Elizabeth's Page

Chain Letter with Currants

2011-06-25T07:49:00.003+01:00

Ten days ago, a dear friend knocked on our door and proudly handed my husband a small food container and a sheet of instructions. This was our introduction to Herman, the Friendship Cake. Like the ginger beer factory that was doing the rounds when I was a child, it's a yeast mix that needs to be nurtured for several days, fed occasionally, then split into portions - one to be used and the remainder to be handed on to other 'lucky' recipients.

Our heads told us to quietly put it in the bin. Our hearts told us this would be unfeeling and unfriendly. So, we poured Herman into a bowl, grabbed a wooden spoon - and started stirring. Ten days of arguing and worry had begun. To start with, it was just a case of investing a little time - stirring every day and admiring the bubbles that started rising to the surface on day 2. Then on day 4, we were faced with feeding the thing: milk, sugar and self-raising flour. We have a cupboard full of plain flour and different bread flours - but hadn't bought any self-raising flour for years - so bought a small bag specially for this.

Now we'd started investing more than just our time, we faced the fact that in less than a week we would have 5 little Hermans to deal with. I started asking friends if they would like a portion - not wanting to put them on the spot at the last minute. And that's when I found that this thing was sweeping through our little town; everyone I spoke to knew about it - and most of them had already killed at least one so far.

In the middle of one of the busiest work-weeks of the year, I found myself taking time out to try and decide what to do. Flushing down the loo was still a favoured option, but that would mean wasting the ingredients we'd used so far. At one point, I suggested cooking all 5 portions and donating the extras to the church produce stall - until we realised this would involve 15 eggs plus copious amounts of flour, sugar, fruit etc.

I managed to get one friend to agree to take 2 portions - and if she's reading this, going away for the weekend is not a good enough excuse - they'll be waiting for you when you return.

After a second feed on day 9 - yet more milk, sugar and flour, we came to the final stage. At an ungodly hour this morning, we separated it all into different boxes and kept one portion back. As I weighed out the final set of ingredients - trying to ignore the part of my brain that was adding up all the sugar in this thing - I had one final moment of lucidity. There's still time to end this madness. Don't crack those eggs; put the flour back in the cupboard - but too late. As I write this, I can smell cinnamon - it's almost like Christmas. The cake is rising beautifully - and we may even get to share some of it with the friend who started this whole thing for us.

My parents warned me about chain letters when I was very small; I have no problems with hitting the delete button on every petition, sympathy call or other electronic device to draw me in. My head still wonders why we got pulled in to this one. I'll ponder it anew later over a cuppa - with maybe just a little slice of cake.

Anyone fancy giving a home to little Herman?

Literary Festivals

2011-05-22T16:43:00.004+01:00

In July 2009, I stood in the sunshine at Dartington Hall and listened to Kay Dunbar describe how Ways With Words had grown from tiny beginnings into the hugely successful event it is today.

We could do with something like that in Chudleigh, I thought!

One month later, at the launch party for Chudleigh Writers' Circle, I suggested we might want to publish our own anthologies at some point - and that we might even have our own literary festival one day. Well - be careful what you wish for!

In November 2010, just in time for the Christmas trade, we published Lavender Chickens, an anthology of work by members of CWC. We have 20+ members and nearly everyone contributed to this anthology. We got a great thrill out of seeing our names in print - and spent our launch day busily passing round copies for everyone to sign. Sales are going well and we may even need to go for a reprint in time for the 2011 Christmas Fayre.

Now, less than two years since that sunny day in Dartington, plans are in full swing for the first Chudleigh Literary Festival. Wanting it to be a real celebration of words, we are catering both for writers and readers. The flyers are ready, tickets are being printed and plans are being made for refreshments and a book store. It will be a tiny event compared with Ways With Words - no competition at all - but from little acorns etc etc.

I will be at Dartington as usual this year, enjoying listening to all the authors - and also picking up tips. The new kid on the block is going to be a fast learner.

Full details of the Chudleigh Literary Festival can be found at: www.chudleighphoenix.co.uk

For details of Ways With Words, see: www.wayswithwords.co.uk

Doing the Maths Helps Clear the Block

2011-01-19T07:26:00.002Z

So there I was, stuck on chapter 8 of a textbook I'm writing with a colleague in the US. He'd written part of this chapter and I needed to finish it. I had no idea what I was going to write or where the words would come from. It seemed a huge task and I felt myself starting to panic.

Then I attended an Arvon Foundation course where one of the tutors was author Richard Beard (http://richardbeard.info). He talked to us about structure and the way maths comes into the planning of his books.

Back home, I looked at the number of words I already had and the number I needed to complete the chapter. Then I did some research, reminding myself of all the things I'd forgotten I knew about the subject. I listed the points I could make and calculated the number of words I needed to write about each point. It was surprisingly few.

Four hours later the chapter was finished, edited and winging its way across the Atlantic for my colleague to review. Bringing a bit of left-brain thinking to a right-brain activity seems to have worked. Now to tackle the other chapters I've been trying to ignore!

What about you? What devices or structures do you use to help you plan your writing?

Manners, Ladies

2009-11-21T10:21:00.003Z

One of the things about moving to the country is that I spend lots of time driving through narrow village streets or country lanes. There are frequent stops to let oncoming traffic through. Inevitably, a larger vehicle causes frantic backing-up (when I usually end up in the hedge!).

