Test colour sub-heads

red
orange
yellow
green
blue
indigo
violet
maroon
lime
navy
olive
aqua
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purple
fuchsia
silver
white
black

SEPTEMBER IN ITALY 2009

the miracle of actually getting there


Have just returned from our annual holiday to Italy and it really was a miracle that I actually made it: having had two infections and then, oh great joy, catching swine flu had really knocked me for six and left me with severe post-viral weakness. So much so that we actually started to cancel our arrangements.

However, I kept thinking about not going and how the sea air, relaxation and not-having-to-do those boring little activities like cooking and washing etc would do me the world of good and so I came to the conclusion that as long as I could get on the plane for Nice then I would somehow manage. And luckily, we were able to rebook.

John always sets off several days earlier in the car with all the luggage and I fly into Nice from our local airport, Southampton, which is a smashing little airport.

view from John's hotel room in Tain






actually getting to Southampton Airport and then Nice


Now, you'd think that taking the dog to the kennels and then walking for just five minutes to the Railway Station for a seven minute train ride with a few minutes walk at the other end to the airport would be an easy accomplishment. But it seemed like Mission Impossible to me in the condition that I was in.

So, I took the totally outrageous decision to go by taxi. And so I got on that plane with no problems, spent most of the journey chatting with Nigel, the guy sitting next to me, and there I was - in Nice - with its beautiful blues of sky and sea - the elegance and excitment of this white city spreading along the coast and up the mountains behind - and an awaiting husband. Truth to say, I wept a little with sheer happiness, relief and pride that I'd actually managed it.

The Windsor Hotel, Nice

We'd never stayed here before but we certainly will again. It's just a few blocks parallel to The Promenade Anglais and very close to the wonderful art deco hotel - The Negresco.

I was very impressed when I walked into our bedroom. On the far wall were two enormous ceiling to floor double windows, very typical of the older buildings of Nice. And beyond the balcony (yes, of course it had to have a balcony) were luscious trees, plants and flowers of the garden beyond. The room was modern, restful and to be honest, I think I could live permanently in a room like that if necessary.

views from the balcony







Went to a haute cuisine restaurant close by for supper and John just had to take this photo of my fish course:-



The wide smile on my face reflects how happy I was to have actually got to Nice.

The coissants and bread for breakfast in the hotel gardens were superb but the coffee was dreadful. Why can't the French make decent coffee? Let me know if you'd ever had a good cup of coffee in France and where you had it.

the weather

It was unbearably hot in Nice - 35 degrees plus. I know we've had a lousy summer here but believe me, you don't want to have that kind of heat. Finding a parking space close to the old part of town, looking at the stalls of the Monday Antiques Market (more of a flea market these days) and lunch at Le Safari were not much fun in that heat and it was a relief to head off on the autoroute with the sea breezes wafting into the car.

I've probably mentioned this before but I'm going to mention it again. The panarama to the right as you drive along the autoroute into Italy is just spectacular, passing attractive towns which spread down through the valleys and towards the sea plus the exclusive Principality of Monaco, with those glorious blues of the Mediterranean beyond, and dramatic, stark mountains (really the tail end of The Alps) on the left. ( Taking the coast road is even more amazing but takes longer.)

Laigueglia

Took about an hour and a half to reach our destination - the little sea-side resort of Laigueglia - and our small, family run hotel Albergo Teresa. We love it there because everyone is so friendly, the food glorious, the view from our balcony (!) overlooking the sea and the Liguria Coast just breathtaking. And it's really good value, too. 100 euros for both of us per night, including breakfast and evening meal.


views from the balcony with me in the way











It's the kind of place where regulars return so we know quite a few guests and it's always a joy to meet them. Last year, the nice Italian lady who used to bring her dog wasn't there because she was looking after a friend, but she was this year. However, the lovely friendly German man who is in his seventies/eighties and snorkels every day wasn't. I hope he's there next year. But our German friends Paulo and Michael were there and we took on where we'd left off last year - teasing each other merciously.

And one thing that I'd forgotten about was that you can hear the sea all the time in the bedroom, which is quite something.

the holiday

Normally, I walk everywhere, swim a lot etc etc but just couldn't do it this year. It was still terrifically hot here, despite the calming effects of the sea, so I stayed out of the sun for the first week.

I rested a lot in the room and John would come and pick me up, drive to one of our two regular beach cafes - La Scogliera (the wave) and Bagni Lino for lunch. Then John would drive us to the public beach for a lie down in the shade and a swim for me. This year I didn't even try to swim to the bouy. I just swam close to the shore and actually preferred it that way.

John at La Scogliera




There was, however, a nasty moment for me. The waves were quite fierce on one particular day so I only swam where I could stand up. But, coming out, an enormous wave totally knocked me over and winded me. I could feel myself going down to the sand below very quickly and there was nothing I could do about it. Had another wave hit me straight away, I couldn't have coped. But luckily, I managed to stand up in one go and eventually staggered out but I couldn't speak for about five minutes.

Respect the sea. It's more powerful than you and I.

gradual recovery

Each day, I walked a little further into town and was so chuffed with myself. At first it was about five mintes to get to Al Molo for a coffee and fag. And then I ventured half way along the town, to the Post Office and then back to Al Mole and then the room. And eventually, I managed to walk right to the end of town and back although that was probably too far for me. Needed a long time to recover.

shopping

Can't mention the holiday without the shopping, which is one of my delights. Prices have generally rocketted this year, which actually made the temptation to shop easier. The 5 euro shops in both Laiguelia and the next town, Alassio, have become over-priced boutiques, but there are still some quality bargains to be had if you know where to look (and I know where to look!)

Bought some smashing little cowl-necked tops, a few bangles, several pairs of ear-rings, fantastic candles with attractive decorations (for the Ch/X word presents), a winter jacket and my pride and joy - a pair of very classy sunglasses with red frames, which no doubt I shall sit upon and break at some stage.

the ear-rings

I bought several pairs in different colours because they weren't expensive and I liked the colours BUT and, with me, this is almost inevitable, the first time I wore one of the pairs on the beach, I decided it was safer(!)to take them off before swimming.

