Awake

Awake. Suddenly. Pitch black. Beside me, there is steady even breathing. Opening my eyes wide, scanning around, there’s not a glimmer of light. Dawn is still distant. What woke me? Not nerves. Not bladder. No tension. Not too hot. Nor too cold. One part of my intestine talks to another. A gentle breeze – outside. No quite a strong wind, moving fallen leaves. A few raindrops hit the window. I rub my eyes. Sparks in the blackness.
“Wake me up when September ends.”

I’ve good things on my horizon: tonight a visit from my expat sis, so why do odd thoughts crowd in? A clumsy comment. An undiplomatic swipe. An unacknowledged kindness. A half-forgotten task left undone at work. Events long past, forgotten, I thought, even by me. Why didn’t I ask, that time? Could I have helped? Things I wanted to ask my Dad. Is there any way of unlocking Mum’s fading memories? “Will you still need me / will you still feed me / when I’m 64?”

An itch on the side of my nose. A tickle at the back of my neck. Another borborygmus – I love that word. Are there enough spuds in the cupboard? What shall we have for pud? Did I miss a text from sis? Where did I put my phone? Waterloo – that infuriating Abba song blunders into my brain. Let’s swamp it out with “You fill up my senses / like a night in the forest...”

Shall we go to see the Northern Lights? Will I get a chance to start some Christmas letters? How could I forget to respond to those two lovely emails? What about that Madagascar reunion? And the kindle version of my lemur book? And the next Wanderlust piece? Should I get that knee op? And I must call the bank / insurance / optician / dentist/ bike shop... Now my bladder starts signalling unnecessarily. 5am. Intestines ask why-oh-why-oh-why? Maybe a stimulating cup of coffee will send me back to sleep.

While the kettle boils, I make a list – with one thing on it.

Back to bed. The cosy covers will warm my toes. An early-bird car rushes by – some poor soul is off to work already. A click and our hot water system starts up. 6ish. Empty the head. Concentrate on a black velvet curtain.

Maybe I’ll fall asleep five minutes before the alarm wakes me again.

Author event

A relaxed, well-lubricated author event at my local - Rock Road Library - earlier in the week

Debasing a legend

I don't generally admit to watching such things on TV but my son must have had it on: I'm talking about I'm a celebrity - get me out of here. It is engaging in an odd sort of way... fascinating watching people not really coping in what they see as an alien environment, while I sit wondering why on earth they would voluntarily put themselves in situations they must know they'll hate. But then again, we should salute them really - since facing the fear has got to be good for you: giving you resources for later. Giving you courage for future travails.

What I quickly took exception to yesterday, though, was the attribution of one celeb. He was labelled the "legendary darts player".

Well I'm sorry - and no offence to the man concerned, who I'm sure is very nice and highly skilled in his field - but how can a darts player be a legend? How can a footballer, when it comes to it? Surely a legend is someone who has really faced adversity - and risked all or even died in the attempt. Like Amelia Earhart or Malloy and Ervine??

Please ITV don't debase the English language like this. Keep at least some overblown language for the real heroes. And let's celebrate the astonishing wealth of English, which makes it so easy to avoid repetition. We've sooo many words, and it is great to be able to dip in and discover more.

The richness and scope of English really came home to me when I was living in Indonesia, trying to learn the rudiments of the national language. The first thing to surprise me was that the English to Bahasa Indonesia section of my dictionary was about twice the size of the Indonesian to English section. Why? Because there were simply no words for concepts we English-speakers deem important. There is no Indonesian word for vegetarian, for example, or for brown. If an Indonesian wants to refer to something that is brown they will either say 'red' or 'the colour of chocolate', or rather just 'chocolate'. This got me into culinary confusions. When I'm overseas long-term, I have a thing about baking my own wholemeal bread if I can't buy it. Consequently, when shopping for brown flour in Jakarta, Ujung Pandang and Mataram, I bought an interesting array of brown powers. I bought chocolate power, bread crumbs, gravy browning (or at least that's what it smelled like) as well as a few packets of very good wholemeal wheat flour.