All this manoevering is generally done with good humour. A little wave of thanks is exchanged - and everyone drives on with a smile on their faces. Just occasionally, there is no wave, no smile - no acknowledgement that I've stopped to let someone pass. Invariably, these people are women. As a woman myself, I find that galling. We're all busy - we all have lots going on in our lives - but a second of courtesy costs nothing. Come on ladies, where are your manners?

Swanwick Day 3: Transfering A Memory

2009-08-12T17:29:00.002+01:00

It was Sunday, lunchtime, the last week in June. The sun was strong, the sky cloudless and deep blue. Crowds strolled along each bank of the river in Ljubljana. Stall holders watched their stock lazily from under parasols. It was too much effort to pull in the punters. There was a buzz of conversation and occasional shouts of laughter from the crowded bars.

We were having lunch in our favourite restaurant. We shared a bottle of cool local wine, young and with a greensih tinge. There was a large wooden platter on the centre of the table with local hams, cheeses and olives, both green and black. The sour taste of the olives complimented the wine beautifully.

"You know we're going to lose our buyers, don't you?" he said.

The thought of losing the wonderful converted barn we'd discovered in Dorset was too much for me to bear.

"I don't suppose you'd consider buying the new house before we've sold the old one?" I whispered

Swanwick Day 2 - To-Do Spidergrams

2009-08-11T07:42:00.005+01:00

I've always been highly organised - or anally retentive, as an unkind colleague once described me. One of my delights is writing To-Do lists, in the form of spidergrams. On trains, on planes, in hotels - each time I feel my busyness overwhelm me, I make another list.

Best of all are the ones I prepare in my own office, with coloured pens on flip-chart paper - blue-tacked to the wall for all to see. I use them as a plan of what must be done and a record of what has been achieved. I've even been known to add completed tasks (which I'd forgotten to list previously) to the list, so I can immediately cross them off.

My lists encompass the day job, creative writing and personal life and are written in code. The latest one has headings of: Writing, Party; HIS work; CWC; NAWC; CBG and Swawnwick. I make mini-lists on a daily basis, taking critical tasks off the master list.

Once while on a business trip, I got a call from a client to say a project I'd assumed to be cancelled was not only back on, but also pulled forward. Tears rolling down my face, I told my partner I couldn't do it all. He just sighed, pull a blank sheet of paper towards him and picked up a pen. 'Let's make a list' he said.

It has been suggested that making lists is a substitute for getting things done (like sharpening your pencils instead of doing homework). That can't be true - my list is different every time I draw it. Nevertheless, it doesn't seem to get any shorter.

Swanwick Summer School - Day 1

2009-08-10T09:23:00.002+01:00

It hardly seems a year since the diamond jubilee, but here we are again at Swanwick for the 61st Writers' Summer School. After 6 hours of hell on the M5 last year, we let the train take the strain this time - along with half the inhabitants of the West Country.

During the 'Writing Autobiography' course on day 1, we were tasked to write a mini-memoir in just 50 words - much harder than writing it in 500. Here is my attempt:

"The woman in pink blocked the aisle as the packed train set off. Absent-mindedly wrestling with the Yorkie in her arms and chatting to her seated companion, she ignored my attempts to reach my friends. I shrugged, found an empty seat, put my feet up on my case - and waited."

Sunshine and Sausages

2009-08-10T09:17:00.002+01:00

My play-project finally matured on 01 August. Sunshine and Sausages, an e-book on how to organise and run a successful summer garden party, was launched. You can find it at www.elizabethducie.co.uk.

The objective of the project was not just to write and publish a book, but also to learn about the technology. In two months I wrote, laid out and illustrated the book, developed my new website and mastered the art of PayPal buttons.

Thanks to John Williams of Creative Maverick (www.creativemaverick.com) for the original suggestion and for encouragement along the way.

Now for my next project....

Dartington Literature Festival

2009-07-18T08:51:00.002+01:00

Coming to the end of a week spent at Dartington, soaking up a real cocktail of talks and book reviews. My highlights of the festival were A C Grayling for erudition and a distinguished head of grey hair; James Lovelock for looking like my father - and for the twinkle in his eye when he talked about his many opponents; Michael Buerk for a wicked, non-PC view of the world, with which all his audience empathised; and Ben Crystal for showing us Shakespeare and the Iambic Pentameter in a totally different light.

However, for me the most memorable session was with two newly published authors: Edward Hogan and Anna Richards. Ed has recently won the Desmond Elliott prize for his first novel Blackmoor and Anna was long-listed for the same prize for her first novel, Little Gods. They each read a short piece from their books and talked about the long journey to first publication (best part of 10 years in both cases). Their humility, humour and willingness to offer advice to other aspiring novellists was a breathe of fresh air.

Best Job In The World

2009-07-04T08:45:00.002+01:00

Sitting at my desk yesterday with doors wide open to let in the sun. Bees buzzed around the oregano patch and hover flies hovered in the fennel. Massive dragon fly dwarfed the damsel flies and butterflies abounded. A beatiful bull-finch graced my bird feeder for ages, distracting me from the text of 'Sunshine and Sausages' (which is nearly complete). The stream played a very gentle melody in the background - but had just enough water to stop the ducks grazing their bums on the floor. Tennis match commentary ran quietly at my shoulder.

