tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12801213651188144432023-11-16T08:59:54.179-08:00GROANERVIRUS SPINSTAGRANWendy Salisbury, author of the riotous and raunchy book The Toyboy Diaries Vol. 1 and 2 and La Inglesa y el Torero (Blood on the Sand) keeps the story going. Log in to find out what Wendy did next ...Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-40288322787672611822021-01-05T08:25:00.004-08:002021-01-05T08:25:29.875-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">LOCKDOWN 3.0 – Day 1 – 5.1.21.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tyson Fury on Radio 4 (that’s got to be an oxymoron)
advocates exercise, good diet and plenty of sleep to combat impending doom leading
to potential depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Has this information just reached him?</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I managed the 3<sup>rd</sup> suggestion by waking at 06.03
then at 07.14 and finally at 10.47 having snuggled back down way too many
times struggling for a reason why I shouldn’t? Answers on a pinhead please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s freezing and drizzling for a change, but I must march
round the neighbourhood for some air and exercise and try to tier myself out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean 'tire' myself out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve got tiers on the brain. And they’re not ra-ra
skirts or wedding cakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I walked for 47 minutes with ice shards lacerating in my face. The mask was a comfort and a help! Hurrah for the mask...</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I also feel guilty about not being able to help out with my three youngest grandchildren, aged 10, 11 and 12.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their mothers – my daughters – are stretched thin as it is, not to
mention Home Schooling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said not to
mention Home Schooling! These two words together barely existed pre-Covid, but now
they strike a fear as intense as a dagger blade into every parent’s heart.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the start of Lockdown 1.0 (what’s the dot and 0 about?) I
vowed to read to them over the phone or on Zoom for a designated period every
single day, thus helping with their education and giving my harassed girls a well-earned break. But did I do that? Did I buffalo. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">But tomorrow is another day. Maybe there'll be snow and they wouldn't have been able to go to school anyway. Or maybe the gov will decide to write off this school year and they just start learning again from where they left off. Will it matter in the long run? Did Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates and Elon Musk excel at everything? Or should we not pitch our children's fate against that of the world's richest men and just aspire for them to be healthy and happy?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Yes let's just do that. Life, a t m, is hard enough!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-53458327402869016872016-03-17T11:34:00.001-07:002016-03-17T11:34:09.538-07:00WHO DO THEY THINK I AM?Got a call this morning from a Casting Agent asking if I'd like to appear on this summer's Big Brother.<br />
<br />
I mean, who do they think I am? I know who I am, and so may you, but the agent had no idea. Is she scraping the bottom of a very deep barrel, I asked her? Not at all, she flattered. I saw you on a youtube clip and I thought you looked and sounded interesting. Yes. Well. Whatever.<br />
<br />
Interesting I may be, but I simply could not share a bedroom and bathroom with a bunch of nobo-wannabees all vying for the cameras' attention. For a start, I am never seen without full make-up and I reckon it would be tricky to try and do my face every morning in the dark beneath a duvet (that other people may have sat on, farted into or worse!)<br />
<br />
So . . . I asked if I could have my own ensuite bedroom and bathroom<em> sans</em> cameras. Guess what? They declined! How very dare they? <br />
<br />
I think they've missed a trick. I could have set myself up as Big Sister, the visible, caring face of BB who would organise the food, the cooking, the cleaning and counselling instead of the other contestants having to go crying to a faceless, disembodied voice while they wriggled awkwardly in a swanky chair in the Diary Tomb.<br />
<br />
And it's not as if they were offering any money! 'Basic living essentials' whatever that means, like rent. I should have told them I lived in a suite at The Dorchester - how basic is that?<br />
<br />
The prize money is £100,000 but there are no guarantees no matter how one tries to sparkle, entertain, be worldly, womanly and wise. And Gawd knows who I'd be sharing with. I don't watch Made in Essex or TOWIC and aren't they the celebrities, these days?<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, like I've always said: you don't have to go to the party, but it is nice to be invited.<br />
<br />
And it was. I was secretly quite chuffed. And maybe a bit shtoopid as it would be marvellous publicity for the upcoming 'THE TOYBOY DIARIES' musical currently in pre-production.<br />
<br />
But . . . my children would have killed me and like I said earlier, I couldn't bear to share . . . so I'm sorry, dear reader, but you won't be seeing me on a screen near you this summer but you haven't heard the last of me, of that you can be sure ;)<br />
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Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-75939990423479106432013-10-11T04:33:00.000-07:002013-10-11T04:33:13.872-07:00PASS THE ASS'S MILK
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">I'm having a new ensuite bathroom put in. The builders have been here 5 weeks. Count them. 1-2-3-4-5.
That’s weeks not builders. </span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Sometimes they appear dressed as The Invisible Man and strangely
no work gets done. They are bringing the marble grain by grain from the
foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in North Dakota and reconstituting it
into slabs on site. At least that’s what they told me but they haven’t
started yet as they are drilling for copper beneath the North Sea to forge into
pipes for the water supply.</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Luckily I have become quite attached to living on my living-room
floor. And I have another bathroom which we all share though I’ve drawn
the line at communal showers. I now speak fluent Kosovan but they still
can’t speak English. When I asked if the toilet would be wall hung, they
thought I wanted to know if Tolek (the plumber) was well hung. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">As I’m now sleeping nearer the front door, when I pass away from old
age it won’t be so far for them to carry me out. And my children will,
maybe, one day, have a nice new bathroom which the new owner of my flat - because
they’ll sell it before I’ve gone cold - will want to rip out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Still, mustn't crumble. Worse things happen at sea. And the inconvenience is self-inflicted so I shouldn't complain. I just wish they'd pack up and p*ss off so I can start to clean the thickening layer of dust and access my winter clothes now the weather's turned...</span></div>
Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-3802242420524055882013-05-19T02:34:00.006-07:002013-05-19T02:39:45.935-07:00MONTE CARLO OR BUST!Back in the day, 1969 to be precise, there was a 'wacky' road race of a movie of this name starring Tony Curtis, Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.<br />
<br />
I've been to Monte Carlo many times - a fake little fantasy of a place where all is pure and pristine - but I've never been to St. Tropez and that's where I'm headed next Wednesday.<br />
<br />
'Lucky beach!' I hear you cry but I am, in fact, dreading it.<br />
<br />
Sadly, it's a mercy mission to visit my dear old friend, sometime boss and writing mentor, Dominique Lapierre, prolific author of such tomes as<em> Is Paris Burning? The City of Joy </em>and notably...<em>or I'll Dress you in Mourning </em>from which sprang the inspiration for my first novel <em>Blood on the Sand</em>. <br />
<br />
(For those who may not know, the redoubtable matador Manuel Benitez, <em>El Cordobes</em>, was the subject matter - and I, in turn, the object of one of his well-aimed sword thrusts... for fuller details, download <em>Blood on the Sand</em> on any e-reader!)<br />
<br />
So ... how could one dread a trip to St. Tropez? Simply because my dear Dominique, now 82, suffered a serious crack to the head in a fall last year and is no longer the man he used to be. I have been asked to bring along any photos and recall any stories of what we shared to help trigger his memory's return to full health. No problem there. <br />
<br />
I am eager to help his recovery in any way I can and give his lovely wife a break. I am happy to shop, cook, chatter and cajole, but I understand he sleeps much of the day but is awake much of the night... This could be harder to deal with...if I don't get my seven + hours, Gawd help us all!<br />
<br />
There will be many firsts on this trip: my first time from Stansted (an airport from where I swore I'd never travel!) My first journey by Ryanair (an airline on which I swore I'd never fly!) and my first time in St. Tropez. <br />
<br />
I'm trusting it all goes smoothly. Having written this, I feel a little more positive. How bad could it be? The sun might be shining... I'm only staying four nights... and there are other friends nearby who may have a yacht...<br />
<br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-89656396387619370092013-04-18T15:54:00.004-07:002013-04-18T15:55:21.110-07:00RANDOM DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENT!!<span style="color: blue;">Not my own story but too funny not to share! WS</span><br />
<br />
"I was due an appointment with the gyneacologist later in the week. Early one morning, I receiv<span class="text_exposed_show">ed a call from the doctor’s office to tell me that I had been rescheduled for that morning at 9:30 am. I had only just packed everyone off to work and school, and it was already around 8:45am. The trip to his office took about 35 minutes, so I didn’t have any time to spare. As most women do, I like to take a little extra effort over hygiene when making such visits, but this time I wasn’t going to be able to make the full effort.<br /> <br /> So, I rushed upstairs, threw off my pajamas, wet the washcloth that was sitting next to the sink, and gave myself a quick wash in that area to make sure I was at least presentable. I threw the washcloth in the clothes basket, donned some clothes, hopped in the car and raced to my appointment.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> I was in the waiting room for only a few minutes when I was called in. Knowing the procedure, as I’m sure you do, I hopped up on the table, looked over at the other side of the room and pretended that I was in Paris or some other place a million miles away.<br />
<br /> I was a little surprised when the doctor said, “My, we have made an extra effort this morning, haven’t we?” I didn’t respond.<br /> <br /> After the appointment, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home. The rest of the day was normal -shopping, cleaning, cooking. After school when my 6-year old daughter was playing, she called out from the bathroom, “Mommy, where’s my washcloth?”<br /> <br /> I told her to get another one from the cupboard.<br /> <br /> She replied, “No, I need the one that was here by the sink, it had all my glitter and sparkles saved inside it.”<br /> <br /> Never going back to that doctor again……….. ever."</span>Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-30048677764600122902012-12-04T10:31:00.003-08:002012-12-04T10:31:25.915-08:00A KNIGHT AT THE OPERA...So having refused him lunch on Sunday, he emailed me to have lunch on Monday. At Scott's! This is one of the poshest restaurants in Mayfair, a place to where I aspire to be invited. I replied in the affirmative, although it wasn't, if I'm honest, massively convenient. It meant I would have to wash my hair again and possibly get a re-varnish... Still, small price to pay.<br />
<br />
When I woke up Monday morning, it occurred to me I didn't know his surname. No way was I going to get all putzed up and go into town to enter a restaurant to meet a man called Carlos without knowing in whose name the table had been booked. <br />
