Gain Inner Peace by Filing Your Tax Return

Found inner peace? Not.

It's so easy to file your taxes on-line!

 

Go paperless. Submit your tax return on-line.

 

Gain inner peace by filing your taxes on-line.

I've just wasted about three days of my life trying to gain this inner peace. My rug is badly chewed. I have carpet fibres in my teeth and bald patches on my head.

Like so much government double-speak - like, 'We're in this together' and 'The NHS is safe in our hands' - they know very well that not a word, not a syllable, not a letter of it is true, but still, they stoutly maintain these falsehoods in the face of our boos and hisses.

I first logged on to complete my return a couple of months ago. I found that it had been partly filled in for me by some HMI gremlin. The gremlin stated that I had been paid a sum of money as an employee. Because I had been paid this sum, I owed Pay-As-You-Earn tax.

This was completely wrong. I haven't been employed by another party for about 40 years. Even when I was a Royal Literary Fund Fellow, even when I go into schools to give talks and workshops, I retain my self-employed status, as do most writers.

The money that HMI had its underpants twisted about had nothing to do with employment. It came from a matured investment.

Long, long ago, O Best Beloveds, back in the stone-age, it was not possible for a self-employed person to have a personal pension. So, thinking that I should salt away a few quid for my old age, I opened a 'Retirement Account' into which I intended to stuff what little surplus moolah came my way.

Almost immediately after I opened it, the law changed and I was able to set up a personal pension, which seemed the better option. I couldn't take the money from the Retirement Account: it was in there for the long term. So I just left it. I added no more to it.

Then old age came upon me and I was notified that the account had matured. The matured pot was hardly life-altering. It wouldn't have bought a Tory MP a pedigree duck, let alone build a duck house. So I took it as cash. It was this money that HMI were claiming was payment for employment that I owed PAYE on.

Baphomet. Contact Him @widdershins...

I attempted to correct the on-line form. This only resulted in a lot of red splatter and big error messages. It wouldn't allow me to go forward to the next page until I had corrected the 'errors.'

So I wrote to the Taxman, asking what I should do. I suggested they send me a paper tax form which wouldn't answer back when I filled it in.

I wrote to them because my experience of trying to contact tax people by phone is dismal. It's much easier to contact Baphomet. With the taxman, even if you have a cup of coffee and a book and hang on the phone for hours, when you finally get through, you are immediately cut off. Deliberately, I suspect. Now, I have relatives that work in tax-offices and so I've heard something of the pressure tax-office workers are under and I don't blame them. Much.

Months passed. And finally, I got a letter from HMI. It said I was now too late to return a paper tax-form without being fined. Phone the number on the letter, it said, to be talked through the problem.

So I phoned, luckily without high expectations, and explained. A bored young woman said, "Oh, just ignore it and when you get to any other comments, put an explanation in there. When we check the form, we'll see it."

I went back to the on-line form. Whenever you sign in now, you get a phone-call from a rather abrupt robotic female who dictates a number to you. To some numbers she gives a Russian accent, while others she speaks as a South African. Occasionally she sounds a bit American. It's often quite hard to tell what numbers she's saying because, just as you've got used to one barely comprehensible accent, she springs another on you. And then snaps, "Goodbye."

I went through this rigmarole with her several times because as soon as I got into the HMI site, it crashed, putting up a message 'We are having problems. Try again later.' This happened at least three times.

When I finally managed to log on, all those big red letters and error messages about owing money on PAYE had vanished. The gremlins had been in again, tidying up.

Still, I thought I ought to mention it in 'any other comments' just to make sure the mistake was understood. I wrote in a few words, but wasn't allowed to submit them. Red error messages again. And then the whole site crashed.

Another conversation with the woman with the strangely shifting accent. Another crash. And so the long winter evenings wore on. How glad I am to have HMI and their number-fixated friend to pass the time with. I've nothing better to do after all.

With perseverence, I got back on the site - and somehow, everything was okay, my message was suddenly acceptable and I'm allowed to submit. My tax return is, finally, done.

If this terrible site, with its glitches and crashes, had delayed me until January 31st, I'm sure HMI would have gleefully fined me. Or is that the reason why the site is so bad? To give an excuse to fine people?

Filing on-line is easy? It provides inner peace? Whoever came up with those slogans, they owe me a new rug and I would like to eat their young. Baphomet has some great recipes.