And the guy on the Pacific island thinks he's got the best job in the world?

Summer Solstice

2009-06-21T12:44:00.002+01:00

Up at 04:00 this morning, then on Hay Tor at 05:00 to greet the sun and the official start of summer. Lots of other people there, plus a few calves who seemed very upset at the sight of all these people in their bedroom so early in the morning. Horizon was cloudy, so we didn't see the actual moment of sunrise, but pink tinges among the grey prefaced a beautiful golden globe which appeared about five minutes later.

Fourteen of us back home for breakfast; sitting in the garden in the sunshine before 09:00 - hopefully a good omen for the rest of the season.

BBQ Book and Living in the Country

2009-06-17T07:49:00.002+01:00

BBQ book: Work continues apace. I have all the chapters mapped out and the software in place. Now all I have to do is get writing. I'm hoping summer in the northern hemisphere will be good enough to warrant lots of outdoor parties - although the book is just as applicable to indoor events.

Living in the Country: I've realised I'm finally completely comfortable with life in the country. I went into the village yesterday without worrying about the fact that my bag was navy/cream and didn't match my black shoes. Such a trivial thing, but not something I would have considered doing when living in the South East. What are your indicators that you are comfortable living where you do?

Ice-Rink Chapters Posted for Review

2009-06-14T09:13:00.003+01:00

I've posted the first three chapters of Gorgito's Ice-Rink on the YouWriteOn website: http://www.youwriteon.com/authors/publicprofile.aspx?userid=E+Ducie Feel free to drop by and have a read.

If you join YWO as a reader, you can leave a formal review of what you have read. Alternatively, just leave a comment on this site or drop me an email. I'd really appreciate some feedback.

Some days it feels like this is a great piece of writing - most of the time, it doesn't. Let me know what you think.

Picking a Play Project / Novel Update

2009-06-12T07:51:00.005+01:00

e-book Launch: I've been reading the Creative maverick site (http://www.creativemaverick.com/2009/06/pick-a-play-project) and decided to have a go at my own Play Project. I've been toying with the idea of writing an e-book on organising and holding a successful summer BBQ party - after all, we've been doing it every two years for the past couple of decades. So, the toying stops here.

Official Announcement: Launch date for my first e-book: 01 August 2009

Novel Update: 4,000 words rewritten, expanded and tidied up as chapters 1 and 2. So that's 'Teaching the Russians the Hokey-Cokey' and 'Russia's Answer to Harry Lime' sorted. Only 96,000 words to go. Boy, is this hard.

Sod's Law and Banking

2009-06-10T08:17:00.003+01:00

In January, I got a cheque from the tax man (and that's not something we can say very often). Interest earned on a bill I'd paid a few days before its due date, it didn't amount to much - slightly less than £10 in total. Not wanting to lose too much in bank charges, I held off from paying it into my account, hoping for another one to keep it company and make the transaction worthwhile. Of course, these days very few people use cheques, so none arrived. Finally yesterday, with the six-month deadline looming, I gave in and deposited it. Returning from my visit to the bank, what did I find in the post, but a cheque for just over £10 - this time a refund from BA for a fuel overcharge on a flight taken some years ago. So now I'm back to square one. Sod's Law is alive and kicking.

Also on the subject of banks, I see in the news that borrowers are not getting a fair deal from our financial institutions. Enquiring yesterday about interest rates from the Treasury department of a well-known High Street bank, I was quoted 0.01%. I'm not sure savers are getting a fair deal either. Have our banking friends learned nothing?

Rain Didn't Stop Play

2009-06-07T14:03:00.001+01:00

In 1309, Edward II granted Walter Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter a charter for the town of Chudleigh, permitting a weekly market and an annual fair. Being Devon, it may well have been raining. It certainly rained at times this weekend, when the people of Chudleigh celebrated the 700th anniversary of the charter. However, this didn’t dampen the spirits and a truly memorable occasion was laid on by the local History Group.

The weekend started with two contrasting events on Friday evening. The entertainment was presented in a packed marquee, with audience spilling out on to the grass. First there was a recital by Media Vita (Colin Avery and friends) of music with a medieval flavour. This was humorous and serious by turn and included the opportunity for the audience to have a go at part-singing.

This was followed by ‘The Quest for Salvation’ the latest offering from the Chudleigh Repertory and Performance Society. Their explanation of how the charter was granted started plausibly enough with the demand from the Norman king for 20% tax. However, it quickly moved to the realms of fantasy with talking deer, a witch and a giant dragon which had stolen the king’s daughter. The most memorable parts were the drinking song (where the whole cast started in time and in harmony and ended up in drunken disarray) and the point where the hero’s spear lit up like a medieval light sabre.

Saturday was the main day of the celebration. During a day of torrential rain, the marquee was transformed into a marketplace with stalls selling craft items, honey and wax products, local cheeses and home-made cakes. The History Group did a brisk trade in copies of the recently-published ‘Chudleigh Book’. Revolting Peasants told engaging stories, Elfic the Jester juggled knives while riding a unicycle and the Carnival Queen was crowned. There were peasants and wenches all over the place and the Sherriff of Nottingham was on hand to sign autographs.

