roughseasinthemed

Schizophrenic living in Gibraltar and Spain

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Good companion

I left university with nothing in front of me. No job. Just time. But, as I had (Great) Uncle Charlie’s Imperial typewriter, I decided to learn to type. I bought a book and painstakingly covered the keys to learn to touch-type. I don’t remember how I ended up with it. He was my paternal grandma’s youngest brother. She adored him. When she was 80, my parents gave her a birthday party. What made…

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Stairway to heaven

Gibraltar has lots of steps connecting the different levels of town. This is Forty Steps, which connects Town Range with Prince Edward’s Road. No, I haven’t counted them. And the story to go with the photo is here: Guardian Angel

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Pizza for brunch

A few weeks ago, when I had nothing in the fridge apart from a few veg, I remembered how to make pizza. Life saver. Basic recipe is eight ounces of water, two teaspoons of dried yeast, some slurps of olive oil, and around a pound of flour. I say around a pound as I have no scales. I also spent years weighing bacon and cheese so, I can guess weight. Plus, dough eventuality reaches its own…

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http://wp.me/p2c8OG-pn

September always brings change.

Years ago, September meant the start of the new school year. Later it meant the excitement of getting ready for university in October.

Now it means rain. Usually around National Day on 10 September but this year September has been warm and sunny. Until yesterday.

‘Get the washing in,’ I ordered in the morning, as I looked at the grey overcast sky from my permanent…

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Gibraltar National Day 2014

Gibraltar National Day this week is when we celebrate the fact that Gibraltarians have their own identity and choose to remain part of the sovereign British realm.

This year it’s 310 years since the Anglo-Dutch forces captured Gibraltar.

Gibraltarians are happy with the status quo. Spain has persistently broken the Treaty of Utrecht relinquishing Gibraltar since they signed it 300 years ago,…

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Not an American in Paris. Although she has been there.

T B Markinson is the author of three self-published books, and her latest novel, Confessions From A Coffee Shop, was published this week. I wanted to know about her self-publishing experience, so for all you authors and would-be ones out there, read on… But first, a little personal info.

As a nosy British ex-pat, I’m always interested in other ex-pat stories. Why did you move to London?

Back in 2010 my partner’s company asked if any employees would be willing to move abroad. My partner and I discussed it for about two minutes. Both of us love to travel and to experience new things. At the time, we didn’t know where we would end up. Several cities were discussed. Then London was proposed much to our delight. I had always wanted to live in London. My fascination started many years ago. I’m an avid reader and two of my favorite authors are Jane Austen and Charles Dickens. After a lot of planning we finally moved in 2011. At first the plan was to live here two years. It didn’t take long for us to fall in love with London. We’re on our third year now and we hope we can stay for much longer.

Where are you from in America?

I was born in California. During my teen years I moved to Colorado. In my thirties I moved to Massachusetts. When people ask me where I’m from, I never know what to say. My memories of California are fading. I spent more years in Colorado, but the most recent American city was Boston. I keep moving east and I wonder if I’ll end up back where I started.

One of your major goals was to publish a novel by the age of 35. Why?

I pulled that number out of a hat really. At the time I was in my mid-20s going through a difficult time. I thought I could accomplish the goal by that age. However, life and an illness sidetracked me. I actually published when I was 39. Writing was always one of my goals since I was a child. For as long as I can remember I’ve been telling stories.



Although you didn’t achieve that, by age 40 you’ve now published three books in less than two years, with the latest being Confessions. When is it due out, and can you tell me something about it?

Confessions From A Coffee Shop has just been released. It’s a romance novel about a woman, Cori, who has high hopes in life and then everything starts to crumble around her. She has a deal with a publisher to write her first novel, but she can’t seem to finish it. Cori’s mom suspects that her husband (Cori’s father) is having an affair. During all this, Cori’s girlfriend has a shopping addiction and Cori has to get a part-time job to help pay the bills. It’s difficult for her since she thought she was on the right path: Harvard graduate, teaching at a university, and writing her first novel. The novel deals with people’s expectations when they are young and what really happens in life.

This novel is a bit lighter than the other two I’ve published. After finishing Marionette, which deals with some heavy subjects, I was in the mood to write something fun. Cori’s life is falling apart, but I tried to keep the humor front and center.


With these three self-published books behind you, you’re pretty experienced now. Have you got any mistakes to share?

Yes! I still make mistakes daily. In the beginning I had no clue about self-publishing. At first, I wanted to go the traditional route. But each time I narrowed in on some publishers I would find out something about the publisher that made me uneasy. The biggest complaint I read by many authors was that the publisher didn’t help promote much. That was the big aspect I wanted help with. Then I attended the London Book Fair in 2012 and there were several workshops about self-publishing. I was intrigued. After the fair I started researching it. The idea was exciting and terrifying all at once.

Even with all the research I did, there was one big mistake I made from the very beginning. When I published my first novel, A Woman Lost, I really didn’t promote it enough from the start. Now when I release books, I have some reviewers lined up before I publish and bloggers who are willing to help me promote. I’m sure there’s tons more I can do and I keep learning new things. I’m constantly reading new books about self-publishing and I follow many blogs about it. Luckily with Lost my lack of promotion didn’t hurt me too much. Within the first month I sold over 500 copies.

Promotion is a tricky thing since it’s hard to know when you’ve done enough. And it never ends. Even when I publish something new, I still have to promote all the books. It’s a lot of work and it can be frustrating.

The second biggest mistake I made was not contacting more book blog reviewers right from the start. I’m trying to correct that now, even though it is time consuming. There are days when I wish I had two full work days each day so I could write as much as I need to and promote as much as I need to.

Even with these challenges, I’m still happy that I self-published. I wouldn’t change it.


Do you base your characters on people you have known or on your own experiences?

The actual characters in my novels are fictitious. I borrow characteristics from people I know, but I blend them together so not one of my characters is based on one person. I have included some of my real life experiences, such as the main character in A Woman Lost, is a historian and I studied history in grad school. [university for those like me who get confused with American education]

My novel Marionette includes a gay bashing incident that is loosely based on Matthew Shepard. Shepard was a gay man who was beaten to death in Wyoming. This event really affected me. At the time I was in grad school and Shepard was flown to the city where I lived. I can still remember standing outside his hospital room for a candlelight vigil. He died the next day.

For me, I like my characters to come alive, which is why I include events that have affected me to a certain degree. That way I can have my characters react to events and I hope it feels genuine. Yet, none of my novels are autobiographical. 



As a self-publishing author, how much do you do yourself and what, if anything do you pay for?

Many people think self-published authors have to do it all. Some do. I don’t. I’m really lucky to work with a fabulous team. My editor, proofreader, cover designer and formatters (ebook and paperback) are wonderful people and are fantastic at their jobs.

Having a team to work with can be expensive, but for me, I believe it’s completely worth it. I saved my pennies for years so I wouldn’t have to put out a work that wasn’t as good as it could be. I had a draft of A Woman Lost for several years before I contacted an editor. One thing I’ve learned in life is to be patient. An author may want to put something on the market quickly and as inexpensively as possible. I don’t advise this. This doesn’t mean hire the most expensive team either. I recommend doing your research and finding people you can afford and people you can work with. Even if an editor has wonderful credentials the two of you may not get along. It’s important to be able to work closely with your editor and to trust your editor.


