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. . .
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.
And yet this savage city is still able to seduce, to draw you in and clutch you against her pounding breast.
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.
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.
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 The City of Joy documenting life in the slums of Calcutta was translated into 31 languages and made into a film starring Patrick Swayze.
I’d first met Dominique and his co-author Larry Collins in Spain in the 1960s. Whilst researching and interpreting …or I’ll Dress You in Mourning, 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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
NOT MY MOTHER RUSSIA
“In an uncertain world, all things are ‘usually...’”
So said our guide on our first morning in Moscow in response to the question: “Is it usually this cold in November?”
He followed this philosophy with another Russian gem:
“Take wodka on waking then you von’t have to vorry all day what time to have your first drink.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
To be continued...
So said our guide on our first morning in Moscow in response to the question: “Is it usually this cold in November?”
He followed this philosophy with another Russian gem:
“Take wodka on waking then you von’t have to vorry all day what time to have your first drink.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
To be continued...
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
INDEPENDENT WOMAN!
Check out this feature in today's INDEPENDENT:
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/europe/a-spanish-love-affair-2375777.html
Great publicity for BLOOD ON THE SAND!
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/europe/a-spanish-love-affair-2375777.html
Great publicity for BLOOD ON THE SAND!
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
BLOOD ON THE SAND
...IS NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE!!!
Please tell all your friends to tell all their friends to download it onto their e-readers, computers, laptops, i-Pods or i-Pads.
The link is:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-on-the-Sand-ebook/dp/B005Z5FG3G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1319531514&sr=8-5
and it's priced at a bargain £1.71! How cool is that?!
Here's what the press says:
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.
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 El Macho, 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.
High in emotion, the story takes us on a roller-coaster ride through her life and loves in the heat and dust of Andalucia.
This remarkable novel is inspired by Wendy’s own romantic involvement with the iconic matador El Cordobés. 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 El Cordobés: '… or I’ll Dress You in Mourning'.
BLOOD ON THE SAND is a fictional imagining of what might have been, had Wendy stayed in Spain and married her bullfighter.
Please tell all your friends to tell all their friends to download it onto their e-readers, computers, laptops, i-Pods or i-Pads.
The link is:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-on-the-Sand-ebook/dp/B005Z5FG3G/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1319531514&sr=8-5
and it's priced at a bargain £1.71! How cool is that?!
Here's what the press says:
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.
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 El Macho, 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.
High in emotion, the story takes us on a roller-coaster ride through her life and loves in the heat and dust of Andalucia.
This remarkable novel is inspired by Wendy’s own romantic involvement with the iconic matador El Cordobés. 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 El Cordobés: '… or I’ll Dress You in Mourning'.
BLOOD ON THE SAND is a fictional imagining of what might have been, had Wendy stayed in Spain and married her bullfighter.
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
BLOODY 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!!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Locked away on his ranch expecting their child, she becomes the victim of a violent husband who has no intention of ever being faithful.
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.
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.
This novel is very dramatic. It transcends the normal romantic genres which often seem superficial and trite with over-idealized love stories.
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.
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.
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.
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 BLOOD ON THE SAND achieves this.
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.
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.
BLOOD ON THE SAND 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.
In short, this is a highly recommended option if you are a demanding reader who enjoys books full of passion and feeling.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Locked away on his ranch expecting their child, she becomes the victim of a violent husband who has no intention of ever being faithful.
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.
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.
This novel is very dramatic. It transcends the normal romantic genres which often seem superficial and trite with over-idealized love stories.
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.
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.
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.
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 BLOOD ON THE SAND achieves this.
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.
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.
BLOOD ON THE SAND 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.
In short, this is a highly recommended option if you are a demanding reader who enjoys books full of passion and feeling.
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
GORE AND GLORY
They 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.
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 taberna with a plate of jamon Serrano and some garlic-infused olives.
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.
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.
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.
Many Barcelona-based aficionados are now robbed of their right to watch their fiesta nacional 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 la corrida.
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.
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. . .
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.
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.
I have a vested interest in the subject as my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND is about to be released on Amazon Kindle.
Based on my experiences in the 1960s as the girlfriend of the world’s most famous matador, El Cordobés, it’s a visceral love story between an innocent, young English girl and a hot-blooded Gypsy matador set against the backdrop of Andalucía.
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.
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.
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 taberna with a plate of jamon Serrano and some garlic-infused olives.
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.
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.
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.
Many Barcelona-based aficionados are now robbed of their right to watch their fiesta nacional 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 la corrida.
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.
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. . .
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.
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.
I have a vested interest in the subject as my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND is about to be released on Amazon Kindle.
Based on my experiences in the 1960s as the girlfriend of the world’s most famous matador, El Cordobés, it’s a visceral love story between an innocent, young English girl and a hot-blooded Gypsy matador set against the backdrop of Andalucía.
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.
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.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
IT 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.
As the week progressed and our date at The Dorchester drew near, I asked myself the following questions:
Did I fancy him enough to get involved if my suspicions were justified?
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?
The answer was an unequivocal NO!
And so I texted him again.
About Thursday...will Mrs W be joining us?
He phoned me immediately.
"Er, you're right," he said, "there is a Mrs W but..."
"Stop right there. That's not what I'm about, thanks, so I won't be joining you after all."
"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..."
"Bye." I said and hung up.
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.
* * *
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.
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.
When I get back, my novel BLOOD ON THE SAND 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!
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.
As the week progressed and our date at The Dorchester drew near, I asked myself the following questions:
Did I fancy him enough to get involved if my suspicions were justified?
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?
The answer was an unequivocal NO!
And so I texted him again.
About Thursday...will Mrs W be joining us?
He phoned me immediately.
"Er, you're right," he said, "there is a Mrs W but..."
"Stop right there. That's not what I'm about, thanks, so I won't be joining you after all."
"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..."
"Bye." I said and hung up.
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.
* * *
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.
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.
When I get back, my novel BLOOD ON THE SAND 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!
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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