Towards evening, the rain finally stopped and 150 people gathered for a medieval banquet. Many had dressed for the occasion. Knights, monks, ladies, wenches and even an executioner tucked in to roasted boar with apple glaze, parkland venison with fruits of the forest, chicken and figs and fresh Teign salmon. The event was a complete sell-out and tickets consisted of wooden platters which will serve as a lasting memento of a great, if slightly damp, celebratory weekend.

Blogging for Profit and Working on the Novel

2009-06-03T08:17:00.003+01:00

Blogging for Profit: I've just signed up for the Creative Entrepreneurs Club 30 day challenge called Blogging for Profit (http://www.creativeentrepreneursclub.com/articles/20090528). Not sure what it entails, but looks like fun. If by the end of the month I can get better at this blogging lark, then it will be worth all the effort.

Novel Update: Spent two hours on the train the other day with a pen and paper (remember those pre-PC days?) sketching out the whole story from the point of view of one of the characters. Feel a lot better now - just need to convert ideas into words - so no problem there!

New Helium Posting

2009-05-26T06:59:00.002+01:00

Read my lastest posting here: http://www.helium.com/items/1461705-living-in-the-country
Then have a look around my Helium page and browse some of my earlier articles. There's a real mixture: travel, small business tips, cookery and a sprinkling of fiction and poetry.

If you enjoy what you see, drop me a line - I'd love to hear your thoughts. If you don't enjoy what you see, drop me a line anyway - I need to know why.

The Making of a Novel

2009-03-20T08:23:00.002Z

I've had this idea running around in my head for ages. A story of one man's dream to build an ice-rink in Russia. Based on a friend and business colleague who died a couple of years back. Same style of writing as A Small History of Tractors in Ukrainian. So far, I've written 8000 words in a failed attempt to do the Novel in a Month challenge in November 2007. Now it's resurrected and I'm working with a tutor to knock it into shape and finish it. Hopefully it will then get published - but let's take it one step at a time.

After 3 sessions with my wonderful tutor KT (you know who you are!), around 4000 words have been torn to shreds and are starting to be put back together. I'm having difficulties with two main aspects:

1. There's a world of difference between writing a short story where every word counts and all extra detail is binned and writing a novel where there needs to be background, setting, atmosphere, character development etc. My 8000 words will probably morph into 30000+, even before I start writing the rest of the story.

2. There's a world of difference between fact and fiction. At present, much of the narrative is based on real incidents from my travel. I keep saying 'but it wasn't like that' to which KT replies 'who cares - it's fiction'!

I can see this is going to be a long but interesting journey. I'd love it if you would join me sometimes along the way.

DEAD MEN'S MUSIC

2009-02-18T21:02:00.003Z

I heard today that I am the prizewinner in the Writing Club open poetry competition. The poem called 'Dead Men's Music' was written following a visit to the cemetry in St Petersburg where many of Russia's most famous musicians, writers and artists are buried. Looking at the memorials to Tchaikovsky, Borodin and the others, I thought what a geat jam session they could all have together.

The poem can be found here: http://www.writingclub.org/cOP29DdMnMc.htm. I hope you enjoy it.

MY BOOK REVIEWS

2008-10-14T07:39:00.004+01:00

Like most writers, I'm an avid reader - getting through a couple of books each week, not to mention newspapers and magazines. I rave to my husband and friends about books I have enjoyed and moan about ones that have disappointed me. So, I thought I would start posting some of my 'rave reviews'. If I don't enjoy a book, you won't hear about it - but I'm going to make a noise about the good ones.

You can find these reviews directly via the link on the right hand side of the screen or set up an RSS link to http://elizabethducie.wordpress.com/

I hope my reviews help you find some new books to enjoy.

ELLIE'S BIRTHDAY

2008-09-25T07:26:00.002+01:00

Ellie was having a wonderful birthday. Aunt Zoe (not her real aunt, but Mummy said it was more polite) had bought her a silver locket with inscription: “the best god-daughter ever”. She had invited seven friends for tea – with cake, jelly and ice-cream – and games. Joe had won musical chairs – again! Sarah had won “Pass the Parcel” and loved the pack of fortune-telling cards (they would have fun with those in the playground tomorrow). The best game had been “Memories” where daddy had put lots of items on a tray and after studying them briefly, they had to write down all they could remember. Ellie had got them nearly all, but had forgotten the auburn hair dye and the business card. She had remembered the withered poinsetta – but, so had everybody else.

After everyone had gone home, she went to write up her journal. As usual, she chose from the jar of sharpened pencils. The dusty radio in the corner played a new song by Simon and Garfunkel – somehow, she knew that “Bridge Over Troubled Water” was going to be big.
As Ellie grew sleepy, the room started to spin – gently at first, then more quickly. She closed her eyes – and when she opened them, she was staring at her brand new laptop. She glanced across at the bottle of herbal medicine her friend had given her to protect against flu. “Sure is powerful” she thought, as she started to type up her journal.

HANNAH'S SMILE

2008-08-17T06:40:00.004+01:00

It's a balmy evening in Florida. Six of us meet by chance outside a well-known restaurant. We have arrived from the States, Europe and the Far East for a conference and we know the next few days will be hectic. We decide to spend our last free evening together - a twenty-first century version of Ecclesiastes: 'eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we work our socks off'.