You might not want to answer this – how much does it cost you to publish a book?

My first book was the most expensive to put on the market. I went through the editing process and my editor recommended a lot of changes. After I finished the changes, I sent it back to be edited again. And I’m so glad I did. The novel is much better now and I learned so much from that process. With each project I learn more. That in itself is worth the expense.

For each project my editor gives me an estimate of how much it will cost. She charges by the hour. The cleaner the manuscript the cheaper it will be. My advice is to find editors who will provide a free sample edit and give you an estimate of the total cost.

One of the things you are doing yourself is the promotional aspect, ie this (virtual) book tour. What made you decide to do that?

I paid for a book tour for my first book. I went with an inexpensive tour and it worked out pretty well. And I learned a lot about how the tour operator managed things and decided I could do it just as well.

So this is the second book tour that I’ve planned. The first was pretty successful. However, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do another one since things are changing quickly in the book world and many are starting to wonder if cover reveals and book tours are still effective. The big factor is the amount of time it takes. That’s why this time I limited the amount of interviews and guest posts. I opted to go for it because I love the interaction with other bloggers.

I skipped doing a cover reveal though since I know many people are inundated with them. I still host cover reveals on my blog, but I have noticed a big drop on visits when I do one. Only time will tell if this is the last book tour that I’ll plan. Who knows, tomorrow they may be the “new” thing again.


Marketing is one aspect that people find difficult because of the amount of work involved. What else do you do to promote your work?

Acquiring reviews is the big one. Word of mouth is crucial. And it’s the most difficult part of the process. Unfortunately most readers don’t leave reviews and I totally understand. It’s time consuming and so many people are busy. I’ve also heard many readers say they wouldn’t know what to say. Again, I get it. A lot of people read to relax and to escape from reality. They don’t want to feel pressured to think of something eloquent to say. Reading should never feel like homework. This is why so many authors love book bloggers.

I’ve had recent luck with advertising on Bookbub. This site sends out emails to readers listing book sales. Each time I’ve sold hundreds of copies in a day. It’s fun to watch the numbers spike and to see the book rise in the rankings. During my sale of Marionette, the book ranked on the coming of age genre list right next to Neil Gaiman and Stephen King. That was a real hoot.

The key aspect to selling is relationships. Relationships with reviewers, bloggers, and readers. It takes time, but it does pay off. But more importantly, for me at least, I love the interaction with everyone. I’ve made many wonderful friends during my journey and for that I’m really grateful.



Do you provide any of your books for free? Pricing is a thorny issue – how did you decide on a price for your books?

I do provide free review copies in exchange for an honest review. As of yet, I haven’t done any free promotions on Amazon. I have listed my books for 99 cents, but haven’t gone the free route yet. That doesn’t mean I won’t at some point. I’ve only been doing this for a little over a year. Trust me, I haven’t figured everything out yet and there are many avenues I haven’t explored. I don’t believe in saying never. This summer I had two 99 cent sales and sold over a thousand copies. Each time it boosted the sales of my novels that weren’t discounted. Also I saw an increase in reviews.

I have my novels listed at $2.99 because many of the books in my genre are around that price. I did list one book at $3.99 for a time, but it didn’t work for me. My advice is to try several different prices and see what works best for your books and in your genre. Nothing is set in stone. And have sales. Readers love sales.

Boxed sets are something I hope to do in the near future. I need to do more research about them, but I have a feeling it will happen within the next year or two.



Easy question! Favourite authors and any particular ones who inspired you?

I think the writers from the early 20th century have inspired me the most. Hemingway, Steinbeck, Parker, and Fitzgerald are the authors I go back to over and over.



With Confessions just published, what’s the next novel about? Have you thought about writing a different type of book eg fantasy, horror, thriller, historical, travel, autobio?

The next project is a novella, which is already with my proofreader. Claudia Must Die is much different from my other novels. It’s a crime-style romp and it was fun and a challenge to jump out of my comfort zone. The story is about Claudia who is on the run from her gangster husband. She spies a woman who looks just like her and Claudia tries to set up the woman to be killed so her husband will stop hunting her. Things go terribly wrong and now Claudia has many people who are trying to kill her.

I know earlier I said, never say never, but it’s hard to fathom me writing a horror novel. I’m the type that squirms during horror movies and when I read horror novels, I still shield my eyes during the gory bits. However, you never know. Romance is my comfort zone, but I am contemplating writing a mystery and I think fantasy would be a wonderful and exciting challenge. I love historical fiction, but the researcher in me would go crazy and I fear I wouldn’t stop researching and start writing. Saying that, I have a story in mind.

Have you ever worked in a coffee shop?

I haven’t. However, I have worked in fast food when I was younger. Several of my buddies have worked in a coffee shop and I used to hang out quite a bit. I do have a confession: I hate coffee.

And… an excerpt from Confessions:

I nearly fell out of my chair. “Mother! I do not want to hear about this.” I jumped up, uncomfortable. God she was sex-crazed—always talking about it. “Why? Kat listens to me.” “You’ve talked to my girlfriend about that?” “Of course, dear. Women talk about this stuff. Don’t be a prude.” Her steady voice unnerved me. “Women talk about this ‘stuff’ with their friends. Not with their daughter’s girlfriend. I forbid you to talk to her.” I planted my feet firmly on the ground. “Forbid me? Who do you think you are?” Mom crossed her arms defensively, her foot tapping out a rhythm on the floor. “Seriously, you need to think about the stuff you blurt out of your mouth. You can’t go around talking to Kat about sex, especially when it involves you and my father.” I shook my head, trying to permanently dislodge the images from my brain. “At least Kat talks to me. All you do is hang up on me.” She pouted, running her hands up and down her arms to comfort herself. “Look at me! I’m here right now, talking to you. I should be working on my lecture for this evening, but no, I came to see how you’re doing?” Mom’s expression perked up. “That reminds me. The three of us are meeting at Pablo’s Café after your class.” Her face clouded over as she gazed out the front window and her voice dripped with scorn as she added, “I’m sure your father will be with his hussy this evening.” I considered responding, but opted to stay quiet. “Don’t worry, I know money is tight right now, so I’ll pay for dinner,” she said. “And that’s another thing I want to talk to you about. You need to stop making Kat feel guilty about not being able to find a job.” “What? Make her feel guilty? I never mention it. Not one bit.” I really didn’t. Not once had I said or suggested that she should get a job. She should, but I knew the likelihood of that happening was pretty much nil. Kat knew how to spend money, not how to make it. “She says she can see it in your eyes. I know Kat likes to shop, but you can’t lay all the blame on her. Blame the Republicans.” Mom punctuated her statement with a quick nod.

Thanks to T B Markinson for her time and her extremely professional response to my interview, she was a pleasure to work with. And as animals always add to a post, here are Miles, and Atticus, plus our author herself. She’s got a promotion on for Confessions until 16 Sept, so do check out her blog, Making My Mark.

Miles

T B Markinson

Atticus

Confessions… from an American in London Not an American in Paris. Although she has been there. T B Markinson is the author of three self-published books, and her latest novel, Confessions From A Coffee Shop, was published this week.

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The three most common errors writers make...

