Milly Johnson's Blog

This year, just before International Women’s Day, I was approached by a woman’s group who wanted me to talk for this big day about female empowerment and success. In a city half an hour away. 

Except…

They ‘weren’t in a position to pay their speakers’ BUT they wouldn’t charge me an admission fee for the event. And if I wanted to bring a guest, they’d get a discount on that. So let me get this right then, said my brain trying to work this out. I’d get in free to an event I was talking at (no food btw, just a sit down and listen thingy - sounds a right bargain). And it would cost me time to write a speech and I’d give up my day and it would cost me to get there in petrol. But, wait - they’d plug me to their 5k insta followers. Where do I sign up?

I’m joking, I didn’t. And when they pursued me for an answer worrying their message might have gone into junk, I was pretty tempted to reply, ‘That’s the best place for it’. 

Weirdly it seems to be women who ask women to do free events (I would like to hedge a bet they don’t ask male writers - or males ask male writers). And how even weirder it is that someone is valued enough to impart with their wisdom on a day of female empowerment, but not valued enough to even have their petrol costs covered. What message would I be giving out to women from my podium? I’ve heard from pals who have given up their time on IWD to be actually introduced on stage as people who are appearing FOC because the budget has been spent on a band/singer/juggler for the day. Surely if there is any day where women are to be respected for their expertise and professionalism it’s that day above any other. I’m sure it’s not just me who thinks that. A MUG. Nope. My PR company told them that I had been booked up two years in advance for IWD and gave them a copy of my speaker’s rates. I didn’t hear from them again. I could almost see them lifting up their handbags with outrage that I had the NERVE to think I could be paid when they were offering me such an honour. They could, however, have sent a message to say ‘thanks for the reply’. I rarely, if ever, get that after a turndown.

In the beginning, when I was building up my readership I didn’t say no to much. And it worked to a fashion, even though I did give too much of myself away. But there comes a time when that has to stop and now I have a rule that if I am asked to do an event as a professional, then I expect the going rate. Why should some companies pay for my travel, my speakers fee, a hotel and others think they can get me for nowt. It takes time to write speeches, to travel, to talk and that is all time away from my desk. People aren’t just paying you for a two hour event, there’s a lot more to it than that: the prep, the journey - all to be factored in when you accept a gig.

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

The c-word CASH feels sometimes almost as dirty as the other c-word. There’s something about cash in this business that makes it so hard to talk about and I’m kind of glad I have other people to ask for me (coward). But for some reason writers, while they are seen as sought-after professionals, they’re almost a different sort of pro, the sort who should be grateful someone is going to give their new book a plug on Insta in exchange for a six hour round trip and a buttered scone. 

We, as writers, should not find money vulgar, scary to talk about. Somehow I have ended up giving so much away for free because it felt ick to broker the subject of the old ‘filthy lucre’. I’m trying not to cringe even writing this. Goodness, what will anyone think of me talking about money *vision of a grasping Scrooge*? But I’m going to because I think it’s important. It is within our rights to ask to be paid for our services and it is within our rights to say NO. 

Firstly saying NO, is preferable to me saying YES and then ending up with a big fat SOFTARSE painted on one’s head. Recently, I contemplated just how much time I’d wasted because I couldn’t say NO. The amount of occasions when I’ve been cajoled into meeting up with a stranger who ‘wanted to run something important past me’. I have no idea what I expected, but I should have said, ‘Run it past me on the telephone’ and ignored their insistence that they needed to do it face to face ‘but it won’t take long’ (it invariably does). So I’ve gone out for coffees or meetings with someone I don't know from Adam and ended up wasting all morning waiting for the big reveal. It’s nearly always a favour, or their daughter/granny has done a kid’s book and wants help in getting it published and I’ve sat there thinking, ‘Why am I here when I haven’t seen my best mate for three months because I've told her I've got no time?’ I was contacted by a local businessman who bulled up his many achievements and wanted to connect me to his daughter - a ‘YouTube sensation’ - who wanted to interview me for her channel. I nearly said, yes of course, but I’ve grown up enough to do a bit of homework. I found out that the daughter was six years old and the channel had one post on it and four views. I declined politely, he didn’t reply and I could feel him thinking I was a snotty bitch through the ether. There's being polite, nice, wanting to encourage... and then there's just doing things because saying NO just feels mean. But I’ll take mean over manipulated these days. My time is ever more precious and it is mine to give away, not to be wrested from me. And it’s only taken me twenty years to realise that - but hey, better late than never. Hoping I can save you a bit of time. 

Photo by Justin Veenema on Unsplash

When it’s a local person asking somehow that NO word makes it even worse to say because they might think you’re obliged to help coming from the same town and then they’ll tell everyone you are a stuck up arse if you say NO. You’d be amazed how many of those requests never feature the word ‘please’. Can I turn up at X's birthday party if I'm not doing anything on Friday and do a speech? Can I send X a signed book because her washing machine has blown up and she's a bit down? Can I mentor someone? As a fellow local writer can you read my six-hundred page book and tell me what you think? Can I... can I... can I? So many requests, enough to fill a skip. I hate saying no, it goes against my nature, but I’ve spent so much time preparing to leave the desk to go and do something I don’t want to for someone I don’t know when the work is piled up on my desk and my deadlines are screaming at me, that eventually my brain has decided to make sure there is always a NO polished and ready for action. The word NO can be so liberating when you learn it and though I am a big believer in ‘don’t ask, don’t get’ - when you use that (as I have of course) you have to be prepared for a NO. It should offend no one. 

As a little aside, you’d be surprised how many times I’m asked for a favour or a raffle prize and the word ‘please’ never features in the request. Now, if it doesn’t, it goes in the bin. I’m worth that word.

As much as I love doing events, I have to be selective. It’s no good doing a seven hour round trip to talk to six people, however lovely they might be, especially when I'm struggling to finish a book or it's main launch period and I need as many sales as I can get because this is big business, baby, and it’s all about the numbers. But – a disclaimer – if I wanted to do that event, because it sounded fun or would allow me to call in on an old friend I haven’t seen for ages, kill two birds with one stone – I am totally at liberty to do it if I wanted to, if it were my free choice. And you have to keep that in your mind: FREE choice, not one that you’ve been manipulated into obliging. 

Beware the manipulations. The amount of times I’ve been asked to be the after-dinner speaker somewhere, often at a ‘charity event’ but as soon as I’ve mentioned a fee and petrol, I never hear from them again. In my head they are saying about me, ‘Who does she think she is? This is for sick parrots after all.’ Then I find out just how much money they’ve paid in the past for big name speakers (some of whom are totally crap - and they’ve charged £10k - and we’re feeling greedy for a few hundred.) That’s why I’ve pinned my colours to the mast of my charity (Yorkshire Cat Rescue in case you’re asking. They don’t pay their execs six figures and I’ve seen the chairs in their office and monies raised deffo don’t go on ‘swank’. They get the freebies from me). Sometimes organisers at events might say that they can’t pay a fee because they want to raise as much money as possible for their charity and every penny counts. If it was a charity close to my heart, then I could choose to do it of course. We can’t all support every charity, we can’t do everything for free. We need to pay bills and eat and buy stationery. Think about it, they’ll pay the venue, the caterers, the people who organise the tickets, themselves… but strangely not YOU - the person who they consider the main draw (see Society of Author’s guidance). Ticket prices should factor in your cost. You should NOT be out of pocket for doing an event. Not unless you want to be. 

I think if I get one more invitation to talk that says, ‘We can’t pay you a single penny but we can supply you with lashings of tea and sandwiches’ I might be tempted to… No, let’s not finish that sentence. You’ll think badly of me. But do try it with a plumber. ‘Hey Christopher the Plumber, I need you to look at my boiler. I can’t pay you, but I can give you as much tea as you can drink (smiley face emoji at this point), the pick of the French Fancies and I’ll splash your name about on Facebook to my three hundred followers.’ I imagine his reply would be full of ‘F’s and not in reference to Mr Kipling’s best. But then, Christopher is a different kind of professional isn’t he? 

Note to yourselves, never say YES to anything on the spot, especially when you’re bollocksed on gin at a social event (been there, done that too many times). You don’t have your diary on you, you can’t possibly say when you are free. You’ll come back to them. Don’t be bullied or pressured or cornered, you do not have to say YES. You do not have to explain why it’s a NO. And if you do say NO, don’t start imagining then that they have stuck a picture of you on a dartboard because you are a nasty, unhelpful, selfish tosser.

Set out your fee (and your terms - including the 'blue Smarties' rider) from the off because if they're paying you a fee, you're 'worth more' than those who don't take one. This advice is from someone who used to organise lit fests etc. So even if you were going to do it for free, don't. Take the fee and then you donate it if you wish, your choice, but you'll be treated better if you charge. You'll get the respect and the gratitude. Crazy isn't it. Handle it like your PA would handle it. Be your own PA. Invoke your inner Peggy Mount and call yourself Simone, that’s a good kick-ass name. 