I placed them very carefully on my towel, reminding myself to put them back on as soon as I had towelled off. Only, I didn't. And by the time I remembered, they were gone, hidden in a vastness of fine sand. And to make matters worse, when I got back to the room, I discovered that I had actually put one ear-ring from one pair and another from another pair. It really is a good thing that I don't work for air-traffic control.

the food at Albergo Teresa

We normally have our evening meal in town mainly because there are four courses at the Albenga Teresa and I find that too much for me. However, because I was finding walking difficult, we ate in the hotel most nights. And the food really is DELICIOUS.

I solved the problem of over-eating by having a salad instead of the pasta dish. I was also going to be strict with myself about the puddings but I gave up on that idea as soon as I saw the choices. As well as chocolate mousse, creme brule and caramel cream there was always a cake or a tart (even better with a scoop of Italian ice-cream) or a meringue cake full of delicate rasberry and vanila cream (my favourite).

I was convinced that I must have put on a lot of weight, what with eating like it was going out of fashion, and consuming at least half a bottle of Italian wine (very good stuff) EVERY evening but, to my surprise, I have actually lost weight. Perhaps that's the answer to dieting - eat more - particularly meringue.

home comforts

I knew before we went that I'd be staying far longer in our room than normal, so I decided to take some home comforts: photos of Lou and Archie, our new throw for the bed made by Ellie of Loominellie, a brand new pillow, a kettle, a cute little mug, a jar of hot chocolate powder, and two teddies and two 'pups'. (Okay, so I'm sixty and have teddies. So what!).

I also had John's portable CD player so I could play music from both my ipod and his. Had forgotten how good Brian Ferry is. He was definitely my favourite this year.

Gulliver Travels in Laiguelia

Gulliver is the Easyjet teddybear I bought on the way to Morocco in June. Supposedly, if you sent in a photograph of Gulliver in some exotic place, you could win two air-tickets. Great, I thought. But when I looked carefully at the details later on, I saw that the location had to be somewhere famous, which ruled out my locations.

Plus, when I searched on the web for a selection of the photographs that had won (supposedly one a month) there was no trace of this competition whatsover. Undaunted, however, I still took photos of Gulliver in Llaiguelia which I think show off the town remarkably well. (Hopefully).




















change in the weather

On the last Wednesday, the weather cooled down considerably, the sea roughed up so much that I didn't even try to swim, and it rained. Hard. Because the town is situated at the bottom of mountains and much of the town is medieval, it tends to flood very quickly.

So, I always have wellington boots and wet weather gear in the car for such occasions thus I was able to walk around town fully protected, which must look strange to the locals but so what. For someone who swims everyday it might seem an anomaly, but I hate getting wet when I'm wearing clothes.

And I watched with envy from our balcony the four surfers who were having great fun and managed to capture them on a couple of photos:-









Made me wonder whether I could find an all-weather swimming suit - not as heavy as a wet-suit but one which would keep all of me warm even if the sea is cold. Any suggestions?

The next day was sunny and hot again and it was a luxury lying on the beach all day just soaking in that warmth. Would have prefered the next day, our last, to be like that too but it wasn't meant to be. First thing in the morning, there was a threatening dark shroud over the mountains at both ends of the bay, which apparently was a bad sign.

Managed to fit in a swim (in a now very cold sea) and get to La Scogliera for lunch before it absolutely tipped it down, like cow relieving itself constantly, and a storm whipped itself up into a frienzy.

We sat outside under the awnings but quickly discovered that there were holes in it and so everything became damp.

Ironically, one of my published short stories - September in Italy (in Quality Women's Fiction, now The Yellow Room)- featured my two characters watching a storm whilst sitting at La Scogliera and it was very romantic, drawing the two close together after a rift. But the storm we witnessed had lessto do with romance and more to do with terror.

La Scogliera is in a very exposed position at a tip in the middle of the bay; at sea level and below the level of the road. To the left of the road is the tail end of a steep mountain with netting covering it to prevent boulders from crashing onto the road (and us, below). And to the right, a very menacing sea.

The thunder got closer and closer until it seemed to be right over us. One thunder clap, which set the two residents dog scuttling for cover and half scared me witless, was, so John calculated, just one kilometre away and I was beginning to wish that I wasn't there.

When we did make a run for the car (with all my wet weather gear in the boot and not on me) we were totally soaked. It was definitely time to go home.

However, there was a certain beauty about the place as this photo of St Thomas's Church in Llaiguelia shows. It has a wistful look of Florence about it.



This church dominates the town and if you sit, late afternoon, at Al Molo, the setting sun's rays fall lastly on the spirals giving them an ethereal golden glow, which is what you'd want from a church, reminding you of its purpose.

There is an element of irony, though, because on that last day there was far too much water for my liking and when I got home, far too little.


watergate

Felt much stronger on my return journey. It was hot and sunny in Southampton and I had no trouble in catching the train home. And I kept that wonderful holiday feeling right until I arrived home and walked into the kitchen.

On the kitchen table was a letter from a friend who had popped into the house whilst we were away to keep an eye on things, explaining that when she'd flushed the upstairs loo, the float mechanism jammed (calcified, I discovered much later) and water flooded out of a hole in the pipe on the other side, a hole we had no idea existed, and down the walls and into the kitchen below.

My friend asked a neighbour for help and the two of them turned off as many water valves as possible, so thankfully the flooding stopped.

The only problem was that I didn't know exactly what they had turned off. I soon found that the stop-cock had been turned off but when I put it on, water came pouring down the kitchen walls. Turned the stop-cock off, of course, but now I had no running water. Coudn't get in touch with my friend or the neighbour so made numerous phone calls to John but since we didn't know what else had been turned off, we were pretty stuck.

Phoned up our usual plumbers who do emergency call-outs but it went straight to answer phone and the emergency phone number given didn't work. Went to another neighbour, who had recommended these plumbers originally and asked if they had the correct mobile phone number. Yes, but it was the husband who had it and he was half way up a mountain in Wales. Isn't it always the case!