The restuarant is crowded, but Hannah, our waitress, finds us a table right away. She is older than the norm and heavier than one would expect of someone used to running between tables all night. But she has a great smile; a smile that never falters all evening, despite provocation. We quickly get menus and she reels off the specials. The noise level is high and not all of us can hear her words. However, we are more interested in ordering our first drinks. Hannah suggests a pitcher - both the Sangria and the Mojitos are recommended. We plump for a pitcher of Sangria, a glass of Mojitos and a coke. Then we wait - and wait - and wait. Other table around us are served - Hannah has disappeared.

Finally she arrives, bearing a tray aloft. Pitcher of ice, six glasses and a variety of bottles - she begins to mix. One or two of us, more familiar with Sangria than others, look confused. Why is she opening a bottle of champagne; where is the Spanish wine? Finally, someone says - what are you making. Flashing us her smile, she says patiently 'I'm making the pitcher of Mojitos you ordered.' We remind her of our order. 'Oh, OK' she says and picks up the tray to take it away. Suddenly, the thought of sitting here even longer without food or drink is intolerable. 'Leave it, carry on - we'll have the Mojitos.' She shrugs, carries on mixing and then trys to serve all six of us from the pitcher. Our teetotal companion reminds her she has ordered a coke and she's still waiting. She will have to wait for a while yet before it arrives.

Hannah pours our drinks, picks up the tray, including the pitcher - and leaves. 'Hey, that pitcher's not empty' someone says. A few minutes later, she returns, carrying the pitcher and tops up the glasses. We will never know whether this is normal procedure, whether she forgot to put the pitcher on the table - or whether she heard our plaintive comments as the pitcher disappeared.

Finally we get to order our food. A mixed bunch, with a variety of levels of hunger and jet lag, some order starters, most didn't. One of our number orders the Tapas special, to be delivered at the same time as our main courses. Once more we wait - and wait - and wait. Other diners finish their meals, pay and leave. We begin to check our watches.

Next time we see Hannah, she is bearing another tray, with the makings of the house salad. Maybe the kitchen is very small; maybe mixing ingredients at the table is meant to involve the diners in the experience - but in reality, there are far too many tables for this to be done in comfort - and by this time, we just want the food on our plates in front of us. Once the salad is mixed, she plates it out in three portions - the correct number, but tries to give it to the wrong people. Having sorted that out, she offers another pitcher of drinks - an offer we rather foolishly jump at. Too late we remember this woman can only do one thing at a time - and if she is mixing drinks, she's not serving food.

The next pitcher of drinks is finally mixed and served. Hannah makes another plate of salad and tries to serve it to one of us - even though the dirty plate in front of her is a dead give-away that she's already eaten her salad. The coke finally arrives.

Eventually, Hannah appears once more with the Tapas special, artistically arranged on what looks like a Victorian cake stand. It is accompanied by six plates. We point out this is the main course for one person. She smiles, hands out the six plates and leaves. A suspicion grows - she thinks this is a second course for everyone. 'Help yourselves' our companion says 'there's far too much for one person here.' We hang back, too polite to take him at his word. However, we gradually realise she's not coming back until it's all gone - and as our hunger grows, we start, one by one, to pick up our forks. Finally, when there is nothing left, Hannah appears at the table once more. 'Another pitcher, guys?' Her smile is unwavering. 'Maybe later' someone replies. 'For now, can we just have our main courses?' She shrugs as if to say - you only had to ask. 'Sure, no problem - they're on their way.'

At last, after nearly two hours, we all have a huge plate of food in front of us. By this time, we've eaten all the bread, nibbled at the Tapas and finished two pitchers of drinks. To say the edge has gone off our appetites is putting it mildly. No-one finishes all their food; Hannah continues to smile as she clears away the debris.

Too drained by this time to order (and wait for) dessert or coffee, we call for the bill. We question briefly whether we will add a tip; we can't really say we've had good service. But then, we realise we don't know why she's so bad. Does she have problems that keep pulling her mind away from the job? Is she ill and on medication? Has she been working all day, on her feet without a break. We tip more generously than necessary and leave before we have time to change our minds. Hannah's smile follows us into the night.

Music and Other Creativity

2008-06-21T09:16:00.002+01:00

I've just been transported back 40 years. My husband bought me the new Neil Diamond CD as a present to welcome me back from a business trip. Listening to the wonderful melted choclate voice, I remembered one of the first LPs I bought as a teenager - a much earlier version, a much younger voice - but still the same gentle guitar playing and comforting tone. I'd forgotten all about that LP - but suddenly, I'm back in the dining room, doing my maths homework to the strains of Sweet Caroline, with my parents telling me to 'turn it down and concentrate'.

I've had a week full of music one way and another. My business trip was to Russia, where my clients know my love of classical music and always try to indulge it. We had two trips to the ballet, including a fresh, lively version of 'Swan Lake' with the happy ending, which is much more satisfying - even if less authentic - than the traditional one. We also spent an evening at the philharmonic hall for the closing concert of the season - a cocktail of classical suites and overtures follwed by a compilation of music from Soviet films - not unlike the sort of scores we would expect from John Williams and the like.

Throughout these evenings, I was enthralled by the creativity of the composers and their ability to 'hear' and interweave the themes for numerous different instruments. I can't do that - my musical talents stretch to piano lessons as a child - long forgotten. However, it made me realise that creativity is within all of us; we just express it in other ways. For some, it's notes on a stave; for others brush strokes on canvas. For me (and many others like me), it's words on a page. Writers often say that their main joy comes from delivering the words - that they write for themselves and it doesn't matter if no-one ever reads those words. I wonder if that's really true? Would the value of a Tchaikovsky ballet be as great if it remained on the page and was never staged? I doubt it.