I nearly always have to ask what the fee will be when approached to do an event because often it isn’t mentioned, as if the hope is I’ll forget if it's glossed over. Sometimes the answer is: ‘er… a token fee of X, although most people waive it’. Ooh, a hint there that I’m possibly being unreasonable for asking so I should give it back - you greedy cow, Johnson. It’s a breath of fresh air when you’re approached to appear and the fee is transparent from the off. And it’s both respectful and respected. I don’t bugger about with other people’s money and I don’t want mine buggered about with.

My time is money, sunshine. I have to take time away from my book which is what pays my wage. I have to work at writing a speech and you can’t write those in an hour, some take days. I have to practice, I have to travel to the event. My time is money, did I say? (I have a friend who isn’t even on Twitter because he won’t write ANYTHING he isn’t paid for. And he’s proud of it. And flipping richer than me by a country mile.)

I felt a bit manipulated recently when I was asked to do something which would have taken a lot of driving time and appearance time for bugger all recompense apart from that old chestnut ‘enough tea to drown me’ (it’s never Krug is it?) and so I asked Joanne Harris for some advice because I knew I could rely on her as a wise stick. ‘If you want to support the charity, fine, but expecting you do to it for free without giving you the choice seems exploitative and wrong’ she said. And that her experience of working for free is that all it really gets you is more offers to work… for free. Tea and bloody cake do not pay the Octopus energy company. She voiced what I knew already but I wanted someone to tell me that I wasn’t being the devil incarnate. I’m not and we shouldn’t be made to feel that way. I do few networking events, because people there are looking to link in with useful people, which is fair enough, but that usually means to us: someone who’ll do a favour. And most likely a free favour. Our time is ours to give away as we wish. As is our goodwill. Is there any other profession where people are made to feel like this? 

Lit festivals never pay a lot, we know this and accept it. But you shouldn’t be out of pocket for attending… I say again: not unless you want to be. There was a new lit fest being launched a couple of years ago by fellow author friends who quite candidly asked if there was any chance I could help kick it off. They couldn't pay and they'd understand if I didn't want to attend. I went, I turned down the nominal £20 towards petrol and I had a whale of a time. It was my choice, no one tried to bully or trick me, it was totally upfront what was being offered. It was a wonderful success which means the next time they do it, sponsors will most likely be on board and they'll be able to pay a going rate. 

Courtesy - while I’m ranting. Value an author enough to have them come to you to sell books in your shop? Then please, give them a bloody cuppa when they get there. And a thank you would be nice. Some venues even get you a sarnie and a bunch of flowers and we faint at that because, sadly, we ain’t used to it. Others won’t even make sure there’s a bog roll in the loo for you. I even give the window cleaner a can of pop when he’s doing my up and downstairs (not a euphemism). I have given him a shout-out on Facebook, but as well as his wage, not instead of it. Value value value. Who values us if we don't value ourselves? 

At a very early in my career event with a small readers’ group in Barnsley, a wonderful sadly passed lady called Juliet slid a tenner across the table to me and said ‘You’re a professional, you have to start charging you know’ when I didn’t even think of being cheeky enough to command a fee. But she was right and I never forgot that. Do an event for the WI and they pay you, let you sell your books and fill you up with butterfly buns and Brenda’s quiche. Fed, watered, good PR job, financially recompensed. Might not be a fortune - £50-£90 petrol as a rough guide, but they're great. And they pass your details around to other WIs. Proper respect, proper value, everyone happy. By doing things for free, I’m not helping any solidarity with my fellow authors. It shouldn't be a shock to anyone to presume we should be paid for a job. It’s not greed, I’m a businesswoman not someone farting around on a typewriter for a laugh. 

Whatever you do, if someone values you enough to ask you to spin money for them in their business or be a ‘draw’, you should value yourself enough to be given what you consider proper recompense for it. Raise the money question at the beginning like a business person would. It's a JOB. They might be a charity, but you aren’t. If you enquire about servicing your boiler and the gasman then says 'It's £140' you don't slam the phone down and say 'Well, I can't believe he's mentioned a BILL. How dare he, the greedy twat. I was going to give him Jaffa Cakes as well. OPENING THE NEW PACKET TO BOOT.' 

Say NO whenever you want to. It’s not illegal. You are running things, they aren’t running you. Unless you let them and if you are - stop now. Value yourself or no one else will. 

Hope this helps.

Just in case you need it hammered home: the pic below is not a wage.

xx

I was in two minds whether to write this blog piece but it’s annoying me so much that I need to get it out of my system. Yes we have the hide of rhinos, you have to in this job, but occasionally someone sticks in a pin and it hits a nerve. Yes, I'm a bit cross. 

 

I was half-expecting it, to be honest, for we live in a sensitive climate and I probably wouldn’t have touched a trans character had ‘Astrid’ not been a recurring character who has been so very well received by readers. And when I first wrote her many years ago, she was only ever meant to be a person who was in one story… but, as so often happens, some flower and grow and decide that they are going to stick around for another book. Or more, as in Astrid’s case. There was no political agenda. Astrid arrived fully formed in my head as this Amazonian German with a heart as soft as a tub of Lurpak on a radiator and so I am determined not to fall out of love with one of my own beloved creations who is a great favourite.

 

I’m sure the majority of readers realise that novelists have very vivid imaginations (no shit Sherlock) and we can write about things our characters do that we, as the humans behind them, wouldn’t necessarily agree with. Take for instance my latest book Same Time Next Week. I saw a comment on a readers group (yes, I am a reader too… so I have a perfect right to join as a reader) where someone said I ‘obviously had an agenda to push HRT and so I was preaching about it’ and I’m afraid I happened to reply that I absolutely didn’t – and wasn’t. I’m quite capable of writing a character whose life is transformed by some drug or a running club or a one-night stand without having my experiences at their back to call on. I’m quite capable of having a woman stay in a relationship that I would run from with my arse on fire. I’m quite capable of writing about a woman falling in love with another woman when I’m straight, or wanting to travel the world with a backpack when that would be my worst nightmare or loving caravans (or even marzipan). Maybe it’s flattering that my writing is so convincing that one might imagine it always comes from a place of personal experience, but the tone of the criticism is telling me that it’s anything but. And yes, I can tell a ‘preach’ when I hear one and I despise them. I’ve gone off one of my favourite ever authors because his books now seem to be injected with a lot of his own politics and I just want to read the book not be spouted at.

 

In the reviews of The Magnificent Mrs Mayhew, is one from someone who ripped ME to shreds because I’d chosen to write about a posh Tory family and therefore I made things very obvious which political party I didn’t support. I was dying to write and tell her that I was a floating voter because they’re all a bunch of ****ers and I end up using my votes on who is presently the least shit. But you do have to sit on your hands and swallow. But it's annoying when someone 'knows' something that is, in fact, total bollocks.

 

I was also jumped on once by a militant bunch of vegans who objected to one of my characters not wanting to share a house with someone who didn’t eat meat for fear of being judged. The character felt like that, not me… but some people just cannot separate the two and that was bloody scary with probably the scariest bullying I’ve ever encountered online until I actually called it out as that (helped by some very nice vegans who didn't jump on the bandwagon and were as gobsmacked as I was by the reaction!). But then, I have seen it often that some of the ‘be kind’ brigade can be particularly rigid and cruel and they don’t see the irony in their own actions. (Debate and differences of opinion need to come back quickly before we all crash and burn!) Then, blow me, when I wrote a vegetarian character who had a vegetarian and vegan business I was ‘pushing that agenda’ and set on by another bunch. It is possible to write about someone pushing an agenda without actually pushing that agenda yourself. 

 

 Whatever size - width or length - a character is, whatever hair colour… someone will have a pop and accuse you of singling them out. ‘You have a thing about people in HR, why is that?’ ‘Why does your villain have a big bum?’ ‘Why does your villain have a small bum?’ I had a villain with a set of braces on her teeth (at a time when I was writing the book with a set of braces on my own teeth) and I was poking fun at her, apparently. Yes I was, she was an awful character and that's how she was in my head. I was hardly saying if you have a gob like Jaws, you're a monster. I wasn't a monster for having braces (I hope). We can’t win. And I actually want to describe my characters who are all different shapes and sizes so my readers can visualise them. So I will be carrying on doing that. Niceness and nastiness, neither fit into a natural shape. There are beautiful knobheads and some of the nicest people would never get on the front cover of Vogue.

 

As for Astrid, my dear lovely Astrid, who joins a friendship group NOT a menopause group in Same Time Next Week. I am very clear that Astrid cannot go through that physical stage, but she is at an age where she is feeling that changes need to be made in her life. The book is primarily about change, not just menopausal changes. And as for the woman she chases out of the group… hello!! Women can be gobshites, as 'Janine' is and once she is gone, the energy of the group flows. One person does not a political agenda make. I stay out of all those big issues because I don’t need to lay on my readers what my beliefs are, political or otherwise, so don’t think I’m surreptitiously doing it to influence you all. I’m quite blatant about recommending things when I need to – ie Honeylove bras, P & O Cruises, M & S baby sprouts. Contention? You can keep it. I'll stay out of the debates that others are better arguing.

