Baby Coffee Geek goes to Bury St Edmunds...

...for the 3 heat in the UK Barista Championships. Lawrence is once again a coffee judge and local coffee shop owner and amazing barista Alex Sargeant (@StrangersCoffee if you're tweeters) was competing. Heat 3, a two-day event, was organised by Butterworth and Son, who also keep Alex in artisan roasted coffee from around the world.

I had a total diary malfunction and thought February had another week to go. This created havoc at work, and of course when it came time to organise me going down both days. As it happened, it all worked out. I was able to swap my days around and I went down on for the Tuesday to support Alex.

Lawrence said afterwards that he was concerned that I'd get bored. Hah! I'd brought my Shiny Thing with me and accessed the free Wi-Fi at The Apex, in Bury which was a top venue.   Once we got there (all hail the mighty sat nav), Lawrence abandoned me to get ready to be a coffee judge. Union Roasted were on the coffee bar, but it was so early they hadn't set up yet. I'd had one cup of coffee to get me going, but I needed more to remain coherent. Desperate, I went to the coffee stand run by the venue. Alex walked in after I'd managed to choke down half of it (desperation is a terrible thing, you end up doing things you regret), he just burst out laughing. I'd ordered a cappuccino and it was appalling. The milk was foamed to the point I could have shaved my legs with it, it was so dry....as for the coffee itself. Well, the less said about it the better. It was a disgrace to be served something that appalling at the venue of an event celebrating coffee and the professionalism and skill of baristas around the country.

I digress. I didn't have a role, per se as Alex's crew. I did demand a t-shirt that said Alex's Bitch, but he was mean and didn't get me one. Humpf. Basically, I got to hang out with people who are passionate and enthusiastic about coffee and drink as much fabulous coffee as I could handle (not much as it turns out). 

The coffees that the baristas use takes the concept of  Fairtrade, beats it to a pulp and leaves it to die in the sun. These coffee houses are so passionate about ethically sourcing their coffee that they when visit the farms, they negotiate a price for the coffee over and above the market price at the beginning of the season; and they will often support charities to educate the farmers, their workers and their children. This means the growers know exactly how much they'll get before they start harvesting, this enables them to budget, secure in the knowledge of their income at the end of the season. Market fluctuations will not crucify them as it normally does.

Anyway, enough waffle. I took some pictures to give you a flavour of the day.

Alex Sargeant, barista extraordinaire

Alex in the Practice Room, perfecting his technique

The accoutrements

David from San Remo, purveyors of amazing coffee machines and one of the sponsors of the event. David was mother hen to the baristas in the Practice Room

The Stage!

Another competitor doing his thang

The awesome Union Roasted drug dealer barista who kept my caffeine stream topped up

MY TAMPER! It had my initials on it, damn it, not Reg Barber. 

Alex setting up

Alex talking to Jeremy from Union Coffee, about his coffee and signature drink

Baristas have 15 minutes to produce 4 espressos, 4 cappuccinos and 4 signature drinks of their own invention based on the flavour notes they say are present in the espresso*. 

The espresso carries the heaviest weighting and is scored on the consistency and persistence of the crema (the fine foam on the top of the espresso which is caused by the oils and on it's own tastes really bitter), the beverage is then stirred three times front to back to mix in the crema. It's then tasted and then judged on the harmonious balance between sweetness, bitterness and acidity. Flavours that the barista identifies and the tactile balance of full bodied, roundness and smoothness. This is the star of the barista's arsenal and sets the tone of the suite of beverages they present to the judges.

Cappuccinos must look good! It takes its name from the Cappuchin monks whose bald pates surrounded by hair bore a similar appearance to a traditional cappuccino - a slightly raised, glossy circle of milk surrounded by the dark brown ring in the cup.

A "traditional" cappuccino 

This is really difficult to do well, so most baristas do "latte art". 

Latte art

Believe it or not, this is easier to do well, than the traditional. Note: no chocolate! Cappuccinos are judged on their visual appearance, consistency of foam and the flavour as a balance between the richness and sweetness of the milk and the espresso. If the milk is properly foamed it brings out the sweetness of the milk and there is no need to add sugar. (Alex is the Master of Milk).

A perfect example of an absolutely rubbish diabolical revolting poor attempt of a cappuccino

The signature beverage is the opportunity for the baristas to be creative with their espressos flavours e.g. if the espresso has flavour of cherries and almonds then the barista might add a cherry syrup and almond flavoured milk to produce a bakewell cappuccino; but the taste of the espresso must still dominate. 

Marks are given for how well the beverage is introduced, prepared and explained;  the creativity and synergy with the coffee and the taste balance according to the taste of the espresso. 

On top of the beverages, the baristas are judged on their customer service skills, their professionalism and presentation, attention to detail and even their appropriate apparel. And then the overall impression of the performance and the beverages. The idea is that they find the best coffee available, make it into the best espresso they can, produce a tasty and well textured cappuccino and then take it to a new level by adding complimentary ingredients to produce their signature drink.