FOREWORD TO THE BOOK I'VE YET TO WRITE

2008-04-18T06:44:00.002+01:00

Browsing through my file of writing exercises, I came upon this piece written a few years ago. I've yet to write the book - but when I do, this will be the starting point.

*************************************************************************************

I have been travelling the world for nearly 20 years, meeting thousands of people in over fifty countries. I have seen wonderful sights and truly dreadful ones. I have had experiences I will always treasure and others I would willingly forget – if only the nightmares would go away. I have met friendly, welcoming people and ones who were much less so. I have learnt that generosity is often inversely proportional to wealth and that to admire something is frequently to be offered it as a present.

Many of the trips were to Russia and the Former Soviet Union. I first went there in 1993, just after the collapse, when communism was in tatters and people starting to learn a new way of life. I have visited many parts of the region, including Ukraine, Georgia, Armenia, Kazakhstan and the evocatively named Kabardino Balkaryia, plus more towns in Russia than most of its citizens, with their history of travel restrictions, would ever dream of seeing. This book tells the story of those years.

It does not look at the wider picture, the political changes or economic development. These will be charted in documentaries and history books for many years to come. It does not make judgements about the events of the day, although inevitably, it will be coloured by the perceptions of someone growing up in a capitalist country, believing Russia a world superpower, not to mention ‘the enemy’.

It tells the story of the people themselves, through the fresh eyes of a visitor. It deals with details so commonplace, they are only seen by outsiders; the minutiae of the day to day, the mundane. I had thought of entitling it (with apologies to Bill Bryson) ‘Notes from a Large Country’.

Some of the original writing for this text was done in the form of a diary. However, rereading it in the cold light of day, I acknowledged that the level of detail with which I record meals, business meetings and other boring aspects is probably not appropriate for general readership, unless there is a gap on the shelf marked Cures for Insomnia.

I therefore decided to focus on the key points that tell a story – or a series of short stories. There are no real central characters– just an array of people who flit in and out. Sometimes they make repeat appearances; sometimes it is a one-off performance, but each one is memorable to me – and hopefully interesting to others.

For many years, a key recipient of my stories was my mother. I was on a mission to persuade her my travels were exciting experiences, which I was lucky to have, rather than a series of dreadful, compulsory events that should be avoided if possible. Every time I phoned to tell her about a new contract I had won, a new experience I was about to enjoy, her standard response was ‘Oh dear’. Once, when I was working in North Carolina and someone was murdered in New York’s Central Park, she woke my father in the middle of the night, worrying whether it might be me, even though I was hundreds of miles away. The first time I visited Nigeria, I didn’t tell her until I came home again.

Despite her maternal concerns, she was always eager to hear my stories once she knew the dangers were past. Firstly, I would send her postcards or the occasional letter; then I would phone or visit her on my return to share my adventures. When the internet became a reality rather than the stuff of science fiction, we bought her an email telephone and, after that we could be in daily contact.

My youngest sister had given us all email nicknames: I was ‘IJSCOI’ (the highly ironic International Jet-Setting Captain of Industry) and my mom, after my dad’s death and promotion to ‘Heavenly Dude’, became ‘The Big Chief’. For several years, I would use internet cafes and clients’ offices to prepare these ‘Emails to the Big Chief’. Even after her death, I often described my travels to myself and other people in the same format and so it feels appropriate to use it in this book.

These are the memories that spring to mind when I think about that part of the world. Haphazard, not sequential; collated by somewat tenuous threads on occasion. I hope they bring a smile to your faces but also challenge some assumptions.

SLIPPERS COME OUT ON TOP

2008-03-04T06:40:00.002Z

I was delighted to find out I won first prize in the Mary Gornall Memorial short story competition run by Ashby Writers' Club . The Second Pair of Slippers tells the story of Olga Petrovna and Alexander Ivanovych, two people caught up in the events of election night in Ukraine. You can read my story here: http://www.freewebs.com/barneyc/shortstorycompetition.htm

THE PLUMBER COMETH

2008-02-24T10:24:00.001Z

I mean, why would we need a new boiler - the old one worked well enough. OK, so the pump screamed occasionally - and the pipes knocked alarmingly when trapped air passed through them. Sometimes the radiators were hot enough to take the skin off your hands - and sometimes they would barely warm. But the system worked after a fashion. Still, we've just moved in - we're doing the place up - so we thought we'd get it sorted out now rather than later.

The planning phase went well. We found a wonderful plumber. Yes, I know those are two words that are rarely seen in the same sentence, but it's true. A local man with his own company. We agreed the price, paid the deposit and left for a two week business trip.

We were smug when friends said we were taking a risk. We wouldn't be there during the work - but we would come home to a nice new system and a warm house.

At the start of the second week, we had a call. Our wonderful plumber had been in bed with flu and was only just starting. But not to worry - he'd have most of it done before we got home. It was the word 'most' that worried us a little.

When we got home, we found all the radiator values had been replaced with thermostatic ones, as per latest regulations. So, we can now control the temperature in all the rooms separately. However, the old boiler was still sitting like a malevolent presence in the corner of the utility room.

