POPPIES AND RUPERT BROOKE

I heard on the radio a poem by Rupert Brooke which was all about WWI and was so moved I was prompted (as I do about a lot of things) to look him up on the net. Not only did he have an uncanny likeness to Hugh Grant, but sadly he died so young.

Here are a few words written by his closest friend upon his death...

...I sat with Rupert. At 4 o’clock he became weaker, and at 4.46 he died, with the sun shining all round his cabin, and the cool sea-breeze blowing through the door and the shaded windows. No one could have wished for a quieter or a calmer end than in that lovely bay, shielded by the mountains and fragrant with sage and thyme.

Profound words, and such a beautiful rendition of someone's death

I thought, with all the poppy fever and talk of the Great War, I'd share that one with you.

Do look up his poetry, especially the one about going off to war, it's pretty powerful stuff.

Janey

PS thank you to all those who have recently purchased my book.

RESULT - TA-DA

Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather! There was me desperate for some comments and I got! Well...only one, but one is better than none! Thank you darling Haidee-Jo Summers, artiste extraordinaire, and suddenly winner of just about every prize going around lately. And if you don't believe me just look her up, she is a wonderful painter, and one of my faves. So thank you for that.

Well, now onto my debut into the acting world. Last night, it happened, yes, me and my thirty seconds of fame as I tripped - lights glaring - across the stage (to a half-filled audience) wearing a frothy black net skirt, crazy stockings and a black and white maid's outfit. And I loved it! I might even go back for more. I might even stop writing and take it up permanently! Three more shows to go! Hey-ho!

ISOLATION

Sometimes I feel like I'm marooned on the top of an iceberg. I got loads and loads of people pass through (and hopefully read) my blog, BUT NOBODY BOTHERS TO COMMENT! Even a critique would be welcome. Come on everyone say hello! I'm so lonely I could cry :((

In my next blog I'll let you know about my thespian adventure; I'm afraid in this case I think I should really forget being the next Helen Mirren because it's bloody difficult. I have about two lines to remember and I can't even do that. So hats off to actors - they are in a class of their own.

Speak later...

GOGGLEBOX

After being coerced into watching Gogglebox I realised that I (and Peter) should be enlisted as "Mr & Mrs Grumpy Old Couple". Surely, all of us must have done something bad in a previous life to have to put up with the formulaic rubbish thrust down our throats at the moment. And I know what you're thinking: well bloody well don't watch it then; but the problem is, as repugnant as it is, like slowing down at the scene of a grisly accident, you find you've just got to watch it! And it seems after watching Gogglebox, the general consensus across Britain is the same. Take Cheryl(Fernandez@#*@$...or whatever the hell her new name is) sending the only girl packing in in favour of someone who sounded as though she'd just d overdosed on a helium-filled balloon. We all know it's fake; clearly Simon, dollar signs whirring like Catherine Wheels inside his eye sockets, instructed Cheryl to ditch her just for the hype. She was phenomenal. And did you see any nerves? I didn't.

I've had enough and have made a very constructive decision to never watch it and all the rest of the reality show drivel ever again. Instead, Brucey or no Brucey, shall stick to mi' Daz.

Anyway, rant over, miracle of miracles I am making some headway with my new book, and thought I'd put a taster on for anyone who's interested, but don't expect miracles,it's only a draft.

Chapter 1

Funny, the stuff that floats into your head when it’s not supposed to. Like now for instance: here I am about to have a sneaky little snog in the storeroom with someone I shouldn't be, and all I can think (having consumed a whole garlic and coriander nan to myself last night) is that my breath must stink like the inside of one of those human cattle trucks in Mumbai. When actually, what I ought to be thinking is: I am wife, I am mother, I am teacher of the English language, and this (which I know, with the mere flick of a wrist or wriggle of the arse, dear God, I could stop!)is nothing short of vocational suicide.

Let me freeze-frame for a minute while I explain.

Two words: Adrian Poncey.

I know, I know. But believe me, the man bears not the slightest resemblance to what the name implies. A mere unfortunate dint of birth. These things can happen. I knew a woman once called Annette Curtain.
Anyway, back to the plot. It all kicked off, this crazy situation, when Mr Hartburn, that’s our headmaster, or rather was, since he collapsed (in bizarre manner of Tommy Cooper)in front of an assembly full of shuffling, surreptitiously-tweeting, pimply-faced students.

Prognosis: stone dead.

Very unfortunate...poor, poor man.

Anyway, given the grisly circumstances, and with as little disruption as possible, a replacement had to be found. And to give credit where it’s due, even before the knee-deep swathe of flowers and bobbing metallic balloons and teddies portraying headmaster flat caps and half-moon wired spectacles, had been cleared and carted off in a giant skip, rumour was rife that the powers that be had dispatched a replacement, albeit temporary.