Alex came 5th at the end of the two-day competition. I know he was slightly disappointed, but he was competing against three of the UK's top baristas, one of whom has been UK Champion twice. Currently, he's sitting 9th on the Leader Board, so after the results of Heat 4 in Chester, UK, we'll know if he's going through to the Semi-Finals at the London Coffee Festival 

However geeky you might think I am about coffee, trust me, I'm not. I am a baby geek when it comes down to it. The thing is, it's such a great feeling, being surrounded by knowledgeable, enthusiastic people, I loved attending the Midlands heat at Bury St Edmunds. As I said earlier, Lawrence was worried that I would get bored, but people are so friendly, welcoming and interesting, it's a fantastic experience.I am currently lobbying Lawrence hard to go to the London Coffee Festival, lots of coffee nerds and some of the best coffee a person could ever taste. 

* NB: It's espresso, never say expresso!

Why, it Must be That Time of Year...

...when I stand on my scales and frown.

Except that obviously frowning gives me wrinkles.

Technically, I'm not over-weight. 

I am now 9 stone. According to the BBC BMI calculator, I'm within the 'normal' range. Normal caveats apply (BMI is only particularly accurate if you're bed-ridden). The fact of the matter is: I don't feel healthy. I feel unfit.

And before you start ranting: no, I'm not a fashion-plate. I don't believe a woman must be emaciated. Images of anorexic models, don't make me wish for that body.

I would like to be leaner and fitter.

My ideal weight is: 8 stone.

In the past, I've been 8 stone and desperately unhappy. The best diets I've ever come across is remains the Bad Relationship diet or the End of Relationship diet. Both have meant I've been svelte within no time at all. The minute I'm content, I eat like a fecking horse. I've been in a stable happy lovely relationship for over 14 months now...and don't my jeans know it!

I did say to Lawrence that I blamed him, it's all his fault. He just looked smug. The bastard.

And of course, it's been a cold winter.

I've noticed my craving for stodgy, stick-to-your-ribs food increases as the temperature drops.

But the nights are drawing out, the days are lightening up. When I look at my backside in the mirror, I'd rather it weren't half way down to my knees. I am really not enjoying the bags of peas look either.

Let's be real about this: I'm 42 years old. I do this every year. The fact of the matter is if I was left to my own devices, I'd be lying in bed reading a book, munching through a bowl of popcorn (buttered and salted). 

Let's also be real about this: I'm 42 years old. My diet isn't bad, but it could do with far more fruit and veggies and far less processed shite. I don't move enough to burn off what I eat and the weight is just going to keep creeping up. I also have back, shoulder, neck and knee issues. Exercise relieves these discomforts. If I don't start moving now, in 30 years' time I'm not going to be moving much at all. I'm going to be looking back and thinking 'why the fuck didn't I move when I had the chance?'

Life without tobacco is content. I used to smoke. I don't now. Simple as that really. No drama there. So, if I can be smoke-free with no drama, no reason why I can't be fitter and leaner with no drama as well.

So, how do I do it? There's the question. According to Paul McKenna, it's about cutting down portion size, chewing slowly, move more and only eat what you want to. Incredibly sensible. Except I want to be 8 stone and I want to be 8 stone now! There's a new diet making the rounds - the 5:2 diet. You eat what you want for 5 days and fast for 2. By fast, you cut out 25% of your normal calorific intake. Unofficial feedback suggests it works. 

Lawrence says cutting down calories works, but you have to weigh everything and have to be constantly calculating what you put in your mouth. This is fine if I wanted to live off ready meals for the next two months to achieve this. 

Speaking of which, why is there suddenly a proliferation of these 'diet chefs' who promise they'll send you all your pre-cooked meals, straight to your door on your 'personalised' meal plan. Are people really that thick? Sainsbury's will do that for you at half the price. Actually, thinking about it, that approach would work. I could go through all their ready-meals, calculate everything so I stick to 800 calories a day. All I need is the money. It's a very expensive way of losing weight.

Before you start, my metabolism is so sluggish, if I eat the recommended 2,000 calories a day, I gain weight. This I know from experience. My naughtiness is crisps and chips. I don't binge on chocolate or biscuits or cake. My weakness is fat: butter, mayonnaise and double cream, preferably with lashings of grated cheese on top.

Ultimately, this has got to be about changing my lifestyle. Really, there's nothing much wrong with me that moving more and eating less fats wouldn't do. It's time I stopped talking about it and did it.

Adventures with Chicken Stock

I had a rare burst of domesticity yesterday. Despite my sinuses, I managed to get a few things sorted: de-fuzzed the kettle (want to make a chemist happy - boil foul chemical as he comes through door), went shopping for dinner and lunches for the week, did a few dishes, blogged and wrote something serious (for a change).

After Boy and I reduced the roast chicken to bones, I bundled what was left into a large pot, threw some veggies in after the carcass, tried to drown it all in cold water and sprinkled it all liberally with mixed herbs.

Yes, I am aware there are proper, bona fide recipes for making stock. No, I've never used them, nor am I ever likely to. My version, if left to it's own devices, works well enough.

I went upstairs to work on my piece for the writing workshop. After a couple of hours, I came down, poked it and thought I ought to do something constructive with it. It is not unknown for pans of stock to sit on a corner of the stove for the rest of the week, desperately trying to attract my attention until they make a bid for freedom, forever hurt and disappointed in me.