 

I remember when Me Before You came out and Jojo Moyes had to come out and say that the ending was appropriate for THAT ONE character, it didn’t mean that it would be right for every person in the same situation. That wasn’t the message. You can be decent and inclusive without banging a political drum and you can judge individuals on their own merits and situations as (most of) my characters do. Thank you to everyone who is delighted to see the lovely Astrid return and judges her as they find – one of those people who gets a lot of fan mail and I’m chuffed to buttons about that. 

 

I get letters that I should put more people of colour/less able-bodied/etc people in my books. No I shouldn’t. All my characters appear in my imagination as the ‘right people for the job’. Mr Singh, Charlie and Robin, Erin… they’re in my books because they turned up in my head and said ‘hello, I think we can work together.’ No, I’m not getting into virtue signalling and being ‘right on’ just to tick boxes and make myself look saintly, because that’s what it’ll come across as and give you all the ick. Besides, I’m doing my bit for the under-represented with the working class, something no one can accuse me of not knowing about first-hand. It’s my comfort zone, my world. 

 

So do give us a break. But if you are that sensitive that you need to write to an author to tell them that you are furious and will never read another of their books again because a fictitious character in one of their books has done something you don’t agree with… maybe you shouldn’t read any mmmm/f erotica, Lolita or Chris Carter books. 

 

Authors are not their characters. *drops mike*. Also Astrid is BACK and going on on cruise in book 24!!! 

 

There is nothing like essential research when it's a proper treat and a pleasure to do. My next Christmas book is set on a train and I needed to get a feel for some luxury rail travel. I did try and ask a couple of high end train companies if I could travel to them and just walk through from one end to the other, see the galley and the bedrooms but they were, how shall we put it politely... 'dismissive'. Didn't give an inch. I'm sure they get a few people wanting to just wander through but I had a genuine reason and I do have a bit of background in this novel-writing lark. Anyway - what does a writer have an imagination for? I could get what I need from YouTube, but it really would have helped my idea of perspective if I could have just been on such a train. Bugger.  

Enter stage left... the Northern Belle. It's a train full of restaurant cars, Pullman carriages no less, the company based in Wakefield - just up the road. That would work - I would have to imagine the sleeping part, but that's doable. I wasn't going to risk getting someone writing me off as a freeloading oik again, so I said to the OH - 'Fancy lunch on a posh train in October? I'm paying. It just travels around for six hours and we eat on it, chill and look out of the window. We got on in Wakey and get off in Wakey.' 'Sounds all right,' he replied. So I booked it. It wasn't cheap. But sometimes (often) you get what you pay for and I have to say, it was worth every blooming penny. Anyway, read on and you'll see what I mean. 

I got in touch with the sales manager who could not have been more helpful and arranged for me to look around the galley when I was onboard. 'After the mains though... it's a bit fraught before then. And the dish washers will have about 1600 pieces to clean'. No problem. I can wait until it's convenient. The fact they were willing to accommodate me at all was wonderful and I didn't want to be a pest and get in their way.

I didn't wear the faux fur coat as planned (I've been trying to slim into it for 10 years, finally managed it - and then had to hang it back up!) I should have because guests meeting in Wakefield Kirkgate were done up to the eyeballs, ready for a touch of the high life and an afternoon being transported into a world of yesteryear. I was excited about this way before the moment when I saw the train mentioned on the station info board. 

It looked beautiful as it was pulling into the station, all the carriages named after great castles and stately homes. Ours was Alnwick. It's not a sleeper, just dining, 13 coaches (I think) restaurant and staff quarter cars in varying light, medium and dark wood, the marquetry exquisite, the ceilings hand-painted. Gorgeous upholstery, antimacassars as far as the eye can see and embroidered soft, fat cushions. This is a VERY comfortable train.  













AND WE'RE ON... and there's a bucket with champagne waiting for us as a gift from the company and A PEN. Because I had to order a souvenir pen. I'd have been an idiot not to.
I feel as if I've stepped back in time and Miss Marple is going to be get on in a minute. 
We paid extra for a table just for two because, as the OH put it: we didn't want to be spending all that money and end up with a pair of gobby strangers who spoil it. And hog the window. Totally worth the extra. Although we did end up sitting across from a wonderful couple who we chatted with all the journey and we all said after that if we'd known how our luck would have landed, we'd have all been delighted to share a table.  People come on the Belle for special occasions. They were celebrating a 40th - I was celebrating a 60th. What an amazing way to mark it, is all I'll say. 

Complimentary glass of champagne arrived (with a very generous hand - none of that 'glass dampening' you get at some places) as soon as we were on, with canapés. And hats off to the team who have to deal with all the food fussies (ie me: I'd rather avoid fish, but let me at the caviar. Chicken main instead of duck please. Mackerel??? ooh - I'd rather not. The OH is a vegetarian). All dealt with smoothly and with perfect friendliness. Yes we were very looked after by our lady stewards. Even vegetarian caviar for the OH.  





MY PEN!!!






Caviar in one hand, champers in the other is how I'd like every day to go.  Absolutely delicious. And here was the train route we were taking today - picking up at Doncaster after Wakefield (first pick up Leeds) then down to Lincoln, Market Rasen, to Cleethorpes, where the train reversed and back home.  Everything was beautifully spaced out as well. Wasn't sure if we'd have 3 hours of nothing after the meal, but the whole dining experience took 6 perfect hours, allowing us to (try and) digest all the delicious food inbetween courses. And the cocktails. Oh my. We squeezed in an espresso martini after the canapés... just because we could (you have a wine allowance in with the lunch which you can spend on cocktails or other drinks if you prefer). 



Not a lover of mackerel as I said - I had an alternative (you pick your preferences before you come on) a ham hock terrine with a lovely bit of pork scratching. Yum.  Cutlery, crockery, linen, cushions, glasses... everything first class. And don't even get me started on the quality of the butter!



Wasn't quite sure how I was going to manage 7 courses... luckily I think champagne pushes everything down in your stomach and gives you some room (?!). Pumpkin soup, pumpkin oil and pumpkin seeds with artisan bread (sour dough with sun-dried tomato for the OH, seeded for me!) My goodness... it was absolutely delicious. I almost took the name off the bottom of the bowl with my spoon. 


There was a respectable interlude where I went for a nosey around the train and saw all the carriages photographed above. The train is half a mile long from one end to the other. I figured I burned off the starters walking all that. In my dreams. 
The mains arrived. Halloumi for the OH, chicken for me.  Totally and utterly marvellous.




And wonderful and witty entertainment in the form of these guys. Again, I did wonder when I read there would be onboard entertainment if this would be a bit 'cringe' but it was anything but - it was as perfect as everything else in the day was. They were great, pausing at each table, treating us to all to some top quality repartee and fitting classics - and birthday tunes for our fellow diner across the way. Funny and sweet. 


...and talking of sweet... it was time for this sloe gin fantastic creation! Not quite sure where I'm managing to put all this, but it was no hardship to try. Magic I reckon... making all this food disappear.


And more magic... because the table magician arrived. Amazing. Could have watched him all day. John the Magician. John who could do real magic because we have no idea where the big solid golf ball came from. He was BRILLIANT. And we were so close to his  hands... there was no possibility of this being a track - he had to be the genuine wizard article.


And lo and behold up popped my friend from Yorkshire Life on a press trip (nice for some!). One of Kathryn's more enjoyable assignments. She stayed for a natter and then whizzed off when there was mention of cheese being on its way. 


Anyway - this was work for me too (yeah yeah) and I needed to see the galley - and the chef. I needed to thank him for making me putting on three stone in one day. I couldn't believe how compact everything was in the kitchen, how organised - and how clean and tidy because all the bulk of everything had been done. So here's Matthew Green and me, head chef and BARNSLEY LAD.  Not one for the limelight but I had to drag him into it for publicity purposes - plus he deserves it because everything was spot on, magnificent, not only tasty but arranged like artwork on the plates.


I went to check out the loo to find the soft white towels, the marquetry... a bit different from the East Midlands trains experience! Can't wait for that next week when I'm jogging down to the London - I think I'm spoilt now. 


Then we get to the cheese... Oh my, the King Charles III cheddar with truffle was to DIE FOR. Oatcakes, chutney, more of that lovely butter, fruitcake, biscuits... and PORT (white or red). Everything generously served.










Another little flurry by the musicians working their way back down the train and it was time to relax, enjoy the dying daylight, with the last of the champers and a gorgeous coffee and chocolates (salted caramel and Marc de Champagne) ... delicious! That's me full to capacity now, unless the company wanted a 'Mr Creosote' moment. 














A lingering last look at the next carriage as we were stood to get off. The train pulled in at Wakefield about 6 1/2 hours after it set off and we didn't want to leave. Like I said at the beginning, sometimes you get what you pay for and this was perfection. Worth every. Single. Penny. 