<br />
"Good afternoon, Madam."<br />
"Good afternoon. I'm meeting... er ... Carlos?"<br />
<br />
They'd think I was a hooker.<br />
<br />
So I emailed and asked what name the table was in and actually, could he kindly call me to confirm the lunch date. Nada. I waited until noon, getting ever more agitated, then emailed again to say:<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry but I have a radio broadcast to do (true) so might be a little late. Also, I'm not comfortable meeting a complete stranger without a telephone conversation first. Please call me."<br />
<br />
Zilch.<br />
<br />
I binned the whole idea and went about my business. Luckily, I had not washed my hair!<br />
<br />
Later in the day, I get an email: "Sorry. I got held up in a meeting. I leave for NY tomorrow but will be back in May. I'll contact you."<br />
<br />
I fell about laughing. I should live so long, but I won't be holding my breath!Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-73020112350495476972012-12-02T04:27:00.001-08:002012-12-02T04:27:34.602-08:00A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">I take my 14 year old granddaughter, Tatiana, to the opera: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">L’elisir d’amore</i> at Covent Garden – a rare
treat.</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Just before the lights go down, I notice a good-looking older
man hovering very close to where we’re sitting staring at us both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He suddenly speaks, in a foreign accent:
‘Mother & daughter?’ Tatiana pipes up: ‘She’s my grandma’. </span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">The man puts his fingers to his lips and blows them in my
direction. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">‘You don’t have a husband if you look so good!’ he says.
I laugh and say: ‘No I don’t!’ </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">He winks at me, having established my marital
status.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tatiana
gives me a nudge and says: ‘You just can’t help it, can you?’ like I’ve done
something wrong! He takes his seat, the lights go down, and the performance begins.</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">During the interval, Tats & I go walkabouts. Her maths
teacher is somewhere in the audience but we don’t find her – she
said she wasn't bothered, but I'm sure she would have like to show herself off in other than her school uniform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Crossing the bar on the way back to our seats, The Foreigner is standing alone
drinking a glass of pink champagne. </span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> Stylish!</o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">He greets me warmly, asks Tats
her name then asks mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">‘I will call you Wendy, not Grandma...’ he whispers in my
eye. ‘I am Carlos.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">We chat a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s
from Mexico, travels 6 months of the year, is probably lonely with a wife in
Acapulco or wherever. Tatiana’s looking bored so we walk off but bump
into him again just before the 2<sup>nd</sup> act. He quickly asks for my
phone number. </span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">I say: ‘I’ll give it to you later’. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">At the end of the opera, he has to pass where we’re sitting to
leave. I give a business card to Tats to hand to him (<i>I</i> <em>never gave him
my number, m’lud</em>). He takes both my hands in his and says: ‘Have lunch
with me tomorrow at 2.’ I say: ‘I can’t tomorrow’. He looks
disappointed, but takes the card and leaves without saying goodbye to Tatiana
which I find rude. Men, honestly!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">If he calls, should I see him?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What would you do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-38348549460937605852012-10-15T01:26:00.000-07:002012-10-15T01:34:46.945-07:00KOLKATA CONTINUED...I'm better at keeping promises to other people than to myself and although much has happened this past year, I was reminded recently to finish posting my blog on Kolkata before I embark on another trip to India. <br />
<br />
My last blog left you with some of the ladies dabbing tears from their eyes. Here's what happened next:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Local </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">film crews jostle for position to document our arrival. Dominique lectures anyone who’ll listen to encourage the Indian Government and wealthy nationals to help their own which they do not seem to do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through the crowd, we spot <span lang="EN-US">Brother Gaston Dayanand, a Swiss turned Holy Man who has lived and worked amongst the poorest of Kolkata’s poor these past forty years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He leads our procession to </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">an open-sided tent where we are seated on a dais like a royal entourage. The whole community, decked out in their finery, sit cross-legged on the ground staring up at us. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The sweet-faced children then perform a 3-hour song, dance and acrobatic show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They all look clean and healthy yet some have shaven heads, presumably to ward off lice. Their parents were all lepers, unable to care for themselves let alone their offspring: infant girls abandoned for simply being female; toddlers left alone when their young mothers died, reduced to scavenging on scrap heaps with the rats; eight-year olds without a rag to clothe themselves forced into prostitution for a few grains of rice.</span></span></div>
</div>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">All those who entertain us have been saved from
certain death by Brother Gaston and the selfless, noble, unflinching dedication
of Dominique Lapierre, his wife and their fellow humanitarians.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bouquets and gifts
are presented; speeches are made; cakes are cut; photos are taken; the website
goes live. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bottled water is handed out
much to our relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the four corners of the globe, we thirty Western
strangers bond through the sheer intensity of this shared experience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The next day, we
set off for Barrackpore to visit a home called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Udayan</i>: The Resurrection. This inspirational centre was founded in
1970 by an ex-gentleman’s outfitter from Gloucester, Rev. James Stevens O.B.E.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went out to India in 1968, borrowed a
truck from Mother Teresa and began gathering up children from the slums. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has since created a paradise on earth, financially
supported by Dominique Lapierre since 1981, where 300 mentally and
physically-challenged children aged 4 to 18, all rescued from leper colonies,
live, learn and learn to live.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Costly antiobiotics,
physical therapy and high protein diets restore their health. They are educated
in all academic subjects, as well as yoga, music, arts and crafts and sports. <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">They learn </span>the skills to earn a
living and will go on to become tailors, carpenters, welders, mechanics,
electricians, leather workers. When they leave the centre, <i>Udayan</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> will help them </span>buy materials to open
their own shops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Wherever possible,
they still see their parents who reap comfort and joy from seeing their
now-healthy children growing up to fulfil the dreams they never dared to even
dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">As the week progresses, the schools and health centres
become bigger and better:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Dominique Lapierre School of Excellence
for Children with Special</span> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Need</span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> The</i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dominique Lapierre Centre of Excellence
for the Disabled</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We watch a
football match played by two teams of polio sufferers, little boys with
callipers on their legs and some on crutches, including one who ‘runs’ across
the field on his hands and bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">As the patients grow up, they too become care givers,
physiotherapists, manufacturers of aids and appliances, receivers and providers
of physical and mental therapy for the next influx of rescued children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We sail up the Ganges Delta on a hospital ship to
visit the Sundarbans, a vast area of mangrove forest mudflats, straddling the
Bay of Bengal and Bangladesh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Designated
as a Unesco World Heritage Site and one of the seven wonders of the natural
world, 4.4 million people inhabit 54 of the hundreds of small islands which do
not feature on any map.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Xander van Meerwijk, a Dutch philanthropist and heroic
friend of the Lapierres, has </span><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">donated, amongst much else, the funds to build a floating
ambulance which provides a whole range of equipment including an on-board lab
and X-ray machine capable of detecting tuberculosis in its early stages. This
ship is a world first which has already saved thousands of lives.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Xander tells me a wonderful story about the little
black dress Audrey Hepburn wore in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breakfast
at Tiffany’s</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“The designer Givenchy gave it to me to auction at
Christie’s, the proceeds to go to my good causes,” he says with a twinkle in
his eye, “The price was going up and up to ten times over the $100,000
reserve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hubert (de Givenchy) suddenly
objected to the nationality of the highest bidder -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a wealthy Russian - and slammed in a final
bid just before the hammer went down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
effectively bought his own dress back but he still donated the money: close to
$1,000,000 for that famous little piece of cloth!” *<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The Sundarban region, as well as harbouring snakes and
crocodiles, is famous for the Royal Bengal tiger,</span><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"> the only animal that drinks
seawater. This fearsome creature is a merciless man-eater with a penchant for the
cadavers that float along the Ganges, bodies only partially cremated for the
simple reason that their families couldn’t afford enough wood for a decent
funeral pyre. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">Local farmers wear masks on the backs of their
heads because the tigers supposedly won’t attack if you’re looking at them, but
this is poor protection when you take into account the annual number of deaths</span><span lang="NL" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: NL;">.</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The remote islanders are in dire need of all types of medical
assistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cataract removal, cervical
screening, malaria control, leprosy treatment – you name it, they need help for
it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">One young woman I spoke to explained she was trying to
raise enough money to build a house (one room mud hut) and start a stationery
business to provide pens and paper for the islands’ schoolchildren. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“How much would that cost?” I enquire. “About $300. .
