A) London at Last

Thursday 21st November 2002.

My God It's going to be another of those 'where the hell do I start'
entries. I have so much to say and don't want to miss getting down a
single thing.

London was FANTASTIC!

And the ABCTales do was BRILLIANT!

We had a bit of a nightmare journey and I was pissed off and felt
cheated that we missed out on a whole afternoon because of the damned
rail system. We were supposed to arrive in London by lunchtime but
never got to the hotel until after four, so it was a case of going out
for a quick sandwich and then rushing back to the hotel to get ready
for the do. I wanted to go for a long walk round Hyde? Hide? Park. The
taxi arrived half an hour early which didn't help matters any. But all
of that paled into nothing when we got to the Time Out.

We got out of the taxi, and through the window I saw a bloke with
shaggy hair tapping another bloke at the bar on the shoulder and
pointing to us. We went in and the hairy bloke who I assumed was George
because he said he'd meet us there came up with hugs and greetings. It
was indeed Mississippi and the other bloke was Karl Wiggins. It was
fantastic to meet them both. Karl because he was the first writing
friend I made on ABCTales, and George because he's a more recent
friend. George and Karl were fantastic and made us feel really welcome.
I was standing there talking to them and all I could think was 'Has my
make up run? Do I look like Chi-Chi the panda crossed with Alice Cooper
on both steroids and a bad day?' We were introduced to a table full of
other people and did much hand skaking and 'pleased to meet you''s. One
of the people I shook hands with was Liana though at the time I didn't
catch her name so therefore didn't realise it was her. From then on
every time I saw Liana she was deep in conversation with someone and I
never did get to talk to her properly. That was a shame.

We went upstairs and I met Steve first and then Tony. What lovely
people. Steve's funny and Tony's so warm and friendly. Pete was greeted
as much as me and was made to feel equally welcome. He seemed bemused
that everybody knew who he was and remembered his name. I think he felt
like a minor celebrity for having a male lead in my diary. He did ask
exactly 'how' candid my 'published' diary is and I said very and that
I've posted most of it, leaving out only the most intimate of details.
For a minute I thought I'd misunderstood him when he said I could be as
honest as I like and that he doesn't mind, but he just laughed and said
everything was fine and that he was enjoying the attention. See now
that's one of the things I do love about him, he's so bloody laid back
it's unbelieveable. Nothing phases Pete and he actually thinks my
openess and brutal honesty is a good thing not a bad one. It's a good
job because not one, but several people mentioned my diary to him and
his involvement in it.

We got settled at the table and that first sip of vodka and coke was
sublime, though I could have done without the coke. One thing I regret
is smoking. Pete and I quit oh about six weeks ago. He's been fantastic
but I've been a fallen angel on several occassions. We decided that
just for Londond we'd treat ourselves to a pack of 'mental' (Menthol)
cigs and hammer them mercilessly. Which we did and I deply regret it
for two reasons, one on every single photo George took I've got a fag
in my hand (and I don't even smoke) and two I got the mother of all
bloody headaches to pay for it.

We sat chatting and met loads of people who before had only been names
on my screen and pieces of writing. I'd already met my good 'friends'.
I can't describe properly the feeling of warmth and friendliness in
that room. Okay to everybody else and everybody who'd done it before it
was probably just a normal night out. But to me it was much more. I was
buzzing from the friendliness. I never picked up on a single unpleasant
vibe, not even from dear old Ralph who I'd like to have talked to more.
I was so disappointed that he didn't carry through with his threat to
come in a dress. Shame. There was no bitchiness or backbiting, or at
least I never felt any I just enjoyed the company of everyone I met,
and each time I looked at Pete he gave me a huge grin to show he was
having fun as well.

The show started. What a lovely bloke Tony is. Lovely, nice, beautiful,
pleasant, damn I wish I could write a whole new book of adjectives. All
the ones I know are tired and over used and don't convey at all how
much I liked the people I met on Tuesday night. You say a meal is
lovely and by the next week you've completely forgotten about it. I
don't think I'll ever forget the feeling of being a 'part' of Tuesday.
For me it was special and it would have been even if I hadn't done a
reading because that came second to meeting Karl and George and Tony
and Liana and everybody else who I've read and admire.

I'm not a 'cool' person, I'd never dream of trying to be. It wasn't 'no
big deal' it was a sepcial night full of special people. I get excited
about things. I get excited about riding the tube for Godsake and
seeing trafalga square and not realising how close Big Ben is to
Traffalga. I get excited about being in Foyles bookshop and escalators
and shaking John Bird's hand. I'm not cool and I don't ever want to be
because it's fun being socially inept and getting exctied about things
that other people take in their stride.