Pond Life

In January this year, we dug a pond. You can see the lovely thing below.

 The idea was to make our backyard more enticing to wildlife. A pond is the way to go, apparently, if you're interested in doing that.
     We laboured over our hole in the ground for many a day. It was cold. It was muddy. It was unattractive.

Just to make it even more unattractive, we added a black plastic liner. I can't remember if this was the original which sprang a leak after a couple of weeks, or the later one which is still bravely holding water. We weighted the liner down with pots and bricks, to prevent it thrashing about in the frequent gales. In the picture above, it's frozen solid.

Here it is a little further along, still looking unlovely. We've covered some of the liner with earth, and added some plants at the further end. They came from my old pond in a pot (which also sprang a leak and will probably have a tree planted in it at some point.) The pond here is brimming full from the winter downpours. At the moment, it is brimming full from the summer downpours. A couple of weeks ago, the sunshine was so liquid, we had to bale the pond out for fear of flooding.

This picture was taken earlier this week. Those tall, pointed leaves in front of the blue periwinkle are yellow flags donated by Karen Bush aka Madwippit. They are excelling at the tall pointy green leaf bit, but have so far declined to flower. But the wild strawberries Karen gave me are flowering and fruiting. You can just see one of their white flowers above the potted rosemary in the foreground.

Here's one where you can actually see the water.

We were promised that if we did the work and made a pond, we would see more wild-life and the promise has been kept. I have seen more birds in the garden this year than in the past sixteen years I've lived here. Previously, they just flew over, even when I hung feeders out.

There is always a wood pigeon. Whatever kind of food is put out, Woodie is in there first. Here he is yearning after the niger seed which isn't intended for him. But we also have a little family of dunnocks, a wren, a robin, blackbirds, bluetits, great tits, starlings and house-sparrows.

A newcomer was spotted the other day: buff-coloured with marked white wing stripes and a darker head. It's suspected of being a chaffinch, but as yet, this is unconfirmed.

I've become very fond of the sparrows. They love the pond. They come down in a swirl, like falling leaves, and land around its edges, where they drink and bathe.

I'm very fond of this brute - 'Touch Me Not With Impunity' and it tells no lies. I was given this by my auntie, who had put on gauntlets and potted it up for me. It spent the winter lying flat in its pot. Then, one spring day, I noticed that all its spiky leaves had lifted themselves up and were pointing at the sky. So I put on armour and planted it against this wall. Since then, I swear it has grown an inch a week and, when the weather warmed up, a inch a day. It is now as tall as I am and you cannot get near it. In Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman there is a lance with a point so sharp that its end is invisible and it stabs you while you think it is still inches away. Old Touch Me Not is like that. Its flower buds look soft and velvety but touch one and you leap back across the path with your spiked fingers in your mouth. - But we hope that the seeds will attract more birds.

This is the 'wood' at the top of my garden. There is a dogwood, a crab apple, some towering ferns and lots of brambles. And foxgloves.

The marsh-marigold in the pond. There is a large bud on one of the water-lilies but it's taking an age to open.

I end with Woodie, getting stuck into whatever it was that was scattered on the step. He's the only bird who hangs around long enough to be photographed.

     The pond was worth the work. We've had more fun and interest out of it in these past months than almost anything else.

And I'm Out The Other Side...

          ...Of World Book Day, that is - or rather, the week it takes

Guess which Urban Myth I told...