I strained the stock into a large plastic jug and stared at it. Being all domesticated, my fridge now had food in it, a minor miracle. There was no room for the stock in this jug. A lightbulb went off in my head. I had a large plastic box, just perfect for the occasion. I fished it out of the cupboard tipped the contents of the jug into it. 

And that's when the trouble started.

I couldn't figure out why there was a growing puddle of stock on my counter. I hadn't been clumsy pouring the stock. So I picked it up, hot stock dripped from the bottom. 

Oh crap, I think. The container is cracked. I must tip it back into the pan. Which was a great idea; you would suppose.

Except I splashed my hand doing it. And jumped. And dropped the container with a litre and a half of liquid.

As Boy and I mopped hot chicken stock off the floor, we observed it hadn't missed soaking very much at all. The cooker, the oven front, down the kitchen drawers, handles, floor, bins...ah yes, we cleaned them all.

Boy had turned up after the spill. Apparently, my language was fairly foul (badoom tish).

Fine. I stomped up the stairs to carry on writing. There's only so much crying you can do over spilt stock (ha-ha) and I wanted to finish my piece so Boy and I could chill out together before bedtime.

After awhile, Boy poked his head through my study door.

"What's that noise?" 

We listen.

A loud clicking noise. We investigate.

My cooker's ignition system was sparking away merrily. The damn stock had shorted my cooker! We dismantle it and start to clean and poke and scratch our heads. I try switching everything off at plugs and circuit boards to no avail.

I ring Lawrence at home. He thinks hard and scratches his head. On his advice, I dismantle the cooker further, dry everything I could find.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am not going to bore you further with the details. All I am going to say is that however clean I thought my cooker was to start with....I was delusional. I'm somewhat surprised my dinner guests of days gone by, have not required hospitalisation (I say days gone by, because no one in their right mind would eat here after reading that). No wonder Boy and I have such robust gastric systems.

As I struggled to pull the knobs off and poke cotton buds on every bit of electrical gubbins I  find, Lawrence remarked that somehow he wasn't expecting the late-night phone call to be about my hot stock.

He's got a point.

When Life Gives you Lemons

...preserve those suckers!

After waiting weeks and weeks, we decided to debut the lemons yesterday. 

The preserved lemons after their 7 week stint in my cupboard

They looked fantastic. No mould, nothing nasty at all. Their texture had gone slightly gelatinous, but otherwise kept their shape and colour. When I took a small bite, salty lemony goodness flooded my tastebuds. I'm not sure I would want to have a few slices with feta as one person suggested, but as Lawrence pointed out, you don't eat lime pickle straight from the jar either.

So, what to do with them?

In true Ottolenghi style, we went Moroccan.

The lamb, fresh from the local butcher

Lawrence likes recipes, I like winging it, and as I was cooking, we flew. He diced the lamb whilst I chopped a red onion, a red pepper and assembled the spices: paprika, turmeric, coriander, ground ginger, cumin and a splash of chilli oil. I fried these off in some olive oil. We (by which I mean Lawrence) threw in two cartons of chopped tomatoes, a tin of kidney beans and a tin of chick peas, as well as a few diced potatoes and a few cloves of garlic. He also cut up a large handful of apricots. And of course 2/3 of a preserved lemon!

The star of the show!

We stirred and let it all bubble for over an hour.

Hurry up! Hungry!

It was awful waiting for it to cook. I dribbled with anticipation. We dished it out and served it with the rest of the loaf Lawrence had brought over in the morning. It was delish! The preserved lemons lightened the stew and the smell was absolutely amazing. The lamb was so tender, it melted. Om nom nom.

One thing is for certain. I'm a better cook than I am a food photographer! :-) 

My sinuses might have ruined our plans for the weekend, but I refuse to let them get in the way of further experimentation. I will be roasting a chicken later and making couscous to take into work as a pack up. Yes, they will be very lemony indeed.

Job Description

Them: Hi, lovely to meet you. So what is it you do for a living?

Me: Well, amongst other things, I'm a writer.

Them: Really? What do you write?

Me: Pretty much anything.

I've been practicing you see. I've been standing in front of my mirror and saying "I am a writer." I write for a living. I do marketing on the side (after all, eating regularly and paying bills before they go red, is a good thing).

There have been a few issues along the way.

Firstly, I have four writing projects on my desk, in various stages. When I say various stages, I mean, various stages of planning and several versions of Chapter One.

Secondly, the paying the bills job is demanding. As is running a household. As is trying to hang out with Boy before he flies the nest. As is having a relationship with Lawrence, who keeps coming up with really fun things to do. As is having friends who insist on seeing me more than once a year. As is...

Yeah, you get the picture.

Thirdly, when I say writing, there are two things that happen. They ask what kind of writing? I write genre and literary fiction. And then they sniff. Because I said genre fiction.

I did a creative writing degree at the Norwich School of Art and Design. I did a BA. In Literary Fiction Reality, they start sniffing. What? No MA at UEA? It's worse when you answer those questions talking to someone on the MA. The snobbery that exists on the scene is breathtaking. 

For the author who wrote a tome only 5 people could bear to spend the time and the £5.99 and read it cover to cover, who felated the right people at the right time and who has a significant other with a regular income - they sniff the loudest. If you make a living selling copy, writing romance/crime/thrillers/erotica, they want to scrape their shoes on your achievements. Popularist whore.