So use the diverse language we have at our command. Let's keep words like legendary for people who have really earned such adulation, and strive to search for other lesser known words to discombobulate the illiterate and the uneducated.

Leech attack

I've been talking today to intrepid development engineers on the subject of staying healthy abroad, and they've been encouraging me to tell stories. I was reminded of this one.

 

A leech was feeding on my leg in Nepal. It was during the monsoon when there are lots about. There is something utterly revolting about watching a slimy black parasite bloat up on your life-blookd but I didn't want to just rip it off. That can leave mouthparts behind and promote infection.

 

I walked up to a woman who was squatting by the path smoking. I asked in my best Nepali, ‘Please may I use your cigarette to get this leech off.’

‘You have a leech,’ the woman said, looking in pity at this numbskull.

‘Yes, and I want to get it off by burning it with your cigarette’

‘Don’t be daft,' she said, ripping it off my leg and cackling.

She must have had some skill, though, because she didn’t leave the mouthparts behind. I just had to walk home with blood dribbling down my leg - because of the anticoagulant. Most unattractive.



An unfed leech

 

 

 

Literacy

I had to smile when I strayed across a review of my travel narrative, Lemurs of the Lost World, on Amazon.co.uk recently. It read

‘Disappointing
I had not expected so much text and so few photographs or illustrations. I should have read the detailed description more fully!’

I guess I should be grateful that the purchaser – who probably bought the book for a few pence – bothered to post a review at all. It is, after all, unbelievably difficult to get readers to feedback in this way, but I really... ask you – what is a writer supposed to do with feedback like this? Too many words. Not unreadable or boring, turgid or inaccessible, but just too many. Or rather too many pages of text. Did he even read it? I think not....

Author sighs a deep depressed sigh and leaves her desk to make a strong cup of coffee.

 

Drizzle

It is a dank autumn day in Cambridge. People have their collars turned up but the morning mist has reminded me of the cheery Nepali folk-song, Simsim Paani. The song is about drizzle but it is a celebration not a condemnation. Nepalis say that rain is a blessing and that thought always makes me smile, and simsim paani sounds so much more poetic than drizzle.

Even in the greyest of weather, I can drift into cosy recollections of our magical six years in Nepal. A Glimpse of Eternal Snows will allow you to travel there too, to revel in the scenery our family so loved. Photographs relating to the book are at www.wilson-howarth.com.

Publication of the first edition of Glimpse gave me the privilege of discussing my writing with my readers and of hearing others’ moving stories. One spoke of how strongly she connected with my experiences. The link was not because she had the slightest interest in Nepal, nor because she had experience of raising a different child. This women’s mother, who suffers from dementia, effuses delight and notices very different things when taken out in her wheelchair, just as David had done. Such different people, who are so easily written off as disabled or handicapped, can teach us to see again the little things that make a big difference. They can show us how to enjoy our familiar environments with fresh new eyes.  I trust that this book will equip others to find that joy as well. Perhaps too it will stimulate some to re-examine what is truly important in life.

The few certainties in our existences are pain, death and bereavement yet these are topics that we tend to shy away from in the West: the English in particular worry about saying the wrong thing. I hope that my book wil encourage more of us to talk about difficult subjects more often, and so comfort those who need words to help them heal.

Adapted from the Afterword of my new memoir

My favoutite mountain emerging from the morning miasma

 

 

Forever doubting

I strayed across an encouraging statement by 2007 Man Booker prize winner Anne Enright.
She said "only bad writers think their work is really good."
I take from this that forever doubting is normal - and even, perhaps a sign of talent!
Maybe this also explains why authors like to huddle together for mutual support... on this lovely sofa for example.

With some of my fellow authors from Walden Writers discussing works in progress - Rosemary Hayes is on the left and Penny Speller on the right. Thanks to Amy Corzine for the photo