I did ask one of the ladies on board if they had a lot of repeat customers but I don't know why I did because it was perfectly obvious there would be. I will definitely be a repeat customer. I do need to ride this train again because I'm sure there were details I missed which I will NEED for my book research. No question about that. 
There are a variety of trips you can do on the Northern Belle leaving at stations all over the country. Afternoon tea, shopping, Christmas lunch... and they do vouchers so you can contribute to someone's trip. All I can say is - what a present that would be. If you have a special occasion coming up, this train experience is a delight. A real touch of opulence, you're totally spoilt, you're wonderfully looked after. A beyond first class proper, superlative, amazing indulgence. Treat yourself - you can thank me later. 

It is no secret that I love cruising, but owing to family caring issues I haven't managed to get on a ship for over 5 years and we badly needed a holiday. This was my 60th birthday present to myself: my favourite ship and 19 days of Med, including Valletta, where I haven't been for many years.

We aren't keen on flying so getting the bus down to Southampton is perfect (the price of the coach was in with the price of the cruise so it was a no-brainer). As soon as the cases are in the belly of the bus, we don't see them again until they are outside our cabins... and we can take a lot more luggage with us than we would have if we'd flown. Also if the bus breaks down, the ship will wait for you. That won't happen if you get snagged up in traffic in a car.

The first sight of the ship is a blessed one. My crib for the next 19 days. Look at that sky! Dreadful. The weather couldn't be worse abroad than this could it? 

Glorious. It was like a home from home.  Our room - sea view, in the middle by reception so it's nice and stable. Lovely big bed, LOADS of storage and a shower that didn't half pack a punch. Gorgeous cabin steward - and we didn't need him every day, we can make our own bed and only needed fresh towels every couple of days. Have to say on this cruise, the staff - always friendly - were even above and beyond. How lovely it is to be called 'Ma'am' and be waved at and greeted with smiles. 

Captain from York - so in safe hands then!

There was no way my first drink on board wasn't going to be the ICE WINE!

Slept like babies. 
Day at seas spent in the company of ex-chief detective inspector Terry Brown. Now it might seem like a weird thing to go to lectures on holiday but trust me, we've seen some fantastic entertaining speakers on board (there was a bloke later on who did a talk that made you think twice about how fascinating wasps were). This guy - was THE best and was instrumental in overhauling interview techniques in police stations - the theatre was FULL. 

The infamous Bay of Biscay... like a mill pond too. Weather not great, but it's holiday weather so I can put up with a bit of sky rot while we sail south. Plenty to do - or not to. It's the only time I can do nothing on a ship and not feel bored.  Had some great books to keep me company though (Yellowface, R.F. Huang, None of this is True - Lisa Jewell, Deadly Animals, Marie Tierney). But plenty of dolphins to see in the waves (I was too busy watching to take more than a snap). 


Got tarted up for the first formal night (not too many on a cruise, just enough to enjoy) and got the diamond necklace out of the safe. 
Lovely restful day at sea again and the next day we were in La Coruna. It wasn't cold but it wasn't sun-bathing weather, but it was SPANISH and so we were well into the holiday groove and we found a lovely little coffee shop where two fellow passengers sat down and ordered coffees and a brandy. It made me think of mum and dad who always did that in Spain. We kept bumping into them on the ship and saying hello. 


Came back to find two lovely bouquets in my room from P & O because I'm special - ha!

Had a gorgeous steak for tea in the Glass House. The crew in there are so lovely - and what a gem they have in Dennis who roped us into forking out £15 for a wine tasting morning towards the end of the cruise. 

Warming up in Vigo - do you like my new hat? 

We aren't gamblers... but onboard we have a little session on the roulette - love it. And there were a couple of fun tournaments on throughout the holiday - and here's me and the other half on the leader board - ha! We had the best fun at the table - and the family birthdays were VERY lucky. 

OH YES, Miss Malinda at the top of the leader board - go me!



Sindhu for tea - the onboard Indian. They don't muck about with their portions and no, I couldn't even make a hole in this lot.




Incidentally - on the last formal night I had a korma here and it was the best one I have ever had in my life! I starved all day for it and I still couldn't finish even half!!


La Ceuta - never been there before but it was LOVELY and the weather is hotting up... The arms have come out.





Valletta the next day - arms, legs, everything's out now! Malta was my go-to place when I was younger. I had plans after uni to live here and teaching English... and what happened? I chickened out and became a bloody trainee accountant. The rest, as they say, is history. 


Glass House for tea... their 'little plates' which are just ideal when you don't fancy the full mashings of courses in the restaurant. 


And THIS is one of my two favourite people on the ship (although there were so many we grew fond of).  More about Dennis later. 



Messina isn't my favourite port, not unless you're going on a trip and we were going back to the ship instead of hanging around but we decided to just stay until 12 to see the 'astronomical clock' that everyone was talking about. If you'd told me I would be standing there with tears streaming down my face at a golden lion roaring and a golden cockerel cocking and figures moving and Ave Maria playing I would have laughed you out of town - but it was beautiful. I was wrecked.



Then the second Italian port - Salerno and our only organised trip - Amalfi. I didn't want to come home. The OH didn't ask the price of the famous lemon sorbet, (12 euros each!) but they were worth every penny... and we felt slightly better to find out some people had been charged 15 euros for smaller scooped out lemons and no seat. Heaven on earth. And boiling. Boiling and beautiful.







Next Civitavecchia - though we've been to Rome a lot so decided to explore the port and have lasagne, pizza, white wine and a 'gelato' in the sun. Best coconut ice-cream the OH has ever had. He's not shut up about it ever since!




Goodbye Italy - hello Corsica! A Corsican food market and an antique fair, bliss walking around - and MY first ice-cream of the holiday and bloody gorgeous it was as well!




Napoleon was born in this very house!

So to Dennis and the wine-tasting morning he'd roped us into. We thought we'd get a little taster glass... but nope, full on five glasses and cheese and crackers - we were totally ballocksed. It was the best Sunday I've had in ages.

Lovely dining companions - you always meet some great people on ships! 


And then onto Alicante - which was gorgeous, blue seas, blue skies, yellow sun... hot hot hot... and just the place for having a shop, a walk and then a jug of Spain's best sangria. 



And then a lovely double Grand Marnier in the gentleman's bar (yes they let us in) and here is Rony who is very good at selfies. 

The last port was busy Lisbon... and you just have to have the Pastel del Nata there. Oh my god, they put the ones you get over here in their place!



And then two lovely sea days in which the weather got slowly cloudier and cooler but the seas stayed calm and security had to drag me off the ship.
I am not sure having done 19 days that 14 will ever be enough again - it was a perfect length. Full of joy and more importantly REST because if we felt like a nap, we'd take one without thinking 'I shouldn't be doing this, I should be cleaning/working/shopping...' All we had to think about was ourselves and what pair of shorts we were putting on that morning. 
Perfect holiday, as always. It was just wonderful to be back onboard. Each to his own, of course, but we like the smaller ships, adult only (they're just calmer) and everything is slowed down and lovely. I feel as if I'm dropped ten years (and I didn't put any weight on either - magic!) 

My mum and dad's house went on the market today and I went the wind of change blow through my bones because it was the house I grew up in. 'Just bricks and mortar' I kept telling myself when I was cleaning it and preparing for this day. But it never is really, because we are pressed into the air like a watermark, our laughter, good times and traumas, our years, our lives.

    It's nothing special really as a build, a link detached 1970s house, but mum and dad bought it as a new build and it had... CENTRAL HEATING. The tiny little house we came from was freezing, single pane glass windows, no garden. This one was warm and sunny with a long south-facing garden. It backed onto playing fields and in the long hot summer of 1976 all the kids on the estate were climbing over their back fences to go on it to play tennis, we couldn't get out fast enough. Our house also looked over the nearby allotments and mum would stand at the window for ages just listening to the quiet and the odd cockerel call. It was her sanctuary, her palace and she kept it sparkling and spotless.

    It had a couple of renovations over the years. Out went the old avocado bath suite with matching tiles and in came a nice white one. Out went the 1970s brown, orange and yellow carpets and in came the warm red ones. Out went the MFI basic kitchen and in came a nice woody one. Out went the broom cupboard and in came a downstairs loo for mum that the builders finished on the day before we had the first lock down - they moved everything aside to make it workable for her. My parents weren't fancy gardeners but they kept the back lovely, weed free, they planted flowers in the borders, dad kept it religiously mowed. It was a proper sun trap and they were always out in the back, sitting enjoying it. And when my kids came along, they each had a little toy mower so they could follow dad up and down making stripes and a little table and chairs to eat their fish fingers al fresco.