So, I thought I'd take pot-luck and look in the yellow pages. Found a large firm which did emergency call-outs in our area. Yes, a plumber was in the area and when he'd finished the job he was on, he'd come right round. It was going to cost £120 per hour plus vat and parts and did I want to sign up with them to be on their books at a price of around a £100 pounds?

By this time I wasn't thinking clearly. I'd had to pick up Archie from the kennels and do some food shopping so I was now exhausted. I agreed to the price but at least had enough sense to refuse paying to be on their books.

Was this refusal that did it? I don't know. All I know is that several hours later I was phoned up by the firm to say that their plumber couldn't come until the next day. His last job had taken longer than expected and he was going home. I thought you offered an emergency service, I said, but apparently only when they could be bothered.

Phoned John again, by now distraught. The thought of being home without water for three days before John returned was too much for me. He was outside a chocolate factory in Tain L'Hermitage when I called (their chocolate is to die for) and he patiently talked me through all the things I could do inbetween my pathetic sobs.

This meant crawling twice into the attic space, with the dog trying to lick me to death, searching for a screwdriver and testing taps for water flow. Eventually, he asked me to turn a screw on the toilet inflow pipe just 180 degrees, which immediately stopped the flow of water to the toilet. Yeah! And so, then I could turn the stop-cock on again and have water apart from the upstairs loo.

Success and water - at last.

Phoned up the company to cancel the plumber and gave them what for, which did me the power of good. (They even had the nerve to phone up the next day to try to rebook the appointment and so was able to voice my opinion of them again. Plus, we were saved an enormous bill, so all's well that ends well.)

(Another irony - my friend also had water running down her kitchen walls that very same day as the flood in our house because of leaking bathroom taps, despite the fact that a plumber had just 'fixed' them. So it's a thumbs down for plumbers at the moment with both of us. Sexist statement coming up here - perhaps a female plumber would have been more reliable/effecient.)

But, a total wreck, now, I crawled into bed and slept for several hours. And when I got up, I had a very strong Bloody Mary, which helped more than you can imagine. Somehow, I managed to make some supper and have a coffee, watching 'Strictly Come Dancing' for the first and last time. I loved the dancing but was irritated beyond words by Bruce Forsythe's unfunny bantering and the panels exagerations.

Just so tired now that I went straight back to bed, totally missing the film Casino Royale, with Daniel Craig coming out of the sea.

There's always something nasty waiting for you when you come back from holiday. It could be a letter or a phone call or your house has been burgled (has happened to us once). But I'm going to make very sure that the next time we go away, we turn the stop-cock off. And to remind me, I wrote a message to myself before I went to bed and stuck it on a cabinet door. It read:-

TURN STOCK-COKE OFE.

Just about summed up my state of mind at that moment.

conclusion

It was a wonderful holiday. Good to be home, of course, but I have so many happy memories and sometimes I can almost hear that sea and imagine being on that balcony just watching the Meditteranean. Lost weight and got a bit of a tan, too, so it was definitely worth taking that taxi. (The young taxi driver was Asian and had never heard of the group 'Asian Dub Foundation'. Quite a surprise. Didn't get round to talking to him about The Wire but it was just a short journey.)

P.S. Feel totally humbled that I panicked about not having running water when I consider how many people don't have and have never had that luxury. We do so often take such things for granted in the West and we shouldn't.

P.P.S. A big thankyou to the daftnotstupid technical expert, John Knutson, for introducing me to the the joys of experimenting with different colours for headlines.

CHRISSIE GITTENS - POET, SHORT STORY WRITER, DRAMATIST AND PRIMARY SCHOOL POET IN RESIDENCE

I've written about Chrissie Gittens before in one of my writing posts but we've just been in contact by e-mail and I've just finished her collection of short stories - Family Connections - which I'm going to review in my Reading Section so she's very much on my mind.

This lady is obviously one heck of a busy person but she still took the time some years ago to write out a list of publications for me that might consider my short stories.

She was 'Poet In Residence' at Ivydale Primary School, London, when Lou was teaching there. Lou told her about my frustration about not being published so that is why she wrote the list.

And two of those publications came up trumps:-

* Quality Women's Fiction where I had a short story published

and

*Mslexia , which is a superb magazine for writers with a mix of articles, stories and poetry. It was here that I read about Hazel Cushion and her new publishing press Accent Press, which I contacted and had two short stories published in the Sexy Shorts Collections. I also went to the launch party for one of the collections at Antony Worell Thompson's restaurant in London and met writers like Sophie King. I still subscribe to Mslexia - it really is a brilliant magazine.

And it was reading one of the recent Mslexia publications that I saw the name Chrissie Gittens, who had just had a poetry collection published by Salt Press. 'I know that name!' I thought.

So, I found that precious piece of A4 paper in my files and yes, it was the same name.

I then googled Chrissie's website, where I got her e-mail address and sent an e-mail reminding her who I was and how much she had helped me, and Salt Publishing and ordered a short story collection plus her new poetry collection. And within a few days, I had received an e-mail from Chrissie, thanking me for thanking her (and, yes, she remembered Lou) plus the two books.

That I ordered a poetry collection was a first for me. I studied a lot of poetry for my exams a long time ago, Yeats, T.S. Elliot etc, but none since until I started to read and enjoy the poetry in Mslexia. I realised how much I could learn as a writer from poetry and so buying Chrissie's collection was an obvious progression. I shall review it when I've finished reading it.

And having read her short stories, I'm pretty sure I'm going to enjoy the poetry, because the short stories were the best I've ever read. And it was no surprise to discover that a number of these stories, plus some plays, have been broadcast on Radio 4, which has an extremely high standard.

Also, I learnt on Chrissie's website, that Jo Good, who published Quality Women's Fiction but sold it to an American writer a few years ago and so I stopped subscribing, has just started up a new writing magazine - The Yellow Room - so that's an avenue for my writing again that I didn't know about.

So, thank you Chrissie Gittens. You're an absolute star.

A BIG THANK YOU TO JOHN

I want to say a big thank you to my husband, John, of daftnotstupid fame for updating this blog site. I am well impressed.