place in.
          Over ten days, I went into three schools. I know some writers do much more, but these three visits involved long drives, overnight stays - and I get old, I get old. It was enough for me.
          The first school was Arthur Mellow's Collegiate, near Peterborough. So that was a 200 mile drive and an overnight stay. In a chilly B&B, which wasn't quite as freezing as the one I stayed in during December, but still far from comfortable. B&B owners seem to think that England is a suburb of Melbourne, where December through to March is the hottest time of the year.
          I spent the entire day at Arthur Mellows working with the same group of 'gifted and talented' pupils, presenting a Creative Writing Workshop. It's unusual, in my experience, for a school to be as bold as this, and I applaud it.
          First I told the group a short story, an Urban Folktale.
          Then I showed them how the suspense in that story was created, that it's not so much what happens in a story that creates the interest, but largely down to the way it's told. It doesn't matter, in fact, whether a story is about someone's life being endangered by a serial killer, or an old teddy-bear trying to find his lost owner - the story will follow the same pattern, and whether the story works or not will largely depend on how it follows that pattern.
          I gave them copies of the story I told them, and had them identify the 'building blocks' of the story. Then I set them the task of inventing their own story, in brief outline. It could be any kind of story - provided it included all the building-blocks we'd looked at. In this way, I hoped to get them to invent a complete story, with a satisfactory ending - and not, as so often happens, to charge off into their first idea, and then be dissatisfied and disappointed because they couldn't find an ending.
          They worked on their stories for an hour, while I went round finding out about them. There was an age-range from 11/12 to 14/15, and a wide range of subjects. I encouraged them all to start thinking about their ending. Who did they want to 'win'? Was it to end happily or sadly? With others, I discussed re-arranging their story's elements, to achieve a better structure.
          In the hour immediately before lunch, we held a 'writer's surgery' where they heard each other's stories - which were wonderfully varied and imaginative - and gave each other feedback. How well had the building blocks been handled? What worked well about the story? What could be improved?

          In the afternoon, we took a look at building character, and setting scene. I enjoyed the day enormously.  One student wrote on her feedbac form (and entirely without coercion from me, as I'd left my knuckledusters at home): 'I want to be an author when I’m older and workshops like this one are inspiring and helpful. THANK YOU!'

The Sterkarm Handshake

          At Cardinal Griffin, I've just been appointed their 'Patron of Reading,' and this was a first visit, a 'getting to know you' day. I saw several classes, for an hour each time, and told them something of my life, and about the ideas and research behind my book, The Sterkarm Handshake.
          And there was cake for lunch - baked by the lovely librarian, Jacqueline Biddle. Some senior students came along to join us - but had all eaten their packed lunches at break!
          It was a fun day, with some very acute questions from the students, and I look forward to working with Griffin again.
          Griffin was a mere hour's drive from home - but good lord, the traffic! At roughly 3-45pm, the traffic on Birmingham's car-park (the M6) was so horrendous that I pulled off and drove home through the urban sprawl of the Black Country, where, if you can credit it, the roads were quieter, and I was able to get out of second gear.
          A pit-stop at home that night, and then next day I set out for Salisbury and my B&B.
          I thought I was never going to get there. I drove and drove and drove, but the roads seemed to keep unwinding on an endless spool. I think I drove, that day, on every kind of road that exists in the UK (with the possible exception of the roads on the Isle of Mull and the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, whose unique roads sometimes take a break and disappear from view altogether.)
          But after three hours and 120 miles (only 120? It felt like much more) I arrived at my B&B, which was on a farm, Swaynes Firs Farm. There were ornamental ducks, a very warm welcome from the charming landlord, and a good breakfast the next morning.
          I was away at 7-30 am, to drive to the school, Godolphin, an independent girls' boarding school, founded in 1726. I spent the

morning in the Prep school, where first I told the girls about myself in assembly - and then had a hugely enjoyable time until about half eleven.
          First, I read my books, The Runaway Chapati, and How The Bear Lost His Tail, to the youngest. They chanted out the choruses, were afraid for the chapati, and sorry for the bear, and a good time was had by all.
          Then I used the wonderful StoryWorld cards by John and Caitlin Matthews. Each card has a very detailed and beautiful picture on it, with questions to prompt ideas. The children were split into groups, and I gave each group a character card. When they'd had a moment to think about it, I gave them another card,

One of the StoryWorld cards

which featured a place or an object. I asked them to find the link between their character and the subject of the new card.
          If you want to see the power of story in action, use these cards. We tell stories about everything, we think in stories, we teach with stories - and the excitement and glee of the children as they spot some detail in the card and 'discover' some new twist in their story, is beautiful to see. And I, as ever, was amazed and delighted by the ideas they came up with - things I would never have thought of, and never expected.
          I gave them a little guidance - asked them to think about their endings.
          At 11-30, I was fetched to the Senior School and there, immediately before lunch, I began the Creative Writing Workshop by telling, and breaking down, an Urban Myth. After lunch (which was very good) the girls divided into two groups and worked on their own stories. Again, I went round, seeing as many as I could, advising them to think about what kind of ending they wanted, so they knew where their story was heading.
          At the end of the afternoon, we had a writers' surgery - all gathered in the lovely old school hall. We dragged chairs and benches into a big circle, and I grabbed the headmaster's throne.
         The girls' teacher feared that they might be hesitant to criticise each other's work, and there'd be nothing but praise - but the girls had not only come up with very different stories - all complete with endings which ranged from happy to doom-laden - but gave each other excellent feedback on what had worked, and what was confusing, and what defied belief.
          I stressed that this kind of criticism is an ordinary part of a writer's working life - that if someone said their story wasn't believable, they shouldn't be crushed. It simply meant that you rewrote the story, changing details, until it was believable.
          And then I was out the door for a three hour drive home. After two hours, stopped at a Little Chef, for a coffee and bacon and eggs. The glamorous writer's life.
          I wouldn't change it, though.