The readings - and music-were great. I'm not a lover of poetry so have
to say that the poems didn't reach me as much as the stories did. I
almost daren't mention any for fear of missing somebody out but
everything made such an impression, even though I couldn't really sit
back and enjoy them properly because I knew I wasn't on until last and
I was terrified and wound up tighter than any coiled spring, I was
wound up like Zebbedee on Acid.

Tony read first and although his piece was really well written and
beautifully told the one he read of the other's blokes was amazing.
He's one of the diarists on ABC but I'm afraid I can't spell his name.
Tony said that it was an excerpt from his diary but to me it read
nothing like a diary piece. It was spectacular and if I ever wrote
anything to that standard I'd be thrilled to bits. Tony read it to
perfection and it was pure entertainment that almost had me running for
the hills. What had I let myself in for? Liana was next up I think. She
read two pieces clearly and confidently. They were really good and
she's commanding and funny. I've read her diary and been a huge fan
ever since. After Liana I lose the order that everyone came in, but
there were three ladies at the next table, what nice people. Christa
and Claire were so nervous and it showed, but to me that made the
readings more personal. It brought home to me that not everybody has
sold a hundred and fifty-thousand copies of their thrity-eight best
selling novels, they are people just like me who have just enough faith
in their work to get up and have a go. Caroline told a longer story and
held everyone entranced. I haven't heard of her before I don't think,
but what a nice lady she is.

A man got up to read his story of shoplifintg pensioners. It was damned
good, the punchline was obvious and the story perhaps not the strongest
I've ever read/heard but he carried it off like a showman. Don't get me
wrong the story was really good but its character was all in the
performance.

Who could ever forget Freda? Funny, zany, Freda.

"Hang on a minute I can't see a fucking thing."

And Liz the lady behind the persona is lovely too. I've read quite a
bit of Freda's stuff and she writes with surety and grit. She didn't
get the biggest laugh of the night but she certainly caused a
titter.

Henstoat and Beef were the couple who sang some very hippie sort of
political folk music. I loved them. Beef is everything that I would
like to be. Tiny and young and vibrant, she's got eyes like bloody
Bambi and I'm loath to say an air of purity and innocence because she
gives off this aura of having the confidence to believe that she can
make her mark on the world. She's also got a beautiful voice. I
wouldn't be surprised if that lady has places to go and things to
say.

There were other's but I can't list them all because I'd be sure to
leave at least one person out and that wouldn't be fair. But the star
of the show was 'Nick the Cabbie' what a character he did two slots and
had the room in stitches with his ad-lib tales. The man's a natural
stand-up comic but his material is fresh because its all anecdotal. For
me the best story was the one about him getting stoned with a fare and
then forgetting he had his last passenger of the night still in the
back of his cab and driving home.

"I pulled into me garage and then this little voice popped up from the
back&;#8230;where are we?"

It was hilarious. Several times since I've thought of that poor lady,
has she been in a taxi alone since?

And then it was all finished &;#8230; but it can't be over until the
fat lady sings. Luckily for all concerned on this occasion I didn't do
that. I was terrified. Tony gave me a hell of a build up and living up
to it seemed way out of my league. All week my greatest fears had been
falling over my big daft feet and sprawling in a heap, or
hyperventilating and not being able to get my words out. Neither
affliction became reality thank God. I thought I was going to wet
myself, puke or pass out. I gave the matter some consideration but
couldn't decide which would have the greatest dramatic impact so in the
end I didn't do any of them either. I was on my bestest behavior. All
night I'd been worried that I had made a poor descision, everybody else
seemed to be doing love poetry, self reflection stuff or comedy. Nobody
else had done anything dark at all, I figured that mine might pull down
the aptmosphere of the night. But Mourning Glory is a piece that I've
always had faith in. It's been one of my favourite pieces since I wrote
it when I very first started writing about three years ago. I don't
think it let me down and the reading went far better than I thought it
would. At one point my hand was shaking so badly that I could hardly
read the words. Yet Pete said afterwards that I didn't come across as
nervous at all. Nervous? I was bloody cacking it!

I wanted to look up to guage Pete's reaction, was I making a prat of
myself? Was he ashamed of me? But I didn't dare. I never looked at a
single person from the moment I got up there to the moment I sat back
down.

I was talking to Martin_T afterwards and he said the first time is
awful, the second time is no better, but the third time is a piece of
cake and you wonder what all the fuss was about. I assured him that I
wouldn't be doing it again, but if I ever do I'll skip the second time
and go straight on to the third.

And then it really was over. I couldn't believe that this was London
and yet they cleared the place in ten minutes with gestapo like
efficiency. I'm used to Dalton where I swear the last one out closes
the door. We have no closing time in any of our local pubs, you want to
sit and talk, you sit and talk. If you want a drink you buy one, if you
don't the staff will usually make everyone a brew when they make their
own.Many times I've come out of the Black Bull after the sun has risen,
and often just in time for work. So I was disappointed that the night
closed so early and so suddenly.