The Dog in the Pram

The Dog In The Pram
a short story by
Maggie Knutson

This story was a runner up in The Exeter Short Story Competition 2009 and you can read it in its entirety here.


The dog would simply not budge. I hissed as loudly as I dared: “Scram! … Scat! … Scoot! … Push Off! … Get Lost!” but he just stood defiantly in my Grass Enhancement Area and fixed me with his gaze. I took my shoe off and hurled it towards the creature. It struck him on the chest and pain flickered across his eyes but still he would not move. I am not given to anxiety but I could feel panic spread through me like an injected drug. “Go away!” I breathed. “Please go away!” I sank onto my allocated Square Block of Patio and switched off my mind for a minute to gain some composure.

The dog sank down, too, his back legs sprawling outwards like plump, furry chicken legs and his front paws crossed comfortably, as if he had settled down to watch The Screen or was waiting for supper. One thing was for sure: he looked in no hurry to leave.

In The New World, governed by the only political party left - the B.C. Party (originally the Politically Correct Party, then the Be Correct Party and now just the B.C. Party) - there were three categories of dogs: Working Dogs To Help The Human Race, Laboratory Dogs To Advance Science, and Pet Dogs To Reward Key Workers.


If you want to read more, just follow this link

Maggie Knutson Copyright 2009

HAVE I GOT A NEW, UNNAMED VIRUS?

Sorry to harp on about this but I haven't been well since John and I returned home from Morocco at the beginning of July and not only is this really beginning to annoy me but I'm also wondering if I've actually got a new, unnamed virus.

It all started on the day of our return, when I got the squits, which has plagued me ever since, apart from, annoyingly, yesterday. I know I definitely had an ear infection (two lots of antibiotics) and then, hot on the heels came what my doctor pronounced as swine flu, although now I'm not so sure about that.

However, to be on the safe side, I isolated myself for a week, staying mostly in bed sleeping, which was actually quite pleasant, and spending about half an hour on my computer in the evening, which was a lovely distraction, plus re-watching The Wire Season One again, still marvelling at its brilliance.

Then, when I thought I was over the worse, I allowed myself the pleasure of crawling out of bed at noon, belting up the dog into the backseat of the car, driving to The King Alfred Pub on the outskirts of Winchester and parking in one of the few two hour free parking spaces in Winchester. (Since I wrote this bit, all the free parking spaces there have become 'verbotten' because road works are going on i.e. two blokes sitting in a large machine drinking tea and chatting - so that little treat is out for at least a week!)

Then I would take the dog for a brief walk (just in case he packed his bag and left the house in disgust because I wasn't giving him his essential walking rights); then have a hot chocolate in the pub's garden (the food is great there but the coffee is foul) plus a ciggie (don't even begin to lecture me about that - a girl's got to have some pleasures) and revising my character lists for my new novel.

Thus refreshed and re-energised and the dog back in the car (in the shade with the windows down in case you're going to have a go at me about that, too), walk the brief distance to River Park Leisure Centre, my swimming bag on my back, swim a pathetic ten lengths in the pool to prevent my muscles from seizing up, walk back to the car, go home and go back to bed. And for a while, this little routine worked well and I was feeling at least part way human.

But by last Friday, I had totally run out of steam, not only unable to do anything, not even a walk or a swim, but also having to recall John from work so he could drive me to my osteopath, Nick Harding, who is fantastic, for an appointment. So far so good until we got to Sainsbury's car park (Nick is based at the Surgery within the Sainsbury complex.)

And then I totally disgraced myself by weeping copiously, much to the consternation of passers-by, because my left shoulder and arm accidently received a hefty blow by the back of the passenger seat falling onto me (and I'm not going to say who was to blame for that; suffice it to say that it wasn't me) and it jolly well hurt.

Collapsed in a heap in the Surgery, again causing consternation, and only stopped weeping when I started to tell Nick about a radio play I had heard the day before.

The next morning, John took me to my doctor (yes, I allowed myself to get in the car with him again) where I said, rather pathetically to the doctor: 'help!'

My doctor was absolutely brilliant: prescribed another dose of antibotics for the gastroenteritis, took a large quantity of blood from me and gave me two two tubes for urine and the squits. I was to take them to hospital when the task was done and leave them in their out of hours box. On no account, though, was I to take the antibiotics until then.

No problem, I thought, anticipating the soon to be had relief gained from the antibiotics.

Ha!

The peeing was fine - I could pee for England - but mysteriously, the squits had completely stopped. If I'd known that all I needed was to go to the toilet with a tube placed at the ready to stop the diarrhoea, I'd have tried it weeks ago.

I still had to wait in town for my prescription, thought, so I decided to use the opportunity to go to Boots (my very favourite shop) and use all the extra points and money off coupons before they expired.

Big mistake.

Whilst at the payout counter, I was so tired that I had to hang onto the rail and getting back to the car was agony. And no antibiotics that day, which at least gave me a chance to read the instructions carefully. I've never had this antibiotic before - Ciprofloxacin - and as well as the grim list of possible side effects, there were detailed instructions about what not to eat/drink unless you took the medicine one and a half hours before or at least four hours. So, just working out when was the best time to take these tablets was a major feat. It's like you now need a degree just to take medicine!

Success came on the Sunday, though, so now I could take the antibiotics using my dragonian timetable.

It's Monday today and already I'm beginning to feel better. Hopefully, the tests will reveal the cause/causes of this horrible malaise and I can build up enough strength for our famous Holiday in Italy in September, which is only three weeks away.

But something strange has happened during this time which could well be a new, as yet unnamed virus, which I am now going to name - The terrifying compulsion to tidy and clean virus.

Because, every time I ventured out of bed, I just had to systematically go through all my drawers and shelves in every room, sorting out what was to give away, what was to throw away and what was to keep. I would, have course, have to clean the drawer or shelf, too. And while I was dozing in bed, I would plan out what I would sort out next. It even reached a point when I had several tasks on the go at the same time, with little piles of books/magazines/cosmetics etc littered all over the place.

