Novel Feedback – part one

The kids are reading my children’s novel. Picture the scene. Side-by-side at a lap-top, wide-eyed, staring. An hour later, they are still there! That’s when I work out that we might be onto something. And, sure enough, that something is You-Tube.

Now there is feedback in its own right, but you sometimes need something more helpful. Luckily, I stumbled upon the Sheffield Novelists, who used to meet in an ‘Old Man’s Pub.’ You know: bar-stools, beer-mats, dart-board, that sort of thing. Landlord who said ‘it’s nice to see you’ and invited last orders before shouting ‘Time!’ We swapped 3000-word submissions before the session and gave each other the sort of feedback we’d hopefully have liked to receive, which was nice.

Unfortuantely, there were two blows: losing our venue was less devastating than you’d think, because the awesome Anne, a Sheffield writer, moved the whole endeavor online. My second blow was when my memory failed. There are precious few advantages. One is that I can read someone’s second draft of a scene, as if I’m reading it for the first time. But then they say, ‘did you like that ending better than last month?’ – and you’ve no idea. Or worse, you agree to host an in-the-flesh meeting and then you completely forget that they’re coming…… and the toilet needs cleaning….. =

For quite a long time, I couldn’t remember what I’d read before meetings, let alone the names of other authors, characters, or the back-stories of the novels. I regularly forgot to submit things, or to read one or other of the pieces. Worse than that, one Guy – let’s call him guy – who rarely goes to meetings and has mostly an internet presence – has the same colour hair and the same first name as another guy we’ll call Guy, who does go to meetings but has no internet presence at all. I know one the second guy very well – and so do my kids – where as I have a vague idea that I offended the other guy once rather badly, when my memory was newly atrocious. You remember the feelings, but not the facts. Anyway, my stupid brain keeps refusing to split them into two separate people.

The Facebook Guy is publishing a book. I send encouraging messages and accept a ticket to the launch. I share a social-media post encouraging others to go along too. You might have seen this coming, but I did not: my social-media post liberally praised the previous writings of the other Guy. I got a very polite email putting me right, my heart dropped through my feet and I will be going to his launch with a bag on my head. I would try to tell the funny story to strangers I meet at the launch, but for some reason squirmy stories about your own memory difficulties are never a very good ice-breaker, and I think Guy might have been quite offended.

Anyway, last night was the Sheffield Novel-Slam. It’s a massive event, like Strictly Come Dancing for writers. You have to give your novel a name and a first line. Then you have to read a one-minute long pitch. After that, there’s a vote and the best few get to read a few pages. The judges give their feedback and then crown the winner.

But what’s notable about Strictly is that the contestants are already entertainers and public speakers, where as writers are generally people who can happily spend days alone with their laptop. So I arrived at the novel-slam and there was a small group of people who knew each other at every table. I took a deep breath, picked one with a few empty seats, went over and muttered something like ‘Hi – can I come and be friendly?’ – and the nearest woman said something all in a rush, along the lines of yes, you can sit here, but – erm politely and all that – I’m not all that friendly. Actually I’m really nervous so I’m sorry if I don’t talk to you.’

And some people might be offended by this, but I genuinely wasn’t. In fact, the first thing I thought was – thank f***.

A boring resolution

Tiddler

So it has been Christmas. A desert island of time between the scheduled routines of our normal. A desert and yet also, an oasis. An adventure. A rich and shifting kaleidoscope of faces, stories, colour, laughter and love.

The kids tore through the wrapping of all those pain-stakingly assembled presents. Wine was drunk, music was heard, food was demolished. Loved ones were seen; loved ones were missed. Hugs were exchanged, walks were taken, films were watched, tears were shed. Once again, Alan Rickman gave that necklace to that woman.

Tiddler disappeared into new, exciting books. Toddler spread pieces of a lego model all over the kitchen floor and then, forbidding us to touch it, settled down to read a book too.

I always take comfort from the Michael Macintyre sketch. This one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10oH0genGSA I like it because at Christmas, it isn’t just me. Nobody knows what day it is, or even what time. Time expands and contracts – like a worm, or perhaps a lump of modelling clay. Just like clay, our memories dry out once we’ve shaped them until, looking back, it’s difficult to tell how things actually, originally, stood.

Anyway, 2021s clay is already drying out and I am back to the frustration of working out how to change my life. The need is particularly acute this year; I’ve heard myself tell hubby in various strained voices that I could live another forty years yet and I don’t want to be “stupid” for any more of them. That there’s no way my useful life can be finished so soon; that I’m exhausted making changes that are supposed to help, and yet, don’t.