    Mum and dad had parties with friends there, we had family crowded around the Christmas table, aunties from Glasgow staying, mum's cousin who drove an HGV would just arrive without warning and everyone was always welcomed, fed and watered. I didn't recognise my dad without his headphones on, he'd either sit in his armchair listening to the little stereo or at the back of the room with the big stacker system lost in a world of James Last and Herb Alpert. Jesus - the amount of cassettes and CDs he left behind was Guinness Book of Records quantity stuff. His treasures, but no one else's and it was sad to have to dump what had given him so much pleasure (I've had to tell my kids, when I go, don't get sentimental over my treasures - my paper and stationery and craft punches... just offload because they're served their purpose). It was a happy, comfortable house and they were beyond content with it, and it always felt like home to me, even long after I'd left.

    It took me a while to go back into the house after mum had gone, there were just too many memories, too many reminders of those last few uncomfortable weeks. The house didn't feel the same and I think it was gearing itself up for another change. When she had passed, it felt more than empty, it felt devoid, because the last of its family had gone, it was beyond odd. Not as odd as the sensors picking up two independent orbs dancing around for an hour a couple of days after she'd died, strong enough to set off the motion detectors - and then again on the morning of her funeral. Even my cynical other half said, 'They've gone home.' 

    I think I stared into her wardrobe for ages not knowing what to pick for her to wear. She had so many clothes, loads of them not even detagged. I had to try and pack them up with my objective head on and think of them being loved by another little old lady, but I failed dismally. Clearing out the cupboards was hell because little things would set me off, a felt toadstool pin cushion I made when I was a kid mad on sewing, daft souvenirs from holidays in Benidorm, everything seemed to have a story attached, a rucksackful of memories and it was brain overload. My partner sent me away and emptied it instead. It all went, the wardrobe I'd had as a kid where I'd hang up my school uniform and my latest Chelsea Girl purchases, the old 1980s cabinet with my mum's ceramic treasures and photos in frames, her telegram from the Queen having pride of place; the three piece suite that was in as perfect nick as it was when they bought it thirty years ago. The big dodgy lightshade that my grandad always said looked like a spaceship. It was a house that served them as a young family, the house they welcomed their grandchildren into. It was the house they had their sixtieth wedding anniversary celebrations in and not long after, the house where my father's hearse left from. And finally, my mum's. The only way she wanted to leave it and there is a very small consolation that we managed to keep her in it safe, with her own things around her, to the end.

    We had it painted to freshen it up, lifted up the carpets so I would feel as if I was selling A house not THEIR house. And hopefully a family will buy it and move in and make it their own, build their own happy layers into the atmosphere. I'd hoped my son would take it over, that was always the plan, but he realised it wasn't the house he wanted, but the house with my mum and dad in it and so it's better he finds somewhere fresh, somewhere neutral; he should look forward not back.

    I've written enough about clearing out clutter to know that things bind to you like emotional knotweed, but, when it finally happens, letting go of this house will be like pulling out a part of my spine. And then I think it will take me a very long time to venture past it and see it as someone else's. But I hope they are as happy as we have been in it and for as long because some houses are just more than their components... and this is one of them. 

When you’ve always been able to read and write you take it so for granted you don’t realise how lucky you are. I certainly didn’t.  Since my eyes were opened to the problem so many adults face, I've been open to helping where I can and with Mavis Ackerley, who herself had a rough upbringing, from the Morning Live team I recently went to Worksop library to meet some people who have braved asking for  assistance in helping them read and attend lessons in their local libraries. It's incredibly sad to see how kids were once pushed to the back of the class and the impact that has had on them long term. It could all have been so different if they'd had teachers who spent some valuable time with them. 

The timing of being asked to write a Quick Reads coincided with a visit I’d been asked to do at a woman’s prison – New Hall in Wakefield.  I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had a lovely day there as it happened and I really counted my blessings when I came home. So many of the women there vow never to go back inside again, but they do. And the reason so many of them are stopped from changing their lives lies in their low literacy levels. They will go back into the community armed with good intentions but their choice of jobs is limited because they left school with no exams, they can’t fill in application forms. So they gravitate back to their dysfunctional comfort zones and the cycle begins again.

Until I went into New Hall I hadn’t comprehended how important the skills of being able to read and write competently were. I set myself a task of writing down everything in a single day where I used my skills to read because we just do it, and we don’t realise we are doing it. Looking on the TV to see what’s on, reading a newspaper to see the news, reading a bus timetable, sitting in a doctor’s waiting room passing the time with a magazine, reading labels in supermarkets, following recipes. What if you had baby formula and couldn’t even read how to mix it up? Not being able to read impacts on everything: safety, health, mental health, enjoyment of life, quality of life. I once had to fill out a form for my mother – an attendance allowance form. 29 pages long. Because I could fill that out, she got money she was entitled to. Even I was almost defeated by that form, so imagine someone who has reduced literary skills tackling it. 

The literacy levels in this country are appalling. One in five adults has the reading age of a 5-7 year old. And those figures are getting worse.  About eight million people in the UK. That means they can’t read the instructions on a packet of tablets or a simple road sign. Because we don’t just read for leisure – reading is a life essential skill and its effects are far-reaching. 

 

            All this was going on in my head when I was asked to write a Quick Reads book?  And that’s why I said yes. Because I know how little changes can lead to massive changes.  I want as many people who can’t read to learn. And what better way to help people to learn than to make them want to learn, making it a pleasant experience, making it not feel like work that will defeat them or patronise them – or even scare them.

 

            Once upon a time, adults who sought help were given the equivalent of Janet and John books, children’s simple stories which did nothing for their already low self-worth. Quick Reads are a selection of stories written by best-selling authors for adults. We’ve all taken care to deliver tales which read every bit as well as our longer novels because we want to encourage not to make people feel incompetent. They look like books for adults – because they are books for adults, with adult themes and language. The only difference is that they’re shorter, the sentences aren’t long and complicated and full of clauses and the vocabulary is simpler. Why use ‘discombobulate’ when ‘confuse’ will do the same job? I defy anyone to read one of these books and spot any real difference to our longer outputs. They’re directed at adults who need help to build up their reading skills, who are off-put by thick tomes of dense passages, but they’re available to anyone and the font is slightly larger too for those with reduced eyesight. Perfect for a ‘quick read’ (ho ho) or for those people who have suffered a stroke or have an illness which means a shorter more easily absorbed story is preferable, something not too taxing – and light enough to hold without too much effort too. Jojo Moyes calls it a ‘gateway drug’ and she’s right; it is a perfect taster for the rich world of books out there, all waiting to be read. When asked to give a quote about why I was involved, I said that reading is a key to a life enriched. Being able to utilise literacy skills opens up a door to a much bigger, more satisfying – and safer - life. 

 

         Simple, straightforward storytelling. No complicated plots to confuse issues, no stupidly long words to make a reader’s eye snag and interrupt concentration. But surprisingly challenging to write. At first, I found myself writing in a way that a five year old child would have rolled their eyes at. So I changed tack, wrote the story which is about four old friends going on a trip to Amsterdam for a hen night and then went back to simplify the words, break up long sentences and it was a worthy and enjoyable challenge. 

The storyline is straightforward: The hen is having doubts that the others put down to just wedding nerves. But she’s never quite got over her first love. And lo and behold he turns up on the ferry. And it’s up to the magic of Van Gogh and a day out in Amsterdam to sort out her head for her.  It’s about people having dreams that shouldn’t be compared to other people’s dreams because yours is tailor made for you whether that’s to climb Everest or have a pink bath in an ensuite. In this book I attempt to widen a reader’s horizons. I take them on a tour of Amsterdam and I want them to feel every bump and sway of the ship in the North Sea. 

Liz, reading below, made us all feel so proud. She was told she was stupid at school and so overcame a lot of hurt to be able to seek help in later life and she was reading like a pro - a star pupil. The pride in her own face was unmistakeable. It was a very emotional filming episode.

 

            We absorb so much vocabulary and information without even trying when we read. People equipped with a wider store of words are more confident because they feel able to interact more with others and are better equipped for what life throws at them, they’re more resourceful. Those with better literacy skills get better chances, better jobs. It can be no surprise that there is a correlation between a restricted vocabulary and low self-esteem. 

 

            Reading is a magnificent sleep aid. It rests and relaxes a brain, powers it down. 

 

            Reading also sharpens our ability to focus and concentrate, skills we are in danger of losing with this modern technological age which presses us to multi-task. We watch TV whilst texting or checking in to see what other people's take on things are on Twitter.  When we go to watch a band, we record it on our phones rather than just being there in the moment and enjoying it first-hand. Reading demands our whole attention to make sense of what is going on. Being forced to do one thing only but properly lessens our stress levels.

 

            Reading switches our brain into the mains, gives it power, improves memory function, staves off dementia. It’s a ‘use it or lose it’ muscle that needs stimulation.

 

            Reading gives solace and escapism for people with anxiety, the poorly who need to forget for a couple of hours that they are hooked up to a drip. It distracts from stress. 

 

            Reading a good story can do what no film can: allow a tailor made hero and heroine fashioned from our imagination to play out the story in our heads. How many of us watched Fifty Shades of Grey and thought ‘Nope, didn’t imagine Christian like that’? It’s a lovely, gentle pastime. One in three adults do not read for pleasure. What a travesty.  