Or

Lou was horrified when I told her I was writing this blog (believe me, it's a therapy for me because I hate waiting for the results of medical tests, just in case something really nasty crops up). 'Mother, you can't write about your tummy bug in such graphic detail,' she said.

Having felt compelled to do so, though, I'm wondering if I've actually got the unpolitically incorrect Jeremy Clarkson virus, going well beyond the bounds of civilised decency. However, there's one small flaw to that. I can't imagine Jeremy Clarkson has ever, in all his life, contemplated cleaning and tidying anything. And I bet he doesn't even wash/clean his own car/cars!

And I don't think there's a cure for either of these viruses - if they do actually exist. But if they do, I stake my claim to have them named The Maggie Virus.

But to finish on a positive note, a big plus during these last few weeks is that I have been listening to lots and lots of programmes on Radio 4. It really is the best radio station in the world and it's one of the multitiude of reasons to be proud of being British.

There really are some excellent programmes, although I have to admit that I tend to sleep through most of them, but that play I was telling Nick about was so wonderful that I actually cried (okay, not too difficult to do that to me at the moment but it was so beautifully moving).

The play in question was on Thursday 13th of August, at 2.15, called 'Dear Writer' by Jane Rogers and the starring the superb Anna Massey, whose voice is like a mature, smooth red wine.

Anna played a children's writer who was suffering from writer's block until she received a letter from a fan, pleading with her to write another book. And so a correspondence between the two developed. This young fan of hers, who was pretty unhappy about her family and her life, would tell Anna about various incidents in her life Anna started to weave them into a delicously descriptive and moving story.

But as the play progressed, I began to suspect that maybe the young girl was actually Anna's own inner thoughts and so the story started to take on a new depth. And the ending was just right - positive but in a very natural way. Brilliant.

If you wish to hear it, you can catch it on the BBC website until this Thursday. I'm certainly going to do that.

Plus, it's given me loads of ideas for my own writing, which I'm itching to start again.


P.S. I have come to a decision - to hell with agents and publishers. I'm going to post my novel on the web for free so it just needs John to set things up, unless by some miracle I can find a last minute publisher when I'm better. I'll let you know when it's available and then you can make up your own minds as to whether it's a great novel or a load of squits.

P.P.S. John has just posted my short story The Dog In The Pram next blog up.

P.P.P.S. The medical tests showed up nothing more benign than an infection - not pleasant but not life threatening.

Peace and good health to all of us.

POLLY AND THE BILLET DOUX'S DEBUT ALBUM REVIEWED IN THE INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY

Blow me down if Polly and The Billet Doux's debut album 'Fiction, half-Truths and Downright Lies' was reviewed in the Independent On Sunday the day after they appeared on Radio 4's Loose Ends.

This group really is getting around some.

Sadly, their music is not to the reviewer's taste, his/her argument based on the idea that it was the kind of music that Terry Wogan might once have played on his Radio Two show.

However, when I spoke to Polly about this she was as chuffed as hell that:-

a. the album had even been reviewed in such a prestigous Sunday newspaper (there's no such thing as bad publicity)

and

b. Terry Wogan actually loves their music and is going to play tracks on his show, which has an enormous audience.

"Keep the review," I said, "and gloat over it when you're really famous, as I intend to do with all my rejections from agents and magazines."

Somehow, I think that Polly and The Billet Doux will be well famous way before I am/not.

Anyway, there are plenty of excellent reviews of their music to read if you google their name, including a glowing report from this year's Glastonbury performance.

I pride myself on recognising talent when I see it and am so chuffed that I've been able to see them play live and for John to record some of their performances.

And by the way, thank you to the person who left a comment on my blog about the Loose Ends performance. It would seem that comments can only be accessed, at present, by clicking on the title of the relevant blog but John plans to fiddle around with my computer so that comments are more readily available, because I 'lurve' comments.

And since I've mentioned my computer, you might be interested to know that I've traded in my Mackingtosh (is that how you spell it?) Apple (nicknamed 'Fucku' by me), for a Dell, which is infinitely better/quicker/more user friendly and seems to see me as an ally rather than foe to be thwarted at every turn.

And a final thought, forty years since Woodstock yesterday and doesn't Jimi Hendrix still sound amazing!

POLLY AND THE BILLET DOUX ON 'LOOSE ENDS' RADIO 4

Was slumped in a chair in the kitchen just now (approximately 6.40 p.m.), watching John get supper ready and bemoaning the fact that I'd spent the whole day incapable of doing anything but sleep (this swine flu is NOT a gentle little illness), with Loose Ends (Radio 4) tinkering along in the background, when John shushed me and turned the radio up.

And playing, on national radio, was POLLY AND THE BILLET DOUX performing their single 'Follow My Feet'! And boy did they sound good!

Yippee! It has raised my spirits sufficiently to give me the strength to not only hold a glass of wine but also drink from it.

Now I can't wait to get better to go see Polly and say well done!

SWINE FLU !!!

Guess what - I've got swine flu - probably. I've not had a blood test to comfirm this, because the NHS aren't doing blood tests anymore, but I've got a fever, most of the symptoms and an inability to stay out of bed for more than half an hour or so at any given time (unless it's to lie on the settee to re-watch The Wire Season One).

Now, don't get me wrong: I hope I have got swine flu because the 'experts' say that once caught, it can't be caught again, and I'd much rather have it now and not when it returns in the autumn, possibly hooked up with a nasty little friend, such as bird flu, and then the world really will be in trouble.

It's been a funny old time for me since we returned from Morocco at the beginning of July. I brought back with me a tummy bug and only the fact that our seats were in close proximity to the aircraft loo saved me from severe embarrasment.

In fact, I had to almost crawl through Gatwick Airport (and was asked by an official if I was okay, which I thought was very thoughtful) to get through baggage and customs to find a Boots shop, thankfully open, for anti-diarrhoea tablets and rehydration sachets. And then I moaned most of the way home in the taxi in a pathetic kind of way.