.” she replies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The price of a good
lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">From having been afraid to touch anyone or eat
anything, we have learned to tuck into the local produce laid out for us and clutch
the outstretched hands that greet us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
hug the smiling women and pat the straight-faced babies. We stroke the
children’s silky hair then surreptitiously pass round anti-bacterial hand wipes
in our inbuilt Western paranoia. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">On our final day, we visit the slum immortalised in
Dominique Lapierre’s best-selling book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
City of Joy</i> where his hero, a rickshaw puller/human horse died of TB aged
32.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On an area the size of three
football pitches, thousands of people live, love, give birth and die alongside
open sewers, stinking latrines and polluted wells. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">One enduring memory however is of a photograph of a
filthy, crippled baby in a crib covered with flies followed by another of that
same child aged 18, upright and well, graduating from University. Without the
charity, the 2<sup>nd</sup> photo would not have existed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dominique Lapierre is one of life’s heroes instrumental
in opening 102 schools, digging 650 wells, bringing literacy to the women of
3000 villages, launching 4 hospital ships and distributing millions to those in
need. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“When I see a wealthy Indian driving a brand new
Bentley or Ferrari through the streets of Mumbai” he muses, “I see enough money
to lift 50,000 tuberculosis-ridden children off the streets, to cure them and
to educate them.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">In hard economic times such as these, there is a terrible deficit in
funds. Due to the recession, benefactors are knocking noughts off the end of
their previous donations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the schools
and centres may have to close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">On returning home, I scoop the last spoonful from a
jar of coffee then have a terrible dilemma about throwing the empty jar away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What use the Kolkatans could make of it: as a
storage container, a water vessel, a grain pounder, a rolling pin.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I’ve heard it said that India changes you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I never believed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I do now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
Tragically, dear Dominique sustained a bad fall in May and is still recovering in hospital in Toulon. We all wish him a speedy recovery to full health.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-63498295137149641402012-09-02T11:05:00.002-07:002012-09-02T11:07:53.410-07:00AMORAL DILEMMA<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A dear friend of mine, who’s had more romantic let-downs than a whore’s
drawers, is </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">currently between the horns of an
amoral dilemma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like babies after
IVF, two chaps have come along at once.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She likes them both - in slightly
different ways: one for his witty repartee, organisational skills, generosity
and the remote possibility of a future, the other for the fact that he’s as hot
as chilli between the sheets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the course of their work, both
gents travel a lot on business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re
often away at the same time which gives her the chance to see her friends and
look forward with eager anticipation to their duplicitous return(s).</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last week, she spent a wonderful evening with one of
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two days later, the other one wanted
to get together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling slightly guilty,
yet unwilling to refuse, she rationalized thus:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I refuse, he might think I don’t like him and drift off
to pastures new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what he
gets up to when he’s away and I might just be his London lover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all I know, there’s a Washington wife and
a Madrid mistress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So is there any sense
in me being prissy when I could get hit by a bus tomorrow?</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She often views sex as ‘medicinal’ based on the irrefutable
knowledge that it is good for you as a mood enhancer, spirit lifter, endorphin
booster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I support her in her life
choices: a little of what you fancy does you good and a bit of something is
better than a lot of nothing.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I say: ignore the guilt and you go girl! Men have been
treacherous lechers since time began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is
it so wrong for women, just for the fun of it, to act the same?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-34704300986001017472012-08-04T03:39:00.001-07:002012-08-04T03:49:30.876-07:00AN OLYMPIAN GAFFE?I've come to the Edinburgh Festival to escape the Olympics. I booked this months ago when the Games were, to my mind, an irritating inconvenience. As a non sport-loving Londoner, all I could envisage was my city being stolen from me. Little did I realise how much I'd enjoy it.<br />
<br />
Anyway, can't help that now: train and apartment booked and paid for, so here I am. On my own. <br />
<br />
Unlike Greta Garbo, I don't actually <em>vant</em> to be alone. As I alight from the train, I feel weird. I've been here many times, always with a crowd of friends. I know my way around so that's not the problem; the problem seems to be that everyone else is 'with a crowd of friends'. <br />
<br />
I settle into the apartment, which is well located, and hit the streets. It's 7.30 p.m. and I'm hungry. I go to M&S and do a food shop which feels normal but not in a good way. I walk down Rose Street looking for a place to eat but everywhere is full of couples clinking, poring over programmes, jovially jabbering. There's a fair amount of jabbering going on in my head - like WTF are you doing here? It's the first night of the Festival for Crissakes - I should be partying in the SpiegelTent! But (<em>cue violins</em>) I'm all alone...<br />
<br /><br />
The carrier bags make me feel a bit more local but I fail to find anywhere I fancy. I don't want to eat in a pub and I don't want to eat at Le Petit Posh. I'm here for 2 weeks. If I spend a minimum of £30 a day on food, I'll go broke. <br />
<br />
A couple of solo men walk past and I quell the urge to grab them by the lapels and beg them to have dinner with me. Not the women, you'll notice! Then I reason that men walking on their own are probably sad weirdos. After all, who in their right minds would want to be at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival without their crowd of friends?!<br />
<br />
I smile at a busker. He ignores me, but in fairness, his eyes are closed. I wish I could play guitar so I too could busk. That, at least, would give me something constructive to do. Eventually I stop at a Cafe Rouge and order soup and a salad. The waiter is cute. I consider asking him what time he gets off.<br />
<br />
The dinner revives me. I take the shopping home then go back out again. I buy a ticket for a show called <em>Fat Whore.</em> She is. That makes me feel better. <br />
<br />
I'm sure I'll be fine: an erstwhile toyboy of mine, Mark Restuccia, has a show called <em>How to Succeed at Internet Dating</em>. Another friend, Spencer Maybe, performs as a male Burlesque artist. I'm having lunch with one of the Fringe organisers next week and start my daily reportage to italkfm.com on Monday. I'm looking for new talent for BBC London. The Book Fair starts soon...<br />
<br />
In 7 days time, my crowd of friends arrive but meanwhile, I can always stay in my flat and watch the Olympics on TV, uninterrupted and happily alone...Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-87292437220624535182012-07-27T17:36:00.001-07:002012-07-29T11:46:01.286-07:00THE LONGEST SHOW ON EARTH!I wonder if any of the popular press are going to have the guts to say that quite a lot of the Opening Ceremony was a complete mess? Or is Danny Boyle going to get an instant knighthood just because he created a programme of British whimsy with flashes of brilliance marred by trying to cram too much in?<br />
<br />
The Industrial Revolution scenes were inspired as the smoke stacks from dark satanic mills rose belching from beneath the ground. The James Bond/HM/helipcopter sequence was highly amusing. The Mr. Bean episode was hilarious. Even the NHS bit wasn't too bad but then it all started to go horribly wrong. <br />
<br />
A cacophony of modern music blared forth with great groups of seemingly random dancers prancing about all over the place texting each other. Was that meant to be cool or what we used to call modern? I remember the Chinese with their rigid, regimented lines and jaw-dropping aerial acrobats. I remember the Catalans with their insanely grotesque though fascinating figures and I know they were a tough act to follow. <br />