The three most common errors writers make…

… based on a totally unscientific survey of reading and editing lots of books, are, in no particular order:

1) Missing full point/full stop/period

The cupboard door was open

It should be:

The cupboard door was open.

2) Faulty punctuation using dialogue

“Hello, she said.

“Hello.” She said.

“Hello,” She said.

Basically we’ve got a mish-mash of incorrect commas, full points, capital letters, and…

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‘Mustafa’s dead,’ said Chair. No idea how his name is spelt, but it sounds like chair, so chair it is.

Partner had bumped into him down Main Street, as you do.

He came back from Morocco, was rushed into hospital in Spain, and died there after not very long at all.

Later Partner bumped into someone else from the previous firm. ‘Mustafa’s dead. He died in hospital in Gib.’

‘No he didn’t, it was in Spain,’ contradicted Partner confidently. Chair rents a flat underneath the deceased Mustafa so Partner was pretty sure about the authenticity of his information.

Mustafa was a painter (sort of) on the firm, pretty scruffy, smoked dope, had a finca a hundred kilometres or so outside Rabat (Morocco) and had a few girlfriends in Gib, as well as a wife and family in Morocco.

He’s worked all his life in Gib, and at 62, was planning to retire in three years and spend his retirement at home in Morocco.

Partner told the Moroccan who cleans cars in the car park. He knew Mustafa but hadn’t heard he’d died. He obviously doubted Partner, being a white non-Muslim Brit, as a source of information because a day or so later, he acknowledged that his information was correct. ‘He had his fecha de caducidad aquí,’ he said pointing to his forehead, referring to Mustafa’s time to go, literally sell-by date, or date of expiry.

One of the residents of a block Partner had worked on mentioned it to him. ‘Yes,’ said Partner, and rattled off his info. ‘You’re a good source of information,’ said the old boy. Partner shrugged. He gets on with Moroccans and Spaniards just as he does Brits and Gibbos. And there’s no language barrier because his Spanish is good enough for conversation. So it means he has a lot of networks.

‘You know what Gib’s like, you don’t always get it right, there’s always misinformation,’ and Partner quoted the two different stories about Mustafa’s place of death, adding that he figured the Moroccan who lived underneath Mustafa was more likely to be right than a Gibraltarian who lived 15 or 20 minutes away.

‘Yes,’ agreed the old boy. ‘There are always false stories doing the rounds.’

Photos of the cable car above the car park as it’s more interesting than cars parked.

Cable car station at the car park

On its journey

Up and away

……….

Bumping into Big Al the other day, who’s retired and on a pension but looking for joinery work, Al mentioned there were loads of jobs at the job centre.

‘Go and see an employment officer, they’ve got a big book with lots of construction work in it,’ he said.

So Partner went to the Job Centre. No queue. Only one employment officer when there had been up to four previously and huge queues. No jobs on the board apart from gaming, previously there was a room full, then they blocked off half the room, then they closed the room and put the few token jobs in the main area.

The employment officer recognised Partner immediately. No jobs, he said.

‘What about the big book you have?’ asked Partner puzzled.

‘Nothing,’ EO said, ‘apart from two joinery jobs at £6.50 an hour.’

‘That’s below the official trade rate,’ said Partner.

‘What can we do?’ said EO. ‘We get Eastern Europeans coming in every day with contracts to be confirmed. If we were notified of all these jobs, we would have a bookful. It’s a question of knocking on doors.’

‘I thought this government was trying to support Gibraltarians,’ said Partner.

It used to be Spaniards, then Portuguese, now Eastern Europeans are here in droves. After all, they speak good English so Gib is an easy sunny option for them, and they share a cheap flat in Spain until they have amassed enough money to do whatever they want to do. Go on a world trip, pay off their house in Estonia, pay their university fees. Economic migrancy is an interesting phenomenon that has been totally changed by the open borders across Europe. Should Morocco ever join the EU… If you think the perilous trips made across the Med to Spain and Italy are bad, imagine what it will be like if the right to live and work in Europe becomes legal.

Meanwhile, our late sixties/early 70s neighbour was telling us about his browsing on Facebook. What is he doing on there? I wondered. Anyway he told us about some Muslim who flies back and forth to Luton airport and has a banner/sign/placard urging everyone to convert to Islam. And he has police protection. WTF? I haven’t checked out the veracity of this tale. If it’s true it would only depress me.

Would I get police protection if I settled outside Luton airport exhorting everyone to abandon their religion? Or maybe ‘Repent all ye sinners! Abandon your pernicious habits of killing animals to eat their flesh when there are perfectly good crops kicking around!’ (Assuming you can find any free from GM and pesticides).

……….

And at the supermarket yesterday (no, I wasn’t there skipping gaily around on my crutches) the woman behind Partner commented on his healthy basket. Apart from the tins of San Miguel. ‘Everything’s fresh,’ she said in surprise. The trucks had come down from the UK to Morrisons so he’d bought organic tomatoes, cucumber, celery, red peppers, courgettes, and non-organic peas and broad beans.

It says a lot about our society that a shopping basket full of fresh food elicits comments whereas a trolley piled high with junk food is the norm.

The man in front didn’t have enough money for his shopping. He had to start putting back food, to get it down from £65 to £55. Back went two packs of bacon, two packs of cheddar cheese, and the pack of dog biscuits. ‘No!’ said Partner and the check-out woman together. ‘Don’t do that, don’t leave your dog without food, I’ll pay.’ But the man said he had some left at home anyway. Who knows?

Of course if he’d had a similar basket to Partner it wouldn’t have come to anywhere near £55 or £65. Although it’s not why we eat vegetarian, it’s still one hell of a lot cheaper than buying flesh, fowl, and fish.

Pinto beans in a red casserole

Lance’s Travels – UK, by Lance Leuven (book review)

But onto Lance’s Travels which are humorous and informative. Approaching his 30th birthday, Lance Leuven decided to give up his job, buy a caravan and car and travel round the UK, as you do. I can empathise with that having chucked my job just after 40 and clearing off to Europe.

It must have taken him a hell of a long time to research his trip because there is a wealth of information in his book. The emphasis is on history, the natural environment, and local culture. It’s probably the sort of trip I would have made, so reading it was a pleasure. What it isn’t, is Tony Hawks traipsing round Ireland with a fridge.

Not only does Lance discuss history and natural history, he writes about people too – Churchill, Darwin, Emmeline Pankhurst. Interestingly, Pankhurst’s parents were keen supporters of suffrage, but thought Emmeline’s future would best be served as a homemaker. As she lay in bed one night, she heard her father saying, ‘What a pity she wasn’t born a lad’. Says it all. Other interesting characters include John Snow, Dickens, Alexander Fleming, Alan Turing, Isaac Newton, Robert Owen, Robert Burns, James Watt, and Shakespeare among others.

While I knew much of the history, there were items I didn’t know or had forgotten. The first computer being invented at Bletchley for example, but not revealed for years because of the information black-out.

I learned that Sydney Harbour Bridge isn’t based on the earlier completed Tyne bridge in Newcastle, both are based on Hell Gate Bridge in New York.

There were loads of other interesting facts and statistics that Lance had unearthed to get the most out of his trip.