Don't get me wrong, I've done my fair share of sniffing. I'm sorry, but I don't care if Dan Brown touched a nerve and sold a shed load of books and bought Hawaii - as a writer, he sucks arse. His writing is eye-bleedingly awful. I know, I've read 2 of his books. I'd rather read the instructions on my tax return.

I've done my share of apologising for the genre books that litter my house. 

The thing is, I became an avid reader of Mills and Boon when I was 13. I could teach a History of Romance Publishing in the 80s-90s, because I read them all: Loveswept, Harlequin, M&B. I read the rise and rise of Kay Hooper and Nora Roberts. In second-hand books shops, I sweep up any Violet Winspear I can find.

I have two copies of several David Gemmell books. You see the first copy of Legend, I bought in 1988, is beginning to fall apart. I re-read it. Marion Zimmer Bradley taught me that girls make awesome adventurers in 1982 with her Sword and Sorceress anthologies. I read Terry Pratchett before he was cool.

When I was16, I stayed up all night huddled under the covers, reading IT. I could not put it down. Then I found Dean Koontz in the early 90s. I wrote an essay on Midnight, to secure my place on a rural Access course that got me to university to study Development Studies.

I found Chick Lit going to a 10 credit, Introduction to Popular Fiction course. The first chick lit book was Guilty Creatures by Sue Welfare. I was hooked. On my shelves are Jill Mansell, Marian Keyes, Carmen Reid, Carole Matthews. These women wrote stories where the price of happily ever after is high. They worked for it! If you think Rachel's Holiday is easy reading, think again. It's got nothing to do with white sandy beaches. It's got everything to do with drug addiction and the 'easy option' of rehab.

I studied To Kill a Mockingbird at school. I had to buy another copy. One without lines and annotations. When I need to be reminded of beautiful writing, I read that again. The glorious simplicity and elegance of Harper Lee's storytelling, continues to inspire me.

The different types of books in this house vary. But the overwhelming majority are genre. Yes, they are formulaic. The girl gets the guy. The bad guy gets his comeuppance. They live happily ever after. In some cases, the vampire gets his dinner (though I was always taught not to play with my food, it's all consenting adult territory).

As a writer, I want to explore all these possibilities. I have a literary novel in me. But that's going to be a long-term thing. I can only write it a bit at a time. It's emotionally gruelling (for all kinds of reasons) and when I look at my bank account, I am realistic in the fact that I won't ever become rich on the back of it. So, for kicks and dosh I am writing other things: romance, urban fantasy and erotica.

Unfortunately, from a marketing POV, I'm a bit of a nightmare. It means I shall have to create several different alter-egos. I'm going to have to be crafty about who I admit my writing habits to. The great thing about being a writer is that most of my past-times, I can put under tax-deductible and/or research. I had a slow day yesterday and cried my way through 3 Mills and Boons. I've been playing Skyrim on the Xbox, it's been great for re-inforcing the necessity of attention to detail in the creation of worlds. Going out and about, is for the stimulation of ideas. Blogging, obviously is about marketing and Facebook and twitter are all about networking, fan and brand creation.

Now, if only I could get something ready to submit to a publisher....

Snow Joke

Ladies and Gentlemen, it's snowing! Yes, really. 

It's snowing in Norwich, Norfolk, UK, in the winter.

The view from my study window as I write

Boy rightly pointed out last night, for people in the UK, Facebook has become the 2nd Met Office, 

Readers on the other side of the pond, naming no names (Pearl and Ponita), for whom the first snowfall of the year appears promptly when expected, but sometimes leaves a bit late, you might be slightly confused at this excitement over a 2 inch snowfall. Let me explain.

Snow in the UK can be a bit hit and miss.

The year before I rocked up to Norfolk, there was huge snowfall. So much so, round here you can start a conversation "It was during that snow in '87..." and you'll have people nodding in time with your anecdote. Coming from hot and humid Trinidad, I got all excited. Ice and fog, I saw a lot of; snow, not so much. It was a big disappointment. It was three years before I saw snow that settled for more than two minutes. 

There was snow on the ground on the day I got married, and for my honeymoon weekend it was gone. 

Over the years since then, the British winter has more often than not, been snow free. That seems to have changed over the past four years. The last four years, there has been snow in Norfolk every year.

I say that like it's a big thing. You in Denmark, hush. It is a big thing.

The problem is we can't ever properly prepare for it. Not being funny or anything, I'm a writer; money leaves me faster than rats on the Titanic. I just don't have the required £700 for a set of winter tyres for my precious Shiny Car. It's cheaper for me to work from home or just take the bus to the office for the few days I get snowed in.

Now, if you've been paying attention (wake up, you in the back), you'll be aware that I live in a city. You'll be scratching your head, wondering how the hell I could get snowed in.

This is my view from my bedroom window. You'll note there's only space for one car to pass with everyone parked on both sides of the road.

Imagine that partially melting during day, no grit/salt, and then freezing again at night. I live in a small dip, think of it as a small valley. There are steep roads leading down to my little valley. Now imagine them also only having room enough for one car to pass, no salt or grit, partially melting and then freezing.