We lost our heating the following week - right in the middle of a cold snap. For three days, we sat huddled over a hot air blower, a tiny island of luke warm air in our huge ice-box of a house. We piled on extra clothing and waited. For one whole day, the water was switched off. The irony of buying a house with three loos and being unable to use any of them!

Finally, the new boiler was in and the water turned back on. The water pressure, previously quite low, is now much higher. So high it can pin you to the back of the shower cubicle. So high, all the air has gone from the system and the pipes sit contentedly full of hot water. So high, it blew one of the fittings in the wall in the bedroom. I returned home to a frantic plumber, resigned husband and a mini Niagara flowing through the ceiling into the newly renovated kitchen.

Yesterday we found another leak - in the celing over the bathroom. Actually, we didn't find it - it found us. It rained down on one of the ladies I'd booked to blitz the house after all the work had been done. She bravely continued working as water dripped on her. Lying on the landing floor, burrowing under the insulation in the loft, I found a small copper pipe from which water was spurting. Our plumber tells us it is most unusual for holes to develop in the middle of a pipe. He's fixed it. The system works. We're holding our breath - but at least we can no longer see our breath - and the house is really toasty at last.

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 8 - On the Road Again

2008-01-12T17:19:00.000Z

As I returned to Moscow, I saw two sides to Russia. Many of the houses, especially in the countryside, are falling into disrepair. There’s a high level of engineering – but little regard for aesthetics. The snow has mostly gone, but a resulting layer of dirt remains on all surfaces.

On the other hand, exquisite carvings or painted decorations adorn many of the houses; the carpets are being beaten and paintwork cleaned; scaffolding around many of the churches points to repair work in progress when money permits.

It’s as though Russia is waking, not only from the long hard winter, but also from the harsh realities of Soviet times. Could it be that this country’s journey, if not ending, is at least going places at last.

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 7 - Dancing Shoes

2008-01-05T09:12:00.000Z

Everyone passed their final tests today and proudly received their certificates. Ten years ago, we had ransacked one of the warehouses, a real Babushka’s Bazaar, for prizes for each delegate. The guy with the highest marks got a guitar and the top woman got an ironing board. Despite my misgivings, I was assured that she would appreciate this – and they were right.

We finished today with a small party with Boris.

‘Elizabeth' he said, looking at me over his thick Georgian moustache, ‘have I told you the history of this project and how we got to be where we are today?’

One hour later, he presented me with a beautiful gold watch and then sent us into town for a celebratory dinner. He said he wouldn’t come with us in case he got drunk. Seemed to think we would lead him astray.

At the restaurant we were seated next to a table of twenty, a raucous birthday party. Since most of the group was male, we were much in demand as dance partners. There was little time for eating but Russian restaurants are always like that. Dancing to music frequently deafening, drinking and food – in that order. I finally got away at 02:30, aware that I had to hit the road early in the morning.

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 6 - The Show Must Go On

2007-12-31T07:10:00.000Z

As you can imagine, after the excitement of last night, there were long faces, big yawns and very little talk at the breakfast table. But, like the troopers that we are, we picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves down and started all over again with a new topic – the most important of the course.

I started talking at 09:30 and they finally let me shut up ten hours later!If you’d seen me today, you’d have thought you’d raised a circus performer. At one point, I was juggling with my laptop, the paper copy of the presentation, my script, the microphone and the flip-chart. Last time I was here, all we had were 35mm slides – isn’t technology wonderful?

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 5 - If You Go Down To The Woods Tonight

2007-12-30T07:51:00.000Z

I had the cabin to myself for most of this evening. The others were still at the office. So, there I was – alone and surrounded by trees, with curtains too narrow for the windows. They have Soviet standard windows and Soviet standard curtains – just different standards!. I spent the whole time ignoring the darkness outside and pretending not to hear the noises, imagining bears, wolves – or worse!

Then the girls returned – and stood shivering on the doorstep whilst I tried desperately to unlock the front door. The more I struggled, the tighter the lock seemed to be. They were just about to climb through the window into the swimming pool when I finally got the knack. and managed to open the thing.

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 4 - Get Me Out of Here

2007-12-29T08:14:00.000Z

You will be delighted to hear that it’s day 4 and still no vodka. Mind you, Boris arrives tomorrow, so it may not last.

It’s a bit like an Australian survival programme here at mealtimes. The food’s ordered the day before and delivered from the municipal facility.

‘Hey Elizabeth said Sasha as she rummaged in the box today ‘what do you fancy for lunch? We’ve got soup, fish, salad and bread. Wow, we’ve also got chocolates. I guess those are for you, the honoured guest’. After which, the girls preserved my figure by eating most of the box themselves.

When my class arrived on Monday, I realised that many of the faces were familiar from 1994. A little older, a few more inches around some of the waistlines, but still smartly dressed with gold teeth glistening and hair bleached and permed. I remember the looks of panic and incomprehension when we first talked to them about manufacturing drugs. Now, they are more confident and keen to learn. Today we had the ‘design a factory’ exercise – a mountain of virtual money to spend. There was much argument and laughter from the syndicates.

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 3 - A Long Way From Swiss Cottage

2007-12-28T07:46:00.000Z

Isn’t it typical – just as I’m getting ready to move out of the hotel, it starts to improve a little. I’m used to washing my hair with icy water; today I was able to take a hot shower. At breakfast, the waiter offered me pancakes, instead of pushing the dreaded fried eggs in front of me as he did yesterday – just like every other waiter for the past ten years.

