Les Miserables: my miserable truth

After our first attempt, thwarted by the unrelenting snowfall, we made it to Les Mis in the cosy atmosphere of the art deco-esque Ritz. I'd loved the stage production in the West End, and had wept at 'Empty Chairs' and 'Bring Him Home'.

A few years after, at Drama school, we had to present a 'big song'. I was rehearsing 'Bring Him Home.' I could barely get two lines out before the emotion overtook and I was in tears. If I made it to four lines, the rest of the class were in tears. So, I went to see the film with an open heart, and high expectations, tissues packed as warned by those who had gone before me.

As we're leaving the cinema Hubs says, "How was that for you?"
"Well..." I answered.
"That good, eh?"

Well...it was very fortunate that there were no actual French people in France at the time of the Revolution, because that would have made casting so much harder. As to why Jean Valjean was Irish as a criminal in his first scene, yet English/Oz after nineteen winters of hard labour, I simply have no idea. Though the timing of the lovely Northern Irish accent calling out over the barricades, "We need your furniture, now!" was either subtley political or overtly humorous. Personally, I laughed.

And why did all the Revolutionaries have their hair done like One Direction? With that and his higher-than-expected voice, Eddie Redmayne has turned into a choir boy, and as such can no longer be lust material. And sorry, girls, but Hugh Jackman warbles! 'Bring him HOWOWOWOWOWOME! He's afrAYAYAYAYAYAid!'

The only pleasure was the astounding cinematography, Hathaway's heart-wrenching rendition of 'I dreamed a dream', and the satisfying crack of Javert's body as it breaks over the weir.

It was always a plot too thin, for me; that a man could steal a loaf of bread, spend 19 years jailed for it, and be hounded for breaking parole by an officious policeman who can't give up the chase, even with a Revolution in the Country's Capital to subdue. Maybe that's all you can expect if you condense one of the longest novels written into two and a half hours.

"So how is your cold heart sitting in your boots, dear?" asks Hubs.

The end of India

 I last left this story after my long, dark night of terror...this is how the trip ends...

I told the trek leaders I wanted to get off the mountain the next morning, cup of breakfast chai wobbling in my already trembling hands at 7.30 am. They promised to get me to the village we were aiming for and from there we would decide what to do.

We crossed the hills to a school that morning. The pathways were wider and I felt safer – or perhaps I’d just run out of fear. We began another descent, but the guides were always ahead of me to block my view, and the trekkers who dropped back to become Group 3 walked with and around me, taking my hand as needed. At the bottom of this hill was another river pulsing rapidly over rocks that we were meant to hop across with the ease and grace of a gazelle! It was around this point that I acquired Ashok, my own personal Sherpa. I don’t know if he took it on himself or if he was ‘assigned’ the task, but he stayed with me for the rest of the trek, my silent, sure-footed guardian, with no coat, and tattered trainers.

After lunch, trek leader, Paul, pointed up to the heavily wooded steep ascent ahead and asked if I wanted to come. “No,” I said, “you promised.”

Three other women were in trouble. One had a chest infection she thought she was over, another had terrible blisters and our only case of Delhi belly, and the other (our oldest at 75) had had a fall and was shaken. So the four of us were taken off in a jeep (after another hour’s clambering over rocks back to the river and across yet another rusty floored rope bridge) to Chongay’s guest house. It was an adventure in itself – driving on these roads wasn’t much safer than walking the mountains! Chongay’s family were originally from Tibet, so we learned more of that culture, his way of life, his values and beliefs. We were fed and watered and asleep by ten o’clock, not rising til 9 next morning. After breakfast (the first I’d managed to eat), we were driven back to catch up with the others at another point of the trek. Herein lay the moment of truth: would I have the courage to rejoin them for further climbs in the mountains, or would I retire to the safety of the village? Three of us went ahead.

Although a steep climb, the paths were wider as this was a known tourist trek from McLeod Ganj to Triund Hill. We caught up with the rest of Group 3 at the chai shop ‘Magic View’, and on we went together again. Arriving on the plateau to the surprise of groups 1&2 was my first sense of achievement. Around the camp fire I taught them all a song (yes, I can sing when I’m not crying). Paul confessed that he was glad I hadn’t been there the previous afternoon. ‘I’d have had to blindfold you,’ he said. It was a treacherous climb that everyone found difficult. Trees had come down blocking the way so that the mules had to turn back, two injured on the way, and bags were ripped. I’m glad I wasn’t there.