It’s the sort of book to read with your feet up, enjoying a vicarious journey up the east coast, to York, over the North Yorkshire Moors, up to Northumberland and Bamburgh beach, on and up through Scotland with a trip to the Orkneys and the fabulous Skara Brae, back down the west coast, a trip over to Northern Ireland and Giant’s Causeway, back to GB and the Lakes, the Peak District, Wales… you get the idea. Southern destinations included Cornwall, Dartmoor, Exmoor, Stonehenge, Avebury, the New Forest, those counties in the bottom right hand, and of course, London.

It has a nice tidy ending in which he summarises his thoughts about his trip, and adds the practical side, such as needing to sell his car and caravan as he was tight for money.

Included in the book are a couple of photos at the end of each chapter. Cost prevented him uploading more, but they do provide a tasty treat. More photos are on his blog.

And in between the descriptions of the buildings, history, people, national parks and regional food, Lance manages to include his caravan mishaps, his run-in with the police as a suspicious character, and a predilection for getting lost when walking to and from camp sites. Add to that, an interesting social commentary and a dry sense of humour and it makes for a good read if this is your type of book. For anyone planning a long or short trip around the UK it would make for a travel guide to start your itinerary. It also reminds me that I really need to set aside time to write up my travels.

There are typos, not enough to detract heavily, but it’s always a shame when a decent book has more than the odd one or two. One thing I would have found helpful in a book like this would have been chapter titles rather than Chapter One, Two, Three etc. So a sense of days and destinations at the beginning of each chapter, eg Days 10-15 – York to the Scottish Border, would have given an indication of what the chapter held in store and given a feel for timescale. Plus, in the contents listing it would have served to give a full itinerary at a glance.

Thanks to Lance for a free copy of his book for an independent review.

Lance’s blog: Lance’s Travels – links to his photos and book available on there.

And apols to Sonel for no monkey pix. You will have to make do with my boys. So here they are, captions on each photo. Some from Spain where the major event was hacking up concrete, cycling around three towns to find the correct hose, and finally fixing it. A three-day event no less.

Get off the toy Little One!

Sad me, please get my toy back

Sittin’ in the midday sun…?

José supervises

Not a bad arse for 86

The finished pipe work, just got to cement over it now

And working in these temps?

Bitey face

Wriggling stiggling time

Oh yes, running around on my terrace

Gib misinformation… 'Mustafa's dead,' said Chair. No idea how his name is spelt, but it sounds like chair, so chair it is.

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Americanese

Bullying and internet-bashing is a rather nasty phenomenon. Very playground and equally if not more damaging.

I’ve read a few blog posts with authors complaining about bad reviews. Six and two threes sweethearts. Not everyone will like your books. A reasoned critical review is valid, and maybe it might help. When you put yourself in print you need to acquire thick skin. Rule number one.

What is…

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Houdinis in Gibraltar

In which our heroine wastes half a day to be told the blatantly obvious.

Three health appointments in a week is no fun. It disrupts me from my idle sofa routine, it disrupts my dogs – Snowy doesn’t like to see me being taken away by the ambulance crew – and it most definitely disrupts my partner.

Physio 1

The first appt was physio. Despite his somewhat straight face and quietly insistent…

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But first, the dreaded frontier queue. For some reason we’d set off later that morning. I’d decided to attempt the stairs by foot rather than the favoured and much easier backside bumpety bump.

With Partner in front to steady me in case I started to lose my balance – or alternatively, both tumble down together like Jack and Jill – I started the long descent. All of twenty steps. And to our mutual surprise, I made it in one piece.

As I negotiated the steps at the block entrance, a loud cheer and applause came from my neighbour over the road who was leaning out of his window watching.

Hobbling down the street, which is downhill, so tricky, Partner put his hand on my arm. ‘Wait, our neighbour’s coming out to speak to us.’

‘I don’t want to interfere,’ said our neighbour (which always means someone is going to do just that), ‘but I noticed you putting your bad leg first. My wife was told to put her good leg first.

‘The good go to heaven,’ he added. And then realised his mistake. Not literally about whether the good go to heaven or not, but rather, that he was confusing walking on the level with going up and down steps.

When I attended my last physio appointment I was informed I would be doing stairs and it was quite easy. I’m sure it is when you are in your late 30s and fit as a lop. But Mr Velvet Glove Steel Fist physio seems to have abandoned the velvet glove so there was no getting out of it. Sadly I have to report it was relatively easy in the gym up and down three steps, so he was right.

And he churned out their little mantra that they obviously say to all patients:

The good go to heaven, and the bad go to hell.

This is for the purpose of helping you to remember to lead with the good leg going upstairs and the bad one going down.

‘I’ll probably get it wrong, and think the good go to hell,’ I said to Mr Steel Fist. Gib is 80% Catholic so it will no doubt work for most of their patients. And in fact, back at the finca, I ended up going in and out of our front doorstep with the bad leg first both up and down, thereby proving the bad go to heaven too.

But back to the delay in the street outside our block. I could see us being stuck there for quite some time with Friendly Neighbour while all we wanted was to Get Off and avoid getting stuck in the frontier queue. After he’d recited the mantra, apologised for his error, chatted away some more, we were eventually allowed to slowly make our way to the Land Rover.

Those nice little ridgey ramps in the kerb for wheelchairs may be great for tyres but I didn’t fancy my chances with crutches. So I stepped down off the pavement and decided to walk in the road to avoid any more pesky steps. I’d had more than enough of them by now.

Partner was trying to lure me back onto the pavement. I glared at him. Then the penny dropped for him. The passenger side was on the road side, so I was going for the quickest shortest route. Hopefully not getting mown down in the process. After all, it was Sunday morning.

What should normally take five minutes, had taken nearer to twenty. But still, it was progress of sorts. And off we went. The good news was, no queue. The Guardia Civil stopped the two cars in front. We slowed down, and Partner put his hands out. He got a dismissive wave through. Maybe they are getting bored with opening the back and finding nothing but Pippa and Snowy.

Around the halfway point, at Marbella, I glanced at the frontier queue on Halphone. In less than an hour and a half it had suddenly gone from nothing to become a six-lane queue by midday.

Leaving the autovía, about fifteen minutes from our pueblo, we were confronted by heaving beaches full of Spaniards enjoying the scorching sun and cooling off in the cold sea. The roads were lined with cars parked bumper to bumper. Why people enjoy that is quite beyond me, but each to their own.

Sunday is beach day

Bumper to bumper – is this really fun?

We arrived in the tranquility of our pueblo, to the usual friendly welcome from our neighbours. I was going to attempt the front steps by foot. I sat down instead and bumped my way up. A woman can have too many steps in one day.

Later that day, we received a welcome goody bag from next doors. The next day, a plate of figs. The following day, a plate of chumbos. Sadly, the gifts dried up by Wednesday.

Goodies from next door on our first day

As we unpacked, or as I sat on the terrace admiring the lettuces that José had bought, sown, and watered for me and Partner unpacked, he asked José for a hand getting the bike down off the roof rack. He’s not using it in Gib and the panniers are bigger so he can get more beers in them.

Lettuces, onions, garlic, rosemary, oregano

Because there is something of a money shortage, he didn’t fancy leaving it on the roof overnight here in Spain. It was padlocked and cable-tied on, but still…

Except, where was the padlock? Partner had tied it and secured it on the previous night thinking it would be safe in Gib. Maybe not. Maybe someone had seen it, checked it out, come back prepared and either someone had disturbed them (had to be them, too difficult to lift down for one), or they didn’t realise it was cable-tied on. Or maybe the padlock had undone itself, and fallen off en route.