My home for the next four nights is the company guesthouse. It’s a two-storey log cabin in the traditional Russian style. From the outside it looks quite ordinary, but inside there’s a swimming pool, sauna and billiards table. Less welcome, but equally impressive are the row of boar heads in the lounge. And as for the stuffed eagle and chicks on the top of the fridge – I don’t think I’ll be doing any midnight snacking this week.

Sasha and I share the cabin with Anna, one of the managers. She’s working late each evening to meet a project deadline and doesn’t want to drive back to town. The chattering and gales of laughter can be heard late into the night, like being back at college. Mind you, Swiss Cottage was never this luxurious.

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 2 - Be Prepared

2007-12-27T08:01:00.000Z

The factory is a converted missile base in the middle of the forest. Warehouses are underground bunkers with Fort Knox type doors a metre thick. I was so proud when we opened it ten years ago – a true example of swords into plough-shares.

I’ve always thought of the forests in Russia being pine. In reality, half the trees are silver birch. Their bare trunks and branches stand pale and stark amongst the conifers’ dark green. With the lingering patches of snow, it looks dramatic – but not so harsh as mid-winter.

Great surprises awaited me at the base; they’ve been decorating. Gone is the dark wood, replaced by glass, metal and light oak. They even have decent air conditioning. I’m not really sure why I’m surprised. Most of the companies in this part of the world have invested hugely in their offices. It’s just a pity the factories themselves remain so Dickensian.

Good job I came over a day early; no delegate lists!

‘Elizabeth, they explained ‘we were waiting for you to tell us who should attend.’

‘Everyone.’ I said, holding my breath and waiting for the protests. However, for the moment, I seem to have got away with it. Of course, when Boris arrives on Wednesday, and finds his factory shut down, I may lose half my class, but for the moment, the boss is a long way away and I’m calling the shots.

They’ve tried really hard to get everything perfect for this course. There’s all the equipment I might need. They even remembered the flip-chart pens. And, from the look of the microphone and pile of tapes, they intend to record everything I say. It’s a far cry from the first course we gave here. We used a bent paperclip to hang a notice board. Not so much a case of no screws in the hardware stores – more a case of no hardware stores!

The room seats 20 comfortably. We’re having around 30 delegates each day – it’s going to be an interesting week - not to mention cosy.

Emails to the Big Chief: Day 1 - The Long Unwinding Road

2007-12-26T13:39:00.000Z

1960s furniture, no CNN and a dreadful bathroom. Casino, noisy disco and a bar full of prostitutes. You’ve guessed it – I’m back in Kostroma. The plane wasn’t hijacked and I’ve not been kidnapped, so you can stop worrying.

Earlier today, in Moscow, interpreter Sasha and I stopped for lunch at Boris's apartment before hitting the road. Remember the first time I met him? He spent an hour telling me the history of the project and how his company had been screwed by the multinationals. He’s given a repeat performance whenever I’ve met him since, and today was no exception. But it’s a small price to pay for being welcomed into someone’s home.

The road to Kostroma is five hours without bend or corner. Bored, I thought about other times I’d made that journey. I never told you about the first time. Our driver, speeding like Schumacher, swerved between the right side of the road, the left and the gravel verges, depending on the potholes. The road in front of us was empty for much of the time; but we always seemed to be about to meet a lorry each time he made a particularly violent swerve. Today was much quieter and slower. I had time to think about the training I am here to deliver.

Emails to the Big Chief

2007-12-26T13:27:00.000Z

When I started travelling in the 1980s, I used to send my parents a postcard from wherever I stopped. Often they would reach home long after me. Once the Internet became available, we taught my mom to use it so that she could keep in touch with my travels. She was proud of what I was doing, but always frightened that something terrible would happen to me. To the end of her life, her standard reply on hearing that I had just won another project was "Oh dear".

After my father died (and therefore gained the Internet handle of "Heavenly Dude"), my mom became the Big Chief. My travel stories thus become "Emails to the Big Chief".

December in Ljubljana

2007-12-15T05:46:00.000Z

This small city is buzzing at any time, but in December, it seems more alive than ever. Trees are covered in small blue lights; all the buildings along the river are outlined by strings of light. The castle looking down on us is tinted deep , vermillion or vanilla and lights twinkle from all the trees on the hillside below. Planets, stars and suns are strung between the buildings. Young children have their photos taken in front of the ten foot ice-queen.

On every corner are musicians. Not for them the traditional carols of Christmas (although I hear one couple presenting a spirited rendition of Jingle Bells). Some are playing jazz, some traditional Slovene folk-songs. But above all else, we hear the pan pipes. A band of South Americans have come to town and treat the crowds to displays of song and dance while trying to sell woollen goods and CDs.

There is a smell of spice on the wind. The place is littered with small stands selling mulled wine and warm mead. Bars spring up from nowhere, with patio heaters and blankets to keep the customers warm. Even in December, the streets are full of people eating and drinking al fresco .

The embankment is lined with stalls selling Christmas gifts. You can choose from jewellery, silks and woollens, candies, crystals, wooden goods or candles. Shoppers stroll, browse and buy - but always slowly. No-one is in a hurry here - and there are always friends to meet and chat with on the way.