The C-Word!

I’m sorry, there’s nothing for it. At some point during this blog, I will be using the C-word. We’re almost halfway through December, the decorations are up, my bank account has been drained, and cheesy music is playing in every shop. Yep. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. But more on the festive season later.

It’s been a strange two weeks, full of ups and downs and little wins. When we last spoke it was the eve of the Stonham Barns Christmas Fair and my car had thankfully been repaired in time. So, how did it go? Very very well is the answer. I packed up my car and set off early on Saturday morning. It was bitterly cold but bright sunshine was beaming down from clear blue skies. I was well layered up and our pitch was indoors, so I knew we were weatherproof. After a brief and uneventful journey, I arrived at the showground and parked in trader’s car park B. Opening my door, I found a pile of animal poop on the ground so gingerly stepped out around it and sank ankle-deep in wet cold bogland. It had rained so much that the ground was waterlogged. Squelching in ruined sneakers, I unloaded the car and looked at how far it had sunk into the ground. Deciding that start-of-the-day me needed to get a move on, I left it as a problem for end-of-the-day me to solve and slopped my stuff into the barn.

Our pitch was right by the double glass doors and my fellow author was already busy setting up her half of the table. I have done so many shows and fairs now that setting up doesn’t take me long. Because it was Christmas, we draped coloured lights and artificial holly sprigs over the stall to make it look nicely festive and waited to see how the day would progress.

At first it was slow going. The showground is large and as the barn was right at the very end and quite a way from the car park, it took a while for people to reach us. A lot of people grunted that they didn’t read to our bright enquiries and it was sad to hear how many are happy going through their lives never picking up a book at all. Still, by mid-morning business was reasonably brisk. Some people were lovely and chatted to us about books and what things they had read and enjoyed. Others were unnecessarily rude. One lady — and I use that term loosely — left us open-mouthed at her unpleasantness. Upon being asked if she was a reader, she replied “Yes, but not of those books” gesturing to our book babies arranged so beautifully upon the stall, and then stomped off. The guy collecting for charity opposite us pulled a face at her retreating back and flashed us a sympathetic grin.

It was a long, busy day, which thankfully ended at 4pm. As we were back the next day all we had to do was cover up our stall, gingerly reverse our cars out of the quagmire, and drive home. I was out for dinner that evening, so I quickly changed and freshened up my hair and make-up and my friend kindly popped around to collect me to save me a long walk there.

The next day it didn’t feel like quite such a good day. The sun which had blazed through the open glass doors on Saturday and kept us reasonably warm was gone and a chill, bitter blast of icy wind was freezing us to the spot. People were grumpy and even ruder than the day before. I mean, it was supposed to be a Christmas Fair — goodwill to man and all that malarky — so why are people always so miserable when Christmas shopping?

Still, things did pick up as the day wore on and we sold books. I had sold out of The Forest the day before so had to rearrange my stall to cover the space. I had almost sold out of Black Ice, Erinsmore and Mage Quest so decided to take the few remaining copies I had off the table and try to push my contemporary novels. For some reason, my fantasy books always sell well at live events, but I struggle to shift the Perennials Trilogy and the Blackwood Family Saga. Is it because people are reluctant to risk a series and prefer standalone books? Or is it just that most readers like fantasy? Or simply that the covers of my fantasy books stand out more? Whatever it is, once I have sold what stock I have remaining of my contemporary novels I will not be buying any more to sell at live events. If it is my fantasy books that people want, then that is what I will give them.

The new hardback versions of Eclairs for Tea did sell well though and I sold every copy I had except one. Most of them were bought by people as gifts for friends and family, and I was kept busy signing and gift-wrapping them. The hardback edition proved a lot more popular than the paperback so it will be interesting to see at the next Christmas event where I won’t have any of the hardback edition to compare it to, whether the paperback will come into its own. If you wish to buy a copy of the beautiful hardback as a Christmas present there is still time. Click on the link for Eclairs for Tea and other stories on the books page of this site and look for the book. Ignore the fact it’s still showing the old cover — I need the IT Department to show me how to change it — the link will still take you to the new listing.

It is strange though, Sunday felt like the worst day. People were less responsive and more bad-tempered, and in my mind, I imagined this would be reflected in my sales figures. However, when I looked I had sold almost the same amount on Sunday as I had on Saturday. It is a nice feeling though, to imagine people unwrapping my books on Christmas Day and hopefully being happy with them. Maybe they will read and love them. Maybe they will want to read more books by me and will check out my website.