<br />
But Danny, darling, less is more! And you chose not to showcase what we Brits do best: pomp, ceremony, circumstance and pageantry. I know we've just had all that with the Jubilee, but if we had the Red Arrows again, why couldn't we have had the Horseguards or the Busbys or a Coronation Coach or two? So colourful, rousing and quintessentially British.<br />
<br />
I don't think the Queen appreciated hearing the Sex Pistols or Prodigy - I know I didn't. And at the risk of sounding like a grumpy old woman, yes, we've always been at the vanguard of popular music but Paul, Paul, Paul sweetie: next time you're asked to sing live, just say you're washing your hair that night. Let us remember you the way you were.<br />
<br />
Beckham was Beautiful. The Fireworks were Fabulous. The Torch was Tremendous. And the 16,000 athletes from 204 countries are what it's all about. <br />
<br />
So can we please now get on with it so it can all be over and we can get back to normal and I can drive through the West End and go about my business without having to fret about whether I'm going to get a £130 fine for traversing one of those blessed lanes? And all those sodding dignatories who've caused major disruption in our fair city can buzz off back from whence they came and give us Londoners back our London. (On the plus side, however, there will be lots of muscly men in tight Lycra to watch so Bring Them On!)<br />
<br />
Good luck athletes! And good effort, Boyle but maybe rein it in a bit next time.<br />
<br />
<br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-44137389017698595752012-07-15T08:40:00.001-07:002012-07-15T09:23:49.094-07:0050 SHADES OF SHUT IT!If one more person says to me: "You could have written that - and better!" I shall have to thump them. "You think I don't know that?" I reply between gritted teeth.
<br />
<br />
It's like standing in the Royal Academy in front of a white canvas with a black dot in the middle that's been highly acclaimed by the (f)Art World as a tour de force. <br />
<br />
The point about: "I could have done that..." is that you didn't. Someone else did and yes, I'm jealous as hell and want to scratch her eyes out then get hold of her credit card and pin number.
<br />
<br />
The zeitgeist of what's hot, what's not, what's coolish and what's foolish is that you just never know.
Maybe <i>50 Shades of Beige - A Fashion Guide for the Dullhamshire Ladies Guild</i> - would sell like hot cakes. But would I compromise my writing integrity and bash out a sleazy piece of shit-lit just to make a squillion quid? YES I WOULD.
<br />
<br />
As most writers of soft porn will tell you, it's not easy to get it right. Legs have to be placed just so, ditto, lips, hips, sighs and thighs. Good sex scenes are best expressed with a mélange of eroticism and vaguery. This is titilation not do-it-yourself gynaecology. <br />
<br />
So no, in case you're wondering, I have not and will not read 50SOG. I downloaded a free sample onto my Kindle just to see what all the fuss was about and only because I value my e-reader did I not lob it against the wall.
<br />
<br />
And so I continue my struggle to write well while a fairly large part of me wishes I wrote less well but more lucratively!Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-38571904211189056092012-03-10T02:27:00.002-08:002012-03-10T02:29:13.989-08:00KOLKATA - contd.My reunion with Dominique was as effusive as it was emotional. He’d been 34 when I’d last set eyes on him. Now 80 he seemed as fit and enthusiastic as ever as he introduced me to my co-Kolkatans, journalists and humanitarians from all over the world: an economist from Italian newspaper La Repubblica, a features writer from Vanity Fair, a fiscal lawyer from Milan, an philanthropic entrepreneur from Amsterdam, a news reporter from Switzerland, charity workers from the Napa Valley, a French documentary maker, a Spanish film crew – fine and motley one and all.<br /><br /><br />On Day One, we breakfast early and leave the hotel in a convoy of bone-rattling mini-buses. The scenery has not improved since yesterday and just beyond the city centre, the road runs out of tarmac. The bus bumps in and out of potholes big enough to bath in, shaking our diverse group into a cultured cocktail. In the absence of seatbelts, we hang on for dear life. The aircon vents in the roof begin to leak, dripping water onto those seated below. We accommodate as best we can. Soon the actual road runs out leaving only dirt track.<br /><br />We weave on for miles through villages and shanty towns . . . om shanti, shanti, shanty. Industry in the form of headboard-carvers, palm-frond choppers and cauliflower vendors line the dusty way. Water buffalo amble along en route to who knows where.<br /><br />As we approach our first stop, ICOD: The Interreligious Centre of Development deep in the heart of West Bengal, posters tacked to tree trunks and telegraph pole welcome Dominique Dada and his wife, Dominique Didi - Big Brother and Big Sister.<br /><br />In the 1980s, the Lapierres journeyed to Calcutta to meet and research the life and work of Mother Teresa. The experience moved them so profoundly, they felt compelled to get involved and since then, through tireless fund-raising and the donation millions of dollars of his personal royalties, Dominique has build up a network of schools, clinics, hospital ships and rehabilitation centres to cure, care for and educate those children who would otherwise have perished from poverty, malnutrition and diseases long since eradicated in the West.<br /><br />Our buses pull up and out we spill into the blinding sunlight. We are immediately surrounded and swept along to the beat of a band of drums. A troupe of young male stilt-walkers dressed in red dhotis dance around us. Firecrackers explode in the air; jets of crazy foam rain down on our coiffures. Brightly-clad women and children shower us with flower petals. Others rush forward and bedeck our necks with garlands of sunny marigolds. <br /><br />The welcome is overwhelming. Mr & Mrs Dominique Lapierre are regarded as Saints. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 2008, the highest civilian accolade in India. Their arrival, and ours it seems, is viewed as a great honour.<br /><br />Babes in arms sporting charcoal bindis on their temples to ward off the evil eye stare at us with curiosity. Little girls in traditional dress blink shyly with their kohl-encircled eyes. Some reach out to touch our pallid Western skin. Ashamedly, I pull away, wiggling a wave instead. I’m ignorant, uncertain, unsure how to behave. If I’m honest, I’m afraid of catching something...<br /><br />The local women hold their hands together in prayer position and bow their heads, greeting us with ‘Namaste’ and ‘Namaskar’. I know Namaste from my yoga class but Namaskar? <br /><br /><em>I bow to God in you; I love you and respect you as there is no one like you.</em> <br /><br />Wow! I feel totally unworthy. I have donated nothing except my presence to this trip. I live a gilded life of luxury and excess. I know nothing of their hardship, nothing of their plight. So I too lower my head in humility and guilt. Maybe I shouldn’t have flown Business Class after all. Some of the ladies in our group dab tears from their eyes.Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-89498872679809873232012-01-30T02:47:00.001-08:002012-01-30T02:47:56.238-08:00KOLKATA contd....I awake from a restless sleep punctuated by men snoring and babies crying. Sitting forward in my seat, I peer out of the window. The horizon is on fire: a dazzling curve of flame sandwiched between the darkness and the dawn. Beneath us, spread out like an old embroidered carpet, lies the Jewel in the Crown of the British Empire: India! At last! <br /><br />We disembark into the dirtiest airport I’ve ever seen. The once-white marble is grey with grime, the walls splattered and stained, the floors filthy with food and coffee spills. Flying insects buzz about. A moth the size of a sparrow flaps past my face. I duck in terror and beat my hands about my head, suddenly afraid to breathe. What other horrors lurk in this fetid air? Will I catch cholera, typhoid, dengue fever? My first Calcutta cramp heralds a bout of Delhi belly, confirming my stomach’s total disregard for geography.<br /><br />I exit through immigration into a heaving horde of humanity. An onslaught of sweat and spices assaults my nostrils. Meeters and greeters swell forward straining to find their arrivees. They wave and call out in Hindu and Bengali. Behind them, buses and taxis hoot impatiently as they try to navigate the stragglers who’ve spilled into the road. Goats graze indifferently alongside old men crouching on their haunches against the terminal building chewing betel leaves and smoking bidis. <br /><br />I peer at the hand-written name cards but none of them bears mine. A mild panic besets me, then there, amongst the mêlée, like an oasis in the desert, stand a regiment of beaming, white-clad drivers bearing boards. The comforting logo of the Oberoi Grand Hotel beckons me like a long-lost lover as my name hoves into view. Take me home, Shankar, I mutter, and allow myself to be guided towards the air-conditioned car.<br /><br />The journey from the airport is sphincter-clenching. I can’t work out which side of the road they drive on as they appear to use all the lanes at once. Knackered old buses with passengers hanging off the roofs, motorbikes a-wobble with entire families, cyclos, taxis, trams, trucks, tuk-tuks, rickshaws - all hurtle towards each other in a dance of Destination Death.