 

            Reading educates us as we read factual books about the experiences of others, makes us see what is possible, encouraging us to make changes for the better. Reading gives people insight into what healthy relationships should be. I've had more than one letter from a woman who didn't realise she was actually living in an abusive relationship until she read objectively the experience of one of my characters and the penny dropped. And she got out. Reading gives us a wider understanding of the world in general. It reminds us of the impact of people’s actions upon others; prompts us to be mindful of the pleasure we can give, or the harm we can inflict. It reminds us to be sympathetic and empathetic, things which can be overlooked in today's world.

 

            Reading is free if you use the library – millions of books out there to improve and lengthen your life for the price of -  absolutely nothing! Quick Reads books are there in libraries now – or in bookshops or online for a very paltry £1.00 each. They can change reluctant readers into confident ones. They can change lives.

 

            There are wider implications upon society for reading. Being literate unlocks more chances in the job market. More vacancies are filled. The pressure on the welfare system is relieved. Literacy improves confidence, lessens stress – that impacts on the health service which is groaning under the weight of patients with mental health issues.  The economy benefits, crime levels drop. All from people being able to improve on their reading skills. And in this present climate, reading really can benefit people more than ever. 

 

            Our education system is suffering. Excessive accountability and figure/target satisfying, the pressure for data dumps has been taking our teachers away from teaching. I know this because I am a fully-paid up trained teacher myself. Accountability was just making itself known when I qualified. More and more reports had to be completed, teachers were complaining then about the excessive paperwork and it’s a lot worse now. Grass roots: children need to read and write adequately because almost EVERYTHING in their future adult lives will depend on it. Government, let our teachers flipping teach – that’s why they joined the profession in the first place. And these days if there isn’t already, there should be a component to the curriculum on how to use language in this techno age ie responsibly. Not purely for trolling on the internet. 

           

           I have no idea why the Quick Reads project was ever in danger as it once was before it was rescued by Jojo Moyes – it is too essential to ever close down. The government could have stepped in to pledge money to keep it open. It would have been cheap at the price for the savings they’d have made elsewhere. This is base level stuff. It doesn’t need a team of financial experts to see the return they’d get for their cash. 

            

            There are only advantages to learning how to read. Reading is a key to a life enriched. A life enhanced and changed, a life happier and more fulfilled, a life with more choice and less stress. And it could – and will for many – start with one of these books priced at a quid. Tell me a better investment than that? 

The BBC Morning Live interview can be seen here (about 40 mins in) 

 

 

I always thought that my ex-husband would die on the 3rd September. The lyrics of the song ‘Papa was a Rolling Stone’ were written for him: a stone that rolled his own way who baulked at responsibility and commitment leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. But he didn’t, he died at 2am on Tuesday July 11th, 2023 in Galway hospital. 

He moved to Ireland after we divorced twenty years ago and I haven’t seen him since. Our elder son has only the sketchiest memories, our younger son has none and my ex was never in touch with them – not a card, not a phone call. I heard from him only once when a letter arrived. He had obviously seen me on the TV and it had it inspired him to write a very short note to say as much and sending love to myself and the boys. No address. At least that proved he was alive, news that my beloved father-in-law was desperate for because no one knew for sure: we had no clue where he was. Yes it is possible to fly that low under the radar, even in this day and age. I was always convinced he would turn up when his end was near and as such I have always been on low alert waiting for that.

            A month ago I was contacted by someone asking if I had been married to him and a red light was activated. This person told me that my ex didn’t know he’d tried to track me down, but he felt obliged, on his behalf, to tell me that he was very poorly. I turned into a detective that would put Sherlock Holmes to shame to find out what all this was about because I was convinced of an ulterior motive. It stirred up a lot of things because our marriage was a car crash of the highest order, but back then I’d always hoped I could rescue it, and trust me I tried. No one marries expecting to divorce. I wanted us to be forever, but our forever ended short. Even when we divorced, I wanted to keep it civil because the guilt of having been the one to call an end to our marriage weighed heavy on me. I didn’t want our sons to come from a broken home yet I had been the one who filed for divorce. When my Decree Absolute came through – on Halloween – I popped the cork off a bottle of champagne, took the first sip and broke down. That piece of paper represented my failure and I think I’ve been flogging my guts out ever since to make it up to my lads. But I would never have cut their father off from them, he severed those ties and kept them severed. For twenty years I’ve been angry at him for taking off without a thought for his lovely father, his brother, his sons without a backward glance at what that level of abandonment might do to them.

            I had barely begun to understand why his name was back on my horizon again when he died awaiting a major operation, frail and thin and so ravaged that his friends who had seen him only a short time before couldn’t recognise him. I couldn’t register it, I couldn’t define what I felt. I don’t know why I was so upset, I’m still processing it, still struggling with a situation that sits outside the norm. I can't explain it and I can't understand it, I can only feel it. It isn't anything to do with love, but it is everything to do with loss.

            My ex found his way to a gentle, accepting community in very Irish Ireland. He lived a simple life, labouring on people’s houses, on a dairy farm, his home a ramshackle lowly dwelling place with a wild feral cat running around for company, enjoying the craic in the local village pub. The few photos I was forwarded by people who knew him show him aged, smiling, as if he’d found his contentment. Trading home comforts for a harder life but one as free as it is possible to get is undoubtedly the highest state he could find: satisfying the ‘here for a good time, not a long time’ adage. People in that community gave him lifts when he needed them, work, companionship, took him at face value. The couple on the farm fed him when he was poorly at the end, forced him into hospital, cared for him. Then the community arranged his funeral for him, wrote their eulogies, liaised with the priest and turned out en masse to mourn for one of their own in church. We watched the service online and it was humble and touching and yes, they included our names out of goodness. It was a service with the purest sort of kindness at its heart, their altruism has deeply touched me. On his coffin was a photo I’d sent over of him in his younger days looking handsome with that full head of thick hair that he has bequeathed to his sons. But I don’t recognise this man they will miss. We all refine of course. I hope I’m not the same person I was years ago, I hope I have evolved somewhat from a much rougher copy (and will from this rough copy). He obviously moved away from the man I knew too. Maybe in shedding everything but that which served his basic needs – and that little feral cat running wild about the place – he found all he needed in life. 

            It is the finality of it that is hard to comprehend for the family he left behind him. I know there was always the lingering hope of a reconciliatory pint, of them being able to talk, which has now been removed and can never be. It is a confusing time. Why else would I be so incensed that he has gone denying his sons a single scrap from his emotional table, worrying about the effect on them, while poring over pictures of gravestones because I can’t bear to think of him in an unmarked grave. 

            I know the priest is trying to get to grips with how the quiet man who stood at the back in his masses had chosen such a different life from his ex-wife, who is doing okay at writing books. And she made that happen so she could support her children as a single mum, and had enough material from that marriage to write novels until the pen drops out of her hand at her own end. Books featuring women rising like phoenixes from the ashes of bad relationships. That marriage was rocket fuel for my literary ambitions. The end of us was the beginning of me, and probably the beginning of him too. Maybe we were just essential stepping stones on each other’s journeys. 

            There are a lot of feelings here that refuse to sit in pigeon holes. I don’t know what the correct protocol is for a long-divorced ‘not-widow’. There is a pattern to follow when someone close dies, but this chapter was left out of the textbook. I have few good memories of our time together, they were all snuffed out by the weight of too many bad ones. I have no idea why all this has affected me so much except to say that I gave birth to his sons, who have the best of him in them, and who I love more than my own life and that link will always be. Maybe that is it. My overwhelming feeling is one of sadness, of something ended, even though for me it had ended long ago. And yet it feels now as if it has ended again, properly this time. Maybe I am worried about the effect of that ending on those I love with all their questions left unanswered. It is impossible to get into someone’s head who thinks so differently from you, who has such opposing values. 

            These are uncharted waters: losing the father of your children. Someone who, apparently, spoke of us fondly to his Irish friends who knew this different version of him. Every time I think I have a grasp of it, it slips away as if greased and it will not be pinned down.

Then I found, at the funeral, that letting him go with my forgiveness has freed me. There is no longer a need to try and untangle the knotted emotions, but just bury any enmity in its own grave. It is all finally over. There was a weight inside me that I didn’t know I was carrying but it has now gone. I have told my sons to let him go with forgiveness also and move on. Any ends that remained untied, we have to tie off ourselves now, make our own closure. 

It will take the soil on his grave time to settle, in line with our feelings, but settle it will.  And I will see to it that there is a stone erected so that one day his sons can go and see his resting place if they choose. It is a marker for what was once but is no more. It is time for us all – living and dead – to be at peace. 

 

My friend Nancy died last week. I wept buckets. I wept like someone who saw her every day of our lives but the truth was I rarely saw her. We wrote - always a VERY lengthy one at Christmas - and I went to visit her last year, the last time being before Covid. But therein lies the strength of a good friendship, we picked up as if we HAD just seen each other the previous day. And she was never far from my mind because she turns up as a mention every time I do a presentation about my career. 

