under another sun

Corresponding Gripped by a story idea in the middle of the night. Had to get up and write it down for half an hour before I could go back to sleep. Once awake started to write the story. I have been searching for another 'quick win', in my authorial campaign, and this may be it: very simple plot, few characters and a mystery at its heart. A 20-30k words piece. Then onto more mundane stuff. A French tweak as the client irrationally took against the word 'astonishing', chased money which resulted in a firm pay-by date. Also wrote to Radio 4 Excess Baggage about A Guernsey Double. Then to Maureen Irvine who is a writer in NZ who was a mutual friend of my late friend Tim Gallagher, also to Mike Vermeulen in Guernsey who has written some children's stories based on the Islands. Then a knocking on the door - Anna with Klaudia and Oskar. The children raced to a black box decorated with white skull and crossbones on I keep near the fireplace, which is full of unusual sweets...

Jersey Up early to finish off some work for the lovely French clients. Then long chats with Richard and Betsy about the book cover. A nice surprise as Sophie emailed to say she has already talked to some folks at BBC radio about the This concert shows, and is now following up. Crikey. Would be cool bananas to get the show on radio. Up the hill to babysit Klaudia and Oskar. They are adorable. Looked at a book about swinging monkeys with Oskar, and then read chapter 13 of a book by Enid Blyton called The Faraway Tree , while having Barney the green dinosaur lovingly squished on my head by Klaudia. Once read to and told to sleep, they kept getting up, and I had to be stern with them to make them stay in bed. Anton came back from London after a couple of days being schmoozed by his agency. We hung out chatting for a while, and he told me that they were going to Jersey for their summer holiday. Jersey!?! It is hard to type about this. I am full of turbulent emotions. Then home talking to...

Crapauds! Head down today, working today on a poem about La Gran'mère which I had started earlier in the year. Suddenly shaping up. Also doing more on the Anthology of Guernsey site. I asked Ken to translate a poem by George Métivier called Aux Crapauds , or To the Crapauds (Jerseymen). Crapauds means toads and is what Guernsey people call those hailing from Jersey. And he came back with a translation in a couple of hours. I've made a few tweaks to Ken's version and here it is... To the Crapauds! Greetings to our dear cousins, the honourable toads! Slow you crawl, though are you any less beautiful? Don’t your indulgent friends always flatter you? Admire your great eyes ! they sparkle, And your sodden clothes have an enchanting shiny sheen, To delights the enlightened man, and seduce lovers. And even when you’re gobbing, soul sublime and pure, The naturalist will admire you as wildlife, And haughty Jersey, the mother feeds you, Balance in hand, weighs you; Ah! How she smiles...

Grave matters This morning Mum had arranged to see a relative called Roy in La Criox Guerin, a nearby cafe. I had opted out of this encounter as the conversation was mainly about the deaths, and how a distant cousin of mine had just had a double amputation. Had an email from Jane detailing her and Richard's end of the famous poetry evening. Apparently Richard bruised his ribs falling into bed, a fact which makes me feel curiously comforted. As a preparation for her meeting I went with Mum to the graveyard. Here we looked at several graves of family members, including a fresh one for Sadie, my grandfather's sister-in-law. I'd not seen Sadie for some time, but she had been kind to me as a child. Especially when my Grandmother had been summoned to England one year when I was 12 as her sister had died suddenly. My grandfather refused to cook, so I was promoted to chef and cooked for him and Toby. Sadie came around once or twice to see if I was coping, and offer advice on the fi...

Commuters and a crapaud Is there anything more British than moaning about commuting? Moaning being a great national pastime, and with millions of people commuting every day it gives us all great scope. And the worst thing about moaning is you have to do it. For example I had to stand all the way from Brighton to London this morning, and had to get a two more trains before reaching Putney. London of course still paralysed by the tube strike in the morning. My ticket did not open the barrier at Putney, but a man behind me put his ticket in without thinking, so I could surge to freedom, as the barrier snapped behind me barring his exit. I did him a favour, however, because I gave him something extra to moan about. Then a 40 minute walk to reach the office. The day draggy but I began to feel a bit livelier than I felt for about a week, and could think a bit straighter. A momentary diversion caused at work by about ten girls dressed as Can-can dancers arranging themselves in a circle on the...