I took about a week to recover from that and am now seriously wondering whether I should include incontinence pads in my luggage next time we go on holiday...just in case. This actually has been a consideration of mine since John and I caught bacterial gastroentoritis in Portugal some years ago. I won't go into the details - you probably think that most of this blog is 'too much information' already but hey, these things are important and can affect us all and someone needs to write about them - but suffice to say that we left a very large tip for the cleaners and I'd love to know what cleaning products they used because they really were effective.

So, I'm over the tummy bug but then I start to feel 'not quite right' but soldier on for a couple of weeks until one of my ears starts to hurt like hell so I go to my doctor, who pronounces ear infection and gives me a course of antibiotics, which seem to do the trick.

But once the course has finished, I start feeling 'off' again and get an appointment to see the duty doctor at my surgery, convinced that I just need another course of antibiotics, which is usually the case for me. Have you got a temperature she asks me. No I reply.

So, I waltz into the surgery, past all the large signs saying 'DO NOT PASS THIS POINT IF YOU HAVE A TEMPERATURE' and wait with all the other patients until it's my turn.

I then tell the doctor what my symptoms are, assure her I just need another course of antibiotics and allow her to take my temperature to prove my point. Only...I've got a temperature. Great. This sounds like flu, she says, but I still push for the antibiotics (stupid fool that I am) and reluctantly, she gives me a presciption. I'd already decided that I didn't want tamiflu because I've heard that the side effects are unpleasant, including feeling/being sick.

I take the antibiotics and for a day I feel much better and then I don't. And then my head feels as if it's going to burst, my throat is razor-sharp sore and I'm having difficulty breathing. This is turning out to be not nice at all.

After almost a week in bed, I felt sufficiently better to have a short swim and walk the dog. Big mistake. Cause I can hardly move today AND the sun is out and I'm missing it. If you want to feel sorry for me, then feel free, and if you want to offer up a healing prayer to God, the Universe, The Virgin Mary or anyone else, then also feel free. And thank you.

P.S. My blog doesn't have a spell check and I've used some very big words that I know I've mis-spelt and aren't in my dictionary, so give me a bit of slack, I beg you.

P.P.S. Almost forgot to include my main message, which is: if we do not farm animals humanely, with plenty of space and conditions for them to live a normal, healthy life, then we are going to continue to get these nasty, deadly viruses. Mankind's fault again so don't go blaming God.

BREAKING NEWS - maggie's search for a literary agent is over !!!

Don't you just hate it when you're watching the news and suddenly, in bold captions, taking up a quarter of the screen, is BREAKING NEWS and you automatically stop listening and start reading the caption!

Only, the caption is not exactly breaking news standard, which, in my books, is something really awful or absolutely wonderful. It's usually something tedious/boring and by this time you've lost track of the item you were listening to.

I only noticed this practice during T.V. coverage of the invasion of Iraq and so it was pretty important but now stations do it all the time for no apparent reason, it seems to me.

Anyway, I decided to use this technique for myself to announce my status viz-a-viz finding a literary agent. Only it's not what you expect because the fact is that I've made the momentus decision to actually stop looking for an agent.

If one phones me up, begging to take me on, then I might reconsider but until then, I've had enough.

And the reason is very simple.

I read, on a regular basis, two writing magazines: Mslexia and Writing Magazine and they both include interviews with agents and publishing editors and the message is loud and clear from both sources.

What they want in an author is someone who writes in a similiar way or on similiar themes to other writers so they can 'pidgeon-hole' the writing. They also want the writer to churn out a book a year, preferably as part of a series, and that meeting dead-lines is essential.

Sadly to say, I just can't do that. These days I have to pace myself not push myself. So, there's really no point in spending time and money sending off manuscripts to agents when I know that there's no way I can be the performing puppet that they're really looking for.

What I shall do, though, is research the smaller publishing houses, where costs are far less and where I'm hoping that there's less need to sign a two/three/more than three book deal. And if I find anywhere suitable, then I'll send off Cyprus Blues.

Things may be different when I've finished Winchester Blues, which I would class as a modern Agatha Christie who-dunnit, because I do intend to extend that into a series.

So, fingers crossed for a small publishing house...Watch this space...

CHINDIT HOUSE, GLASTONBURY - A FIRST CLASS BED AND BREAKFAST ESTABLISHMENT

Last Saturday, we needed a room for the night in Glastonbury so we could go to Mitzi's (one of John's sisters) birthday party but were having great difficulties in finding anywhere available.

Although Glastonbury is famous for its enormous open-air festival, there's actually a lot going on there all the year round, ranging from the Abbey Extravagenza (Dire Straits played this year) to groups playing in pubs to special spiritual celebration weeks.

So, the week we wanted to go, there was a Tibet week happening and our usual b and b's were full. But eventually, John found us a room at Chindit House, which he found on the web. The only drawback was that it was going to cost £125 for the night for the two of us, which is pricey by Glastonbury standards.

"It'd had better be good!" we muttered to ourselves more than once.

The weather that Saturday was foul - cloudy, cold and wet - so we reckoned that we could use the A303 for most of the way from Winchester, including the potential bottleneck miles before and after StoneHenge.

Big mistake.

Hence, it took much longer than expected and we arrived at Chindit House tired, fed-up and grissly, particularly since we had forgotten to take the address with us so could not, initially, find the place.

It's a large period house almost hidden behind an enormous hedge with no sign that it was a b and b outside but eventually we were directed there by some-one and since we could park directly outside, the impending argument about who should have brought directions was diverted. So, in we went, me not being exactly in the best of moods.

Peter Smith and Felicity outside the front door




But as soon as we walked in, the 'wow' factor kicked in. This was one hell of a beautiful house: an enormous hall, full of light, with windows and patio door at the far end, with views of the large garden (several acres in all) giving the impression of being in a large, beautiful decorated and furnished country home.

The hall




And our bedroom was absolutely gorgeous, as you can see from the picture below.

One of the bedrooms




What I particularly liked were the soothing colours, the shape of the room and windows, the chintzy curtains and the oh so comfortable bed with the softest of cotton sheets. And then there was the on-suite bathroom with everything you needed, all so clean and fresh and stylishly designed. And when John discovered that the full-length mirror opened up to shelving with such delights as nailpolish and footcream (a first for me anywhere we've stayed), then I was in seventh heaven.