And have you guessed what the Urban Myth was yet?

 Photo: Wikimedia Commons, Pato Garza

Will You Be My Valentine? - Or Pubwrimo 4

          My friend couldn't make it to a pubwrimo this week, so, yesterday (Friday 13th, I'm not superstitious) I went on my own. At the bar, I reached into my bag, for money to pay for my cider - and pulled out a large red envelope I'd never seen before.
          As I stared at it, the barman said, "Oooh, somebody's got a Valentine."
          He could see what I couldn't - that on the side of the envelope facing him was written, 'Suzy' among some biro-drawn hearts.
          So I went to my table, with my cider and my notebook, and ripped open the card. It was indeed a Valentine, slipped into my bag while my back was turned. It must have been done on Wednesday, which was the last time I saw him - and there was me being mardy because he spoiled my concentration on 'Wolf Hall' by pressing the button on the control, to see how much more time there was left in the recording (which makes a big red timer appear in the corner of the screen.) And accidentally leaned on the control, and switched the recording off, and then had to rewind all the way through the programme to find the place again... And falling asleep and snoring.
          There was a badge on the card for me to wear today:  'A Perfect Valentine.' On the front, it read, 'I know I Drive You Mad Sometimes...But My Heart's In The Right Place...'
          And inside: - 'Right Next To Yours!'
          Altogether now: Aaaaaah.

          I had that very day bought him a Valentine. (Luckily.) In fact, I'd bought one earlier: a rather tasteful job which looked like an embroidered Victorian effort. But I lost it. Somewhere between me buying it and getting home, it vanished away.
          So, while picking up a few groceries pre-pub, I'd bought another. A rather juicily throbbing large red card, with gold lettering: To The One That I Love. Not really what I wanted, but all the others had 'Boyfriend' or 'Husband' on them.
          It had a verse inside, about wanting to spend every second of every minute of every day with the one that I love... Which sounded to me like something a stalker would write. So I neatly crossed it out and wrote in my own message.
          Then I got on with proper business. It is 1-50 in the afternoon. It is the pub. There is cider. Write!
          As usual, the pubowrimo magic worked and the writing flowed. My Bad Girl is tickled that her step-daughter thinks she can protect her grandmother, and sets out to demonstrate that she can cause GBH right under the step-daughter's nose and leave no incriminating evidence. She succeeds - and I think she'll go on to pose as the injured grandmother's rescuer, and one far more caring and attentive than the granddaughter could ever be. But that's the next pubowrimo.
          I think I've written the usual 2000 words or so, but I haven't typed them up yet, so I don't have an accurate word-count.
          On the way home, I stopped off at my Valentine's flat, sneaked in, and poked his Valentine into his letterbox - and snuck off again.
          But I think I owe him something a bit more stylish and personal. But I'm really not up to handcrafting anything.
          So I came up with the Cupid. It suddenly occurred to me how to do it. Get a clipart heart - download and save it to desktop.
          Open Powerpoint, and insert the heart as a picture into a slide.