Hmm, how to lift this down?

Here José, cop hold of this mate

It might have been a free bike – the panniers weren’t, we’d bought those – but it’s a good one and we wouldn’t want it nicked. You can never have too many bikes. ‘Are you going to set up a bike garage?’ asked Adelina drily when she saw the arrival of yet another one to join the fleet of four.

Partner decided to give José something for helping with the bike. Well, it was a good excuse to give something back, so he dived into his extensive tool repository and found some new drill bits. Always best to give something useful in my pueblo. To save embarrassment, Partner explained he had a friend who had given him lots of new bits, so it wasn’t as though it was an expensive gift. Pitching gifts right is quite difficult. Sometimes it’s time and/or labour to give a hand.

But whatever you do, in a village like mine, especially where I live in the midst of Spaniards in the original settlement, you look out for your neighbours.

Not long after we arrived here, Partner was talking to a Spanish woman (who has fluent English) and she was saying sadly, that she couldn’t use her chimney. Her neighbour had built some fancy porch extension and bashed it into the side of her chimney. ‘Report him!’ said Partner Britishly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not how it works around here.’

The Franco years have left their legacy. Back then, annoying your neighbours, or reporting them would invite retaliation. One quick word in the right ear, and a knock on the door – if they even bothered to knock – and a whole family could be wiped out.

Both my neighbours felt the Civil War. Her father was arrested and taken to prison in Northern Spain. She never saw him again. José’s younger brother was killed in a Civil War-related local shooting. Opposing sides, and bang! he was gone.

A few streets away, we have some English neighbours. Or perhaps I should say had because they are clearly no longer there. The house is abandoned, their car has gone. There is no sign or trace of them. It’s like they were never there. They were in their late seventies and arrived in our pueblo shortly after us. Before that they had run a bed and breakfast further up the coast. B and B were brother and sister. She’d been widowed young, and he was divorced. Apparently not good at keeping it in his pocket. So they came here together.

With old age comes ill health, so when she went into hospital, Partner took him to see his sister as B didn’t drive. He became frail too. He even gave up smoking. A lot of the time he said he didn’t like Spain, he wanted to go back to the UK. The house was on the market. She wanted to stay. He went back a couple of years ago for some family thing, wedding or christening or whatever.

‘Horrible place,’ he said on his return to Spain. ‘Filthy, dirty streets. Not like here.’

Our streets are swept six days a week. The communal rubbish bins are emptied every night – apart from when there is a strike of course, which sensibly (from the workers’ perspective) always happens in summer.

We would usually see B and B when they drove down our street, and they would slow down and, if we were on our terrace, we would have a quick chat over the wall and a catch up.

But now B and B have vanished into thin air. We haven’t asked anyone and it ain’t going to be good news.

It’s a fallacy to think all ex-pats live in each others’ pockets. Sure, we’d been round for a chat a couple of times and Partner had moved heavy things for them a few times, but that was it. We have more in common with our Spanish neighbours. It’s next doors who invite us in to watch the World Cup, next doors who shower us with free food, next doors who let me use their internet and telephone to contact Partner when I locked myself out of my mobile.

One of our other Spanish neighbours grows veg. If we walk past his plots, and he is cutting cabbages we invariably end up carrying three home with us.

Walking little Snowy, Partner met Cabbage Neighbour talking to Paco the Van Man, shooting the breeze together in the pueblo. He said ‘Hola’ to both of them. Paco looked surprised. ‘How do you know him?’ he said accusingly. ‘He’s been my neighbour for years,’ smirked CN. 1-0 to him.

An evening or so later, the same duo was there again. ‘Where’s your woman? I’ve not seen her,’ asked Paco. (Paco was the one who asked me to drinks at the beach bar, and at his little plot when I was staying here on my own waiting for Snowy’s vaccinations to be complete).

‘She’s broken her leg. All her neighbours know that.’ Ouch! 2-0 to Cabbage Neighbour.

Someone else cruised up on a bike. He couldn’t work out why two locals were talking to someone who was quite obviously a guiri. (Spanish impolite term for foreigner – think ‘wog’).

‘I don’t know you,’ said the bike man. ‘Are you new?’

Cabbage Neighbour was laughing his chuddies off. ‘He’s been here years. What is it now, thirteen?’

Hmm, pretty spot on. 3-0 to CN.

Foreigners often say they want to ‘integrate’ and become part of the ‘real Spain’. Probably the easiest way to do that is to find a Spanish partner, or send your kids to the local (probably not very good) school.

But integration doesn’t mean being invited into everyone’s home or everyone’s party. Or treating everyone you meet like your long-lost friend. Or taking part in local festivals, suddenly supporting a local Spanish football team, or taking up going to church and joining in the local religious processions. And definitely not supporting bull-fighting.

When you live abroad, you also need to be true to yourself. You bring your values with you. You keep them. What worked before will work elsewhere. It may take time. It is not only courteous but sensible to learn the local language, but I’m the sort of person who learned some Greek before I went to Greece, Portuguese before I went to Portugal, although I didn’t manage Thai when I went to Thailand.

But if people want to spend their life in a British ghetto, speaking English, eating fish and chips and drinking English beer that’s their choice. There is no right or wrong way to live in a country where you aren’t a national.

Wandering along the track with Little One, some woman picked up a stone and before Partner could stop her, she threw it at him. Snowy ducked and chased after it, barking happily at the game. She picked up another.

‘STOP,’ shouted Partner. ‘Oh,’ she said sulkily,’I thought he was going to bite. I thought he was abandoned.’

With a shit-expensive emerald green harness and a rabies tag? And someone walking five yards behind him? He wouldn’t be off the lead if he was going to bite anyone.

They were guiris. They weren’t from round here. On holiday. Maybe they were more guiri than us, in our pueblo. Our neighbours dismiss anyone not from the pueblo as ‘extranjeros’ usually from ‘el norte’. Which is probably anywhere north of La Axarquía.

Partner met Cabbage Neighbour down the arroyo on an early morning dog walk. He’d had to chuck his crops, it wasn’t worth what the corrida (wholesale veg market) would pay for them. I don’t understand this. Given that he has paid to plant them and water them, and crops them himself, why is it not worth the harvest?

The neighbours are short of money. We listened to the daughter telling her father not to buy a kilo of fruit, only half a kilo. He no longer goes to the shops on Saturday, the daughter goes instead. They no longer get bread every day from the local vans. A while ago, we heard the bread man asking when they were going to pay what they owed.

Ajo blanco, despite their shortage of money, a glass of cold soup for me from our neighbours on our last evening. More here about ajo blanco, including ingredients.

Ajo blanco

On our last morning Partner bumped into an English woman in the supermarket. People were working for three euros an hour, she told him. She couldn’t get any work, no one would employ her because there were so many Spaniards out of work. I can understand that, because that’s the attitude in Gib too. Well, it’s supposed to be, until a Rumanian or a Portuguese will work for less. Amor doesn’t vincit omnia, dinero vincit omnia. English woman asked Partner about working in Gib, she’s in her fifties, and after a mere five years in Spain, she’s beginning to worry about running out of money, so wondered about the honeypot of gold in Gib. Partner pointed out that unless she shares a flat, all her wages from bar work would go on rental.

