Not the Booker Prize

This week I won my first ever literary award. It was not the Booker prize or anything solidly highbrow like that (before you get all surprised and excited), and it wasn't for a lengthy work of fiction over which I had poured my heart and soul (although I do have one of those too). No, it was the A Taste Of Garlic Award for the Best Limerick. The prize was the book Normans Folly by Clare Norman.

A limerick? you say. Yes, my first ever literary award is for a limerick - go ahead, snigger, I don't mind. The limerick had to be about an aspect of life in France, and competition was fierce. I got quite carried away and entered 25 limericks - once you start it's hard to stop, and the winning entry was this one:

Some houses for sale in La France
Come sometimes with pole for a dance
You jump on the bar
Swing ‘n’ sway, oh la la!
While the guys all around tentent leur chance!

If you are not a follower of the lovely Piglet in France's blog, you will not have read about her house-hunting adventures. It seems that you never know what you'll find when house-hunting in France. Having done a bit of house-hunting myself in my time, you'd be astounded by what some people do to their homes. I went into one apartment, for example, that had been transformed into a cave complete with fibreglass (or papier maché) raw stone effect. It was a bit like going into Lascaux II without the drawings, and all a brilliant green.

Anyway, one house that Piglet visited was a bourgeois demeure in the country which, on the outside, seemed to be a bit boring. However, down some steps they discovered an indoor pool, gym space and, delight of delights, a raised dance floor and nightclub bar complete with POLE!

How could she and her husband resist? The comments section was a-buzz with excitement and if Piglet had been swayed by a bunch of weird cyber folk she'd never met she'd have put in an offer immediately. However, being pregnant, married to a lovely non-pole-dancing man and no longer 20, Piglet and her husband decided that it was not for them, and have bought an eminently less fanciful but much nicer house.

Naturally, we, her followers, were all gutted, and I decided to immortalise her find in a little ditty for Keith's competition. For good measure, I wrote one about Piglet's decision:

We were gutted when Piglet did not
Buy the house with the pole-dancing spot
She bought one quite bare
Will look good with some care
But her parties’ll not be as hot

and one about her move out of Lyon. As you can see, there's so much material to work with!

Our Piglet’s all two with the world
A wee one in her tum is all curled
She’s off out of Lyon
Leaving lights bright and neon
To a life in the sticks, babe unfurled.

I then got down to some alternative typical life in France-type observations:

Life in France is a piece of fruit cake
You must be nuts if you think you can make
A go of it here
Without French or a mere
Smattering of ‘Une bière please Monsieur Jake’.

French tele is really quite bad
A Sky box is def to be had
Our dear BBC
And fab ITV
Sans them please expect to go mad.


Life in France is a funny old thing
At times you feel you could sing
In the sun it is great
But those taxes, your fate
Take the biscuit for spoiling the zing.
 
Start a business in France, it takes guts
In fact, you should be really be nuts
The French don’t like doers
They tax all but losers
No ifs, no maybes, no buts.

A picnic in Feb is quite cool
Not likely in Blighty as a rule
Down south the sun shines
It’s warm, and it’s fine
In a tee-shirt though not in the pool…

The wine here is good and it’s cheap
A pleasure to drink and to keep
Rosé in the summer
If there’s none it’s a bummer
Don’t worry though, Carrouf’s got a heap!

It’s wine o’clock, praise be the lord!
I think we are all of accord
Red, white or rosé
With some crisps I will say
It’s something I’ll never be bored!

Living in France is a doddle
If you’re an employé, and toddle
Off to work each day
With regular pay
And behave as a citizen model.

If you come here with all of your loot
You must be as mad as a coot
Keep some of it back
Or the tax man will hack
Into all of your savings to boot.

Life in France is not all 2CV
In fact it’s not all about me
The French they exist
Though they might take the piss
Dressed in matching top/bottom lingerie

In France you wear lingerie, not
Bra and knickers all covered in snot.
They have to be pricey
Any less and it’s dicey
To pole-dance and not get too hot.