From our camp on the plateau, the next day would be our final ascent to our summit – Paul pointed out a temple 2mm high up a mountain with no discernible pathways. Did I want to go? Honestly? I was tempted to say no, as I was pretty happy with overcoming my fear and coming back up this far. But would I regret not trying? Group 3 made the decision for me…’but we’re taking you.’ And so they did. For that final journey, Paul swapped the order of the groups and we went first. This time we would have altitude to deal with, passing through the clouds, almost reaching the snow line.

It wasn’t an easy climb. The guides were leaving markers so the others would know which path we’d picked out over the ridge. But it was a happy climb: totally bonded now as a group, we were determined to succeed. It was a delightful surprise, when half way up, just over a verge, was the most beautiful sun-filled ‘valley’, a glacial moraine, providing a wind-protected sunspot with its own chai shop. We stopped a while enjoying our warm drinks and success, before setting off again to stay ahead of the others.

Layers went on as we continued to climb, and clusters of frozen hailstones appeared at our feet. Ashok, coatless, zipped up his hoody, and continued beside me. At the top, the little concrete temple provided a base for us to sit and reflect. Paul gave us prayer flags for us to write our name on, the name of the person we were there for, and a message to them. There were tears and hugs and smiles as we made our mark. Then while we had lunch, we had the pleasure of watching the others arrive; the looks of pride and amazement as each one made the summit. (Though a little voice was niggling in my heart – the cloud was closing in and I still had to survive the descent to camp.) Again Group 3 headed off first and we were more than 2/3 of the way down when the hail hit us – huge hailstones in the Himalayas! As I crossed the plateau into camp, Chongay started to clap ahead of me. ‘What are you clapping for?’ I asked. ‘You’re first to complete your trek!’ And I was.

It was a peaceful and relaxed night around the campfire in the knowledge that all that was left was the homeward stretch back down the tourist path – broad, if bouldered. The morning brought the sun. I attached one of my poles to my rucksack, now un-needed, and marched down the hill – my poor Ashok looking a little dejected as my confidence finally took over. When I arrived at the bottom, I called to Chongay that I hadn’t once said the ‘f’ word. He gave me a delighted hug.

We finished that afternoon by being jeeped back to McLeod Ganj to see the Dalai Lama’s temple which was spacious, but appropriately unassuming. Some people expressed surprise that it wasn’t grander – but how could it be? Nothing would be more wrong pitched against the poverty of this nation. A gilded cathedral would be like a knife in the ribs. We went shopping in the market, and our rupees were gratefully received. I’ve never been happier to spend money.

The next day we left the mountains, their majesty, their clear air and their light to be plunged once more into the hot uncomfortable travel by coach and train to arrive in Delhi, at midnight, in the most beautiful hotel, where we were to have 4 ½ hours’ sleep before driving to the Taj Mahal in the morning!

Delhi is a true culture shock: the smells, the dirt, the smog, the rubbish. I watched a pile of bags stand up into a human being and begin setting out their meagre market wares. Rubbish, particularly plastic, is everywhere. We witnessed a commotion by the railway track where a man lay dead. Others sleep and live in the railway station, immune to the people stepping over them to go about their day. And all the way along the main roads, the towns displayed the same lifestyle: tiny, dusty homes with no electricity. I wondered what they had to do all day, what they had to eat. I felt guilty about all the money we spent on equipment etc to be in India on this trek, and all the money we had raised for our charity back in the UK and it didn’t sit entirely easy with me. By the time we got to the Taj Mahal, it was midday, Saturday, and 32 degrees. I looked at this marble wonder and couldn’t appreciate it. I thought of the cost, the hours of labour, the people who died on the task – and the ridiculous notion that it was all made in honour of the ruler’s dead wife…she’d never even see it!

Then it was five more hours watching street life from the coach as we made our way to the airport.

It has been an immensely challenging journey – one that will stay with me for a long time. I still dream about some aspect of that trip every night. India reminds me to be deeply grateful for all that I have here: a comfortable home, food, heat, the NHS, safe cars and roads. The list is long, but let me end with how incredibly lucky we are to have organisations like St Margaret’s Hopices who deliver care and attention to our loved ones at the end of their days so that the dignity of life remains paramount.

And thank you for your support and generous donation for mine and their endeavours.

Brit Writers Awards 2012

Brit Writers Awards 2012

After weeks of secret discussions and piles of research on the growing guest list, it was very exciting to get to the Thistle Marble Arch and meet my co-hosts (Rebbecca Hemmings and Saima Mir) and all the tech crew to check out the itinerary for the evening.

By the time it was ready to go, it all looked fabulous. We all looked fabulous! I have never presented anything on this scale before so I was a tad nervous. But there was no time for that. I had to get out there, mingling and answering questions while the rock band went to get changed in my room. Ah! Where did I leave my dirty…thank you, lovely hubby, for protecting my dignity!