The party was great, we had a marvellous nights sleep and a breakfast the next morning was sumptious. Plus, the two dogs resident dogs were as welcoming and friendly as the owners, Peter Smith and Felicity Wright.

Breakfast




They have links with Africa, so we were able to tell them about the Essaouira Festival and show some of John's recordings, which we delight in doing.

So, this was certainly money well spent and we'll certainly go back there. A 'find' is what you'd call it. Peter and Felicity chose the top of the range bed and breakfast market (the house was once a Millfield School boarding house) and I think they've done the house, which, apparently was very run-down, proud.

So, if you're looking for some-where to stay in Glastonbury, try Chindit House and get a taste of sheer luxury

Click here for more details:-
http://chindit-house.co.uk/pages/

P.S. Did I mention the basket of top quality chocolates? They got eaten pretty quickly. Well, we had just survived an enormous traffic jam and needed instant comfort!

REPORTING BACK ON THE ESSAOUIRA GNAWA AND WORLD MUSIC FESTIVAL 2009

Ishar and Abd Halim avec moi on the balcony of Restaurant Bab Laachour (which faces onto one of the venues - Moulay Hassan) on the Sunday evening, watching the final set - Hassan Boussou and Sewarye.
It was the kind of music you just had to dance to, which most of us on the balcony were doing when we weren't taking photos of each other. One of the great things about the festival is that total strangers are united by music.




Anyway, guys, I promised you that you'd be the first photos on this post and so here you are.


You'll also be popping up further down the post so keep reading.

Well, it's difficult to know where to start with the 2009 festival because for me, this year, the main event was nothing to do with the music, although I will, of course, be writing about that, because it was pretty bloody amazing, as usual. However, the thing that just blew me away and which I still can hardly believe is all to do with THE WIRE.

ROBERT (BOB) WISDOM - BUNNY IN THE WIRE

If you're new to my blog, then you need to know that I can't praise the American Drama Series THE WIRE highly enough. It's by far the best TV drama series I've ever seen. I have the box sets for all five seasons, watched them all once, and in the case of Season 4, twice, and intend to watch them all again soon.

Bob Wisdom




So, keep that in mind,(and if you're a regular reader of my blog, then you'll know just how special this is to me) when I tell you that I met and talked to the actor Bob Wisdom who played Bunny in THE WIRE.

If you're a devotee of THE WIRE, like me, then you'll know that Bunny was the police boss who, in Season 3, unofficially organised a drug buy/sell area in Baltimore where the police just let them get on with it, in an attempt (which was successful while it lasted) in keeping the lid on drug gang warfare.

And in Season 4, he was involved in trying to help the most disaffected students at High School. As was the way of things in Baltimore, the money ran out and the trial scheme was scrapped, but Bunny and his wife fostered one of the boys, Natham, which most certainly gave him new opportunities in life far removed from the drug scene.

And if you haven't watched THE WIRE, get the box sets and watch it !!!

Anyway, John had already told me that he thought he'd seen Bunny from THE WIRE and I was pretty miffed that I'd missed him. But on the way to the Moulay Hussan Square to watch Mahmoud Guinea start the festival off (after we'd taken our short cut round the side of the city walls which is far less congested than the main thoroughfares) we came onto one of the main streets which has a cafe right next to the short cut.

And sitting there, with a group of friends, was Bob Wisdom !!!

Bob Wisdom and Maggie



I had to do a double take and I called John back and whispered: 'I think that's Bunny from THE WIRE' and he said: 'Yes it is.'

Now, I wouldn't normally approach someone famous because I don't want to invade his/her privacy, but, for me, this was too special to ignore, given how much I love THE WIRE. So I did approach and say: 'Excusez-moi monsieur, but aren't you Bunny from THE WIRE?'

Maggie still talking to Bob Wisdom




And he was absolutely lovely. He stood up and said: 'Yes, I am,' and I said: 'Please can I shake your hand because THE WIRE is so fantastic.' And he shook my hand and was totally generous with his time and not only patient but also most charming as I raved about THE WIRE.

Apparently, he has been to the Essaouira Gnawa and World Music Festival for the last twelve years i.e. since it started, loves Gnawa music, plays the guembri (a special guitar central to the Gnawa sound) and jams with some of the Gnawa musicians.

He is such a lovely man with a generosity of spirit that you see in the character Bunny and I was just in awe, particularly when he kissed me on both cheeks before we went on our way.

So, now I'm not just a WIRE fan, but I'm also a Bob Wisdom fan. And I can hardly believe my luck in being able to talk to him.

I asked if John could take some photos and he said that was fine. John also took a small video of us which is published below. And to my delight, the web has picked up on his name and included some short videos of Bob Wisdom in THE WIRE and a WIRE video on safe sex, all of which you can view. I should have asked him what work he's doing now but I didn't want to intrude too much on his time. So, if you see a film or TV programme with Bob Wisdom in it, please post details on my blog.






P.S. If you google Bob Wisdom's name you'll come up with loads of sites with photographs of him, details of his extensive acting portfolio and clips from his work.

THE MUSIC

Okay, so this is why we were there in the first place. I was relieved to learn that the festival was going ahead because of the world economic crisis, but it was obvious that the festival had had to scale down its 'big names'. So there was no-one like Ki-many Marley, who I'm still raving about. But the music was still very, very good.

If you want to see and hear a little of the music from the festival, just click on the playlists below. As John adds new videos to YouTube, they will appear automatically in the playlist.



This was the last set, on the Sunday evening, at Moulay Hassan. The last set is always brilliant but tinged with sadness, too, because you know the festival is about to finish,

(One plus of the down scale was that our hotel didn't have its usual first night party on the terrace with the swimming pool, which meant no extra-loud disco music blaring out and peaceful days on the terrace with none of the frantic activity of putting up and then taking down all the scaffolding and equipment. Although John and I did have a lot of fun last year watching them trying to glue down carpets.)

However, despite the scaling down, there were still nine venues for the four days of the festival, most of them outdoors, and all of them free. Plus, there were over fifty groups and individual musicians playing a wide range of music and coming from not just Morocco but all over the world.