You're now beginning to get the idea that it's a little bit exciting round here in these conditions. Trying to stop a car traveling at 5 mph, becomes a 50/50 chance of metamorphosing into an insurance claim.

This is why I'm glad I'm writing at home for the next couple of days. I'll have to take the bus to the office on Thursday. Happily, the bus stop into town isn't far from here and they run regularly. Even better than that, I purchased these bad boys a few weeks ago:

Ladies and Gentlemen, these are Magnum Raptor, tactical urban utility boot. Designed for the security services, they turn me into The Amazing Spider Woman when I walk on ice. 

At this point, I know several of my gay friends are sobbing piteously into their lace hankies that such un-sparkly, un-fashionable and frankly darling, ugly shoes, see my feet. All their gentle teachings on fashion and sexy shoes have been for naught. 

Darlings, I'm so sorry.

I chose comfort over style yet again.

These boots are made for walking and kicking ass. And this winter I'm ready and prepared to do both!

Adventures with Lemons

I first had preserved lemons in the deli up the road called 103 (sadly now, no more). They had been finely chopped with spring onions, tomatoes, chick peas, tossed with olive oil, served under grilled snapper. Simple food made delicious. I recreated the recipe at home, but could not find preserved lemons and it didn't taste the same. 

Time passed.

My favourite foodie across the pond, La Diva blogged about preserving lemons soon after I saw Ottolenghi's Mediterranean Feast. He was in Morocco and pretty much all of the dishes had preserved lemons. I remembered 103's dish and a bee settled in my bonnet.

I am fortunate to spend time with a man who isn't at all phased by bees in bonnets, Lawrence seems to think it's completely normal. So when I said to him that I wanted to find preserved lemons, he didn't blink. He did however, walk me all over Norwich through every flippin ethnic food shop we could think of, to see if we could find preserved lemons. To no avail. 

*sigh*

We talked about making it ourselves. 

I did this 'sure, let's' noise and focused on other things. It was Lawrence who researched recipes for preserving lemons. There are many ways to skin that cat. He found this recipe and as it was from the man himself, and it looked fairly straightforward, we went with that one. 

We bought a Kilner jar and a couple of nets full of unwaxed lemons. Oh yeah, and a fuck load of salt. Yes, we really did end up spending about 10 minutes debating the kind of salt to buy. This is the side-effect of dating someone who is a Details Person*. 

Lawrence then spent the journey home thinking about sterilising the jar. As a food scientist, he has slightly different ideas about hygiene than me. Also, he was concerned about the comment in the blog where he found the recipe; a guy called Dave complained that his lemons went mouldy in the first week of the process. 

In the end, we boiled the bejeezus out of the jar (the rubber seal we did separately), with Lawrence checking the temperature of the boiling water with his handy-dandy thermometer. Doesn't everyone walk around with a digital food thermometer? He measured out the salt, adjusting for the fact we were doing 10 lemons instead of 6. I quartered them, but not fully; just enough to open them up and pack the salt into them. We stuffed them into the jar, and sealed it all up. It then went into my kitchen cupboard. It's where I store my booze. It's cool and dark, apparently perfect for preserving lemons.

There they sat, undisturbed for a week. Until Sunday. The salt had drawn the juice and filled half the jar already. I bought a couple of nets of cheap lemons which I juiced and poured in to cover them. Lawrence had been concerned that we'd put too much salt. My argument was we didn't want them to go mouldy, and was there really such a thing as too much salt when preserving? I couldn't figure out why I couldn't cover the lemons fully. I had to add cooled boiled water and those suckers kept bobbing up. Afterwards, my favourite food scientist said that much salt changed the gravity of the juice - hence they kept trying to float. In the end, I threw in a couple of sprigs of rosemary from my garden and three dried chillies and added olive oil to cover everything by a couple of centimetres. I sealed it all up, and back into the cupboard it went.

And now we wait. The longer we wait, the better the flavour. 

*sigh*

But here's a picture of our hard work:

It's going to be awhile until we get to the middle of February. Oh boy.

*Details Person. The title my brother gives to people, like our father, who love the details involved in any given task. They have OCD tendencies when following recipes, instructions, putting together flat-pack furniture. Not a character trait he and I inherited - we're more liassez-faire in our approach.

Life of Pi

I've not particularly been in a party mood recently, and when considering seeing out 2012, I was pleased when Lawrence suggested going to see the new movie adaptation of Life of Pi. I'd seen the book lurking in bookshops over the years and never felt moved enough to pick it up and dive in. The movie on the other hand looked gorgeous.

We headed out into the cold and wet to Cinema City. Both Lawrence and I happily agreed on the 2D version. Lawrence's preferences are his own; but I don't particularly need to be visually immersed into a film, I find the more whizzy the effects, the more I feel nauseous and uncomfortable. I like big screen cinema in the 2D I grew up with. I don't need it bigger, better, faster, more. Yes, I know, I'm old-fashioned and boring. I'm fine with it.

Lawrence rightly pointed out occasionally Ang Lee disappeared up his own arse to focus on the 3D moments, and it really could have done with a heavier hand in the editing suite. But on the whole I thought it was stunning and the CGI was nigh-on realistic. 

I loved it. 

It made me cry.