After the amazing young dancers who led us all into the dinner, we took the stage and wallowed in the buzz that was permeating the room. It was alive! Full of writers, performers, singers, celebrities, publishers, agents, more writers…a hum of creativity as people found like minds with whom to talk.

I had particular fun with some of our overseas guests: Mykel Hawke wanted me to tell him the winner in his category so he could practise saying the name. “Only one problem with that, Mykel,” I said, “It’s a competition – I don’t know who the winner is!” But it was a fair question – the pronunciation, that is. The BWA has become so multicultural and international the names represent the world.

My only difficulty through the event was time-keeping: every speaker was so interesting and had so much to share about the world of words, I could have listened to each of them all night but I had to keep the slots tight! We were surrounded by the most amazing wealth of experience in so many areas, it was simply an honour to be there listening.

And on top of that I got to meet my own publishers – the delightful Ronnie and Dawn of Indigo Press.

There is one very exciting year ahead. Thanks to Imran and Brit Writers for making it possible – for me, and all the fabulous finalists and winners on Saturday night.

Ps I still want an award!!

Pps Tatiana Wilson had the best shoes!!!!

India; Part 2

 Part 2: A scary day and a dark night.

The Indian guides stepped in, and two of the trek leaders flanked me front and back, taking my hand when necessary (‘just hold it, please?’) and quickly learning to block my view before I could register the next drop. By the time we made it to the bottom of this valley, crossing a bridge with no sides to have lunch by the river, I was shocked and mortified by what was happening to me. I felt too sick to swallow any food, and there was still the other side of the mountain to climb to reach where we’d camp for the night. I knew my body was empty, but we had to walk on. One of the Indian guides, Manev, said to me, ‘For you this walk is about companionship and helping hands. How very intuitive and wise: you see, I am not the sort of person who asks for help, whatever I’m doing. I push myself hard, finding it difficult to accept help from even my closest friends. And here I was, being forced to literally hold hands with strangers.

The climb up was just as bad, with the awareness that we were getting higher with every step so obviously I would have so much further to fall as I tumbled and broke my neck. I kept hearing a friend’s voice in my ear, ‘baby steps, just watch your feet and don’t look over.’ It wasn’t always easy not to look, though, and eventually I swore at it all. ‘Feck!’ The trek leader in front of me, Dave, said, “Thank goodness for that. I was having trouble with an Irish person who didn’t swear.” I laughed and told him I’d been doing my best to behave myself. From that point on, I used expletives as ammunition to attack every next obstacle the mountain threw at me: brooks over rocks and mud, flaky clay, the large tree that had come down right across our path, hence acquiring my nickname for the week, ‘Madame Feck-feck.’

I arrived at camp in the dark (and no, I wasn’t last). I wanted to hide in my tent and cry. But I didn’t. After a coffee with a splash of brandy from my tent buddy, I wrapped up in my extra layers, donned my head torch, and went for chai. Circling the edges of chatting groups, I would hear someone refer to ‘that poor woman who was scared of heights’. I’d step forward, “That’d be me.” And another, ‘that poor thing who was crying on the way down,’ “that’d be me.” And that was when I started to make friends.

That night I could not sleep, as in literally – my eyes, my body, my brain simply would not switch off, despite me knowing that I was exhausted and needed it. Instead, the night was filled with flash after flash of all the terrible moments that had made up that fearful day, accompanied by wash after wash of adrenalin-flushed terror. Definitely my long dark night of the soul. I had wanted this trip to India to be in some way spiritually enlightening, but this sure as hell wasn’t what I’d envisioned. So I lay there and made a plan – firstly that when I got home I wouldn’t be so fiercely independent and would invite and be grateful for help in my life, and secondly, that I would make it to the village on the next day’s itinerary, then I’d head back along the road to Dharamsala. You see, I wasn’t afraid of an adventure, I just had to get off this mountain.

Finally talking about India. Part 1

Helping Hands in the Himalayas: A journey of Companionship

(otherwise known as ‘getting around the mountains on sugar, sweat and tears, and holding a lot of hands!’)

‘Did you see that man?’

‘What man?’

‘The one over there.’ I followed the direction of the pointing finger. It was 6am and already there were people everywhere. The porters crowded the back of the bus in their dirty red shirts and un-white neckscarves. The luggage compartment was yanked open.

‘What’s he doing there?’ I ask.

‘Dunno,’ another voice responds. ‘He’s not one of them,’ she nods towards the porters. The porters, who step over him, unlooking, to reach the bags.

I take a step closer to look. A camera clicks beside me. ‘I have to have a picture of this, unbelievable.’ I flinch. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’ asks camera woman.