<br /><br />Road signs advise: Alert Today, Alive Tomorrow and Take Your Time Not Your Life. When my driver goes over his third red light, I ask tremulously: “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” to which he laughs jovially and replies:<br /><br />“Oh no, Madame. Red light is only a suggestion.” <br /><br />As we approach the city centre, a modern monolith or two rises up out of the gutters which house huddles of rag-clad beggars. Beneath a flyover flying nowhere, a market has been set up selling cracked toilet cisterns, sections of old piping, scrap metal, rusty chains.<br /><br />A dead dog lies in the road, its entrails spilling out, inviting anyone peckish enough to sample its bloody buffet: Come Die With Me. <br /><br />The driver points proudly to the Victoria Memorial looming out of the early morning mist. Standing in a lush green garden, it bears testament to the long gone Days of the Raj and the supremacy of its ruler, Queen Victoria, Empress of India and all her dominions. <br /><br />Eventually we arrive at the wrought-iron gates of the Grand Hotel and enter this hallowed enclave which, as the week progresses, becomes a haven of calm and karma from the madness of the street.Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-69251732101855132862011-12-12T09:53:00.000-08:002011-12-12T09:57:09.834-08:00KOLKATA - The City That Never Sweeps.Calcutta! What sensuous energy does this name evoke? Maharajas riding painted elephants. Tiffin wallahs serving British Officers on colonial club lawns. Dark exotic beauties with jasmine in their hair. . . <br /> <br />Forget all that. It’s called Kolkata now and it’s a drab, decaying bag lady of a place behind whose tragic eyes – if you look hard enough - still burn the dying embers of an old remembered flame. <br /> <br />And yet this savage city is still able to seduce, to draw you in and clutch you against her pounding breast. <br /><br />At first glance, everything seems hopeless – broken down, bashed up and busted. Great mountains of garbage litter the streets, picked over by dogs, cats, vermin and, pitifully, children. Amidst this detritus, the street people live, families of pavement dwellers who gather beneath flyovers and on sidewalks with nowhere else to go. They’re not ‘homeless’ as we know it – the street is their home.<br /><br />And yet they live with dignity, rising at dawn from their concrete mattresses to perform the holy ritual of cleanliness. There, at any nearby standpipe, they wash themselves with diligence, brushing their teeth and scrubbing their clothes in the abundant waters from the annual monsoon rains.<br /> <br />When it was first suggested I visit Kolkata, I politely declined. I’d always longed to travel through India but saw myself more suited to the marble palaces of romantic Rajasthan. The purpose of the trip proved irresistible however - to meet a man I’d worked with when I was just 19, the prolific author Dominique Lapierre whose epic masterpiece <em>The City of Joy</em> documenting life in the slums of Calcutta was translated into 31 languages and made into a film starring Patrick Swayze.<br /><br />I’d first met Dominique and his co-author Larry Collins in Spain in the 1960s. Whilst researching and interpreting <em>…or I’ll Dress You in Mourning</em>, the biography of the iconic bullfighter Manuel Benítez ‘El Cordobés’, I was flung into a relationship with the charismatic matador. Now, 46 years later, here was my ex-boss offering to introduce me to yet another world.<br /><br />In the early 1980s, Dominique Lapierre and his wife journeyed to Calcutta to meet Mother Teresa. The experience moved them so profoundly, they felt compelled to help the under-privileged children of West Bengal. These tiny scraps of humanity perished by the thousand, victims of malnutrition, poverty and diseases almost eradicated in the Western world.<br /><br />The City of Joy Aid Organisation was founded as a non-profit making humanitarian project dedicated to rescuing, rehabilitating, educating and ameliorating all those little lives. By donating millions of dollars of his personal royalties, Dominique’s altruism and that of his supporters has created a network of clinics, schools, hospital boats and rehabilitation centres so that children who would otherwise have died of leprosy, tuberculosis and malaria, or grown up blind or crippled by polio could learn to read, write, walk, talk, play football and best of all, smile.<br /><br />My mood as I packed for the trip was ‘flapprehensive’. Travelling alone, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that the term ‘city of joy’ was probably an irony, and as I locked my front door and left the luxury of my home, I was already looking forward to unlocking it on my return.<br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-47105536141011884142011-11-30T15:49:00.001-08:002011-11-30T15:50:18.063-08:00NOT MY MOTHER RUSSIA“In an uncertain world, all things are ‘usually...’” <br /><br />So said our guide on our first morning in Moscow in response to the question: “Is it usually this cold in November?” <br /><br />He followed this philosophy with another Russian gem:<br /><br />“Take wodka on waking then you von’t have to vorry all day what time to have your first drink.”<br /><br />Russia has always held a macabre fascination for me. Both sets of grandparents were Russian Jewish immigrants chased out by the Bolsheviks in the late 1800s during the pogroms. One uncle was thrown in the Volga with rocks tied round his ankles. Another was cut off in his prime by marauding horsemen wielding sabres. No ‘Mother Russia’ gathered my family unto her breast and so they dispersed in the diaspora to Buenos Aires, Brooklyn and Bayswater. Yet here I was returning to the land of my forefathers. <br /><br />I’m not sure what I expected of Moscow but it wasn’t what I expected. I’d seen the footage of grey-coated, fur-hatted armies marching across a snow-brushed Red Square while grim-faced generals took the salute. I knew about the poverty and deprivation, families living ten to a room with barely a bowl of barley soup between them. I’d heard of dissidents being tortured by the KGB and youngsters yearning for a simple pair of jeans. But when Communism collapsed, Moscow went West to bring bling to the people.<br /><br />Moscow is the capital of the world’s biggest country, the beating heart of European Russia. The architecture is a fusion of splendour and austerity: affluence in the shape of ornate Belle Époque classicism battling for supremacy over inevitable Cold War concrete. Lavish cathedrals with golden cupolas stand serenely in the shadow of thick set apartment blocks. Flashy shop fronts house French and Italian franchises; restaurants serve Asian Fusion cuisine and late-night Karaoke bars proclaim the shaking off of state-imposed imperialism.<br /><br />The centre is spotless; wide avenues called ‘Prospekts’ are lined with grand baroque buildings reeking of Tsarist times. Dark forbidding structures in which 007, 8 and 9must surely have been interrogated seem less sinister with a branch of McDonald’s at street level.<br /><br />Our agenda for Day One offered a City Tour but it omitted the word ‘walking’. The implied coach, minibus or private car was, in fact, Sergei, on time and on foot. We set off into the cold crisp morning ill-equipped against the Siberian wind that whistled through our very bones within minutes of leaving the overheated comfort of the National Hotel.<br /><br />The pavements around the Kremlin are kept pristine by a militia of lady cleaners diligently disposing of every stray fag end, waste paper or leaf that dares to fall. One of them was beating the hell out of a tree so her co-worker could rake up the remnants and cart them away. Autumn and its attendant untidiness is not welcome here...<br /><br /><br />To be continued... Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-65114723012906595012011-10-26T01:49:00.000-07:002011-10-26T01:50:37.043-07:00INDEPENDENT WOMAN!Check out this feature in today's INDEPENDENT:<br /><br />http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/europe/a-spanish-love-affair-2375777.html<br /><br />Great publicity for BLOOD ON THE SAND!<br /><br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-45020382067191006412011-10-25T16:58:00.001-07:002011-10-25T16:59:23.875-07:00BLOOD ON THE SAND...IS NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE!!!<br /><br />Please tell all your friends to tell all their friends to download it onto their e-readers, computers, laptops, i-Pods or i-Pads.<br /><br />The link is:<br /><br />http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-on-the-Sand-ebook/dp/B005Z5FG3G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1319531514&sr=8-5<br /><br />and it's priced at a bargain £1.71! How cool is that?!<br /><br />Here's what the press says:<br /><br /><strong>The first novel from the bestselling author of THE TOYBOY DIARIES (Old Street Publishing) this is set in the vividly evoked and heady atmosphere of 1960s Spain. <br /><br />BLOOD ON THE SAND IS a highly entertaining, raunchy and fast-paced drama as young Cassi Samuels sets out from swinging 1960s London into the arms of <em>El Macho</em>, the leading bullfighter of the day. From innocent virgin to abused wife living her life in the eye of the media, Cassi faces tragedy and the ruin of her dreams. <br /><br />High in emotion, the story takes us on a roller-coaster ride through her life and loves in the heat and dust of Andalucia.<br /><br />This remarkable novel is inspired by Wendy’s own romantic involvement with the iconic matador <em>El Cordobés</em>. Wendy came to be part of his circle when she was acting as the Spanish interpreter for Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins then working on the biography of <em>El Cordobés</em>: '… or I’ll Dress You in Mourning'. <br /><br />BLOOD ON THE SAND is a fictional imagining of what might have been, had Wendy stayed in Spain and married her bullfighter.