I’m sorry for people who worry about money. I do too. And if you think about living abroad without a guaranteed income, do your net present value (NPV) calculations at least 20 times, and then quadruple it, and you still will fall short of what your life will cost.

I’m even sorrier for Spaniards though, struggling to live on meagre incomes. When they can get work, which is invariably black anyway. My neighbours, all six of them, are basically living out of two old peoples’ pensions, plus two or three mornings a week cleaning money that the daughter earns. How on earth will they cope when the two oldies die, and that pension money disappears?

Revolting Europe posted an excellent article about how the greedy Spanish banks and Rajoy’s Partido Popular government are truly shafting the people of Spain. It’s well worth a read.

And, the sun shines on the righteous. Highs around early 30s, dropping to early 20s at night. The bad go to heaven. Or maybe they burn in Spain not hell. Or maybe they hide inside like I do.

Neighbourly tales from the campo But first, the dreaded frontier queue. For some reason we'd set off later that morning. I'd decided to attempt the stairs by foot rather than the favoured and much easier backside bumpety bump.

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1st August - Yorkshire Day

1st August – Yorkshire Day

roughseasinthemed:

An excellent post from Vicky summing up the sense of Yorkshire pride in our home county. I too rebelled against the 1974 Local Govt Act that took away our precious Ridings and always addressed mail to my parents in the West Riding. Not West Yorkshire. It was a very big issue. It still is. So this reblog, thanks to Vicky, is not just for her, but also for Dawn in Queensland, Aus;…

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World's Best Story?

World’s Best Story?

Best story in the world?

That’s a difficult one. It’s hard enough to narrow those sort of lists down to ten or even twenty.

But Canadians Vincent Salera and Thomas Lefebvre have launched a competition to find the world’s best story.

It’s a well-thought through competition and looks at books by genre and analysis of plot, characters, and even spelling and grammar, to name just a few criteria.

T…

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Snowy Snowy, how are we?

Little One, Little One

Cute as can be

Alternative version:

Snowy Snowy, how are we?

Little One, Little One

Hung from a tree

It’s a sad fact of life that the Spanish hunting breed of Podencos doesn’t have the best life expectancy.

Brought to the Iberian peninsula, first by the Carthaginians, later by the Moors, Podencos are an ancient breed descended from North African greyhounds. Among hunting dogs they are rare, as they hunt by sight, smell and sound. Think of an alert dog working on all three senses. You can probably add the other two, he barks and he is very touchy-feely, pawing like a cat, and happily lying all over you. This morning he rested his head on my face for his post-breakfast snooze.

Podenco checks out rain erosion in the river bed, the actual water course is currently running to the left where the greenery is

Podencos come in three sizes: toy, medium, and grande. Snows is medium. Given his energy I dread to think what large ones are like but they do hunt bears in Andalucía.

And this is the problem. They are used as a hunting dog in their prime early years, say for one or two when they are fit, energetic and raring to go.

But because many Spaniards view dogs as past their sell-by date when they stop being useful, they then get rid of them. Hence, hung from a tree. It’s no joke. It happens. Gallegos suffer a similar fate.

Snowy was lucky. Chucked out, maybe because he was albino? at a day or two old. Picked up from the rubbish bin by a kind Spaniard and given a permanent home by us a few weeks later.

Some time this week he is a year old. He didn’t come with a birth certificate in the rubbish bin, so it’s a best guess from my vet Pedro, Rocío who found him, and us.

A birthday message from Snowy (approved by Pippa):

Thank you to everyone who gives a home to an unwanted or rescue animal. You are the best.

And one from me:

To those of you who continue to buy the perfect pedigree pup or kitten. You are condemning some animals to a life in a shelter, or worse to be killed at a shelter when their time is up, or hit on the head, drowned, or – hung from a tree.

You don’t need to adopt a hyper, energetic, excitable Podenco, often the unwanted dogs are the older, quiet ones, just needing a home and some love in their later years. A bit like most of us.

Anyway, from this, last year:

(All photos captioned)

Baby Snowy

Snowy. The tough hunting guard dog – lapdog.

Sleepy Podenco tucked up safely in someone’s jacket

To this:

And?

On guard!

A dog’s life?

And from the big boy, to authorise approval:

Pippa reclaims the sofa…

… Briefly

My boys on the sofa

Hung from a tree ~ happy birthday Snows Snowy Snowy, how are we? Little One, Little One Cute as can be Alternative version: Snowy Snowy, how are we?

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If all bloggers are writers, and many writers are bloggers, how many of us are reviewers? I started reviewing 30 years ago and got paid for it. Just to add a little context.

Reviews are a thorny topic in the blogging authoring world.

I’ve been prowling around reading different views about reviews. And it’s not just authors. Book tour organisers have differing policies too.

It’s easy to see what an author wants. A great review, and if it’s star-rated, all five of them.

Good reviews, in theory, should sell books.

Let’s return to this later.

What does a reviewer want?

A free book? In return for a review? There is no obligation on anyone who buys a book to write a review. Nor, is there an obligation on someone who takes a free book on a promotional offer to write one, although courtesy would suggest it would be polite to do so.

From a reader’s perspective, I’ll write a review of say, a library book if I think it merits one, whether that is a good or bad review. A bad review is interesting to write because it needs far more thought.

And with my journalist hat on, if you are asking for reviews, especially to coincide with publication or a promotion, it is standard practice to provide a free copy. In olden days, this meant a paperback or hardback sent to the office and shared out at random. And if the editor didn’t want a review, you got to keep the book anyway. I’ve still got a few freebies kicking around.

At least ebooks/PDF mean that authors aren’t incurring the same costs when they send out Internet review copies.

What does a reviewer do?

If I say I’ll review your book, I will. No timescale guaranteed because I’m not getting paid. If you do have a particular date in mind for publication, I’ll try and meet it.

I try and be sympathetic to indie/self-pub/new authors. I admire them, it takes a lot to write a book and self-publish, plus there is one hell of a lot of competition out there.

However please do not expect five stars. I dish those out very, very, rarely. Dostoyevsky, Anne and Emily Bronte, and Oscar Wilde, for example get five stars on my goodreads page. If you think your work is as good as them please challenge my ratings, but four stars is normally as good as it gets. Think yourself lucky you don’t get one star like J K Rowling. Jane Austen doesn’t do well either.

The other issue though, is taking into account different genres. So if you write fantasy, you need to be on a par with Tolkien or Pullman to get five stars. Although clearly it doesn’t take much for you to beat Rowling. If you write satire, please consider whether you are more witty than Oscar Wilde.

But it’s impossible to compare a young adult book with a fantasy book with a romance novel with an espionage thriller with a mystery story with an absolute classic with… etc

So if you get four stars within your genre, count your four lucky stars.

I’ll normally review on my blog and then post a tidy version to goodreads. This does take time. So I’m reading a free book, which may or may not be good, and then taking the time to review it and post elsewhere. It’s a fair exchange. Maybe.

I do find books that end with ‘if you have enjoyed this book please write a review…’ slightly annoying though. It sounds whiney and almost desperate.