          Find a clipart Cupid - this one was a black silhouette. Insert  him in the centre of the heart. - But this leaves a white square all around the Cupid, which I didn't want.
          Click on the pictures in Powerpoint, and this highlights 'Picture Tools' at the top of the screen. Click on that, and it opens the art menu.
           Go to 'Colour', third from the left. This opens a menu which offers, at the bottom, 'Set Transparent Colour.'
          I set white as the transparent colour - which meant the white square around Cupid disappeared as the red heart showed through from underneath.
          I then clicked on 'Artistic Effects' next along, and tried them all until I found one I liked - it turned Cupid into a silvery grey, shadowed figure instead of a solid black silhouette.
          So then I pressed the 'Print Screen' key.
          I opened my Paint programme, pressed Ctrl + V, and the image of the Powerpoint Screen appeared in the Paint programme. I saved it as a jpeg.
          I then opened it in Windows Photo Gallery, and used 'Fix' to crop the picture to just the heart and cupid. I changed the exposure, contrast and colour until it was as I wanted it. Then I saved it again, as a jpeg.
          And you use Paint to flip the image, so it faces the other way. Or to add shadow and definition to the heart. Even an arrow, if you have a steady hand with a mouse. Or a graphics pen. [Later. I added an arrow in flight using 'insert shapes' in powerpoint.]
          It sounds complicated, but took very little time. Less than it's taken me to write this blog. I imagine you could use Powerpoint to arrange several images in a similar way, though I haven't tried. Yet.

          I've no doubt the whole process is blindingly obvious to anyone who uses computers for artwork - but the whole idea just dropped into my head a few minutes ago. It comes from having used Powerpoint a lot just lately. I have to admit, I'm rather chuffed with my simple, stoopid little cupid.

Very Far From Where You Are Now...

The mountain...

Far, very far, from where you are now, there stands a mountain at the end of the earth.

The mountain is three miles high, three miles wide and three miles deep.

It is made all of adamantine diamond, the hardest thing that is.

Once, and once only in every thousand years, there comes to the diamond mountain a little bird, a tiny bird, a bird no bigger than the fingernail on your littlest finger.

A tiny bird...

The tiny bird, once in every thousand years, lights on the diamond mountain and sharpens its beak with three strops - One! Two! Three!

And when this tiny bird, which is no bigger than the nail on your littlest finger, and which comes to the mountain only once in every thousand years, when this little bird, with sharpening of its beak, has ground the diamond mountain, which is three miles high, three miles wide, and three miles deep...

When, with three strokes of its tiny bill, once in every thousand years, this little bird has ground the adamantine mountain all, all away...

Has ground it to the finest, finest dust...

And when the last grain of diamond dust has blown away on the wind, and there is not one grain left of the mountain...

Then, and only then, will be ended the first eye-blink of Eternity.

Eternity

I've known this for ages, but remembered it the other night when we were in a folk club. I thought it was a suitably fairy-tale, Christmassy thing to post at this time of year.

It's a fragment from the Brothers Grimm - though this is my version, retold from memory and no doubt changed.

A Peek Into My Work Room

          I've been working on the third book in the Sterkarm series, after The Sterkarm Handshake and A Sterkarm Kiss. In fact, I've been working on it for the past three years, amongst other things.
          Most of that work has been done on my laptop, in the corner of my sofa - partly because that suited me and partly because what I call 'my office' upstairs was in such a mess I could hardly get in the door.
          Housework has never been a priority for me - and then when both my parents were ill a few years ago, a lot of other things fell by the wayside. And since they died, a lot of things haven't seemed worth bothering about. The 'office' became a place to stuff oddments into and close the door.
          But the work on Sterkarm 3 is becoming increasingly serious. I felt the need of somewhere I could go that was away from my usual sofa-corner, a new place that would send my brain the signal, 'Time to work.'
          Like many other writers, I've often found it productive to get out of the house altogether, and go and work in a library, pub or cafe. I spent a lot of time trying to think of somewhere. The library was out, because personally, I find the grim silence in libraries distracting! I prefer somewhere with a bit of talk and coming and going. But the trouble with pubs and cafes is that you have to keep buying food and drink as 'rent'. This is perfectly reasonable - if I was trying to make a living from running a cafe, I wouldn't want the place full of free-loading writers either. But reasonable as it is, I still can't afford it.
          So I decided to clear my office of junk, generally tidy up, and see if it could serve as my change of scene. For the past week it's been working well. And I thought I should commemorate the tidy office, because it probably won't stay that way for very long.

           It may not seem remarkable to you, but those friends and relatives who have been allowed into the place over the past few years will be staggering with shock at this photo. There are places where you can put things down!
          I was too ashamed to publish a 'before' shot, but just imagine the desk and chair piled with archaelogical layers of papers, cds, books... And the floor littered with the pages of books ripped apart to make e-books.
          I had a lot of photos, cards and such that I wanted to display: and decided to tack them to the back wall instead of having them cluttering shelves and falling off in drifts.