</strong><br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-15890792768010827702011-10-19T15:54:00.000-07:002011-10-19T15:56:20.080-07:00BLOODY MARVELLOUS!!I have at last up - or is it down - loaded my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND onto Amazon Kindle. This is very exciting!!!<br /><br />It came out in Spain last year but will be available any day for all my English friends to read. I'll keep you posted on the link so you can get Kindling. You don't need to own an actual e-reader - you can down - or is it upload the programme onto any PC, Mac, lap or desktop.<br /><br />It's all been so exhausting I now need to lie down in a darkened room so until the next blog, have a little read of this review to whet your appetites and thank you all for your support.<br /><br /><strong><em><br />We are in the early ’60s. Cassi Samuels is an English girl of 18 who lives with her parents and older sister in London. She’s an innocent ingénue and one thing is clear: losing her virginity to just anyone is not on her agenda.<br /> <br />On a trip to Spain, she discovers the passionate world of bullfighting. On returning home, she covers her bedrooms walls with bullfight posters as if they were film stars. A little later, she flunks her exams on purpose and convinces her parents to allow her to complete her language studies through travel. Her destination: Andalucía.<br /> <br />Fate introduces her to a writer commissioned to write the biography of Rafael Romero “El Macho”, THE bullfighter of the day. As Cassi speaks Spanish, she is employed as interpreter which allows her to meet her idol.<br /> <br />But things do not go according to plan: although he is attracted to her, it is only to add her to his list of conquests before treating her with the utmost contempt. In any other circumstances, this should have sent her scurrying home but Cassi is inexperienced and thinks what has happened is normal. She is therefore prepared to give him another chance, especially when her very traditional family disinherit her after she tells them she’s in love with a bullfighter.<br /> <br />Locked away on his ranch expecting their child, she becomes the victim of a violent husband who has no intention of ever being faithful.<br /> <br />What captivated me most about this novel is without doubt the intensity of the characters’ feelings. It is a novel of extremes: on the one hand we have “El Macho” being cruel and cool, prepared to achieve his goals even if it means harming others – and on the other hand we have the young Cassi, naive, sweet and easy to manipulate often seeming silly for not opening her eyes.<br /> <br />There is no middle ground. The other characters are either charming or hateful and it is impossible not to side with Cassi and wish with all your heart that her situation improves.<br /> <br />This novel is very dramatic. It transcends the normal romantic genres which often seem superficial and trite with over-idealized love stories.<br /> <br />In this book, great passion is transmitted to the reader which shows that the author has achieved her purpose. The book becomes a perfect choice for those looking to enjoy a good read with authentic feelings and conflicts between the protagonists.<br /> <br />Importantly, the intensity of the feelings grow as the story progresses. When things start to seem predictable, something unexpected happens that grips your heart and gives you butterflies.<br /> <br />The author retains the reader’s attention and knows when and how to enhance the highlights. I often thought “too much melodrama” while reading, but I don’t think this is a defect: it is sometimes good to read a book that reflects the best and worst of human passions.<br /><br />The other noteworthy aspect of this novel is its entertainment value. It hooks you with its simple yet fluid style and has everything a read should have. As many people only read for entertainment or to escape reality <strong><em>BLOOD ON THE SAND </em></strong>achieves this.<br /> <br />There is plenty of action and the story never stagnates. It has surprising twists, which in this genre are not always easy to find. It’s impossible to get bored.<br /> <br />If this were a film adaptation, it could be a pretty decent movie. The book is very visual and precisely because it is full of passion, it would work well on screen.<br /> <br /><em><strong>BLOOD ON THE SAND</strong></em> may not be the soap opera of the century and despite being listed as ‘romance’, it goes beyond the clichés of this genre. This is a work full of passion that never leaves the reader bored. The plot twists take place at the right time; the story is very well constructed. I enjoyed the flavours of gypsy Spain and the extremism of the characters. Formally, these are not positives, but I found them entertaining just the same.<br /> <br />In short, this is a highly recommended option if you are a demanding reader who enjoys books full of passion and feeling.</em></strong>Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-21954164007417800942011-09-27T05:32:00.001-07:002011-09-27T05:38:37.124-07:00GORE AND GLORYThey always were a strange lot, the Catalans: not content with force-teaching their children a language for which they will have no use in the outside world, they have now compounded their autonomy from the rest of Spain by banning bullfighting.<br /><br />I know many of you will be clapping and cheering at this news . . . and that is your prerogative. Bullfighting has always been a contentious subject: never the Brits’ cup of tea – more like the Spaniards’ jug of sangria - BUT it is as much a part of Spain’s rich culture as flamenco, sun-drenched beaches, medieval cities and a bottle of full-bodied Rioja drunk in a noisy <em>taberna</em> with a plate of <em>jamon Serrano</em> and some garlic-infused olives.<br /><br />The ancient art form dates back to prehistoric times when bulls were worshipped and then sacrificed. Later, the Romans staged many human-versus-animal events and religious festivities and royal weddings were celebrated by fights in local plazas, where noblemen would compete on horseback for a royal favour. <br /><br />The populace enjoyed these displays so much that Spain introduced the practice of fighting on foot around 1726. Bullfighting then spread to Central and South America and in the 19th century to France, where it is now more popular than ever.<br /><br />But back to Barcelona. Yes, it’s a fabulous city with its gaudy Gaudi architecture and unfinished Gothic Cathedral. The streets heave with tourists all the year round. But if the Catalans had their way, they’d cut themselves off completely from the rest of Spain and float the province out to sea – the equivalent of Cornwall disassociating itself entirely from Great Britain and banning cricket in the process.<br /><br />Many Barcelona-based aficionados are now robbed of their right to watch their <em>fiesta nacional</em> on their own doorstep. They will have to travel far and wide to support their favourite matadors. They’re not best pleased about this. The vote only just scraped by in parliament. Fans are distraught that their freedom of choice has been taken away in what many see as a political move. And the Catalans still indulge in the much more barbaric practices of bull baiting, taunting and torturing than the artistry and tradition of <em>la corrida</em>.<br /><br />Barcelona's 18,000-seat bullring was completely sold out last Sunday. Tickets changed hands at thousand of euros apiece. Those who couldn’t get one slept on the streets hoping to pick up a last minute day seat at the gate.<br /><br />The closure of the city's two bullrings (Las Arenas - The Sands - is now a shopping mall) enrages more Spaniards than it pleases. La Monumental where the final fight took place on Sunday would have Juan Belmonte, the founding father of today’s style, spinning in his grave. . . <br /><br />Sobbing spectators grabbed handfuls of sand as they left the ring to save for posterity. They hope to throw it back in one day if the ban is lifted.<br /><br />I don’t wish to argue the point as to whether bullfighting has a place in modern society or not. The brave and beautiful bullfighters who face death every afternoon have bigger balls in every sense than the higher-earning footballers which whom they compete for the front pages. Their successes and failures are reported on the Arts pages though, not the Sports pages. <br /><br />I have a vested interest in the subject as my first novel <em><strong>BLOOD ON THE SAND</strong></em> is about to be released on Amazon Kindle. <br /><br />Based on my experiences in the 1960s as the girlfriend of the world’s most famous matador, <em>El Cordobés</em>, it’s a visceral love story between an innocent, young English girl and a hot-blooded Gypsy matador set against the backdrop of Andalucía.<br /><br />I saw my first bullfight at the age of nine. I was immediately captivated by the colour, the pageantry, the music, the drama and the depth of feeling between a heroic man in a satin suit of lights and 600 kilos of raw killing machine.<br /><br />Spain has soul. Spain has passion. The bullfight has gore and it has glory but those who don’t want to watch it don’t have to buy a ticket.<br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-42873371771588823642011-08-14T15:43:00.001-07:002011-08-16T15:58:59.705-07:00IT WAS THE BAGEL......that gave it away - the bagel he was eating when I boarded the train: wrapped in foil, richly laden with smoked salmon and cream cheese, obviously homemade! That was what had made the alarm bell go off.