Click here for a wiki synopsis and plot spoiler.

As a writer, I appreciated the marriage of the mystical, the realistic and the use flagrant use of metaphor in this sumptuous adventure. I loved the jumping narrative, seeing Pi grow up in Pondicherry; the juxtaposition between that, and his telling his tale to the writer in the present day works. Pi is established as a trustworthy, though dreamy narrator. At the end, it's obvious Pi is not 'telling the truth'. Would it have been a different story without the tiger, Richard Parker? Absolutely. And as the movie points out, it would not have been as palatable. We know which version is the truth and the tiger wins every time. 

Are we more susceptible to the version of Pi's story with Richard Parker the tiger, because of Pi's spiritual nature established so early on? After all, religions use metaphor to tell their stories. Very possibly.

I know which version I would rather. Richard Parker, the tiger is portrayed as a tiger, in all his tigernessess (if you see what I mean?). He's not a Disney tiger that will become a talking pussy cat before the end of the movie. He is a wild and scary animal...and yet, there is glimpse of something within his (CGIed) eyes. There is more. Could I have coped as well with the cannibalistic cook, the suffering sailor and the death of Pi's mother? Not as well. I don't need that much realism in my life. 

It is this something more that makes Pi's enigmatic words resonate at the end of the film.

"And so it is with God."

The Festive Season at the Casa

Of course I wasn't ready for Christmas. I'm not entirely sure what I was doing, but it certainly didn't include writing Christmas cards. I bought 30 or so and so far have written 2. I'll save the other 28 for next year. It does make me feel horribly guilty, because I've got loads and loads of lovely cards from all around the world. I think I'll be writing January cards to make up for my being totally crap.

On the plus side, the house was made presentable, proper food has been cooked and I haven't blown as much money on stuff as compared to previous years. So I am well pleased. 

Solstice morning, I refuse to write about. If I just say: Local government, piss up in brewery, incandescent rage, I think that will cover all the bases and leave out the tedious re-visiting of the very stressful 6 hours.

Solstice evening was a complete contrast. I cooked for some of my favourite people on the planet. Hanging around with foodies on-line and IRL has obviously rubbed off. I was inventive and arty with the menu. I did one starter, Lawrence sorted the other. 

I did mini-Yorkshire puddings filled with red-onion marmalade and chunks of chipolatas. Lawrence called them Yorkshire vol au vents, at which point I threatened to stuff them with tuna and sweetcorn. He shut up. Lawrence prepared blinis with smoked salmon, creme fraiche with finely chopped shallots, salmon caviar and garnished with dill.

For mains, I prepared braised beef in wine, served with creamy horseradish mash, carrots, leeks au gratin and stir fried cabbage. It was followed by a yummy pear crumble.

This was all washed down with copious amounts of gin, red wine, sherry and coffee and a heck of a lot of laughter. We exchanged pressies, lots of hugs, stories, gossip and plans for the New Year. It was brilliant.

The next day, I tackled the kitchen in phases and it was all sorted eventually, with no stressing.

I did most of the food shopping yesterday, but realised at about 1 am (as you do) I had no potatoes, so I dragged Boy out at lunchtime (morning by his body clock) to finish off. It was also a good opportunity to pick up some more tonic, cider and cream.

For lunch, I made from scratch salmon fishcakes with dill, using up the left-over mashed potato. Boy hated it so much, he ate four. We've had a lovely afternoon chilling out and he's now out with friends. I've been playing on Skyrim again after quite a long break and it's good fun to immerse myself in such a lovely, magical landscape. I also have been grazing on the little treats sat on our dining table, washing everything down with cider.

Tomorrow will be a Casa de Roses traditional Christmas. Boy and I will be in our pyjamas all day. We'll have breakfast, open pressies, open a bottle of something naughty, cook the duck and watch the most awful selection of DVDs. I flatly refuse to do stress or angst on Christmas  Day. I love our Christmases together. He's such great company and he mucks in, so it's not left to just me to sort everything.

Darlings, I wish you all a fabulous, sparkly festive season. Whatever festival you celebrate, whatever path you walk upon. May 2013 bring you and yours love, good health, prosperity and joy. 

Roses
xxx  

Warning: Rant Ahead

I try and steer clear of politics. It's a bit of a minefield and an unpleasant one at that. I distrust the three main political parties, they've all made reasonable promises and broken every one.  They are morally and ethical vacant and will never see any of my votes ever again.

I don't know why I'm surprised at today's article in The Guardian.

When I first got to England in 1988, Single-Parent bashing was the favourite past-time at Tory conferences. Girls were getting pregnant to get a council house. The world was going to hell in a handbasket because of single-parents on benefits (and off benefits).

The fact of the matter is: I'm a single-parent.

I divorced my husband in the middle of my Development Studies degree. Without benefits and state support, I would have had to drop out and we would have been homeless. So, what did I do while I was on benefits? Well, I finished my degree, raised my son and looked for a job. I got a job. In Economic Development. I paid my taxes, bought my flat and helped small businesses access support to make them more profitable and helped people with business ideas to make their dreams a reality.

I can see why Tories hate children of single parents. Boy is a disgrace to society. He's kind, loyal, hardworking and willing. He's also looking for a part-time job to be more financially independent. Oh, and he's well educated. He can spell 'fuck'. He's in the process of applying to university.