           That male nude in the centre is a birthday card sent to me by my Mom and Dad. Obviously, that's the only reason it's up there - for sentimental reasons. Alongside it is the crashing racing-car card sent to me by my brother when I was learning to drive: 'Mirror - signal - manouvre - Oh !&%?!!' It still makes me laugh.
           Here's my own ghost-drum on its shelf, with its antler hammer, so I can summon the spirits - or Blott - when I need them.

 

          Here's a corner of one bookshelf -

 

          But now I have to get back to work, so I will hand you over to Blott...

          Weather Report: Friday 18th. Here, on top of the Black Country Plateau, it has been snowing gently but persistently all day. Kerbs have vanished, steps have become slopes, and my car is one big white mound. Don't think I'll be seeing anyone this weekend. Plenty of time to work!

              

I Did It!

Friday 7th September 2012 

     I did it, I did it!
          Three years to the month since I started, I've finished Sterkarm 3 and sent it to my agent just one hour ago.
          Now what do I do?
          Whatever, it has to be do-able one-handed. The doc's anti-inflammatories have done wonders for all my other joints - I am bounding up stairs and hills with lightsome foot - but left the tendonitis in my right hand and arm untouched.  When I finished the Sterkarm book last night,  my right wrist was visibly swollen.
          Still, it's forced me to remember many tricks, such as:

Cntrl + C = Copy

Cntrl + V = Paste

Cntrl + X = Delete

Cntrl + S = Save

          A double click on a word selects it for copying or deletion.
          All these enabled me to do a lot left-handed - quite suitable for writing about the Sterkarms! - in one corner of the key-board.
          So I'm afraid that's all for this post - 
          But good wishes to all and any struggling with finishing a book! Be of good cheer! It does, eventually, end.

Sterkarm Report

      Well, I failed.  It's 7-30pm on Friday night, and I know now that I'm not going to have Sterkarm 3 with my agent by tomorrow, September 1st.
         I tried hard.  I finished the book.  I'm a lot further on than if I hadn't set the deadline - but I'm going to have to ask for an extension.  Wednesday 5th seems a reasonable goal.
          What I still have to do is a final read through, while removing all the headings which helped me find my way around in 138,000 words.  I'm about a quarter of the way through, on Chapter 10.
          What's held me up?  Well - violins, please - a flare-up of tendonitis has not helped.  I am pecking out this blog with my left hand.  My right arm in a sling because it's so uncomfortable and at least, in a sling, it aches a little less.  It hurts to pick up an envelope right-handed.
          This slowed me down - and I had to spend time at the doctor's, getting some anti-inflammatory tablets.

          Happier interruptions - I sold a book through my website's new book-store, and had to pack up the book and post it.  Thank you, kind person.  The book is on its way.
          Also my cousin phoned from Switzerland, to ask, could he book me to tell spooky stories in November, to the kids in his Swiss school - via webcam and Skype?  Now this is something I've been thinking about for a while, and Alan has given me a useful shove.  I shall resurrect my Skype account, get a webcam, and learn to use it.   And then I shall offer virtual school visits - and maybe one-to-one writing advice via webcam, instead of just e-mail.
         Get me - the virtual writer.

          And here, especially dedicated to all those of you out there wrestling with edits, is Blott.

Defending The Villain

          I’ve been reading reviews of my book, The Sterkarm Handshake on Goodreads.  Most of them are good – four and five star.  People say how much they enjoyed the book, and I heartily thank people for taking the time and trouble to post a review – even though they may have done it for fellow readers rather than me.

          However, I was struck by how many of the reviews – even the positive ones – took issue with the character of my villain, the Company Executive Officer, James Windsor.

          He’s called a ‘one-dimensional character’ and ‘a pantomime villain’.  He even, commenters say, in shocked tones, makes fun of the heroine’s size.

          This puzzles me.  Early reviews of the book said much the same thing; and here are later readers saying it.  Could I have got it so wrong?

          I don't think I did.

          Now I’m fully aware that any writer arguing against adverse comments is going to look like an egoist who can’t take criticism.

          But I’m going to do it anyway.  I’ve been publishing since I was 16.  I’ve been taking criticism, constructive and destructive, on the chin for the whole of my adult life.

          I don’t quarrel with those who say that the book is too violent, or that the heroine is irritating, or even that it’s boring.  I’ve said the same things of books by other writers, even of books by writers whose other works I’ve loved, so I’m neither surprised nor dismayed that some people dislike some of my books.  I had my reasons for writing it the way I did; but other people would have made different choices, and dislike those I made. Fair enough.