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<br />As the week progressed and our date at The Dorchester drew near, I asked myself the following questions:
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<br />Did I fancy him enough to get involved if my suspicions were justified?
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<br />Was he tall enough, gorgeous enough and charismatic enough for me to do the dirty on another woman for the sake of what? A roll (or a bagel) in the hay with a 60-something who travelled 2nd class?
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<br />The answer was an unequivocal NO!
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<br />And so I texted him again.
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<br />About Thursday...will Mrs W be joining us?</em>
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<br />He phoned me immediately.
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<br />"Er, you're right," he said, "there is a Mrs W but..."
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<br />"Stop right there. That's not what I'm about, thanks, so I won't be joining you after all."
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<br />"I quite understand." He sounded disappointed. "I'll delete your number and never contact you again. It's just that you were so engaging and I thought..."
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<br />"Bye." I said and hung up.
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<br />I wasn't always that moral. Had he looked like Clooney, Pitt or Gere, Mrs C, P or G wouldn't have bothered me one iota. I've done Other Woman and I've done Mistress and both can be a lot of fun but I'm evolving, and although I'm not sure what I'm looking for at the moment, I know I'm not looking for that.
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<br />* * *
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<br />Following a family holiday in Spain in which I went from Glamour to Granma without passing Go or collecting my 200 euros, I'm now in Edinburgh at my beloved Fringe Festival, the highlight of my entertainment calendar.
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<br />It's peeing with rain as usual, but apparently there is no such thing as 'inclement weather', only inappropriate clothing. And so I don the mac and boots and pick up my umbrella and set off up The Mound for another round of comedy, theatre, magic and performance art.
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<br />When I get back, my novel <em>BLOOD ON THE SAND</em> launches on Kindle. I need you all to download it PLEASE! You can read it too, if you like, and tell everyone else you know to do the same - it'll be free or cheap as chips to begin with but the more people show interest, the higher up the Amazon sales ranking it'll go!
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<br />I'll let you have a firm date in my next blog then you can help me spread the word, so until then enjoy the rest of summer and look out for more details soon.
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<br />Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-234620882264301532011-07-17T16:22:00.000-07:002011-07-18T02:04:54.349-07:00STRANGER ON A TRAINI get on at London Paddington and walk through the train to my designated seat. I don’t like it and the carriage isn’t full so I sit down somewhere else.<br /><br />A smart-looking man gets on and sits across from me but one row forward. He opens a briefcase and removes a bagel wrapped in foil. He separates the two halves, examines the contents, rearranges the smoked salmon and begins eating. I open my laptop and start to work. <br /><br />The train sets off. After about 20 minutes, the man gets up, looks around, comes over to me and says: “Could you please watch my things for a moment? I’m going to get a coffee.” <br /><br />“Sure" I say, "and when you come back, I might ask you to return the favour so I can get something.” <br /><br />“Would you like me to bring you back a coffee?” he asks. I hesitate. I had more in mind a fruit juice but I don’t want to start making demands so I say: “That would be lovely. Thank you.”<br /><br />When he returns, he makes a bit of a production of putting my coffee down on the tray, arranging a sachet of white sugar and one of brown with a wooden stirrer alongside. I thank him profusely and get out my purse. He waves his hand at it dismissively but continues to hover. I do not want to get involved in conversation. I have two hours of dead time ahead and I want to work. <br /><br />He returns to his seat. We both sip our coffee then look at each other because the drink is just bitter hot water. Truly disgusting! <br /><br />“I’m sorry about this!” he says. “I really can do better.” I shrug, smile, mutter something placatory and carry on writing. <br /><br />At the next station a group of noisy schoolchildren get on. Their teacher instructs them loudly where to sit then barks at them to eat their sandwiches and clear up all their rubbish. The man and I catch each other’s others eye and acknowledge the disturbance.<br /><br />As we near Bristol, he gets up and prepares to leave the train. As he passes my seat, he leans over and proffers me his business card. “Seriously," he says, "I’d be delighted to buy you a decent cup of coffee some time?" <br /><br />I’m slightly taken aback but I smile and say: “Maybe...”<br /><br />I look at the card. His office address is close to where I live but it occurs to me that if he was the sort of man I’d like to know I’d have preferred him to be travelling to his business meeting in the back of a chauffeur-driven Bentley or at least in the first-class carriage. <br /><br />An hour passes. I’m now distracted and slightly bored plus my laptop’s running out of juice and I can’t find anywhere to plug it in. So I pick up the card again and I text him. <br /><br />“I’m not much of a coffee drinker but you do owe me a decent cup!”<br /><br />We text on and off over the next couple of days. I’m staying with a friend in Devon but on the Sunday night, when the man obviously estimates I will be home, I receive:<br /> <br />“May I have the pleasure of inviting you for cocktails at the Dorchester on Thursday evening?”<br /><br />That’s more like it! I think. “How very charming!” I reply. “But I can’t do Thursday. Weds any good?”<br /><br />He doesn’t reply for about 3 hours, re-arranging his life, presumably. Eventually, I get: “Weds perfect. Building up my charming points. 6.30? X” <br /><br />Then an alarm bell goes off in my head...<br /> <br /><em>To be continued</em>Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-32333570829415347922011-06-09T04:32:00.000-07:002011-06-09T04:42:56.086-07:00A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A SINGLE SUPERGRAN7.58 a.m. Woken by frantic text from daughter: <em>Got tonsillitis :( Could you pls pick N (aged 3) up from nursery and keep him for the afternoon? It would really help if you could give him supper and a bath and bring him home ready for bed. Pls Mama? XX </em><br /><br />Bugger. That’s my day shot to hell. I love my grandson, oh I do, and I can always write a book, meet my PR agent, go to the hygienist and buy a hat for Royal Ascot some other time. Soon he’ll be all grown up and won’t have time to see me anymore. I know I am blessed. I throw on some clothes and make-up and run to the shops.<br /><br />I buy ingredients to make healing chicken soup then pick N up at Little Monkeys. He hurtles towards me and throws his arms around my neck. My love cash register kerchings £1,000.000. <br /><br />Back home, he ‘helps’ me cut the carrots up with a wooden spoon. They go all over the kitchen floor. He trips on one, falls over and bites into his lip. It comes up like a blackberry. He shrieks for his mummy. I give him a Malteser and hold him on my hip while I get the soup on with the other hand. Then I hustle him out the door and down the stairs to go to the park. <br /><br />When we reach the street, I realise he’s still wearing his slippers. I clomp back up again and get his shoes.<br /><br />He runs wild in the playground meant for 7-11 year olds just missing being hit by a swing. I run after him shouting warnings then have to scale the climbing frame because although he gets to the top, he doesn’t fancy the twirly-whirly slide coming down. I wrestle him into his buggy while he goes all stiff and march him up the hill. <br /><br />He spies the ice cream van before I do, so I have no time to spin on my axis and go the other way. He wants an ice cream. <em><strong>I want an ice cream. I want an ice cream. I WANT AN ICE CREAM! It’ll spoil your supper. It’ll spoil your supper. IT’LL SPOIL YOUR SUPPER!