50 Shades of Dr Who

50 shades of Dr Who: it’s a timey-wimey thing.

I have decided that writing a book is like folding time. (Yes, I may have spent too much time with the lovely son in the company of select science fiction).

But it’s true. Time is elastic. For example, there’s the big long time when I worry about what to write, how to address the structure, the different voices etc. Then there’s the stretchy procrastinating time filled with a million displacement activities.  Then there’s the manic time in fast-motion as my arm aches trying to keep up with the words that are pouring out onto the page. (Yes, I am a pen and paper girl).

Next is the slower type-it-up stage where time plods as slowly as my rubbish four finger typing.

Eventually, I send the manuscript off and time stops! Well, it must have, because no-one is bombarding me with replies, begging for my wonderful work…

Stopped time has been anything from months to years. This time, it worked. The reply came from the interested publisher. Woohoo! And time became a workload of serious attention as the Editor appeared.

Guess what? Time stopped again. I had to wait for my place on the list…whenever that might be.

And bang. A big bang for me. Launch date is announced and it’s only weeks away. Watch that time fly as press are contacted, posters and cards made, parties planned and strategies considered.

Lovely son tells everyone he meets about my book, describing it as ‘a bit 50 shades’, which he hasn’t read so I’m not sure what his connection is…who cares? At least he’s proud of me.

And we get to now. …but I love you is released this week. You can read about it following this link to my author page www.indigodreamsbookshop.com/#/sinead-gillespie/4579694835

It’s on sale there, and at Waterstone’s and Amazon. 

And I am so happy that my time is full up.

Airplanes and Aspies

Airplanes and beloved Aspie.

I think terror is the word.

He’s terrified of flying and I’m terrified of putting him through it, whilst also knowing it will be worth it at the end. I am also terrified of what other passengers will think of us while I talk whatever shit is necessary to keep him sane for the duration (on one occasion that involved hijacking Kate Garraway in the toilet queue with something like, ‘‘scuse me famous woman’  - couldn’t remember her name- ‘would you come and talk to my son a minute, cos he really needs the loo and he is too scared to get out of his seat and you can just talk about being on the telly and that will distract him. OK?’ And bless the woman, she did just that).

So next time, I thought ahead – drugs. Here’s what not to do: walk into your local Boots, ask for the pharmacist, then say, “I need something to drug an 18 yr old boy, to take him on a plane.” I can only imagine I looked a lot hotter in those days, because stressed mummy was not what he saw when he told me he could advise no such thing.

Well in a moment of madness or desperation, hubs and I decided about ten days ago to book a last minute holiday. In Spain. Never been. It’s not too long a flight, we can go from the local airport and beloved son hasn’t got too long to panic. Mmmmm.

Stress levels through the roof. ‘What sort of plane is it?’ He means is it big enough that he won’t feel every movement (which he does because of his damaged ears). I don’t know.

‘What is there to do in Spain?’ I gave him a list of places to research.

‘Will someone try to blow up the plane?’ I’m thinking a wee flight to Malaga is an unlikely target, but apparently that’s not reassuring. 

Anyway, thanks to my predilection for nightmares and consequent sleep deprivation, I have some very low dose tablets that just might save the day/flight. Of course, I’m the one who’ll be taking them. (No, M’lud, I’m not winking at anyone).

Ladies, we need to talk bras and knickers...

Ladies, we need to talk bras and knickers…

Well, bra straps and visible panty lines.

And I am not talking a sexy subtle use thereof to tease and tantalise. Oh, no. I am talking unattractively visible underwear that your mother/brother/boyfriend/sister really should have mentioned before you left the house.

I know it has been deliciously hot and the excitement of getting out your summer clothes has been a bit distracting. Perhaps, like mine, a lot of them didn’t even make an appearance last year. And perhaps that is why you have forgotten all your underwear rules because there wasn’t much to worry about while it was hidden under winter warmies.

I think it was Steve Wright who commented on the radio last week that he was alarmed by the clothes women were wearing in the heat, some he figured, they wouldn’t be seen wearing in their own bedroom. Well, at Bristol Harbourside Festival yesterday, in the glorious sunshine, I was invited to view more underwear in the streets than in a lock-in at an M & S lingerie sale.

To list a few heinous crimes:

A strapless maxi dress – with bra straps!

A backless top – those pretty ones with a sort of diamond cut out at the back – with a big bra strap and clasp in the middle of it.

A halter neck frock – with bra straps over the shoulders.

A clingy t-shirt dress (on a fairly curvy girl) wearing low cut knickers that forced love handles at the rear and an unfortunate belly flop over the front.

Another clingy frock over embossed lace knickers that stood out in high definition relief  - lovely for teasing your other half, but did you really want the rest of the world to see them?

What is worse is the condition of some of the bra straps on show; industrial width, greying whites, browning nudes.

Girls, the right underwear will serve you. There is such a thing as a strapless bra. There is even a clever backless creation. And those see-through plastic straps – no –avoid them, too. They catch the light, especially in photos (girls in ballgowns, ruined by a flash of plastic). 

And to the two women in the clingy frocks: big knickers serve a purpose. On both of you they would have created a smooth, bootylicious outline. Wouldn’t you prefer that?

