What have you done today....

Karin has just sent me a chapter of our next novel. The very day she's endured her latest bout of chemotherapy. I haven't looked at it yet. But she's warned me that art and drugs might well have collided.

“I have uploaded another steroid induced chapter. Bear in mind that I can't use one word when several will do under the influence, so may need severe cutting.” She said.

I'm left feeling both amazed and ashamed that she's actually written something. Here's her reply when I wished her good luck last night:

“I'll be so full of downers to take the edge off that I shall probably barely notice it - zopiclone for sleeping which only seems to kick in in the morning, lorazepam for anxiety which is a pillowy cloud around my head, em-end for anti nausea which makes my stomach feel like it has been padded with cotton wool. Plus my mother's go-to arcane hippy trippy happy clappy stuff - rescue remedy, which is a whole load of useless plant stuff dissolved in helpful brandy. Except you only get to have 7 drops at a time which rather defeats the purpose I'd have thought.“

So Karin has chemotherapy and knocks out a chapter of a novel. Me, I dicked about on Twitter, had a snooze, half-read my book on gambling and had a small bet on the 2:05 at Sandown...

Product Placement

I'm not a big fan of people who sell their souls. It's beyond me why celebrities who are already multi-millionaires can't say no to that two-day photo shoot selling dodgy brands for yet more pennies they'll never be able to spend. On the other hand my last blog post was brought to you courtesy of Brown Brothers. A top-notch purveyor of cheap quality wines - check out their dessert wine...

I've suddenly realised I've been missing a trick. I should be going down the product placement route. Everyone else is doing it, why not struggling authors? Look at all those TV programmes and films that manage to get smoking into every scene – never wondered what's going on there? I obviously need to build product placement into my work from now on. And return to all my old stuff and update it. It's not like I'm short of opportunities. In 'The Northern Line to Shropshire' I praise all manner of things from cheddar cheese to Fulham Football Club. FOR NO FINANCIAL GAIN. I'm a fool. A patsy. A stooge.

No longer. For I have a plan. I'm going to talk to an old school friend who's now some sort of advertising supremo for Coca Cola in Atlanta, (short pause to ponder where my life took a wrong turning). He's bound to be up for it. I'll suggest re-editing my book for an immodest fee so that I mention Coke favourably at least once a chapter. And Coke can use their immense power and general awesomeness to teach the world to buy my book in perfect harmony.

This way, future generations will grow up learning that Coke goes great with Shropshire Fidget Pie, is the secret ingredient in a perfect pakora batter, and is the preferred accompaniment to a Chicken Balti. It will also be the only possible drink after a long walk on the Long Mynd, as described by the time we limped gasping off the hills into a hostelry, asked for Coke, were told they only had Pepsi and so staggered onto another pub a mile away.

As for "Farewell Trip", whenever I'm reading through and editing, I can't help but notice that Ruth usually has a glass in her hand. We'll just have to change her from an alcoholic to a Coke-head.

Sound of Music sex

Trip and Ruth left university several years ago and have bought their first house together.  It is early one Friday evening...
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Bristol, 1989

“Evening,Totty, you're late this evening. Had a hard day?”

His voice comes to her as she shuts the front door. She hangs her coat on the pegs by the door and comes through into the small front room where he is watching television. She has indeed had a hard day and is disposed to be in a bad mood.

“Look at you, ensconced in your armchair with your feet up and... is that a cardigan? Oh my God, I've married your dad. All that's missing is the slippers. You do know you're only 27, not 47, don't you? Is that really sherry you're drinking?” It isn't obvious since he has a wine glass in his hand. They don't own sherry glasses.

“It really is. Do you want one too? Celebrate the end of the week.”

“God, no. Do I look like I should drink sherry?”

An eyebrow raised, she turns a slow circle in front of him and he considers her seriously before shaking his head.

“No actually, you look like you should drink vodka and tonic or maybe a gin martini.”

“With an olive?” It's clear she is pleased with this answer.

“With two. That's a nicely turned ankle, Ms Britten.”

“Why thank you, Mr Masterson. I believe these shoes show my ankles to their best advantage.”

“Indeed. And your equally well turned calves. Do you know, there is something strangely erotic about the whisper of stockings against a woman's frock.”

“I know you are the only man of my acquaintance who would use the terms stockings and frock.”

He looks puzzled. “What should I call what you're wearing then, if not stockings and a frock?”

“This, my fuddy-duddy darling, is a dress and these are tights.”

“They certainly are. I can't help thinking, though, that they don't offer quite the same appeal as a nice stocking and garter.”

“They do if you have to wear them every day for work, let me assure you. Besides, no-one's worn a garter for centuries. It's a suspender belt these days if you have to wear stockings.”

“Whatever. Don't bother settling your skirt, Totty.” He grabs her hand and pulls her down on his lap.

“Well, someone's feeling frisky this evening.” She says breathlessly, a few minutes later.

“I would certainly like to feel your frisky, but I can't actually breech these bloody newfangled tight thingies.”

This, as he'd wanted, makes her giggle. She asks, “And what are you planning to do if you do manage to breech them?”

“I've always believed that actions speak louder than words. Pull 'em down and I'll show you.”

“Ooh, you silver-tongued charmer, you.” Obligingly, she wriggles on his lap, kicking off her shoes and working the tights down her legs.

“I think you should put the shoes back on.”

“Really?”

“Really.” When she does, he wonders briefly why he hasn't thought of this before.

“I never knew the executive look worked for you. Should I be worried about all those women in your office?”

“Not as long as you wear those shoes at home. You might take your hair out of that ponytail too.”

“Ooh, Miss Jones.”

“I think that's my line.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and plants a kiss on his mouth. “Let's get on with that demonstration then.”

“Quite the forward little wench, aren't you? All right, if we must. Let's start at the very beginning.”

“A very good place to start.” Now she is nuzzling his neck. She likes the faint, familiar smell of the soap he always uses.

“Ah yes, Maria, exactly. When you read, you begin with ABC, but with sex you begin with -”

He slides his hand under her blouse and up over her breast. She shivers.

“Goodness me.”

“Oh very good. Goodness me.” He strokes her skin and she smiles, pleased.

“Trip?”

“Ruth?”

“Do you think we should go upstairs to continue this demonstration?”

“We could do. It might be more comfortable on the bed, offer a little better access to important areas. As long as you keep the stilettos on.”

“We'll get the sheets dirty.”

“I truly hope so. Anyway, isn't that what the washing machine's for?”

“I can't think of a better use for it.”

“Come on then, onwards and upwards. Shall we take the sherry with us? We may be some time.”