Because of our fantastic position on our balcony, over-looking Bab Marrakesh, we watched all of the sets that were playing there. Thus we missed some acts we would have liked to have seen at Moulay Hassan, like Arrested Development, Donald Harrison and Congo Nation, all from America.

Anyway, the best, in my opinion, at Bab Marrakesh were:-

Maalem Mahmoud Guinea, Afoxi Loni and Martin Vassilev

It was great to see Mahmoud still playing so brilliantly and I spotted both his eldest son and Hussein, his apprentice, amongst the group. And they also had a young boy dancing with them: all three a welcome reminder that the Gnawa tradition is being taught to the next generation.

Blue Mogador - a young gnawa/fusion group from Essaouira, who were fantastic and had me out of my chair and dancing wildly, always a good indicator that I enjoy the music.

Hamid El Kasri & Khaled & Karim Ziad & WDR (an orchestra from Germany with a really big sound). I was absolutely bowled over last year by Hamid El Kasri (I wrote about this in my report from last year's festival) so I was really looking forward to seeing him this year.

However, although this year he and his accompanying performers were excellent, he didn't play the obviously popular songs, like Chalaba, as he did last year and so there was less audience participation. Last year he was A * plus; this year, I felt that the big band sound detracted from his own unique Gnawa sound.

Rais Brahim Assili - a Berber singer with his own group and the A*+ this year for me. I'm really looking forward to hearing this music again when John does his time-consuming editing of his tapes.

When I look at the programme, I realise how much I actually missed, so apologies to all those musicians I didn't manage to see. But I still maintain that the Western world is missing something really special by the lack of coverage of Gnawa and World music and am very thankful that I have been able to go so many of the festivals and hope to do so next year, God Willing.

ALEXANDRA RICHARDSON

Alexandra is a young music student who wants to write a paper on Gnawa music, particularly its fusion with other genres and the separation from the spiritual aspects of Gnawa. And so she contacted John i.e. daftnotstupid because she was going to be at the festival and wanted to meet up, which the three of us did at Chez Mustapha, our favourite cafe, close to Moulay Hassan Square.

So, after we had told her what we knew about Gnawa music, John asked the owner of the cafe, Hisham, if he knew any Gnawa musicians whom she could interview and by a stroke of good luck, Hisham came back shortly afterwards to tell us that there was a Gnawa musician sitting at one of the other tables, he introduced us and Alexandra got her interview there and then.

The musician in question was a young man from Essaouira called Yassine El Kanri who leads a Gnawa/fusion group called Ganga Fusion. This was all done in French, which was interesting to say the least, but I'm glad that Alexandra was able to make a start.

John and Yassine




John and Yassine




Alexandra and Yassine




Alexandra and Yassine




It's good to know that some-one intends to research Gnawa music and I hope you achieve your mission, Alexandra. Let us know how you get on.

P.S. Have listened to a track played by Ganga Fusion on their website and I'd like to hear more. There are eight players in the group and a variety of tradional and modern instruments. Definitely a group I'd like to see perform.

LOTS OF PHOTOGRAPHS HERE TO GIVE A FLAVOUR OF THE FESTIVAL AND ESSAOUIRA




Hisham, one of the waiters from the restaurant, and me on the terrace of Hotel Blue. It was Hisham who told me on the Friday morning about the death of Michael Jackson, which was a big shock. No matter how mixed up his personal life was, he was a brilliant performer. Apparently, the audience at Moulay Hassan were informed at the end of the Thursday night sets; proof, if proof were needed, that bad news travels fast.




Hisham and Rachid who look after all of us on the terrace of Hotel Blue plus me.


Ishaq and Abd Halim looking suitably cool on the terrace of Bab Laachour.




Youssef, Youssef, Mohammed and Rachid plus me in the foyer of Hotel Blue.If you look carefully, you will see the chocolate remnants of the Magnum I had just eaten. I have, apparently, no shame. These guys, by the way, do their very best to keep me out of trouble. In fact, all the staff at Hotel Blue are highly professional and very friendly. It's always a pleasure to meet up with them each year.




Stephane and Epoise on the terrace of Bab Laachour. We got chatting to this charming French couple who were on the next table to us at Bab Laachour on the Sunday evening. I hope things are going well for them.




The final set at Moulay Hassan on the Sunday.




Turn your gaze to the right of the Moulay Hassan Square (from the Bab Laachour terrace)and there's the Atlantic Sea. It's a glorious sight, wild, rough and untamed.




Blue Mogador playing at Bab Marrakesh, taken from our famous balcony. (See last year's post on the festival to get the full story).




My favourite place and activity in the afternoon on the Terrace of Hotel Blue. This alien spaceship-shaped lounger, plus a similiar one, were new this year and became 'mine' for the holiday, thanks to Hisham. By the way, Hisham, I got a comment on this post from someone from America who recognised you. Apparently he/she went to school with you. Sadly, no name or address was left. Still, you're becoming quite a celebrity. (My friends think you're gorgeous).





The audience slowly building up at Bab Marrakesh, taken from our balcony.





GULLIVER TRAVELS - ONE HECK OF A LUCKY TEDDY BEAR

I bought this teddybear, Gulliver, on the flight over with Easy Jet, who are giving two free tickets each month to the person who sends in the best photograph of Gulliver in some exotic locations. So, I took loads of photos of Gulliver in different locations and here are just a few of them. Not sure which one I'll send in. I reckon that if I send one photo a month then I may just win those tickets and then we can go back to Morocco - Yeah !!!

How I pursuaded Mamadoo to pose with Gulliver on the steps leading up to Hotel Blue I'll never know. Shows just what a good sport he is.



Gulliver filming on the balcony




Lunch on the Hotel Blue terrace. Like most bears, Gulliver enjoys the occasional glass of wine with that sharp, salty taste of olives, with accompanying freshly made bread.




Gulliver managed to sneak up onto the empty stage at Moulay Hassan having sweet-talked his way past two 'security guards'. This bear certainly knows how to get around.