Writing on the sofa

Gloria and Lady Godiva, to give her her full name, no longer cuddle up on the sofa, perhaps because it now has a new overcoat. They still sit here, but not together. In the mornings, Godiva sits beside me and drapes herself over my left wrist, despite the fact that she gets jiggled up and down while I'm writing. Gloria sits on the cushion behind my back, gradually wearing a groove in it and occasionally eating my hair.

This is my new regime. I tried working at the kitchen table, but it was hopeless, so I went back to the office and my back suffered. So here I am in the sitting room, working on the sofa with the cats. It's slightly tidier in here, there are grapes and chocolates to hand and a vase of daffodils on the table. And I've actually got more done over the last few days than I have in the last month. I may well abandon the office for ever.

It reminds me of two things. One - the summer I spent with a cracked foot up on the sofa finishing a writing project and two - finishing the first Libby Sarjeant after Hazel Cushion had asked for it. I've always maintained that I needed a dedicated office space to work, and of course, in the past, I have. In our last house, my late husband and I actually had an office each once we'd chucked the two elder children out. Even before that, he had one and I worked in our large utility room. This was essential with four children with ages ranging over ten years, and my liking for working to music probably dates from that time - in order to block out extraneous noises.

But now I've realised I don't need it. I do have one returning child - the current slave - living with me, but he spends most of his time in his room composing music and poetry, only coming out to eat, take the bins out and get the coal in. And it's much more comfortable here, and surprisingly, less distracting. So - advice for writers. As if I'm qualified to give advice... Write where you're comfortable and not where you think you should. No, I'm not going to remind you of Jane Austin, but I might remind you of the opening line of my all-time favourite novel: "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink..."

New Year and New Books

Entertaining Death

Well, it's 2017. And next week, at the end of January, the second novella in The Alexandrians series will be out as an ebook.

I am also writing Murder By The Barrel, the eighteenth in the Libby Sarjeant series, which I have to deliver to Accent Press by June this year, and it has been borne in on me that I need to sort out my working life.

I  was beginning to feel a little better when I last updated this blog, but then I fell victim to a "severe bacterial chest infection". Most of the holiday period, from the week before Christmas until New Year is merely a blur. I managed to let the kids escort me to Lou's on Christmas Day, and had to be escorted him after about an hour and put back to bed. The combination  of The Back and The Chest was pretty grim, and I think there were times when the kids actually thought they might lose me. Poor Leo, over in New Jersey, certainly did. I got covert messages from his girlfriend asking if I was sure I was all right, as he was so worried.

Anyway - I'm recovering, although it appears I'm none too steady on my feet. Lou took Leo, Philly and I to see her at a very posh venue in London last week and I managed to fall over again, so I'm terrified of going out on my own. I honestly didn't think I was that old!

So I'm going to make life a bit easier by shutting down the newsletter. I threatened to do this a couple of years ago, and I shall email everyone on the list and ask them to keep an eye on the blog instead, which will have details of Lesley Cookman the Author and occasional details of Lesley Cookman the slightly strange intermittent actor, mother and grandmother.

To that end: I learnt this week that Accent Press want at least one more Alexandrian Novella, so now I've got to think of a story for it. Any ideas?

Update on The Back and Associated Problems

The Culprit

It is now almost four weeks since the cat tried to  kill me. After my last blog post, the surgery decided to send out another paramedic, and the result was a trip to hospital, driven by Lou, for Xrays. And a ride in a wheelchair! Phone call the following day from one of the doctors at the surgery (my own was on leave) to tell me "Sorry, Mrs Cookman, I'm afraid you have a fracture."

Since then, Miles has bought me a stick and I have only been able to attend one of the functions I was supposed to attend. Haven't been able to audition for the big production next year, nor go to the First Night performance and party of my friend Dr Evadne Hinge. My Big Launch Party in Wales on Thursday has had to be postponed.

I am very pleased Louise has offered to "do" Christmas at her house again, because I'd never lift the turkey out of the oven, and I'm even more pleased that I can do my present shopping online. But there are little lessons I learn every day. Some I can't write about, having due respect for my readers' sensibilities, but the biggest ones are: don't try and cut your medication too drastically and when you're feeling better, don't do silly things like changing the bed on your own. That sent me back to the sofa and the painkillers with a vengeance.