And yet, I must change. There are so many ways that I want to. To be slimmer, natch, with better blood sugar control. Better looking, better dressed; more hygienic, less awkward. Nicer to spend time with. Far less prone to running round like a mad thing, trying to put right the latest thing I’ve forgotten and in the process making three more mistakes. It would be nice to be less preoccupied with trying to sort out my own basics.

I’ve mentioned Tim Minchin’s motivational graduation speeches previously in this blog. (Watch this one here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yoEezZD71sc ). I always love an idol who does a decent motivational speech and I’m a sucker for a rebel with mad hair. However, I can almost guarantee that it won’t be Tim you are watching; the expressions of the guy sitting behind him are fantastic.

Meanwhile, Tim explains that if there’s something you wanna do – like, in your heart – you should go for it, but that for the rest of us, there’s commitment to short-term goals. This seems to be an excellent philosophy for life and in Tim’s case at least, I think he follows his through.

So why don’t I? It used to be lack of time. Now that I have a brain injury and am homebased, it’s still lack of time, because so much time is wasted in the persual of small objects. The elusive head of First Busses knows my name, after the vast number of times that I’ve stormed his office (there’s no other way to get into his office), looking for various things. Last week, I beat the tram from the kid’s school where it dropped me off, to the stop at the end of the line. I retrieved my phone. And a hearty ‘well done’ from the conductor who had saved it for me, and watched my manic sprint through the window. I have cancelled my bank-card so many times that they won’t give me new ones now; I borrow my husband’s instead and only carry money when I need it. This Christmas I must have spent days at a time looking for a tiny gold ring – which my son’s trumpet teacher eventually found in his house (apparently I’d already told him that I had dropped it there). I was so pleased to get a text this new year, that I ran to find my hubby to tell him. But when I did track him down and got out the phone, I couldn’t remember which message I’d been planning to show him.

Anyway, enough of that – because life doesn’t have to be like this. This year’s resolution is simply to act better in the moment – to pocket check at the appropriate moments, to remember what I have with me. Not to get distracted, but to write things down and do the right thing, and so to cope with whatever’s coming next. That includes the practical fact of trying to cope with small objects. Trying to cope with my diet, my sugars and whatever meal’s coming up. All the things I find boring.

I believe it’s called ‘organization’ and it has been around for years. Before my memory abandoned me, I did enough to roughly know where I needed to be and when, but even then I could never be accused of over-planning. And yet it didn’t matter, back then! I could usually wing it.

My sister in law, on the other hand, has a reputation in our family as being a master of planning. She is so absolutely, enviably good at planning anything that I automatically start dragging my feet and sighing like a child when she organizes me. I would like to apologize for that right now, because to my permanent frustration, whatever she suggests always turns out later to have been an excellent idea.

Organization is a necessary evil for me now and I just need to embrace it. Although I am nearly forty years old, I might have just as long again left to live. To do things with, not to be useless in. I’ve always been defined by what I do and so, I need a way to move on.

Watch this space, as I work on more routines and find and an efficient way to use my diary, and – most of all – to keep track of small objects. If not looking for things doesn’t free up more brain-space and time, nothing will.

First Busses, then Bank-cards

(a day in the frustrating life of a Mum with no short-term memory)

It all began towards the start of the week, when I was told by the bus-driver that if I didn’t have a driving-license or passport, then he couldn’t give me a week’s bus-pass (it would have saved me a considerable amount of money).

What’s more, when he told me this, he had already sold me a bus-pass without mentioning as much; indeed, I had already paid, on my card. The bus-driver denied this outright. As you know, I have a memory deficit, so I then doubted myself and decided to believe him. I paid some more money which he put on a different sort of plastic card, which would help me to get around that week.

Stupidly, he then handed me the receipt. The receipt showed very clearly that I had actually just paid twice. I showed him. He didn’t apologize; he said that he couldn’t refund it; that I’d have to go to the Office.

I went to the transport Office. They couldn’t help me, because the particular Sheffield bus company we were dealing with, which shall of course remain anonymous, are apparently no longer associated with the transport Office in Hillsborough. Despite selling their bus tickets and giving their travel information, and their probably being one of the main bus companies in Sheffield. They couldn’t help me with any associated queries. I asked where the bus company’s own offices were. They gave me directions.