         The comments on James Windsor puzzle me, though.  When I write, I obviously create scenes, plots and characters that seem, to me, convincing – since if they don’t convince me, it’s foolish to hope they’ll convince readers.  I characterised Windsor as I did because it’s my observation that there are people like him abroad in this unhappy world.  Not everyone, not even every CEO – but some.

          I’m quite glad to think that so many of my readers seem never to have met a James Windsor, but I’m puzzled too.  They’ve never met a bully?  Really?

          And yet bullying at work is commonplace.  (Nor is it new: I was talking about this with my aunt, and she told me that she left her first job, 64 years ago, because her boss bullied her so much.)

          James Windsor has financial power, and power over employees, and he enjoys using it.  He gets a kick when people have no choice but to obey him.  It makes him feel better about himself – why wouldn’t it?  It proves his success as much as his car, his home, his expensive suits.

          That he’s one-dimensional may be true to the extent that, in the books, we see him only with subordinates – or people he thinks should be his subordinates, such as the Sterkarms.  (But he has no hold over the Sterkarms, and they don’t give a spit for him.)

          I also think it’s fair to say that Windsor is good at his job, intelligent, witty and, quite often, right.  He makes the mistake made by many ‘civilised’ men before him, of underestimating the ‘uncivilised’, but he’s far from stupid.  He’s just not benevolent.  Take a look round the world and you’ll see plenty of intelligent but malevolent people.

          With his equals or superiors Windsor would be charming – well-mannered, witty, friendly, considerate.  With equals, he has a reputation to sustain, and from superiors he has something to gain.  I’m told that my great-grandfather was like this.  Among workmates and pub-friends, towards strangers and such superiors as policemen and bosses, he was ‘a great laugh’: generous, witty, charming.

          At home, he made no effort to charm. He terrorised his wife and children, kicking one of his sons senseless for defending a sister, and deafening a daughter by hitting her on the ear with a seven-pound lump hammer.  (He was a blacksmith, and ordered his daughter to hold a chisel while he hit it with said hammer.  She annoyed him by flinching, and he hit her with what he had to hand – the hammer.)  But that night, in the pub, he was ‘a great laugh’.  Does this seem OTT, too melodramatic? - But it's true, and very similar scenes are being enacted on the day you read this, somewhere near you.

          A friend in publishing once told me of a writer she was friendly with.  She’d known him for years and they’d always got on well when they met at launches and lunches.  Then, due to the last recession but one, my friend was given notice.  Shortly after, she met the writer again.  They hugged and kissed, and he asked for her news.

          She said she’d lost her job, and felt rather depressed, since she couldn’t imagine finding another, given her age and the state of the industry.

          The writer replied, “Oh, you’re no use to me any more, then, are you?” – turned his back and walked away, leaving her gobsmacked and speechless.

          Very James Windsor. He, the writer, and my great-grandfather were narcissists.  They aren't in short supply, and they aren't always serial-killers.  I think they're quite often in positions of authority, both because they want to be, and because their unswerving self-interest helps them to get there.

          As for Windsor’s insulting remarks to my hefty heroine – have my readers really not met people like this?  Really?

          While writing Handshake, I met a woman who worked for an executive, and asked her about her job and boss.  She told me, rolling her eyes, that he always addressed her as ‘Gorgeous,’ even calling her this in front of others.

Now, this would be patronising and offensive enough, but it went further.  My informant, though professionally impressive and very well groomed, was fully aware that not many would seriously call her ‘gorgeous’.  Hence the rolling eyes.  Every time he called her that, especially in front of others, it was a put-down.

          But how could she complain?  She had a well paid job which otherwise suited her well, which she might lose if she complained.  Even if you don’t mind losing your job, how can you complain that your boss calls you ‘gorgeous’?  But she and everyone who heard it knew that it was a sneer.

          Why did her boss sneer at her on a daily basis?  Because he could.  He enjoyed it.

          It was this meeting which nerved me to have Windsor speak to Andrea as he does.  At one point he gives her expensive chocolates saying, “I’m sure you’ll know what to do with them.”