Today, in a final admission of weakness, Miles is coming round to move the office computer and the lovely big office chair which currently lives in the conservatory into the kitchen. I will be able to work.

Murder On The Run will be out on Thursday, and my author copies arrived last Friday. Some things are normal!

What I've learnt since damaging my back - a cautionary tale.

Last Tuesday, 1st November, I went to lunch and the theatre to see The Woman In Black with some friends. Thoroughly enjoyed myself, and it was just as well. That evening, on my way to bed, I was trying to shut the cats into the kitchen when one of them - the naughtier one, Lady Godiva - decided to have a game of hide and seek. Now both my sons have said since "How can you fall over a cat?" I put it to every cat owner I know: "How CAN'T you?"

I fell - and badly. Hit my head on the sink (butler) on the way down and landed on my right hip. It didn't occur to me at the time that I was - er - getting on a bit  and hips are a bit dodgy, especially with mild osteoporosis. I managed - somehow - to get to my feet and get upstairs to bed, aware that I was more or less in agony all over. By the morning I felt as though - well, actually, I don't know. I had to phone my poor son Miles to come and get me up - after all, the loo waits for no one. Luckily he lives round the corner. He stayed all day, collected a prescription for me (I phoned the doctor) cooked me dinner and generally made sure I was all right.

The following morning was very little better, and to my shame, I called daughter Louise in tears. She appeared very quickly (good job they are both musicians and not working during the day) and was there to let in the paramedic (yes, really) attached to our local GP practice who arrived to assess me. Torn back muscles is the diagnosis - and I was lucky.

So, what have I learnt? I have learnt that my children are wonderful (as if I didn't know that already) and that Facebook is terrific for keeping the immobilised in touch with the world. My friends have had to put up with inane postings every five minutes. I have also learnt that advice is freely given and not always appropriate, but nevertheless appreciated. My friend Suzanne and I both already knew this, as migraine sufferers we have received much well meaning advice in the past.

The other things I have learnt have been more practical. I regularly go and have my nails painted with gel polish, which does not respond well to ordinary polish remover. And I currently cannot go and have it removed, with the consequence that my nails look quite interesting at present. I cannot stand, so I find it difficult to cook anything - and peeling potatoes! Well. I haven't been able to wash my hair. As someone who has tried, despite age, to keep looking presentable, this a blow. I have to throw the cats' bowls at them as I can't bend down. I couldn't put the bin out. (Enter Miles again.) I can't get up and attend to a sudden banging noise - or to anything else. And I'm dead worried about other things which are coming up - looking after the grandchildren next Sunday while Louise does a Children In Need event with Len Goodman at The Waldorf, going to an audition, going to a friend's special birthday dinner and going down to Wales for my special publisher's party. Will I be able to travel by then?

I also discovered that constant pain is very wearing and actually makes you feel ill. It affects the ability to concentrate and has therefore put the writing of the next book on hold, although as we have a nice long deadline that isn't too much of a problem.

And one thing that surprises me, I hate the fact that I can't do the automatic tidying or sink cleaning that we all do all the time, even if we aren't great at housework. (I'm not.) I can't pick things up. I can't reach up to hook my dressing gown on the back of the bedroom door. I can't make up the fire.

I have a much better appreciation of those people confined to a wheelchair permanently, like my friend Caroline, and I want a zimmer. And I was touched at how many people, some of whom I haven't known long or well, offered genuine help.

And another thing - are you still reading? - I have been presented in a variety of ways with several - yes, several - plot ideas. One involving Thames mud. (Courtesy of Judy Astley.)

And actually had a real think about my own books and writing style. It don't 'arf focus the mind, damaging the back. Or it does when the mind clears enough to think properly.

Today, I am dressed. It took forty minutes to do it, but I do feel better for it. I am just about to make the difficult journey from sofa to kitchen and find something to eat. And now I've written this blog post, I almost feel like having another go at the next book.

Oh - and I forgot the side effects of three different sorts of pain-killers...