Montpellier’s a town near the sea
Where you go for some sun and a spree
Cap d’Agde is not far
You can get there by car
And see swingers barely clad above knee.

You can read the lot here on Keith's site as I haven't posted all of mine in this post (some are a bit too silly to repost), and the other competitors' entries are really cool too. If you feel like a good laugh, go over to A Taste of Garlic - I think there were about 100 entries!

On a parenting note, my boys now know what a limerick is! They even thought my entries quite funny. Result!

VTT competition - Uzès

These mountain bike competitions are killing me! Sunday's one was just outside Uzès, a 95-minute drive away involving getting up at 6.10am to be out of the house by 7.15am, on Mother's Day.

Not as a result, but I didn't go and vote in the European elections. I hadn't signed on at the Mairie before the end of December last year, so couldn't vote even if I'd wanted to. You have to be damned well-organised in this country, and to be honest, last December I didn't even know there would be European elections in which I could vote. I can't vote in the local ones or national ones despite being part of the happy Euro family and paying my taxes, so it tends to make one a bit apathetic about the whole voting palaver.

My youngest had made a couple of Mother's Day bits 'n' bobs at school, while my eldest gave me a kiss. His French teacher had apparently told them they shouldn't make a big fuss about giving pressies and such but should just tell their mother they loved them. Big deal. Stupid cow should keep her mouth shut. Why not love AND a pressie? Who'd say no to spa vouchers/bottle of champagne/diamond earrings/Gucci handbag/bunch of flowers? Not that I'd expect my son aged 12 to get me a pressie seeing as he has no money, but I don't think she (yes, the French teacher is a SHE) should be encouraging stinginess and the idea that pressies are pointless.

What if I just told him I loved him on his birthday, no pressies? Think 'lead balloon'...

The first race at the competition then, was orienteering. The kids haven't received any particular training in this, so they lose loads of points because they have no real idea. Yesterday I scoured the internet and found a set of teaching booklets on orienteering which I sent to the bike club with the suggestion they might find them useful for helping the kids be more successful.

My youngest found two control points out of 5 and came 5/16 which shows the general level. My eldest got lost and was penalised off the planet. The cross-country race took place in the afternoon when it had hotted up nicely, while I sat in a minuscule area of shade. I also suggested to the club that the kids receive training on gear changing. I'm sure they lose time and points because they don't understand the fine art of doing the right change at the right time.

We had to stay to the end and wait for the prize-giving which meant we got home 12hrs after we'd left in the morning. Heavy!

I'm still not recovered today.

Bike Trap

I'm sure I've railed against bad customer service before, especially concerning Cegetel who now has no chance of selling me anything until I'm dead. That was some time ago however. Since then, I've managed to return goods without a problem to Decathlon, Carrefour and Darty, and was even able to cancel an unwanted insurance policy during the period of grace.

However, I'm not impressed with Mr B, my local bike shop guy. I bought my eldest's bike from him last September in an effort to support local businesses. I could have paid less elsewhere, I'm sure, but I know very little about bikes and wanted to be on good terms with Mr B down the road.

To thank me for my custom, he has fitted two faulty rear derailleurs both of which caused problems during mountain bike competitions leading to my son having to pull out of the cross-country races he was doing. He screwed the pedals so tightly on that we couldn't remove them and had to get him to loosen them. He even fitted an automatic pedal on the wrong way.

When I complained about the first derailleur which broke just a month after purchase, Mr B refused to replace it for free, insisting that I should at least pay for the part, 80Eurs. I wasn't happy but he refused to budge on the issue. I wasn't happy about the pedals either, especially as we had wanted to remove the automatic pedals prior to a race but couldn't, and my son, who hadn't quite got used to them, crashed into someone whilst trying to get his foot in, and sprained his ankle, thus ending the race.