I understand that some women feel insecure without their regular bra straps and that we have an overwhelming choice of delicious necklines and shoulder strap formations in all the gorgeous clothes available to us. You can win by clever colour co-ordination. Get a matching bra! I had a favourite red top that had spaghetti straps and was cut low in front so my strapless bra wouldn’t work. I traipsed the town until I found a red bra, in the same shade with fine straps decorated with rosebuds. I always wore them together. Easy.

All that said, I did see one girl go by in a backless frock, and her lack of underwear and slim, tanned back did cause a few men to trip over their feet. Speaking of which, she was wearing the oddest shoes…

I like to see women confident in their sexuality, whatever their body shape. I want young women to feel power in their sexuality – in a good way. So get it right. Don’t show what you look like undressed because your underwear is so evident: look gorgeous dressed and share the rest with whom you choose, when you choose.

Burlesque and Dr Who: An Aspie perspective

My lovely young man, as those of you who know him personally can attest, has that delightful Aspie predilection for the Truth. Said Truth will be announced at full volume regardless of time and place, and definitely, with true Apsie disregard for tact or diplomacy.

So, yes, he did go up to the actors at the end of our local Amateur Dramatics production and say, “You weren’t very good, where you? The prompt said most of your lines.” And he did tell the neighbour that our cat had killed his Guinea pigs at our Christmas drinks party. And when I asked his opinion of my outfit for a friend’s wedding he did say, “It’s a bit much.”

So last weekend, Hubs asks him if he’d like to go to a Burlesque evening. “Hell, yeah!” came the response. (Very generous offer of Hubs who was to be out of the county that weekend). I, of course, am trying to be supportive and discreet. I anticipate that it wouldn’t be cool to be with Mum, so I’m thinking I can be a steward at the event as it’s in the Arts Centre where I volunteer. Yeah, right: we both went to the Burlesque. Now, if you haven’t been to a show, basically it is a series of acts: each woman delivers a ‘scene’ or a dance, each losing their clothing item by item, from glove to stocking to corset, to end up in panties and nipple tassles. Some women are bigger than others (in all departments), some are energetic, some are elegant, some can twirl bits you cannot twirl yourself. It is kitsch.

Well, I was terrified –imagining all the possible inappropriate comments that I might have to field.

I was wrong.

He simply decided to take it all at face value, commenting positively on their outfits (loved Jessica Rabbit), their dancing, and their quirky humour. He appreciated the fan dances and explosions of glitter, and clapped enthusiastically at the end of each piece. It was a joy to be out with him.

Now, yesterday, he had an invitation to attend a drama student production called Dr Who Through Time. He is no stranger to drama and theatre (well, he is mine), and is a huge Dr Who fan (for fan, read Aspie obsession).

As we arrived to buy our tickets, I noticed the students getting ready and thought, hmm, this could get interesting. These were the Foundation students, with a wide range of special needs, physical disabilities and learning disabilities. The costumes were hand-made, low-spec, teachers hovered to prompt in every corner, and Dr Who was a girl!

An Aspie nightmare. So, yes, I’m mentally strategizing all the possible damage control I’m going to have to manoeuvre.

And blow me if he didn’t do it again. He complimented the effort that went into the costumes, loved that one of the Daleks was a bloke in a wheelchair, laughed at their jokes, and added a few himself. “So that’s what happened to Elvis, the Daleks have him!”

He was Mr Compassion and Generosity. I could not have been more proud.

We can get so caught up meeting the challenges of our children’s disadvantages that we sometimes forget to see the personality beside/behind the ‘condition’. It’s so lovely when we see them shine way beyond it and prove the world wrong.

Cloud Atlas - the genius of David Mitchell

Cloud Atlas – in the hands of genius, David Mitchell.

Firstly, if you love reading – read this book!

If you love thinking – read this book!

If you love writing – read this book!

Actually, if you’re in the latter group, maybe think again. You know when you can sing, a bit, fairly well, then you hear someone (like the lasses in Lady Maisery) who can really sing, and you think, mmm, maybe I should shut up? Well, Mitchell could be the person who makes you put your pen down forever.

But wait – OR, he could be the genius rule breaker that inspires you to believe in yourself and your own voice so much that you continue to dare.

I am in awe. Truly. And that’s not an easy thing to get from me. I am astounded at the man’s mind – the expanse of his imagination, and philosophy and intuition and profound understanding of humanity, and beyond. I imagine the wall chart he drew while planning this book – which has to be in concentric circles, while he flicks arrows across timelines for the links and delicious clues. (Well that’s how I would do it).

I don’t want to do spoilers –but the Sonmi-451 chapter is a scary gem of foresight into where we might all go. What makes it work is the wonderfully economic language born of text- speak and monopolies where cars are now only referred to as fords, and everyone has a handsony, and the chip from your bank card is now in your fingertip.

Okay, so I am deeply jealous of someone who can so apparently easily write the completely engaging and time-specific dialogue and language of the 1800s, the 1970s and 2025 or something and still make me reach for my dictionary. And the nerve to cut a story off – mid sentence – really!

But the real beauty of this work is that his people are real. Their dilemmas are real and I laughed with them, and cried for them. I had to stop and re-read so many passages out of sheer love. I finished it last night. I re-read the ending this morning. Where did he get the inspiration for such a perfect last line?

If that all sounds too much, visit Ghostwritten first. Beautiful work, but maybe less of a mind-f**, said with respect, that will draw you in to his expansive world.

I haven’t been able to write a thing while I was reading it – but now I’m done, I’m bursting. That makes Mitchell a friend.