I wouldn't mind so much, but I take exception to Lord Freud, who earns £300k a year to saying that people on benefits are making a lifestyle choice. They don't take enough economic risks.

I suppose when one has to scrape by on £300k a year, it's hard to understand the stomach-dropping moment when one is looking at a pile of red bills and you start weighing up the choices between eating, paying your gas bill and buying shoes for your child. Tell me again about taking financial risks Lord Freud?

Organised

Yes, it's true. Today, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am organised.

I have my To Do List all written out and I'm wading through it.

I wonder why I waited so long to work like this. Sometimes, I don't think I'm very bright.

When I'm in the office. My To Do List is the first thing I write out after I've checked my e-mails. If I don't write it down, chances are I'll forget. At the office I can be juggling 10-16 things at once and a dropped ball is inevitable. Plus, it's a real pleasure to cross stuff off.

I'm approaching my writing from a work perspective. Something I've never done before. I've always been fairly fast and loose with writing and blogging, so taking this more serious and organised approach has been a huge change. One which I use at work when copywriting big projects. One which I hope will have me fondling my completed manuscripts soon. 

Today, I've been working on Project #1 - genre novel, urban fantasy. I'm getting all my structures in place. Whilst I can just sit down and write; which is certainly how many a short story and blog post got done, this doesn't work with a big writing project. I start and then run out of steam. Working through the story arc, getting the character sheets done, general notes, all of that is part of the process. It may be a few days before I actually start writing Chapter One, but that's fine. All of this is the work.

And yes, it is work.

It's slow going at this point, I want to get all my ducks lined up properly, so I know exactly what I'll be doing when I come to actually sit down at a keyboard and start typing: Chapter One. I suppose it's all theory to start with and I'm finding it somewhat scary. This is unexplored territory for me. But I've started and I mean to finish.

Wish me luck.

Plotting

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is what I'm currently doing. Plotting. Otherwise known as 'getting your ducks in a row'. 

In 2004, I embarked on a Creative Writing degree. There I got to experiment to my little heart's content with different styles, genres and I got to play with art. Good times. Then I needed to pay my bills. I've been putting off writing my own stuff with some rather excellent excuses (if I don't say so myself), but as it's turned out, in the meantime, I've learnt some rather good things from copywriting.

The first, most important thing for me, is to know what I'm going to write. 

I've currently got 3 chapter 1's of stuff I've started and then run out of steam. I didn't know where to go. I know how to begin, but to complete a big writing project has eluded me. 

People bring the most amazing set of baggage to writing. I have been no different. Ultimately, what distinguishes the wanna-be, from the writer is 50,000 words or so. It's not a romantic or an easy way to spend one's time. Marion Zimmer-Bradley always said, writing is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration and she's not wrong.

Copy-writing has beaten out quite a few of my excuses. Telling your manager that you're not 'in the mood' to write that website copy she needs yesterday, is not conducive to paying the gas bill before the second red letter. I can write copy in a noisy open-plan office, with a To Do List with 16 things breathing down my neck like a serial killer, curled around my jumper fighting off stomach cramps and with tissues stuffed up my nose. It doesn't have to be great copy, that's what editing is for, it just has to be words on a page.

I can do this now because I plot. I create a structure, I then make it more detailed, and then I write it paragraph at a time. Because if I know what I've got to write, I can sit down and transfer it from my head to the page.

Plotting.

Plotting takes me most of my time with small projects. I've learnt to create pages and pages of notes. I do these long-hand on loose bits of plain paper. I keep them clipped together with bulldog clips. I then transfer them to digital when they're done. By the way, deforestation of the Amazon is my fault. I'm considering taking out shares in WH Smith. I'm fussy about the pens I write with, the paper I write on and the bulldog clips I keep everything together with. A stationery store is my idea of a good time.

I digress. Plotting is the unseen work. Plotting happens when I'm driving to work, doing the dishes, making dinner, standing outside staring up at the stars. 

I have 3 writing projects, all with different rules and needs and my plotting needs to be tight. 

Project #1
Romance. Yes, I am writing a Mills and Boon. For those people who think it's easy, do it and come back to me after you've got 50,000 words to your name. Readers of romance have very specific requirements for the type of experience they're after. They are some of the most discerning and demanding audience a writer will ever have to face. There's a very tight structure, without much room for manoeuvre and it's a difficult market to break into. 

I read a lot of romance. It's my feel-good reading of choice. I love a happy ending. It's the glass of gin at the end of a hard day, kind of reading for me.

Project #2
Genre - Urban Fantasy. Good genre fiction is hard to find. It also has its own rules and much of the good stuff, comes from across the Pond. There's more dross than bears thinking about and many books that should be apologising to the tree that went into producing them. I'm letting my imagination run riot. I want to produce an excellent genre novel, based in the wilds of Norfolk. It's going to be a bit of fun.

Project #3
This is my tour-de-force. My serious bit of writing. It's ambitious and I am battling the worry that I am not able to do it justice. Based in Trinidad in the late 1960's -, it's been rattling round my brain for the last 2 years. This is going to be the hard and painful labour. 