So there we all were, no one at the helm thus languishing in atmospheric slackness (copious mugs of tea, biscuit tin doing the rounds, feet on coffee table, etc) debating the usual mind-numbing stuff, i.e.pension cuts, uni fees, the ever increasing size of Carol Vordeman’s arse vs Ann Widdecombe’s pitiable demise on Strictly) when school secretary, Wendy Grenfell, mind-numbingly irritating at the best of times, stopped in mid-rant, dragged lash-less lids away from the embroiled conversation, and proceeded to soil her underpants.
It was in a sense like the second coming; in he drifted, a testosterone-infused vision of lean, loose-limbed self-confidence: tousled black hair with a delightful lick of grey at the fore, ten-clock shadow, dazzling white teeth to match an equally dazzling white shirt worn trendily out and over sack-arse jeans (as opposed to bri-nylon tucked into poly-poplin). Not for a second that I’m a huge fan of sack-arse, since it reminds me of the rear end of a matriarchal elephant at the end of her productive years. But on him oh God, to coin an American-and-never-to-be-repeated phrase hubba hubba hubba. in other words I FANCY THE F ****** arse off him.
Of course I’m putting tremendous effort into fighting the urge: talking really, really loudly, mimicking Kat off Eastenders, pretending I read Katey Price and Louis Walsh biographies, and even, God forbid giving the impression that I’m affiliated to that political party that are fond of bulldogs, tattoos and the Union Jack. But nothing seems to be working; in fact if anything, it all seems to be having the opposite effect because every time he sees me he keeps giving me “the look"; you know the one, that on anyone else would give the impression of an inebriated, double-chinned gom, but on him… Christ alive...


Hope you enjoyed. Please, please leave a comment if you have any constructive criticism.

FREEBIES - AN UPDATE ON...

Freebies are a wonderful thing, are they not? And isn't it amazing how everyone comes out of the woodwork at the merest sniff of one? I must confess I'm the same, love a bargain. Anyway, during my little window of generosity, during which time I gave away my book for free, I had hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of downloads from around the globe. I was flabbergasted, yet at the same time filled with joy that so many people will now be reading and with a bit of luck enjoying the madcap escapades of the formidable Angie and ever-ballooning Hazel! Anyway, for those that have dipped deep in their pockets, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and for those that haven't, well I thank you from the heart of my bottom ;) Anyway, I just ask one small request: I'd love to get some feedback. We writers thrive on it, you see, so give me a tiny window of your life and go to my Amazon page (click on my book to the right to take you there)and write (preferably something nice)! Or, alternatively, if you'd rather write to me directly, here is my email address: janeuknow@gmail.com - but please, please DO NOT CLOG UP MY SYSTEM while doing so ;) I'm working on a website too, so look out for that and there I will be able to tell you more about my next book and the crazy Rachel and soft-hearted Ellie who both realise, for totally different reasons, that they want to bump off their husbands... Anyway, that's all folks, so au revoir once again from a very sunny Rutland. Best wishes Janey

FREE!!

As a special promotion my book WALKING ON MARSHMALLOWS is on offer for free, yes FREE!! Only for a day or two though, so be quick. It's a perfect day for it too since it's as dull as ditch water out there...well at least in England. Kick off your slippers, envelop yourself in a cuddly blanket and curl up with a plate of warm toast and butter and read about the (mis)adventures of Angie Darling and her quest to find her grumpy sister a man before she self-combusts from comfort eating! All yours, for free! Click on the book to the right of this page. Go on,you know you want to... Oh and don't forget, please, please, once you've read it, I'd love it if you would leave a review (especially a nice one...)thank you

JOAN RIVERS...AU REVOIR

When she was able to prize open her rigour mortised mouth, her quips were as fast as a Formula One lap and as plentiful as the eff words that tumble out of Lee Evan's mouth. Love her, hate her, but you have to admit there won't be many that can follow in her shoes. As a comedic writer myself I certainly will miss her. She didn't hold back did she? Hard to believe that she was riddled with complexes, particularly about her body. Then again aren't we all R.I.P. Joan, but as long as we have TV and internet and radio you'll never be far away. On a lighter note. I delivered my first batch of books to my local bookstore yesterday - Walkers in Stamford High Street, so get down there before they sell out ;) speak soon... Lots of love Janey PS if you can't get down to the bookstore, which of course you won't be able to if you are reading this and you live in far-flung places such as Canada or America or Russia or Timbuktu, you can download on Amazon...see right of this page at a ridiculously low price for lovely big funny lol read. Thank you!