We said our goodbyes. Another strange thing, southerners seem to hug to
the left. Here people hug to the right ..strange new world that
London.

Chatting to tony on the way out I was amazed to learn that his wife
likes my diary.

Hello Mrs. Tony and thank-you for reading.

In fact lots of people talked about my diary, I didn't know whether to
be disappointed or amused. Here's me wanting to be known for my
dazzling story-telling abilities and what do people remember me for? My
bloody boring diary! Eeh there's nowt as funny as folk.

Which brings me again to why I do it. Several people asked me why on
Tuedsday. Why publish my inner most thoughts and feelings? Well as I've
said before I know why I write it. It's therapy and it's a friend who
always listens but never judges me. BUT why do I put it out there? Well
I finally have an answer for that too. MOMENTUM! If I wasn't posting
it, I'd have stopped writing long ago. I've had many attempts at diary
keeping in my thirty-nine years but never lasted longer than a few
months. In fact I'm usually bored and done before the first week of the
new year goes out with the fire. But every-so-often someone will say
"Hey Sooz you haven't posted anything for a few days, what's
happening?" and I'm off again. Also it's because people are so damned
good. When I lost my twins earlier this year it's as though people were
going through it with me. I got so much help and support from friends I
don't know who were reading my diary. I can honestly say that I went
through the entire experience alone and never had any help from my
family and friends who all thought I was mad to even contemplate
bringing up twins on my own with my circumstances such as they are. My
cousin Les even went so far as to say she was glad I'd lost them
because now I could get rid of Tim and get my life back. I know she
meant well but at that moment my heart was full of a burning hatred for
her.

Anyway back to the plot. Tuesday night was wonderful, but my God did I
pay for those cigarettes. I started with a little niggle of a headache
at about eight-clock but it didn't ruin my night in any way because it
was only mild. It wasn't until I stepped out into the fresh air that it
became a rager. I think it was a combination of smoking (heavily) after
not having a full cig for weeks, and the whole stress and excitement of
the night. I don't think reading all the way down on the train without
my specs helped any either. It certainly wasn't alcohol, by I was a
good girl, with having to read I only had four voddies and only one of
those was a double. Well by the time we got to bed my head was
pounding, I felt as sick as a chimp on a roller coaster and my vision
was blurring. All bad signs, if it turned to migrane it was going to be
miserable.

Pete moved over to cuddle me and I couldn't even stand his hand on my
shoulder. The reason I thought it was partially down to the fags is
that he also had a bad headache. Poor Pete never even got a kiss
goodnight and he'd been brilliant.

Wednesday I woke up and figured we were doomed, I felt even worse than
when we went to bed. I couldn't contemplate the thought of having to
move and we had to vacate the room by ten. I not only had spots before
my eyes, but a whole leopard christmas convention doing the
hokey-cokey. It was deffinitely looking like Migrane. I feared that
we'd miss the day. Pete said we could get an early train back if I was
really bad. That was so good of him, I know how much he was loking
forward to seeing the Body World exhibition. I told him to just leave
me at Euston and do his own thing, but he wouldn't hear of it. He got
up early bless him and bought me paracetamol and migraleve and we were
so lucky. Half an hour later, after a total of six paras (I'd taken two
when I woke up) I felt much better, far from not being able to face
anything to eat or drink (migrane) I quite faniced something to stop
the medication upsetting my stomach. After a full English and some
orange juice I was up for anything. Migraleve are fantastic but only if
you catch it early enough.

So we played on the tube. Was it two, three or four false starts and
wrong stops? Who cares it was fun. Pete kept apologising for getting
mixed up with line crossing and such like but I was having a ball. Why
do people not talk on the tube? Everybody was so bloody careful not to
invade anybody elses eyeline. I loved it and smiled at everyone like an
imbecile. One lady met my eye and I smiled. This was unusual, I could
see her battling with herself, would it be alright to ask me if she was
on the right train? Or would she be struck with lightening for such a
blatent infringement of the rules. "Is this the train for &;#8230;?"
Wherever it was. God she'd have been better asking somebody's dog than
me, by this point I hadn't a clue which country we were in never mind
which bit of it. Pete assured her it was right, but the lady was
clearly upset by the discussion, She spent the rest of the journey
rocking back and forwards and nodding her head so exageratedly that I
thought she was going to fall off the seat. There was a man sitting
oposite us on another journey and he was a lovely mid brown colour. Not
black, but not olive either somewhere between the two and he had the
biggest crop of freckles I've ever seen. It occurred to me that I've
never seen a coloured person with freckles before. The effect was
really cute. He was one of the few who smiled back. Most people just
keep their eyes to the floor, don't make contact and mind their own
buissness. I think that's sad. The only good thing about public
transport is making friends (however fleetingly) with new people.