In the dry dirt and dust of Delhi train station, this man lies face down, his eyes shut, his body flat against the hard, unwelcoming ground. His t-shirt is grubby to a point where I cannot imagine the cause. His jeans are faded, ripped, plastered against the fleshless bones. Naturally, he has no shoes.

One foot twitches.

‘Oh, good, he’s not dead then,’ as she clicks once more.

I want to feel relieved. How can I when his waking life is this? I wonder if anyone knows him. Anyone at all.

India is a tricky place to visit. It is the first time I have been somewhere that I cannot say I ‘enjoyed’, because aspects of that culture and that world broke my heart.

For a start, it’s a long way away: two planes, a seven hour train journey, and six hours on a minibus to get to our destination in Northern India, Dharamsala, in the foothills of the Himalayas. We arrived in the dark at 10pm, raced around to the restaurant that kept our dinner for supper, then back to our hotel for 5 ½ hours’ sleep. The previous two nights were lost to travel and time changes and unhealthy dozes in various moving vehicles.

The next morning we stared out of our window at the mountains rising before us and made sense of the fact that we’d taken the elevator down last night to Floor One as Five was street level. After breakfast, we were off in jeeps an hour further into the hills to be deposited in a woody glade. The sun was shining. Snow was bright on the distant peaks. Wow. We were kitted up, booted, and off. An hour later we stopped for a breather, all in high spirits, guzzling our water as ordered and trying to say hello to one another. Then we set off again, down the side of the mountain. And I mean down the side of a mountain. Suddenly this was serious: zig-zagging along what was way too steep to just go down, rough steps hewn into the clay to give some foothold. The paths were narrow and the edges too close, too severe: precipices.

Now I am not normally a coward. I’m an independent career woman who has brought up an Autistic, deaf young man by myself for many years. I have paraglided across the sea when I cannot swim, I have done a ‘loop the loop’ in a small plane over the White Cliffs of Dover, I’ve been to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the World Trade Center, when it still stood. So I was not ready for what happened next: I panicked! I looked at the size of those hills and the drop of those falls and I was terrified. And terror is so unhelpful. Adrenalin pumps through your body, wasting your energy reserves, and hyperventilation is totally ruining the oxygen balance so you get wobbly and shaky – not what you need when you don’t trust your feet on the ground anyway. Add to that the shock that it is happening at all – to me – here in the Himalayas! I didn’t think it was the most appropriate moment for a full-on nervous breakdown. And to top it off, I was among strangers – what must they be thinking?

Making friends with your Editor

So, I’m thinking I should deliver a more serious blog about another writer’s learning curve I’ve been travelling: one which we all travel, eventually, through our own design, or that of someone else. Editing.

For some reason, when I finally gave in to my desire to write, really write, I thought I could just knock out the finished article in one draft. In fact, the word draft was not on my agenda. I honestly thought I could just write a book, scoring out and amending my mistakes along the way.

Fortunately, while novels (ahem, first drafts) languished under my bed, I wrote a play that was to become my one-woman show ‘From Within’. I had the support of my director and dramaturge, Jeff Sheppard and learned the value of another pair of ears as I re-worked the script.

My next lucky moment was meeting another writer, Vincent O’Connell, who offered to mentor me to develop a film script. Now, that is excellent training. I would turn up for a meeting, next three scenes in hand, he’d read the dialogue, a whole paragraph, maybe, and challenge me thus: “Which of those lines does the character need to say?” Of course, my first answer was ‘all of them’.  But as I stared at my precious words, I would see plainly that no, they were not all needed. I continued to write everything I needed to say, but came to enjoy the cull to get what they needed to say.

During the last two years, on board with the Brit Writers Publishing Programme, I got out my two novels and put on my Editor head. It has been hard work, but a satisfying revelation. You see, with the world of publishing undergoing so much change, the author has to offer a script as close to ‘best draft’ as they can manage alone. At first, I was pretty disappointed about that – my other illusion was that you’d be given an editor who would do all that annoying work. (And yes, you will still get an editor go over your final draft).  But here’s the thing: when I was asked to do re-writes, my first reaction was dread…of all the work, and whether or not I’d see what needed to change etc., then it occurred to me, why would I let someone else edit my work and possibly change my voice? Of course, the only person who should do the re-writes is me, albeit guided by someone else. So I’ve done the work. The book is in its current best state, and I am trusting that my editor will merely have to tidy up. My book remains my book, which is what I wanted all along.

When you are banging (or coaxing) out that first draft, make sure that Editor is nowhere to be seen. But take pleasure in bringing those skills out later. It will all pay off in the end.