I'm sure I'm not getting either good service or good workmanship from this guy. I'm also sure he doesn't give a stuff, so I decided I would remove my custom and take it to the shop where I bought my youngest's bike. They seem to be more professional, don't take the piss, and appreciate a good customer.

Interestingly, when I took the bike and explained the situation, and how much I'd been charged for the part, he didn't believe me. So, my deduction is that despite Mr B telling me he'd make me pay the part only, he actually fitted a poor quality derailleur so that I'd also pay for the work. The guy at the Bicycle Store told me he'd fit a better quality one for 40Eur.

Hopefully, my eldest will actually be able to finish a race at the next competition.

Yesterday we were at St Côme, near Calvisson. It was a blazing 32°C so really tough for the competitors. In the morning they had orienteering which was a bit difficult by the sound of it. Reports came back of children crying because they thought they were lost. Being in the middle of the garrigue there were very few landmarks - just paths and bushes.

In the afternoon was the cross-country with a mixture of single track technical bits, open speedier paths and a climb. My eldest said it was a good course and was furious that the derailleur let him down after one circuit. He was supposed to do 9km while my youngest finished his 4km.

I sat and sweltered, plastering on sun cream and thinking it was a bit early for so much sun. Are we in for a scorching summer?!

VTT Vauvert in the rain

This morning, instead of staying snugly under my duvet having a nice lie-in followed by a cup of tea in front of The Times Online, I got up at 6.45am, made sarnies, put two bikes in the car, shouted at the boys to get ready, got their stuff ready, and kicked them into the car at 8.15am.

It was raining a bit. By the time we got to the autoroute, it was raining much more. This came as no surprise because Meteo France had been warning us that today would be very very wet, and put half the country on yellow alert for inclement weather.

Still I didn't get word that the mountain bike competition was cancelled. I had emailed the secretary of Bike Aventure and asked when we would know if it was, and he replied that they rarely were. So that's why we were driving to Vauvert, to Mas de Madagascar in what seemed to be an appropriately tropical rainstorm.

Little orange arrows with VTT written on them directed us around the town, thankfully, to the spot out in the middle of nowhere where, to my surprise, loads of cars were parked. People were unloading bikes, riding bikes, pushing bikes and walking under umbrellas with purpose seemingly unconcerned with the now lesser falling rain but menacing clouds.

The competition consisted of a cross-country race in the afternoon, and a downhill course in the morning. Rules indicated that the competitors needed full protection including helmet and back carapace. We had the knee/tibia pads and elbow pads but not the helmet or the carapace, but that was not supposed to be a problem because the club has stuff we could borrow.

We registered for the races and looked around for someone from the club. No one. We waited, we went up a steep stickily wet path to the starting point, and looked around for a sign of one of the bike leaders. No one.

At this point it was raining more and I was starting to get annoyed. The boys couldn't race if they didn't have the equipment and we had got up early so we could participate on the understanding that we could borrow stuff from the club, except that no one from the club had come; we didn't see any other of our boys either and I wondered if we'd come for nothing.

We were getting wet and cold so I went up to the organiser and said that as the boys didn't have the right equipment he'd better strike them off the list. He replied that they could borrow stuff so my youngest went first with his 'Pupilles' section and was kitted out. It's a very impressive sight seeing these little kids stomping around protected to the hilt.

He finished the course - I didn't see it as I was up at the start with my eldest - but he said it was good fun when he rejoined us. Eventually it was the turn of my eldest, and the rain was getting heavier. He was called and got into line, but after all that waiting he was told he couldn't race as he didn't have 'bouchons' - those plugs that go in the end of the handlebars.

Well that just about finished me. We were really wet and very cold so I asked my youngest if he wanted to stay for the cross-country in the afternoon and when he said no (phew) I told them that we would go home. We gave back the race numbers, picked our way through gushing streams flowing down the middle of the paths and got back to the car as quickly as possible.