A selection of books I’ve featured on this blog (captions included)

Cruelty in Jane Eyre

My top three gardening books

A birthday treat to myself

Boy’s Own books

Laurie Lee’s fascinating trilogy

The reality of slavery

Hendrix, the star in Almost Dead

Bittersweet survival on Cold Mountain

Good reads

Four free books, plus publicity blurb, cute little bird postcard to bottom right that was a kiddy book

Bags of books

One of many bookcases

Good reviews and bad reviews

Here is the contentious part.

Two issues.

1) What if I genuinely don’t like a book? Badly written, poor plot, weak characters. Lousy style. Am I genuinely expected to write a wonderful review? Because I won’t.

2) Badly proofed/edited books are a nightmare. Simple as that. Does lack of editing deserve a down-grading, or at the least a mention in a review?

I have a professional issue at stake here. If I recommended a book that is badly written, poorly constructed, and unedited, it doesn’t exactly enhance my reputation or credibility.

Many authors, unsurprisingly, think errors shouldn’t detract from the review. If the plot is basically good, and it is well written, who cares about spelling mistakes, missing/incorrect punctuation, inconsistencies and faulty facts?

Well me, quite frankly. That does not for a good book make. It is not a good read if something jars every few pages.

So, I have two options. I write a review and point out the errors in public. Or I don’t write a review, and send an email. If I’ve received a free review copy I’ll usually take that road.

In terms of reviews, as a journalist I was being paid not just for book reviews, but concerts, plays, musicals, am-drams, anything. So we were expected to be honest. And, as with anything we wrote, we always had the chief reporter/news editor, subs, assistant ed/editor perusing our work and invariably criticising it. We weren’t just writing what we thought, we had to make sure our review was interesting enough for people to read.

I’m not changing my spots in gratitude for a free book. Nor am I prepared to write a one liner that says, ‘great book, really enjoyed this’. Where is the value in that? Seriously that is not a review.

You want an honest review or just promotional blurb? That’s called advertising.

Here are a couple of good reviews, not written by me, I hastily add.

Almost Dead in Suburbia

Miedo

Book tours

Which brings me onto these. A blogger signs up to take part in a book tour. This a marketing tool where bloggers agree to review a book and publish on a certain day. Or they interview the author. Or give the author a guest post. Or participate in giveaways. Or something.

The author pays the company for the tour. Bloggers may or may not get a token reward, not cash, after they have written a certain number of posts, but they basically provide free publicity to an author for which someone else gets paid for doing a few emails. Neat huh?

I looked at one. It didn’t allow negative reviews. Now from the perspective of promotion and PR I can understand that. But it griped me, so I opted for one that allows honest reviews. At least that is vaguely ethical.

The question is why do authors pay for book tours, when you can get reviews and interviews for free? Different market? Or maybe no-one will review your book? Or they take it and don’t review it. In which case, an author might ask, why haven’t people reviewed my book?

What does an author want?

Back to square one. Good reviews and sales.

What an author doesn’t want is a poor review. So if you don’t like their book, and say so, some authors get most cantankerous. I’m sure I would.

But there are valid negative reviews. If someone thinks the plot is poor, style is dull, they struggled to get past page 50 or 100, what is wrong with saying that? Authors seem to think the reader should plough through pages of dull mediocrity, because there is suddenly a riveting twist on page 252. I don’t think so.

I read one recently. I was bored with the banality, trivia, and generally poor execution. I wasn’t sure how much further I would go. I don’t see any advantage to an author in saying that.

So authors need to decide. Instead of moaning at buyers, or even worse, people who take advantage of cheap or free offers, for not posting reviews, do they really want a review at all costs?

I read a lot of books. I also don’t need to download free books that quite frankly, might be sheer garbage, when I have a perfectly good library across the road. But, as with anyone working in any field, it’s important to keep up with developments. And indie publishing – good and bad – is here to stay. All the world’s an author.

Let me give an example of an honest review for the above book.

I found X’s first novel appalling. To describe it as a novel is misleading. Even Woman’s Own or True Romance would have rejected it.

Firstly, do not ever publish something littered with so many grammatical errors. Punctuation was abysmal. In fact, it became more interesting looking for the next mistake rather than concentrating on the storyline.

Secondly, top tip, it is not a good idea to get the names of the main characters mixed up. Or to repeat phrases within consecutive paragraphs. Or to get timelines skewed. Or to use American words in a British novel because you have watched too much CSI. Or to include factual errors regarding criminal justice procedures

Thirdly, when even I can anticipate the plot, it is a no-win situation. I am slower on the uptake than a snail.

Some editors, me included, will not accept every commission. This isn’t about being precious. I would have agreed to proof this writing. But it didn’t just need editing, or even developmental editing, it needed a total re-write. Think ‘The cat sat on the mat’ in terms of literary style the whole way through. And plot as transparent as cling film.

The good thing about reading a very badly-written book, from my point of view, is that it provides a useful comparator for other books. So, because this was free, and I am a really nice person, I will probably send an email. This person does not read my blog, I add quickly, and my email will not reflect the above.

Seriously, do any authors out there really want a review like the example I have posted? I think not. But if you do, I’m sure I can manage one for you.

I will try and find good things to say about any book. However, when the negative outweighs the positive, or the lack of proofing/editing makes reading a chore, then I don’t post a review. And when I use a poor book as an example on here, I won’t name and shame. There’s no need.

So should punctuation/spelling/inconsistencies/factual errors affect a review?

After all, those little errors aren’t part of the plot and the style, and don’t affect the story. Sorry authors. If you were submitting such poorly finished work in school, well in my school at least, you would get 0/10, 2 or 3/10 if you were very lucky. And if you churned out such inadequately checked crap on a newspaper you would get the sack.

Like it or not, your manuscript full of errors is half-finished, half-baked, however you wish to describe it. When you get to The End, it is not The End by any stretch of the imagination. And if you think it is, you may end up with no reviews, poor reviews that mention errors, and few, if any sales.

I want lots of good reviews!

Why? Do you really think people plough through 361 five star reviews all saying the same thing before they decide to buy your book? Or is it because you want to get listed on BookBub?

A load of five star reviews just makes me think you have one very large family.

Or that you, your editor, and your publisher have a lot of mates.

One author recently complained that despite a load of great reviews, sales were poor. See, good reviews don’t always mean sales, sadly.

It’s a tough world. There is more to being an author than writing. That’s just the start. And probably the easiest part.

I’m reviewing… If all bloggers are writers, and many writers are bloggers, how many of us are reviewers? I started reviewing 30 years ago and got paid for it.

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I was dreading physio.

I felt as though another GA and op would be preferable.

The appointment was made. I counted off the days and decided each day would be an opportunity to practise a stagger/limp/hobble.

Except I didn’t. I decided every day was tomorrow and put off applying the splint, putting on a shoe, and attempting to take a step without falling over.

I wanted to enlist Partner’s help. He wanted to help in the morning. I wanted to practise in the evening when I’d had all day to psyche up to it.

But on the evening before the op/torture physio he obliged, so with one arm around his very strong shoulders supporting my operated leg, I took a few tentative steps.

The next day, around noon, we tried again. I stood up. OWWWW! and sat down immediately as the pain shot through my heel and up my leg.