I walked into town from Hillsborough. I got lost. The Bus Head-quarters is very inadequately signed. I went somewhere to buy some chocolate. After that, I felt sick as well as cross. I tried again.

Anyway; I found the Office in the end, which didn’t have signs around most of the building. I identified it by finding a lot of bus-drivers gathered around the back entrance, who showed me how to get to the front. The women at reception told me that there wasn’t a customer service desk and that I wouldn’t be allowed in. I went back to the jovial bus-drivers on their fag-break. They said, once again, that the public were not allowed in. I told them that it was pretty important that I saw the man in charge, please (I’m afraid I rather assumed that it would be a man; luckily, I was right). One of them made the mistake of saying his name. Now that I had the name, I demanded quite assertively to see him. Eventually, probably hoping for a bit of sport, one of the men smuggled me in.

The boss was middle-aged, grey-haired, blue-eyed, shirted – and couldn’t have cared less as I argued my case very clearly and held up two receipts to show that i was right. Mindful of the twenty-odd bus-drivers on their fag-breaks, all watching, he let me into his Office.

He said that he couldn’t help me; what did I expect? If he had a customer service office, people would be queueing up to complain about things. Didn’t I know how much trouble he’d have when everyone lost their teddies or their umbrellas? And people – he didn’t mean me at all – trying to get extra money out of him, saying the drivers had given them the wrong bus-ticket? People would say anything, didn’t I know.

I told him about my problem with the tickets. He said you just couldn’t get the staff to do their jobs properly. Cheating people, left right and centre they were, the bus drivers in this company. All their fault. He told me he was leaving at the end of the month, and asked how was he supposed to control these men, who were a law unto themselves. He also took my receipt off me showing that I’d paid twice, and gave me a card with some money on it. I could just show the drivers the card, and they’d take me to where i wanted to go. I asked how long the card would last me; he said it would last me a week.

Now. I should have blown my top. I should have explained that I was here in the first place because I had already paid once for that very same service and the money had been taken twice. But by then I was exhausted and I gave up, which undoubtedly was what he had wanted. I ranted at him directly for a couple of minutes longer and then I cut my losses and walked out.

I had to go to Lush, to buy a bath-bomb for my daughter’s birthday. I came to the point of paying and my card wasn’t in my hand-bag. I wondered about this for two minutes; had I forgotten and left it at home (I do forget things?)

But no; I still had the receipt for the chocolate on me. I had definitely paid with a card. So I must have lost my card. Luckily, I found some cash to buy the bath-stuff. I went straight to the bank.

The woman in the bank was very kind. She showed me how to put a temporary stop on the card. She had had a neuro injury herself, she said – and she helped me feel better. While I was talking to her, I realised something; not only did I no longer have my bank-card, but I no longer had the bag with my kids’ swimming stuff in it either, for after-school swimming lessons. I went back to Lush. They know about customer service there and knew that I definitely hadn’t left a bag in there earlier.

Oh, pants. I must have left it in the bus Office with the horrible man. I really didn’t want to go back. On the other hand, I needed my bank-card. Back I went. I knew who to ask for and I asked very firmly. The people at the door said I couldn’t possibly have seen him previously, or been in. Obviously, it was quite an achievement to have got as far as I’d got. But how could I manage it twice?

In the end, to my surprise, the Boss Man came outside. He denied having my bag and said I couldn’t go in and look for it. I asked him how he knew he didn’t have it. I explained that I’d gone to another room before finding my way to his office. I said that I wanted to look there. He wouldn’t let me in. Another man was trying to tell him something, from inside the corridor. I said very firmly that he needed to go and look for my bag please, and that I would wait here.

Then I lost it. I said I was supposed to be taking my kids swimming tonight and that they’d lose out because I didn’t have the bag, and that I couldn’t even buy them fresh swimming stuff because it had got my bank-card in it. He looked a little bit guilty when I said that (I knew he hadn’t looked before) and went back to look, telling me as he did so that it wouldn’t be there.

‘Great!’ I thought. ‘Now you won’t give me my bag back, even if you do find it.’

Quite honestly, I didn’t even expect to see him again. Fewer bus-drivers were hanging around now. The ones that were there were carefully avoiding my eyes. I told them what I thought of the bus company.

But he did come back. ‘There’s no bag,’ he said. But he had found my bank-card. He gave it back to me.

I looked at him for a very long minute. It didn’t make sense. How did he have my bank-card if he hadn’t had my bag?

I stood for a moment, torn between shouting a lot of abuse and stamping on his shiny business shoe. Instead, bemoaning my own lack of feistiness, I heard myself thanking him in a rather hysterical voice and then leaving.