What a relief to be in the dry! We got out of our wet things, but I hadn't brought a change of shoes. The soil there was bright orange. It got everywhere - on the mats, the pedals, everywhere.

We arrived home around 12.30 and rushed joyfully into the house leaving everything wet except the clothes in the car. I chucked it all in the machine and got it washed ASAP.

Notes for next time it rains: take a much water proofer water proof, wellies, bigger umbrella, warm clothes, change of shoes. For all.

Positive notes: the rainwater has left my hair lovely and soft, the boys were amongst the only ones in the club not to wimp out of biking in the rain (2 more turned up with their own kit).

Stand and Stiletto

In a desperate attempt to motivate me off my backside and write, I'm entering a competition.

I've come to a bit of a standstill with my book because of the daunting nature of the editing that I'll need to do in the next chapter. I open the file, stare at it hopelessly, go and make a cuppa, take another look in the hope that something has miraculously changed, and then start doing some housework. Yes, it's THAT bad. For me to procrastinate by doing housework instead of writing gives you an idea of the task before me.

The competition requires a maximum 5-page synopsis plus the first 35 pages of the novel. It's a chick lit competition so if you suddenly think you'd like to enter it too and you don't write chick lit, I'm afraid you'll have to think again. Here is the Stiletto blurb:

Has your manuscript been shredded in other RWA contests because it's not quite romance? Do you write fun, sassy, contemporary fiction centering around the journey of the heroine? (Maybe you don't even have a hero at all.) Do your manuscripts not play by the romance rules? Do you strongly believe that chick lit isn't a flash in the pan? That, despite what the publishing houses may say, it's hip, hot, happening and here to stay (even if it's called something else)?

If any of the above apply, then this is the contest for you!

The Get Your Stiletto In the Door Contest is open to all chick lit writers who have not signed a publishing contract for novel-length fiction with an RWA-approved publisher within five years of the contest deadline. The entry must have a projected minimum of 75,000 words (35,000 words for Young Adult).

I set myself the task of the synopsis for this weekend. I had an initial bash on Saturday and posted it on WriteWords.org Synopsis group for some feedback. I was quite pleased that the comments that came back didn't annihilate it en vrac straight off, but gave me some good advice on making it more complete.

Sunday's task was therefore to make the adjustments. I got them done in the morning, and then realised that I had better check out the first 35 pages of the actual book. I got rid of some dross and found myself with a workable synopsis and a good beginning.

Even if I don't win, the idea is to spur me on to make it as good as possible. Then I'll feel happy about sending it out to agents. If I win the competition, I'll be $1000 better off, so it's a win-win situation!

Which Synopsis?

I am entering the Telegraph writing competition and have to send in a synopsis of my book. I have written two versions. Which should I send?

Edited to add that I'm going to send in version II, but I'll leave version I up anyway.

Book Synopsis I

Have you ever had a dream so visually real that, on waking you can remember nearly every detail? Eleanor Roberts does, becomes convinced the object of her dream – her lover, John Bosworth – is real, and decides, despite the odds, to find out if he exists…

Eleanor: Do you remember when we first met?

John: How could I forget? You stood there, in my office, transfixed like you’d just seen a ghost, then spun me a completely improbable tale of meeting me in a dream, and then just as it got interesting, you shot off like a bullet from a gun!

Eleanor: Ah yes (mistily), but it did spur you to action.

John: There was enough in that tale to peak my interest and you really did have gorgeous legs.

Eleanor: Did?

John: Do, hon, do!

Eleanor: You were able to pursue me, got me, of course, and then nearly lost me on that freezing evening when you lost your temper with my pal Krista.

John: One of those defining moments in a relationship. I had to face the fact that to keep you I’d have to deal with my demons. Which I did, with ol’ Doc Norton.

Eleanor: You did, and were absolutely ghastly while it went on, and on. I was convinced you’d been potty-trained too young…

John: From your years of training as a doc…

Eleanor: I stuck by you though.