We went to the Body Worlds exhibition. It was an experience to say the
least. The biggest problem I had was equating these monstrocities with
real human beings. Because their faces had been stripped of skin and
identifying marks they had no identity. I can best describe them as
being like the creatures rising from the graves in The Evil Dead. These
were people who had lived and walked. I touched their hair and a tongue
and a brain but still seeing them as 'people' was difficult. Yes some
of it was highly educational. I was most impressed when I read an entry
in the guest book by a seventeen year old girl contemplating abortion.
She said that after having seen the feotus in development she would
never dream of killing a baby. It was a strange marriage of education
and tasteless sensationalism. You couldn't help but be impressed by the
full horse and rider, muscles exposed but still having their hooves and
nails. The man sitting waiting for a partner to move the black in his
game of chess grinned at everyone passing. "Will one of these suckers
take up his challenge?" And then there was the 'pole vaulter', as you
approach the exhibit all you see is a mass of organs with a long pole
coming out of the top of them. You can walk round the heart, lungs,
liver and intestines. It's only when you see someone's eyes raise to
the ceiling and go 'ugh' that you also look up to see the twisted,
upsidedown body of the man ten feet above our heads. The eyeballs are
intact, they have pubic hair and eyelashes. One man had dirty finger
nails, that facinated me, that he could go through all that and still
have dirt beneath his nails. There was a white healthy lung beside a
dirty smoke ravaged one. A good liver beside one purple and shrivelled
with sirrhosis these were all things the public should see especially
children who haven't yet turned to cigarettes and alcohol. The rest all
seemed morally wrong, but we paid our money and had no right to
hypocracy.

The Baby section was the most upsetting. It showed every stage of
feotal development I saw babies at the stage that all of my children
were when I lost them. Angie would have been fully formed with
eyelashes and everything. It hurt. It showed plastisised human cadavers
of babies taken from the womb with terrible defects and deformities.
And then at the end there was an exhibit of a woman in provocative
pose, she's been diaplayed in a sexual manner with her belly pulled
back to reveal the full term baby coiled in her stomach.

She didn't die in childbirth because the baby was still curled and
wasn't engaged into the birth canal, so how did this lady die? And did
she give her consent to become a freak in a modern circus? We were
there while the controversial autopsy was taking place. The whole thing
was facinating but left a dirty taste in my mouth. It felt intrusive
and invasive and I felt as though we really had no right to be invading
these pitiful dead people.

Pete doesn't believe in any afterlife so managed to view them as
bodies. I do believe in 'something else' I couldn't stop thinking about
the 'souls' where are they? Are they at rest? Without burial or funeral
are they still connected to the bodies? It bothered me.

Pete reckons it wouldn't bother him being the night watchman in that
place. We were talking about it on the train, I could do the job I
think but wouldn't like to have to stand by my big gob and give it a
go. If there are any spirits in that place, then I reckon they are
going to be pretty pissed. I wouldn't like to be the one to have to
tell them that they can't have their body's back.

After the exhibition we went for a curry, it's the nicest one I've ever
had in my life. I had to give Pete a good bit of mine though because
the waiter decided to hover right in front of our table and put me off,
but it was gorgeous.

Afterwards we bought books, I got the most recent Dean Koontz in
paperback to read on the train and Pete bought the Body Worlds book. My
feet were killing me, I'd nicked our Mark's triners to come with and
they gave me terrific blisters.

The night before I felt like a superstar, and just twenty-four hours
later I was coming home from London looking like a bag lady. I left the
train unable to face anything on my feet so was just in my socks. My
coat chose that minute to break it's zip. It was open top and bottom,
refusing to either zip up or zip down. Only the fastner held it closed
in the very middle. I looked like an idiot. Pete said I'm his superstar
&;#8230; well part time star part time tramp que-sera-sera.

Which brings us neatly to Pete, he was a different person when it was
just the two of us alone and without the stress of the kids. Pete and I
both have problems with the other one's kids. He said Mark gets on his
nerves being so back-chatty and argumentative. Hell he gets on my
nerves too so I can understand that. I just can't see him changing any
time soon. When the three of them are together, they become not
separate problems but our combined stress. It was great to get away
alone, but now we are back to reality. Back to our respective children
and their noise back to normalacy and having to try and make our flawed
relationship good. While we were away he was wonderful company, nice to
be with and we never had a cross word all the time we were there. He's
such a good bloke and I do care about him.

Oh and just before I go he said that when I write my diary up I have to
be sure to moan about the rail service on his behalf. Every train we
went on was held up and horrendously late. It's no wonder people have
no faith in public transport.

Next time we go to London we are going to go and see Phantom or We Will
Rock You. Can't wait.