One very nice thing occurred when a lady who had bought The Forest from me at the August Comic-Con, and who had found me at NorCon and bought Black Ice, came to the Fair specifically to see if I was there and to buy another signed book — this time The Book of Eve. Thank you, you have no idea how much this meant to me. See you at the next event hopefully.

Speaking of which, the next live event I’m doing — and the last one before Christmas — is the Festive Foreword book sale taking place tomorrow in Bury St Edmunds. I would say come along and say hello but, by the time you read this it will be Sunday, so you will either have come along or not.

I’ve had a few mishaps since we last spoke, all caused by wobbly ankles. I’ve always had dodgy joints and have lost count of the number of times my ankle has turned underneath me causing me to stumble or even fall. Heels are an absolute no-no and even in flats I still feel distinctly unsteady on my pins at times. Usually, I manage to walk a straight line, but sometimes my ankles cause me problems.

A few weeks ago, Mum messaged to say she and “the girls” were coming into town on the bus to do some shopping and have lunch. Bear in mind not one of “the girls” is under 75. Could they come and wait at mine in the warm at about 3.30ish for Dad to come and collect them? Now, on that day I was meeting a couple of friends for an early dinner at a local pub. One of my friends lives on the road leading to the village where Mum and her cronies live on the outskirts of town. I was going to collect her at 4.30 to save her the walk.

Is Dad getting the car out especially? I asked.

Yes, came the reply.

Look, I have to get the car out anyway, so why don’t I run you all home and then collect my friend on the way back in?

So long as you have time.

Yes, it will be fine.

The day arrived. I ran around in the morning doing all the things I had to do. The girls weren’t arriving until 3:30ish so I figured I had plenty of time. They arrived a little early. An hour and a half early to be exact.

We’ve done all our shopping and had lunch, and it’s getting cold and dark, I was told.

Okay, I’ll put the kettle on, I replied.

I boiled the kettle, made four cups of tea, put milk in a jug, and loaded the lot onto a small tray to take into the lounge. It was when I was half turning to close the door behind me that it happened. My ankle turned, the tray lurched, and I watched in slow motion as a whole cup of scalding hot, fresh from the kettle, not even any milk in it to cool it, tea tipped and drenched my side.

It hurt. A lot. The scalding liquid soaked straight through my sweater and the vest top underneath. Shrieking orders to get the kitchen paper and start mopping up, I legged it upstairs ripping off my clothes as I went. More concerned about the carpet than myself, I hastily pulled on more clothes and ran downstairs to aid with the cleaning operation.

Are you all right? They asked in concern.

I’m fine, I said, and at the time I was. No, it wasn’t until later that I realised it did hurt and when I checked, a handprint-shaped mark of raised welts and burn marks greeted me. It looked like I’d been grabbed by the devil. Distinct finger mark shapes where the burning liquid had stuck folds of clothing to my skin which were enough to get me burnt at the stake for being a witch in medieval times.

Three weeks later, the welts have subsided, and the vivid red burn marks have settled into a dull purple stain. Not sure if they will go away completely, or if that’s me branded for life.

First offence of my ankles.

Last week, the large official portrait of Franki garbed in graduation robes arrived in the post. A thing of beauty, I decided it would hang on the family wall in the lounge. I took down another picture and leaned over the side table to hang it up. My ankle decided that was the moment that it was buggering off for lunch and completely went underneath me. I fell. Knocked the side table. Swatted the large red glass lamp standing there and it shattered into a dozen pieces.

I was more than upset. I’ve had that lamp for over fifteen years and it’s half of a pair that stands on either side of the sofa.

Can it be fixed with tape? Franki asked, on being told my sorry tale.

No, it’s smashed beyond all hope, I replied.

So that was strike two against my treacherous ankles. The third time was even worse.

As I’ve already told you, after being at Stonham Christmas Fair the whole day on Saturday, I had a quick turnaround and went to dinner at a friend’s house — the same friend who lives on the outskirts of town. She picked me up but after dinner, I walked back into town with the other guests who lived at various places along my route home.

I don’t know what to say. It was dark, and late, I had ever such a low chunky heel on my sturdy boots, I’d had a glass or two of wine and I was tired. I’d also been on my feet all day. Whatever the reason, my ankle failed spectacularly and I facepalmed the pavement. Laughing off the concerns of the others and insisting I was fine. I limped home gritting my teeth and went to bed. In the morning, I examined my war wounds. A grazed and ripped knee and shin from landing on a gravel bit of the path. A banged and grazed elbow and a large bruise on my forearm. A painful hand where I’d tried to break my fall and a massive dent in my pride.