Three writing projects is a bit of an ask. It's hard enough working on one piece of writing.

However, I am good at chopping and changing, hopping from one project to another. Faced with one thing, I tie myself up in knots. With three, when I get stuck, I can move on to another, where I can be productive. I can let my unconscious sort out the stuck bits as I work on something else. It's very easy to get sick at the sight of a piece of writing and when copy-editing, it's incredibly important to remain fresh - your brain will automatically translate what's on the page, to what you meant - the two are guaranteed not to be the same.

So here goes. Wish me luck.

Ads and Shiny Things

Recently, I've found myself spending more time in front of the Idiot Box. I've been keeping half an eye out for the occasional programme...but I don't slavishly watch anything. Anyway, this ad came on and I loves it very, very much. I don't know why. I just do.



Happily, Boy really likes it to and looked up the music that was used. It turns out it's Willy Moon, Yeah, Yeah.

We've been bopping around the house to it.

Hope you enjoy it too...

Adventures in a Pub on a Cold, Wet Sunday Evening

Ladies and Gentlemen, what follows is why I had to start blogging again...

Last Sunday the clocks went back. I was still feeling a bit wrung out and the weather was diabolical and then of course, it was dark by 5 pm. I'd put on my comfy clothes, snuggled down on my favourite corner of the sofa, got my Shiny Things nearby and basically got ready for an evening in reading a trashy book.

When I started hanging out with Lawrence last year, he introduced me to Norwich's gig scene. We'd go down to Jurnet's Bar in Wensum Lodge for their Acoustic Nights, listen to acts play their funky music. We'd go to Olives on Magdalene Street for Penguin's Acoustic and Eclectic evenings. I've seen some amazing bands and my music collection has grown because of it. What I've really loved is getting to know the museos in the bands, thanks to the power of Facebook and the fact that Norwich is actually a small village really. 

One such band is Das Fenster and the Alibis. Voodoo rock'n'roll with a dangerous edge. I am pretty sure we were at their first ever gig and we've been following them around ever since.

Lawrence was working over the weekend, and I was not feeling up to much, so we agreed that Das Fenster's gig on the Sunday evening was probably a no-go. I snuggled down, got my iPad out and then it started.

A poet, who I will call H asked if I was going and then there was a quick flurry of exchanges with another poet J, joining in. In the end, I got up off my butt, changed and picked up J. Off we went to the pub, very early as it turned out.

Now the Edward VIII advertises itself as a 'live music venue'. It's not in the most salubrious area and it's not the most well-heeled establishment, but it's fun. In we go. I sent a text to Lawrence saying I was there, with poets.

We caught up, drank and waited H and her husband M to rock up. There was much kissing of cheeks when they did.

Das Fenster and the Alibis are a trio. There's Das Fenster on lead vocals, guitar and occasionally piano, Pearly Gates on double base and Stagger Lee on drums. The pub soon filled up. What the poets and I hadn't realised is that it was published as a Halloween affair, with loads of people turning up in fancy dress. The walls, pictures, beer pumps were draped with cobwebs, spiders and bats. Witches and pumpkins adorned the windows; all illuminated by UV light which made the whole thing a little bit creepy. Think luminescent cobwebs...

They got up, introduced themselves and started playing. In the year since I've known them they've only got better, adding new material and they are great show men. I won't go into too much detail, but click on the links for a taste of the music. I'm nagging for the album they're busy recording.

So anyway, they start and so do two hecklers. I'm not sure what it is about drunk men, they think they are so funny. At one point I wondered whether this was going to be my first ever pub brawl. Happily, they reigned it in a bit, with the occasional comment from the floor. The poets and I sat in the corner up on bar stools, which meant I could see. What we hadn't realised is that we were sitting over the smoke machine, which enthusiastically set to work. Unfortunately, it did it's job too well, getting to the point where I couldn't see a foot in front of my face.

There's a certain cool factor to the lead singer saying from the stage, between tracks "Lawrence, Roses is sat in the corner over there!" Lawrence had arrived and couldn't see me in the smoke and darkness. My night was complete as far as I was concerned...what did I know? They played my favourite song "I won't go back" and it was stonking. I had to have jiggle.

When the gig ended, Lawrence accompanied me outside as I had a nicotine break, the pub secures the doors once the gigs start and it took us a minute to realise we had to lean on the front door to keep it open so we could get back in. We were joined by one of the hecklers and his girlfriend. Both were well in their cups. I smoked in silence whilst they slurred their way through their conversation and then I unwisely I looked at Lawrence and pointed out how patient he was being.

The heckler's girlfriend peered at him and then looked me straight in the eye and announced "It means he's crap at sex!" 

WTF?

"I wouldn't say that at all." Was my mild reply. My first job was in my dad's pub. There's very little that can shake, rattle and roll me. I've seen it, heard it and frankly, if she thought she could shock me, she was disappointed.

"Oi loik you. You're nice people." She puts her arm around me, squashes me to her net jumper and introduces herself and her boyfriend.

"What's your names?"

Quick as a flash, without even a pause, Lawrence says he's 'Eric' and I'm 'Louisa'.

Lousia? Really?

If I'd have stayed home on my sofa, I'd have missed out on this experience. Definitely worth getting dressed for.