          Andrea reflects that Windsor’s gifts are payment for the right to insult people.  This is the politics of gift-giving.  At its most benign, it’s an affirmation of friendship – at its less benign, it’s manipulative power-play.  It’s hard to quarrel with someone who gives you expensive gifts – and some use that to get away with bad behaviour.

          It’s these experiences, and my own, which lie behind James Windsor.  I don’t think, unfortunately, that he’s unrealistic or pantomimic at all.

          But I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.  I will take them on the chin.

A Sterkarm Dinner-Party: The Main

A soay sheep posing as a Sterkarm sheep      Now for the main course of the Sterkarm dinner party.      It’s a delicious meat pudding.  In The Sterkarm Handshake, Per Sterkarm went out especially to catch a deer for it, and the deer was hung for several days - but if you can’t put your hands on a deer, fallow or red, you can use a sheep, goat, or even a cow, though  obviously, the size of your pudding will vary, and the amount of other ingredients will have to be adjusted.        The recipe below assumes you are using a sheep.        Take the stomach, liver, heart and lungs.        You’ll also need three onions, 250 grams of beef lard, 150 grams of the inevitable oatmeal, salt, and about 150 mls of stock.         Also some of that expensive spice, pepper – the little dried berries of a vine, picked and dried half a world away.  Their price reflects the distance they’ve travelled.           Start preparing this dish at least a day before you need it because first you must clean the stomach well, emptying it of what the animal was last keeping in it, and washing it out.  Soak it overnight (in a wooden bowl or tub, probably).           In the morning, turn the stomach inside out, and boil it for one and a half hours in good stock.  (There would always be a stock-pot full of bones and bits boiling in the Sterkarm kitchen.)  Make sure that the weasand – that it, the windpipe – hangs over the edge of the pot, to allow drainage – though drainage of what I’d rather not ask, if you don’t mind.           While the belly-bag is boiling, slap the heart and lungs on a table-top or large chopping board, and mince them with a big knife.           Get hold of the liver and chop up half of it.  (The other half isn’t needed for the pudding, so Per Sterkarm probably had it as a treat, and a reward for catching the deer.)           Keep chopping! –chop  up the onions and the beef lard.           In a large crock or tub, mix together the chopped heart, lungs, liver, lard, onions and oatmeal.  Season well with salt.           Then the peppercorns need to be ground.  If you are the lady of the tower, Isobel, then obviously you can use your own pepper as you like.  If you’re a mere cook, you will need to ask for the peppercorns, as they are so valuable they will kept locked away.  Grind them in a pestle and mortar, and add to the mix.           Add sage, thyme and parsley, if liked.  They will have been grown by Isobel, or gathered wild, and may be either fresh or dried.           Take some of the water the belly was boiled in, and add enough to the mixture to make it a little watery.           Now take the belly-bag and put it in another bowl, to support it, with the opening at the top.  Fill it with the mixture of oatmeal and offal until it’s half-full.           Squeeze out the air, and sew it up with thread.           Put it back into the boiling stock, top up with water, and boil for three hours, without a lid.  Don’t let it boil dry, and  if the stomach starts blowing up, prick it with a needle.           When it’s done, bring to table and cut into steaming slices.  Serve with its own gravy and boiled neeps – that is, turnips.  Some turnip greens, would also be good, if  in season, as would carrots – which, in the Sterkarm’s time, the early 16th Century, would be purple, not orange.  (They would never have called their redheads ‘carrot-top.')           No potatoes. The plant hadn’t yet been introduced to Britain.           They would expect you to tuck in enthusiastically, and Isobel Sterkarm would be beside herself with disappointment and shame if you didn’t.  After all, she and her maids had worked long and hard in a stifling kitchen to offer you their very best.           The offal was far more nutritious, juicy and tasty than the tough, dry, lean muscle meat from their hardy little beasts – and they’d put expensive pepper in it, just for you!           Isobel would press second and third helpings on you, because it was a terrible slight to be called mean, or for anyone to say that they left your table hungry.  It would be a matter of pride, too, to show that they didn’t need to care about saving food. And, of course, the more you ate, the more Isobel could pride herself as a hostess.           However politely you refused, she would heap your plate anyway.  She wouldn’t be able to help herself.         Toorkild and Per Sterkarm would probably make sure the pudding was finished but if, somehow, there was any pudding left over, it would turn up at breakfast, fried.  And, because you were a guest, the envious Sterkarm men would be denied it, and it would land on your plate.  With a clonk.  Good appetite!