Our friendship started when I was twenty-five. I lived in Haworth and had secured a job at a local furniture and antiques shop and I was introduced to the three women who I would be working with - Nancy, in her fifties, Sheila in her sixties, Mary in her seventies. My initial thought was 'My god, this is going to be fun working with these old farts' but it WAS the best fun. We called ourselves the Golden Girls. Mary was the flighty Blanche, Sheila was dizzy Rose, Nancy was the pragmatic Dorothy - and it was ME who was the old Sophia, because they were far younger in spirit than I was. We went bowling together, to dinner, to the theatre... they taught me how women's friendship batters down all the barriers of age, background, colour, creed. It was the best lesson of my young life. 

The place we worked at well, you had to be there to believe it and a tale for another time, but thirty-odd years later and Nancy and I we were still laughing and coming out in cold sweats at what we experienced there. The big Christmas letter was the one I looked forward to writing and receiving most. But there will be no more. Nancy didn't want me to know she was poorly so it all came as a bolt from the blue and there will be no funeral because she didn't want anyone who barely knew her telling a congregation all about her as if they were best mates and she thought religion caused more problems than it solved. She wanted no fuss. That was her, strong, straight but you can be both of those and also full of joy too and she was. And, when I came to write my books, because of that friendship I had a lot in my scrapbook to draw from. Nancy's first husband was a serial adulterer, she told me, but he couldn't understand why she made a fuss because 'he saved her for best'. That turned up in a book, I tell you. (And yes, she moved on and met the most wonderful new husband.)

So when I read the article in the Mail at the weekend about the rise of 'mid-lit' - and how it had become this summer's literary sensation, my initial thought was 'about bloody time'. It's good that it's now in vogue - plus a double-whammy with some nice press for romantic fiction. But it's been around for quite some time and there are many novelists out there writing about middle-aged and older women.

When I first started writing, I took a chance and wrote a story that was relevant to me rather than the ones I read - and loved - which were mainly set in the south and featured younger women. I was forty and badly in need of a Renaissance after a long drawn-out divorce. I couldn't see books about there about ME, so I wrote them.

My first book, The Yorkshire Pudding Club, about three northern women having babies aged forty, was a risk. But it paid off. And it sold because a load of women out there, like me, wanted books that were about women closer to their own age, who'd been kicked around the ring a few times and wanted hope that better things lay ahead. That book came out in 2006. I liked writing about women my own age, I knew what they'd been through, I knew that a few had been whittled away at in life, become doormats, and were ripe for a change of life. But I knew that a lot had gone the other way and embraced getting older, riding the age wave, pushing their boundaries. By this time I was finally free of the husband, I was running my own copyrighting company and doing a lot better than just surviving. Roll back seven years before though and I was standing crying in a corner thinking that if all I was going to have in life was what I already had, I might as well not be here. That low. So I absolutely know that however bad it gets, there is always the prospect of hope, of things getting much better, of reuniting yourself with the path your young self imagined lay in front of them which had some gold on it. As you age you realise sometimes that the gold is actually turds with a lucky light on them. But it doesn't have to be like that. Women have renaissances and when that biological clock hits forty and beyond... it seems to awaken a dragon within that says, 'Time's ticking, I want more.' It happened to me exactly like that. My life now couldn't be more different to how it was back then. I had no connections in this industry, just a hope that I could one day see my name on a book and see that book on a shelf in a shop. Change is scary and messy, but the end result is magnificent and that's why I write about such things.

I know that Jane Austen wrote about much younger women, but in those days you were finished if you were mid-twenties and hadn't got spliced. So when she writes about women like Anne Elliot, she's more or less writing the equivalent of middle-aged women, past it, heading for old-maid-dom, given a new lease of life. She was ahead of her time. She'd have worn a #RespectRomFic badge.

Sometimes my characters are younger, sometimes they are much older than me, I have a wide range of ages in my books because I want to appeal to all readers. And even though I'm not a pensioner (yet), I've had enough friends of that age group to know that they are far from Scrapheap Farm and a switch hasn't been turned on that forces them to start an annual subscription to 'What Denture Paste?' and collecting thimbles. Let's not go down the lazy stereotype route. Women in their sixties don't start calling people dear and checking out retirement homes. They are going pole-dancing (yes some WIs so this) and trying all manner of new things, including internet dating and finding love. My friend is mid-fifties and she's about to climb Kilimanjaro, and not for the first time either. In many cases 'mature' women care less what people think of them which frees them. I was far more paranoid in my twenties than now. And I wear much brighter colours.

In Here Come The Girls, I have four friends who go on their first cruise for their fortieth birthdays. They're not in the best way, in need of that renaissance.  In Afternoon Tea at the Sunflower Cafe, Connie has become prematurely middle-aged, but she finds a fire in her belly when she finds her husband is cheating on her. In The Teashop on the Corner, one of my main characters Molly is a pensioner who, in My One True North, starts up her own business in her seventies. In Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage, I fought to have my middle-aged characters going through the menopause because 'it wasn't a sexy subject' but I had a feeling it would be. I didn't want their symptoms being shoved under the carpet. I didn't want them to become superwomen either because of something entirely natural, but I did want to acknowledge it happens to women and so it should be mentioned. In The Mother of All Christmases, Annie has a baby late in life. In The Woman in the Middle, I write about Shay, in the sandwich generation, where a massive proportion of women find themselves these days - looking out for adult children, looking after elderly parents, juggling a job, the menopause, housework - and running on empty, squeezed out of their own lives. In Together, Again, Jolene is mid-forties and writing about love and romance but desperately unhappy at home. That 'insta-perfect' life jarring with reality. In A Summer Fling. one of my early books, there is a cross-generational friendship of women in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s. I'll leave you to work out where the inspiration for that one came from. A group of females who are bonded by life, by friendship and give support to each other at work. 

You don't just stop having sex when you leave your thirties. You don't start buying brogues (although Crocs are blimming marvellous) and wearing twinsets and pearls. Women are having renaissances everywhere. They're being brave and leaving shit marriages and opening their own businesses. And often they find the bravery to do that by reading books in which fictional characters do this, written by writers who have taken their inspiration from real life - so there's a fabulous cycle of reality and fiction feeding each other. And it's a sign of a well-written book that a real person can take inspiration from a fictional person because they feel so authentic. That is the power of 'our books'. 

My lovely Nancy would never have believed the amount of material our friendship gave to me. Or the impact of it on my life, on my career. I will miss her wisdom, cackling over 'that place' we worked at which was as surreal as a Salvador Dali painting. I will miss the joy she gave me and I'll send a great big fat thank you to whatever it was that decided our paths should cross all those years ago. I owe it a pint.

Read the article online here. 

At the risk of appearing like an out of season Grinch, I’m going to be saying NO a lot more this year and I’m already uncomfortable with that because it’s a word I’m totally rubbish at using. But over the past years, I’ve said YES too much because it felt easier (at the time)  than saying NO. I’ve bust my gut, I’ve not seen friends I wanted to meet up with because I’ve had no space in the diary, I’ve been panicking when things have cropped up with my parents’ ill health that I’ll be away on one of the many committed dates when they needed me, so this year my hand has been forced and I’m going on an intensive NO course. I’m going to grow a backbone, put my big girl pants on, remember that my elastic can only stretch so far. 

 

This NO word is also tied up with money. There’s something about cash in this business that makes it so hard to talk about. Other professionals work for money, electricians aren’t hobbyists hoping that someone will fling them some cash for a job occasionally, they trade their expertise for a wage. So why do writers find money so vulgar, so scary to talk about? Somehow I end up giving so much away for free because it feels icky to broker the subject of cold hard cash. I’m even cringing writing this. Goodness, what will anyone think of me talking about money *vision of a grasping Scrooge looms in my head*. But I’m going to because I think it’s important. 

 

Firstly saying NO, is preferable to me saying YES and then ending up with a big fat MUG painted on my head. While sitting recovering from a seasonal bug recently, I contemplated just how much time I’d wasted because I couldn’t say NO. The amount of occasions when I’ve been cajoled into meeting up with a stranger who ‘wanted to run something past me’. I have no idea what I expected, but I should have said, ‘Run it past me on the telephone’ and ignored their insistence that they needed to do it face to face ‘but it won’t take long’ (it invariably does). So I’ve gone out for coffees or meetings and ended up wasting all morning waiting for the big reveal. It’s nearly always a favour, or a crash course in ‘how to write a book’ and I’ve sat there thinking, ‘Why am I here when I haven’t seen my best mate for three months because I’m so busy?’ On one occasion I sat there for two hours listening to a woman telling me how many times she’d seen David Tennant in person because she’d travelled anywhere he might show up, and how much she was in love with him before we got to the nitty-gritty: her daughter at primary school had written a book and she needed help in getting in published. Possibly the longest two hours of my life even though there are many contenders for that title. And though it might be very flattering that someone’s six year old child wants to interview me for their YouTube channel (1 post, 4 views) … need I go on? 