And so, this is Christmas. How does it manage to sneak up on us every year? The first day of December seemed to flip a switch in people. Town was heaving that day, and every shop was belting out Christmas anthems. Crammed with hatchet-faced people intent on spending all their money, they clogged up the Christmas aisle in Poundland. Caught up in the moment, I went around with a basket and bought chocolates, sweets, and treats for stockings. Two days later I was begging Mum to take them home with her until closer to Christmas. I’d already eaten four of them and knew if left in the house there’d be nothing left for Christmas.

I have a complicated relationship with chocolate. I don’t want it normally. I don’t even like it all that much, and it sometimes gives me an upset stomach. But, if it’s in the house then I hear its siren call and cannot resist. I remember one year I bought a friend a box of gorgeous hand-dipped Belgium chocolates. Ate them. Bought another box. Wrapped them beautifully and attached a gift label. I tucked them away in a cupboard thinking out of sight, out of mind. Two days later I’d found them, unwrapped them, and eaten them. I waited until the day I was going to see her. Went to town especially and bought another box. I cannot be trusted.

Last year I bought the obligatory Terry’s Chocolate Oranges ready to go into stockings. If there isn’t a Terry’s chocolate orange is it even Christmas? I ate them thinking I’d replace them. Nope. Everywhere was sold out. It got closer and closer to Christmas. I began to panic. No Terry’s Chocolate Orange in the stocking would be catastrophic and would mean I had seriously failed in my parental duties. Finally, two days before Franki was due home I heard a rumour from a customer that WH Smith’s might have some left. The next day I legged it to town and was there for when the shop opened. The rumour was true. I replaced the scoffed chocolates, and all was well. I thought it had scared me sober, turns out I was wrong.

So, there is a big bag of chocolates and sweets sitting at Mum’s — including Terry’s chocolate oranges — for me to retrieve closer to Christmas and pray I don’t succumb before Franki gets home on the 22^nd of December.

Am I ready for Christmas? That’s the question women ask each other this time of year. Bound in sisterly angst at the trials we face making Christmas magical for everyone but ourselves we seek solidarity. Do you know, I am convinced if left to men Christmas wouldn’t happen. Or it might be a day off and a pie and pint down the pub — although I sometimes think that might be the better idea.

When did Christmas get so expensive, so complicated, and such bloody hard work for women? Because — and I apologise to the 2% of the male population who actually do more than just stir their stumps to buy their partners a gift — it is incredibly hard work that mostly falls on the woman’s shoulders. Have we made a rod for our own backs? In seeking to create the perfect Christmas with the magic that we remember from our childhood do we stress too much and overcompensate? I think maybe we do. I once comforted a sobbing friend because she couldn’t get paper napkins the exact shade of green and red to match her table centrepiece for the Christmas dinner table.

It doesn’t matter, I said. No one will notice, no one will care.

I will notice, she cried. I will care!

And that’s the crux of it. Women care too much, and men don’t care enough. It’s a shame we can’t meet in the middle and end up with a Christmas that isn’t sheer bloody graft for one member of the family and is enjoyable for everyone. Any men reading this who are shifting uncomfortably thinking that yes, their sole contribution to Christmas is to just about manage to buy something for their partner so long as they are supplied with a detailed list with precise location, size, colour, price, and brand of whatever it is their partner wants  — or better yet, an Amazon wish list — or even better, just give their partner money and let them buy it themselves (totally missing the whole point of presents here guys. Thoughtfulness is key) — and to open the wine on Christmas Day and carve the turkey, then why not help out a little more this year?

Ask — and be forceful about it — for chores to do. Women love to play martyr and refuse any offers of help when inside they are screaming out for it. So, insist, or just take it upon yourself to help. Is the house covered in sparkles and bits from decorating the tree? Then get the vacuum out — without being begged — and use it. Does the dishwasher need unloading? Are there presents and cards to be delivered or collected? Would your partner love you forever if you took the kids out for the day? And most of all, think about what they would love for a gift and buy it for them. You have no idea how stunned and grateful women are when their other half actually bothers to think about them and goes to the effort of buying something special — without their hand being held throughout the whole process.

Anyway, rant over. Sorry guys, but you know it’s true.