John: Hey, it was your fault it happened at all!

Eleanor: Well, you must admit it did you good. We did get married and I did come and live with you in New York, wrench though it was from my lovely peaceful life in the south of France.

John: To a very comfortable life.

Eleanor: Yes, you are a very brilliant, successful businessman, but I would have loved you had you been less successful.

John: I know, and one of the advantages to meeting me in dream, though I can’t believe I’m saying this, was to fall in love with me first and meet the other me with money later.

Eleanor: I anguished over that one long and hard, tried to examine my motives, test myself for gold-digger tendencies…

John: Me too, to be sure I wasn’t going to find myself in the divorce courts in a year’s time with massive payouts.

Eleanor: What did you think of our match-making with your brother and my sister?

John: You mean, my miserable sod of a brother and your man-eater bitch of a sister?

Eleanor: Who else?

John: A match made in heaven, obviously. He now considers us on equal terms as he has the prettier sister. He’s welcome to her! Remember how she tried to seduce me that Christmas?

Eleanor: Oh yes, and you put her firmly in her place. That must have been a first for her.

John: Yes, but there was no competition. I wanted you and only you before anyone else nabbed you.

Eleanor: How could anyone else do for me? You’re my dream man, baby!

Book Synopsis II

Being re-written it was so crap...

Okay, here goes:

Eleanor is a 41-year old mother of two boys, divorced from her French husband two years previously and on her own since then. One night she has a vivid dream in which she accidentally bumps into a man called John Bosworth, 43, in a hotel whilst on holiday with some old university friends. The rapport between them is instant. They spend a few hours together and are just about to make love in his apartment in New York when she wakes up.

She obsesses about him and the dream to the extent that she feels she has to delve deeper and consult that oracle of all information; the internet. To her shock, she finds that he does indeed exist so off she goes to New York to tell him that she met him in a dream. The improbability of it piques his interest and when she rushes off suddenly because the subject of sex versus making love is raised, his sense of romance is awakened, sharpening his appetite for the chase. They fall in love, marry and bump along, as do we all, in their relationship.

The theme of the dream and reality runs through the book and the idea that each person’s reality is their own, in which they can live their dreams if they pursue them with determination. The importance of emotional intelligence in relationships both in everyday life and when confronted with difficult situations is a concept which is examined in their voiced thoughts as well as in conversations with friends.

Eleanor’s life had been restricted by her decision that French men are for playtime only. John found himself dating bimbos and aggressive American females, despairing of ever finding a sane, attractive, intelligent woman. They are drawn to each without knowing why but with the feeling that if they let the occasion of meeting pass them by they would regret it profoundly as a missed opportunity of immense importance.

While they agonised over superficial details, ‘Their souls had already found each other; it was just that their conscious minds needed convincing.’

The story travels from New York to Montpellier in the south of France where John spends a month with Eleanor learning Arabic and losing his temper. Eleanor discovers a darker side to John and advises him that he has a choice; to agree to deal with his anger, or go home. It’s a defining moment in their relationship and John realises that he has to face his demons or lose the woman he loves.

They marry in New York in February, after which Eleanor has to go back to France so the boys can finish their school year. Their wedding is marked by the meeting of John’s determinedly miserable younger brother and Eleanor’s man-eater bitch of a sister who discover each other; Rachel because Matthew is a serious project and a challenge, and Matthew because he is so amazed that the prettier sister finds him attractive that he feels he can face his successful older brother as an equal.

John ungraciously signs up for psychotherapy with Dr Norton but finds himself drawn into a world he’d buried deep in his psyche. The root causes of his anger emerge as he extracts the pain and anguish of his childhood. He struggles for two years, finally facing the truth.

John and Eleanor’s relationship survives, turning the dream of a sex-starved lonely woman into a love based on the reality of determination and coincidence.