My ambulance transport arrived and carried me out as efficiently as ever. ‘Physio?’ asked one I’d not seen before.

‘Yes. I’m not looking forward to it.’

‘It might not be that bad,’ he replied.

Huh. What does he know about an ankle broken on both sides, I thought. I looked out of the window and felt sick.

There is clear demarcation at the hospital entrance. The ambulance staff get a hospital wheelchair, bring it into the truck using the electric tail-lift, I hop in and they drop me just inside the door and demand that reception gets me a porter. Physio is about ten seconds away, but clearly ambulance staff do not pass reception. Same process on return. Porter dumps me at desk, reception calls for an ambulance.

Sadly, once in physio, I didn’t have long to wait.

A fit healthy-looking young man called my name and off we went to a curtained bay.

Now, part of the reason I was dreading this, was because back in hospital, before being discharged, my crutch experience was not good. Hopping on unstable crutches and with the handicap of a few extra kilos of plaster was not a success. I was wobbly, and hopping up steps was a disaster.

But luckily, he didn’t throw a pair of crutches at me and say, ‘Start walking’.

We did paperwork, discussed accident and op, and what I did in my spare time. Uh? What’s the relevance of that? I rattled off walking, swimming, cycling, reading.

‘We need to know so that we can get you to be able to cycle again.’ Ah.

‘We’re not just being nosy,’ he added.

Unlike Mr Doom and Gloom surgeon, he didn’t seem to find anything untoward with the current state of The Ankle.

‘Some swelling still, muscle wastage, all to be expected at this stage,’ he said.

And then I had to stand up, and lean on the bed and move from side to side.

At least he wasn’t having me running round the ward.

‘I’ll print out an exercise sheet, so you’ve got a record, don’t worry about remembering.’

Then I lay on the bed and we started on some exercises. I could live with this. I was definitely relaxed.

And when I was putty in his hands…

‘We need to get you walking. I’ll go and get some crutches.’

Oh. My bubble just popped.

Clever technique these physios. Charming, persuasive, supportive, and you WILL walk.

Totally different attitude to nurses, whose immediate urge is to look after you, and do everything.

Here – it’s actually the rehab department – the whole focus, unsurprisingly, is on getting you to do everything to regain independence. Nurses would take off my splint and put it back. In physio: ‘Can you take off your splint/put it on.’ It was an instruction disguised as a question.

So I did as I was told, put on the splint, shoes, and prepared for the worst. Except I didn’t fall over. Yes dear reader, I really did limp/hobble around the cubicle. I was rather pleased. And then he pulled the curtains aside to reveal the big wide ward. ‘Keep going,’ he said encouragingly. Mr Steel Fist in Velvet Glove.

Perhaps we were going on a trip around the hospital? I headed towards the door not daring to disobey. Just before the door, ‘Now start turning around in a big wide circle.’

I did that too. And off I limped back to the luxury of the wheelchair. Except I was in such a rush to escape from the crutches I was told off for not following the correct seating procedure. I was covered with shame, I offered to make amends.

‘Shall I do that again to practise?’

Velvet Glove looked slightly mollified. ‘Yes.’ So I did. Not the walk for goodness sake, just the up and down. But to be fair, he did explain why what I did was wrong, and that the correct way would avoid putting undue pressure on my shoulders.

And that was one of the good things about this session. He actually did take time to explain what each exercise would do, and which muscles would or should improve.

Back in the UK, say turn of the century, I went to see a physio about my back when I had sciatica. No X rays, just a GP referral. Physio decided my spine was like Quasimodo’s and I needed to realign it by leaning against door frames. Or walls. Once she had pronounced that, she cleared off leaving me to lean against something while she diagnosed other Quasimodos. The ward was probably full of ten or twenty of us all leaning against something while she was having a fag and a coffee break.

In Gib, I got 40 minutes personal attention from start to finish. He was thoughtful, helpful and supportive. He must do this day in, day out and get bored to tears, but I thought he was very good. We’ll see what happens next week, because oh yes, he wants to check on my progress and we can try stairs. Gulp.

Interestingly one neighbour was asking about my health with Partner and said he’d paid privately for his daughter’s physio because the hospital service was poor. I’ve only had one session but I certainly can’t criticise the service I received. And like anything, it’s luck of the draw who you are allocated in a state-funded service. Discussing this with Partner after my session, he muttered, ‘His daughter is fat. As gross as my sister was.’ I can imagine that might make physio difficult.

Wellington Front is the scene of the mishap. I finally found some photos that in true Blue Peter fashion, I had taken earlier. So here they are. Plus the evil perpetrator Snowy, good dog Pippa, (who at least never landed me in hospital on his various cat escapades), and some riveting ankle shots. Well, it is more or less riveted together. Captions on all photos if you hover or flick on the gallery mode.

Pippa

Snowy

A cross between a balloon and Marigold gloves. The latest Snowy must-have toy

Seventeen stitches on the right-hand ankle. Maybe the left one will look like that in 37 years time …

Steps up to Wellington Front

Defence works on Wellington Front

Wellington Front (more curtains?)

Not much of a barrier to save you from a 12ft drop

Gun emplacement – don’t fall down there either

And steps back down

I saw the same cheery chaps on my return ambulance trip.

I told the one he was right. 'It wasn't so bad, you were right. I should listen to my ambulance staff.'

'I broke both legs at once,' he added nonchalantly.

'Playing football?'

'No, jumping out of a parachute. I was in the Parachute Regiment.'

No wonder he looked at my piffling broken ankle without sympathy.

'I was walking in eight weeks, and running after twelve. Otherwise I'd have been out of a job. Mind over matter. They don't mind and I don't matter.'

And while mind over matter is a cliché, it is true in terms of recovery, as a number of you have reminded me.

Summer hours

Which brings me to the last part of the post. Gibraltar is now on its famous summer hours. This is where government and utility offices work even less hours than normal, and *some* shops but not all, also change their hours. This is so they can all enjoy summer and go to the beach. There is nothing consistent to it though. But if you want to get anything done between mid-June and September, the only safe hours are 10-12 noon. Otherwise you fall prey to bizarre and inexplicable opening hours.

Construction does not operate summer hours. Why would it? Makes far more sense for construction workers to be out in the heat of the day while oppressed air-conditioned office workers are released early to go down the beach.

In fact Partner’s firm did introduce summer hours once apparently. All the greedy Spaniards moaned about it, so it was scrapped.

However, I too will be on summer hours in an attempt to sort mind over matter and improve my rather feeble gait. And because I am frightened of my physio.

I have six sets of exercises to do four times a day, plus walking practice. That will be taking priority over blogging. I’ll be around intermittently as and when.

Have a lovely summer. Or winter if you are darn sarf of the Equator.

Summer hours I was dreading physio. I felt as though another GA and op would be preferable. The appointment was made.

[roughseasinthemed]

Saturday snippets from the sofa

Saturday snippets from the sofa

Our government tells us that we have a huge surplus, said one of Partner’s construction workmates who he met in the street.

I looked up the budget speech (held 30 June). That’s actually a GDP surplus, not a cash surplus of govt funds, which are of course, in debt. A few hundred million as I vaguely remember. Not that much for a small country, but rather a lot for a city of 30,000 people. The…

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