Am I ready for Christmas? Just about. My cards are all written and posted — and that’s a rant for another day, the price of stamps. With a second-class stamp now costing 75p, I can see it being the end of posted cards. I would estimate that I’ve spent £50 this year on cards and that 80% of that cost is the price of posting them. Most of my presents have been bought, although I’m still waiting for a couple to be delivered. Sadly, one of Franki’s main presents won’t be here for Christmas and it’s doubtful it will even be here by the time they return to university. There is nothing I can do except cross my fingers and hope. It’s not like I haven’t bought a shedload of other stuff for them.

My decorations are up, and the house is looking beautifully festive. And then there’s my tree. Ah yes, the tree.

Several years ago, when I was still working for the accountant, we bought a narrow silver tree to have up in the office. Although 6ft tall it was pencil thin so fitted neatly into one corner. As the office colour was mostly blue, we bought a string of blue lights and some blue baubles to adorn it with and that was our office tree for many a Christmas. When my boss retired he told me to toss the tree into the skip, but my thrifty nature would not let me throw away a perfectly good tree, so I took it home instead. It packed away neatly into a tiny box, so I stuck it in the back of the wardrobe and forgot about it until a year later when I was working in the bed store.

Do we have a Christmas tree? I asked, as my first festive season there approached.

If you want one, you can buy it, came the reply.

Well, I wasn’t about to do that. Then I remembered the little silver tree in the wardrobe and took that in. Each year, for the six years I worked there, I would bring down this tree from the warehouse and set it up near the desks and decorate it. I didn’t care that everyone else was bah humbug, it was a festive touch.

When I handed my notice in I was told in no uncertain terms to take my tree with me. So, I did. And back into the wardrobe, it went. I had no intention of using it, I just couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I had a vague idea of giving it to the lodger to use but I think their room is so cluttered that narrow though it is, there would be no space to put it.

Since my very first Christmas after leaving home in 1988, I have had a real tree. I love real trees. I love the sight of them, the smell of them, and the whole concept of them. I live in a Victorian house, so it seemed almost rude not to have a real tree. However, this year I am the most broke I have ever been coming into the festive season. What with the unexpected expenses of the cat and the car, all my holiday savings have gone. To buy a half-decent tree was going to be £60+. Then the was the whole inconvenience of having to dismantle my desk and store it in my bedroom to fit the tree in. A real tree tends to be quite girthy, so space has to be created for it.

Then I remembered the silver tree.

I always vowed that an artificial tree would never darken my doorstep, but … but … it was going to be so expensive to buy a real one, and think of all the mess of taking it down, of the pine needles being trodden everywhere throughout the house. Sod it, I thought, just this once I will think with my head and not my heart and use the tree I already had. Okay, it’s over twenty years old. Okay, it’s silver and skinny and looks like a bog brush. It’s free and convenient and will fit into the tiniest space so no removal of furniture will be necessary. It’s clean and packs neatly back into its box. I would use it.

Last weekend, I spent the whole of Saturday deep-cleaning the ground floor. I used to know someone who never bothered to clean before hanging up her Christmas decorations. We would sit there watching the tinsel and the cobwebs flutter in the breeze. Then Sunday I decorated. The lounge and dining room first. The mantlepieces looked stunning with a green garland threaded with twinkly lights and red glass candle holders. The Welsh dressing was adorned with precious festive bits and bobs, and then it was time to do the tree.

It wasn’t an auspicious start. The branches — or silver tinsel struts (branches are too grand a word for what this tree has) — were crushed from being in the box so I spent almost an hour teasing them into shape and fluffing up the tinsel. Then I wound the lights on. To my surprise, the tree took all of the lights I would normally have on a much bigger real tree. A small silver star on top as my antique Angel Gabriel was too big and heavy to use. Then I picked out my favourite decorations and started finding homes for them on the skinny branches. I obviously couldn’t use as many as normal, but I was surprised at how many the tree took. Then I stepped back and took a look.

Actually … it’s not bad. I don’t hate it. It’s kinda cute and neat and sparkly. It’s so compact and sits perfectly in the littlest space between the armchair and the wall. It’s very low maintenance, which is always a plus. I am forced to admit that I like it. I like it a lot, Although with all of those lights on it’s a bit like having a nuclear reactor in the corner of the lounge.

It just goes to show, you might not be able to polish a turd, but you can cover it in lights.

And on that note, I need to go. It’s growing dark and I still need to sort things ready for an early start to the Festive Foreword Christmas Book Sale tomorrow. By the time we are next due to chat it will be Christmas Eve. I’m hoping there will be a blog but am forewarning you now that I might run out of time so will take this opportunity to wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

Best Wishes

Julia Blake