 

And when it’s a local person asking somehow that NO word makes it even worse to say because they might think you’re obliged to help coming from the same town and then they’ll tell everyone you are a stuck up arse if you say NO. I do believe that many people who ask a favour think they are the only one who does, not one of twenty that week. And you’d be amazed how many of those requests never feature the word ‘please’. Can I turn up at X's birthday party if I'm not doing anything on Friday and do a speech? Can I send X a signed book because her washing machine has blown up and she's a bit down. 

 

As much as I love doing events, I have to be selective. It’s no good doing a seven hour round trip to talk to six people, however lovely they might be.  But – a disclaimer – if I wanted to do that event, because it sounded fun or would allow me to call in on an old friend I haven’t seen for ages, kill two birds with one stone – I am totally at liberty to do it if I wanted to, if it were my free choice. And you have to keep that in your mind:  FREE choice, not one that you’ve been manipulated into taking. Beware the manipulations. The amount of times I’ve been asked to be the after-dinner speaker somewhere, often at a ‘charity event’ but as soon as I’ve mentioned a fee and petrol, I never hear from them again. I imagine them pulling their handbags up in disgust that I’ve actually asked for money. Who do I think I am? Note to self, never say YES to anything on the spot, especially when hammered at a social event. You don’t have your diary on you, you can’t possibly say when you are free. You’ll come back to them. Don’t be bullied or pressured or cornered, you do not have to say YES. You do not have to explain why it’s a NO. And if you do say NO, don’t start imagining then that they have stuck a picture of you on a dartboard because you are a nasty, unhelpful, selfish arse. 

 

Sometimes organisers at events might say that they can’t pay a fee because they want to raise as much money as possible for their charity and every penny counts. If it was a charity close to my heart, then I could choose to do it of course. But I have my own charities and they get the free time I have. We can’t all support every charity, we can’t do everything for free. We need to pay bills and eat. Blimey, some celebs charge £10k just for turning up but we’re feeling guilty about a daily rate of a couple of hundred quid (see Society of Author’s guidance -  https://societyofauthors.org/Advice/Rates-Fees).

 

This is how weird it gets with authors. Imagine an event and the organisers decide upon a well known author who they are sure will spin lots of ticket sales. Their lure. Someone of value. They hope to raise a fortune for charity so they want as many people as possible to attend. But they ask the author to do it for free so that it doesn’t eat into their monies raised for said charity. YET… the printers of the tickets are a business and will make a profit. The bookseller attending will make a profit. The caterers will be paid. The venue will be rented. Hmm. Sometimes they won’t even offer petrol either (so I’m also expected to fork out travel costs to turn up at an event I’m not even getting paid for) ‘BUT we can supply you with tea and coffee all day *smiley face*’ they say. Alas, tea won’t pay my mortgage. Try asking your plumber to mend your radiator in exchange for a cuppa and a Mr Kipling’s French Fancy. I nearly always have to ask what the fee will be when approached to do an event because it isn’t mentioned, as if the hope is I’ll forget if it's glossed over. Sometimes the answer is ‘a token fee of X, although most people waive it’. Ooh, a hint there that I’m possibly being unreasonable for asking - you greedy cow. It’s a breath of fresh air when you’re approached to appear and the fee is transparent from the off. And it’s both respectful and respected. 

 

My time is money. I have to take time away from my book which is what pays my wage. I have to work at writing a speech and you can’t write those in an hour, some take days. I have to practice, I have to travel to the event. My time is money, did I say? (I have a friend who isn’t even on Twitter because he won’t write ANYTHING he isn’t paid for. And he’s proud of it. And flipping richer than me by a country mile.) 

 

I felt a bit manipulated recently and asked Joanne Harris for some advice because I knew I could rely on her as a wise stick. ‘If you want to support the charity, fine, but expecting you do to it for free without giving you the choice seems exploitative and wrong’ she said. And that her experience of working for free is that all it really gets you is more offers to work… for free. She voiced what I knew already but I wanted someone to tell me that I wasn’t being a grasping bitch. I’m not and we shouldn’t be made to feel that way. Our time is ours to give away as we wish. As is our goodwill. 

 

Lit festivals never pay a lot, we know this and accept it. But you shouldn’t be out of pocket for attending. 

And here's another bugbear while I'm purging. The amount of times I've trekked to the other side of the country to sign books for a bookseller and they haven't even asked me if I want a cup of coffee or said 'thanks'. I don't go back to those places now. Isn't that a basic courtesy? We even give our window cleaner a can of pop when he's doing my upstairs (not a euphemism). Value value value. Who values us if we don't value ourselves?

At a very early in my career event with a small readers’ group in Barnsley, a lady slid a tenner across the table to me and said ‘You’re a professional, you have to start charging’. She was right. Do an event for the WI and they pay you, let you sell your books and fill you up with butterfly buns. Proper respect, proper value. By doing things for free, I’m not helping any solidarity with my fellow authors. It shouldn't be a shock to anyone to presume we should be paid for a job. It’s not greed, I’m a businesswoman not someone farting around on a typewriter for a laugh. Neither am I Elon Musk who is loaded enough to give up his time for nothing because he doesn’t have a mortgage and he doesn't care that his heating bills have tripled. Except he wouldn’t give his services gratis, he’d charge and want more than a cuppa as an appearance fee, because that’s how business works. No one would say, 'I can't believe Elon Musk has asked for plane fare and a hotel to come and talk to us about space!' It would be entirely expected. So why isn't it with us?

 

Say NO whenever you want to. It’s not illegal. You are running things, they aren’t running you. Unless you let them and if you are - stop now. 

Good luck. 

 When I asked my publisher what were the hot new trends in the book market, she answered 'joy and cheerfulness' and I thought 'GREAT' because my new book is set between a death and a funeral and features some very dark themes.

But...

Also in her list of 'wants' was the word 'hope' which I consider an essential in books of my genre. You can drag a reader over hot coals, but you must leave them with hope that we can overcome just about anything. This is what our readers want, some of them even need it because they look for guidance in our words.

It's the fault of a lady I was sitting with at an event why Together, Again turned out the way it did. She was sweet, ordinary - in the nicest way, warm, the sort of person you think would be an affectionate mother and granny. And as we chatted, our discussion got very deep. I have a theory that people like to tell authors their stories, not because they want them turned into a book but because they feel understood, because we deal with big issues sensitively and with insight and they sense that we are safe places (that may be bollocks of course). But certainly in my experience, people I talk to tell me their innermost secrets even though I have just warned them that I harvest any information that may be given to me. Anyway, the story she told me of her early life was horrendous. A mother who pimped her out to her boyfriends, who was cold to her but strangely much warmer to her brothers. Only one day of the year - Christmas - did her mother defrost and she was given a load of presents... that promptly disappeared on Boxing Day. She left home when was just sixteen and has never seen her mother since. Yet she confessed she loved her mother and people couldn't understand that. I got it. Something inside us tries to compel the force of shared blood and though we may feel love for something, we may have to resist having to do something about it. We are often at war with our feelings. Our heads and hearts are not always congruent.

I felt as if it was a story I had to write, even if the market was crying out for jolly japes. My last book - The Woman in the Middle - was about a loving family, a matriarch who would kill for her offspring. What fun to write the total flip side of that, about a narcissist mother who had children for reasons other than to love them and care for them. To have a family who had everything on paper to those looking in, but for the children to be starved of that most essential of nourishment growing up - love.

And more importantly, as the three girls grow up, feeling they are failures from the off, what are the repercussions of such a childhood, born to parents who create them but can't be bothered putting anything but minimal effort into them? 
There are many who blame their present failures for their backgrounds, but there are more who are determined to shake them off, to never put their own children what they went through and that requires a lot of will because the propensity must be to repeat patterns, exhibit learned behaviour. The woman I spoke to over tea and scones showered her family with the love she never had. She might have classed herself as someone unspectacular but I marvelled at the resilience and strength I doubt she even knew she possessed. She was an embodiment of hope that children can come through the most horrific upbringing and rise from the ashes like a magnificent phoenix. 
So, my story is about three women who have never really bonded because they were born seven years apart and what happens to them when they are free from the shadow of their mother, even though she continues to play with their heads from beyond the grave - an enigma to the last. It pulled the lungs from me writing it, I couldn't get it right at first and I was frightened I had attempted something beyond my capabilities. I could see what I wanted to do, but I couldn't get to it. Then I met that lady and everything just slotted into place.
I had a LOT of letters from readers about The Woman in the Middle because it touched a nerve with so many of them that they were women in the middle, swimming in a sea of familial duty and feeling as if they were getting nowhere, and berating themselves for everything they got wrong yet ignoring everything they got right. I am preparing for many letters from people who read Together, Again and recognise themselves in the pages - sadly. And I just hope their letters tell me that they too have survived and become strong and found happiness. Because it's more than possible for any wound to heal, to escape the past, savour the freedom of the present and look forward to the future.
Together, Again is Milly's 20th novel. Please check out her website for news, appearance dates, how to get hold of signed copies.