</strong></em><br /><br />He throws a small fit which I ignore then thankfully, he falls asleep. I sink down on a bench to catch my breath. His mother texts: <em>Don’t for G-d’s sake let him fall asleep or he won’t go to bed tonight. Still feel shite</em> :/<br /><br />I stride down the hill again singing <em>The Wheels on the Bus</em> very loudly to wake him up. Passers-by glance at me as if I’m nuts. A dog comes up and yaps stridently into N’s face. He awakes with a start and begins to howl. <br /><br />The pup runs off. I lift him out of his pushchair to give him a cuddle but traumatised by his rude awakening, he has a little accident. I rummage in my bag for his spare panties and get him changed al fresco. He does not appreciate this ignominy, poor mite. <br /><br />Back home, we struggle up the stairs. He just about makes it to the loo to finish what he started earlier then he wants ‘computer time’. I put on the longest <em>Peppa Pig</em> clip I can find and he sits quietly for about eight seconds before playing Bang! Bang! on the keys of my laptop although I’ve told him not too. I quickly save and close an important document I haven’t backed up and am terrified of losing. <br /><br />I give him supper, answer a couple of urgent emails but ignore all phone calls, then I put him in the bath. He happily splashes water all over the room while I rush to redo my hair and make-up and get changed into smarter clothes. <br /><br />We play: “Where’s the little boy gone?” while he hides beneath the towel then I get him into his pyjamas, put the pot of soup into a strong carrier bag, totter everything downstairs, strap him into the car seat and drive him home. <br /><br />He repeats: “Where’s MisterManintheMoon, Didi?” on a continuous loop the whole way back. The night sky is cloudy but can I explain that? I hand him over to his father who’s just got in, put the saucepan of soup on the hob, pop in to check on my poor, sick daughter who’s trying to breast feed the baby without breathing on her, then I rush off to the theatre feeling guilty for not having cancelled it and stayed on to help out. <br /><br />I arrive just in time, flustered, and when I open my bag to switch my mobile phone off, a tiny pair of damp Y-fronts fall out. My date raises an eyebrow. <br /><br />“Still seeing that toyboy then?” he asks. <br /><br />I wink at him and relax back in my seat to watch the play.Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-63069556246811604162011-05-06T10:59:00.000-07:002011-05-07T01:42:37.274-07:00MEA CULPA. . .Conscious of not having blogged for way too long despite having promised to do so. Sorry, dear reader . . . <br /><br />I've been in Spain - not an excuse as such but what with the weather, my sister, my nieces, nephews, great-nieces, great-nephews, Royal Wedding, bullfights, Holy Week processions (mostly cancelled due to rain - yeah! In Spain while you lot were basking in some kind of climate swap) every time I sat down to write something happened and I had to get up again!<br /><br />I'm working in earnest on NOW! <em>The New Older Woman</em> which is going well and my agent said there was plenty of interest at London Book Week recently, but the most exciting news (I shouldn't even be sharing as it might not come off) is that the BBC are looking to make a documentary about an older woman who used a throwaway line on a radio programme about wanting to dance burlesque . . . <br /><br />I shan't elaborate until it's further down the line but I've already been on stage at the Cafe de Paris and may I tell you: it's not for the faint-hearted!<br /><br />My children will obviously disown me once and for all. I haven't dared mention a word about it and part of me rather hopes it won't come off. If it does, that won't be the only thing coming off as I'm not sure how one can perform authentic burlesque in a twinset and pearls with a tweed skirt and 20 denier stockings on - not that that's my usual mode of attire but the sight of all that young, firm flesh parading itself before my very eyes made me realise that I must be totally insane to even think about trying to 'compete'.<br /><br />I want them to laugh with me not at me. I'm not going to bump and grind, as on a woman of my age that will look ridiculous. I wish I'd kept my big mouth shut in the first place, yet another part of me is shouting: Bring It On! because after all, how many more chances to do something this outrageous am I going to get?<br /><br />Gotta get ready for a date now - he's nearing 40 so not exactly a TB but still 25 years younger than me - yippee! By the way, lace top hold-ups don't stay up if you've just moisturised your legs. Just thought I'd share that, ladies, or gents if that is your proclivity.<br /><br />I'll keep you posted on the rest. Promise.Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1280121365118814443.post-91824882260320397132011-03-20T03:50:00.000-07:002011-03-20T03:57:40.247-07:00SHIPS IN THE NIGHTHoliday romances are a terrible cliché and should not be taken seriously at any cost but I’ve just come back from a Nile cruise followed by 3 nights in Cairo and guess what? I fell in love.<br /><br />Having steeled myself never to allow another man anywhere near my heart ever again (my body is another matter . . . ) this Prince of Egypt with his devastating good looks, liquid eyes, batwing eyelashes and thick black locks swept me off my feet the second my gaze lit on him.<br /><br />I didn’t seek it - I didn’t want it - I didn’t need it! - but there it was: heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly, breath catching in my dry throat, clammy palms, nervous giggles – the whole nine yards. <br /><br />Of course when I say ‘in love’ I actually mean ‘in lust’. He was – and is – drop dead gorgeous. <br /><br />For the first few days we flirted: little flashes of eye contact, secret smiles, looks than lasted longer than was strictly necessary. A tentative dialogue began: about the temples and the tombs at Luxor, the camel ride to the Nubian village, the felucca boat near Aswan and all the wondrous wonders of his amazing ancient world.<br /><br />Almost subliminally, he began to materialise wherever I happened to be: on the sun terrace, round the pool, in the lounge, the dining-room, the reception area, the Panorama Bar. Late one afternoon at sunset, when everyone else had gone to their cabins to get ready for the Galabaya Party, I stayed writing up on deck. A lone figure lingered near the prow gazing out as the languid river drifted slowly past. <br /><br />My concentration deserted me. I closed my laptop and wandered over to where he stood. And when he looked at me directly, up close for the first time, I drowned . . . drowned in the eternal well of his smouldering chestnut eyes. <br /><br />What quirk of fate is this? I thought. To come away with my sister to a country no one wanted us to go to and find this magician, this weaver of spells, this legend of the Pharaohs right here in my face?<br /><br />“Hello again” he whispered, as if we’d known each other long ago in another place and time. The words felt like warm treacle being spread across my breasts. <br /><br />With very little more passing between us, we contrived to spend more time together. Intimate glances became our private language and I knew – as a perceptive woman – that something special had begun. <br /><br />We snatched an hour on the last night, up on deck beneath a lemon moon - talking, teasing, our voices thick with promise. I told him (rather cleverly I thought) that my mobile was not receiving calls and would he mind dialling it. So now he had my number. <br /><br />When time ran out, we said goodbye. He took a step towards me . . . then shook my hand instead. The kiss hovered unfulfilled between us in the air, the power of the visceral more intense than the carnal. We had our chance but didn’t take it. Nothing as base as cabin-hopping for the likes of us!<br /><br />The minute I left, the texting began. <em>I miss you. I need you. When will we meet again? How can I survive without your smile?</em><br /><br />God knows what my bill’s going to be but you know something? I don’t care. Connections like this don’t come along that often and although I’ll probably never see him again, it was a lovely interlude. <br /><br />He’s 41. <br /><br />And a little bit married. <br /><br />So now I’m going to get on with my life and not cry because it’s over but smile because it happened.Wendy Salisburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08556078409181201077noreply@blogger.com5