I went to Morrisons. Luckily they had a sale on. I managed to pick up swimming costume and trunks for the kids at a decent price. And a snack. Didn’t have a towel; they’d have to drip dry. I got to the counter. Of course, those who have been following carefully, won’t be surprised to learn that my card was declined.

I put the kids’ snack back on the shelves, thinking we’d acquire some food from somewhere, and literally scraped out my handbag. Put Tiddler’s swimming-trunks back in favour of pound-land ones, which would be cheaper. Now, I had exactly the right cash.

I arrived at school crying; swimming stuff in hand but no snack. The kids asked me what was up. I explained about losing their swimming stuff, and having to buy them emergency new ones.

‘Are you sure you had our swimming stuff with you?’ asked Tiddler.

‘Well I must have done!’ I told them. ‘We packed it into a bag this morning, remember.’

Tiddler started laughing. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘that was yesterday. There isn’t any swimming tonight. We told you that twice, this morning. Oh, and it was (insert classmate here’s) birthday today and they bought us all cakes. So don’t worry; we’ve already got a snack.’

‘And I’ve been asking you to get me a bigger swimming cossie for ages,’ says Toddler, ‘And you keep forgetting. So actually I’m really pleased. Mine was getting too tight.’

‘Oh!’ I said, blinking. ‘I suppose that’s worked out okay, then. What shall we do now?’

‘Simple,’ said Tiddler. ‘Let’s eat our snack in the park. Then later, Dad can show you how to undo the stop on your card.’

We did that.

Lockdown: a brain update

Lockdown.  I am almost ashamed to admit that like it.

I know.

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

I’m not usually a home-loving type; indeed, as a family we mostly use our house to dump stuff between going out.  Where most people have plains of open carpet, we have piles of lego, books, craft materials, discarded food and washing.  Furthermore I’m confirming something I’ve long suspected;  that no matter how much time I have in my life, there still isn’t time for much housework.  Dull people have immaculate houses, surely?

No:  what Is good about lock-down is that my world is currently so small, that my newly inferior brain can actually cope with it.  Or rather, my world hasn’t shrunk all that much, but everyone else’s has shrunk down to meet it.  I do miss running and volunteering and coffees and gossip with friends, but I rarely need to remember where I’m meant to be, when.  I don’t even have to set alarms for the school run.

Even so, there are still opportunities for my memory to take me unawares, not least when remembering kids schoolwork.  There’s nothing more frustrating to watch a kids’ elaborate efforts to keep your mind off something they don’t want to study, while knowing full well that you can’t remember what it is.

Last night I sent a blog off to someone I write for;  when they replied encouraging me to send them some more, I immediately and enthusiastically sat down right away and fired off another wonderful blog.  When I looked back, it turned out to be on an extremely similar subject to the one I’d just sent them and I hadn’t even noticed.  Another day I was tipped off on Facebook about a fantastic veterinary webinar that covered lots of things that I needed to know for my novel.  I even sent the woman a lovely email thanking her.  The next day, having erased the webinar completely from mind, I typed a Facebook post in the same group, asking the main question that had been covered in the webinar.  The same woman very patiently answered it.  It was only when I put two and two together that I realised she must have thought I was particularly thick….  which immediately led to another dilemma.  I toyed with the idea of sending a message:  ‘don’t mind me, Dr.-really-kind veterinary expert;  it’s not that you didn’t explain it really well first time;  it’s just that I’m faintly brain-damaged…..’   Sometimes, I think that the more you talk, the more it seems like you’re digging.

Anyway, today is hubby’s birthday.  I’m not sure I’ve managed to find all the birthday presents that I had secreted around the house, but he can enjoy the little extra bit another time, when I remember what it is and where I have put it.   I made him a chocolate birthday cake with one of the kids, but from the texture when it came out, I think I must have put milk in twice.  We dealt with this by eating it immediately, still warm with yogurt as a pudding, to celebrate his birthday eve.  Then toddler and I went shopping and bought a swiss roll, which we covered in chocolate.  We have birthday cake for breakfast in our family these days:  happy times.

But much happier that my brain is still free enough that I know what I had for breakfast this morning.  I know what I did yesterday, and even some details about the kids homework.  And I remember where the most presentable bit of house is, for making video calls.  And of course, whenever I lose something, I’m surrounded by my long-suffering family.

I know it’d be selfish to be happy about that, but I’ve suddenly got what I need.