The world from my window

Forty years ago (I can't believe it's forty years ago), I entered with great trepidation the Portakabin of Life as part of the Mirror Group Newspapers training scheme in Plymouth. I was eighteen and rather nervous. I didn't really feel like I belonged there, alongside clever graduates from Oxford and similarly lofty establishments. I was a comprehensive school girl from Somerset. But English was the only subject I was ever any good at. And since the age of about nine or ten, I'd wanted to be a journalist. I put that down to having watched the wisecracking Rosalind Russell in the 1940s film His Girl Friday . I wanted to be like her - smart, sassy, witty, independent. I also wanted to wear those suits. And maybe catch the heart of Cary Grant. The school's careers adviser said journalism was a competitive business and I'd be better off in retail management or train to be a librarian. I can't sell anything for toffee and I'm not particula...

I went on the march yesterday. It was an early start, driving into Bridport accompanied by Tony Blackburn on Radio 2 to catch the seven o'clock bus to London, and then back home again at ten at night to Craig Charles's House Party. In the interim, my friend won a 'I'm one of the Liberal Elite (apparently)' T-shirt in the raffle on the coach and I acquired a Union Jack-meets-the-EU-stars flag as we waited for the march to set off. It was the first time I've been on a mass protest since 1983. In a country torn apart by Brexit, it was the most positive many have felt in a long time. Surrounded by people of all faiths, colours, creed, all united for a common cause. We, the forty-eight percent, others who have changed their minds in the last three-and-half years and those who, in June 2016, had been too young to vote. There were teenagers, old people, the middle-aged, millennials and children. There were dogs and unicorns, masses of drums and big, bold ...

I’m on the Isles of Scilly with friends, the weather’s been glorious and there’s been lots of walking, paddling in the clear waters and spirited conversation. But the thing I’ve been most looking forward to, ever since I discovered a cairn at the top of the hill behind the house we’re staying in, is to take myself off for a couple of hours to read in complete solitude. Not just any book, though. The novel is one in which I’ve wanted to immerse myself ever since I ordered it. After it arrived, it sat on the chest of drawers next to my bed, on top of David Nicholl’s Sweet Sorrow , John Lanchester’s The Wall , and Stephen King’s The Outsider . I’d been given a book token and went a bit mad. My literary tastes are somewhat eclectic but a good friend tells me the common denominator is the quality of the prose. ‘You like good writing, don’t you?’ she said. I hadn’t actually thought much about it before but she’s absolutely right. I wince at adverbs (...

The school holidays have come to an end, with children already hunkered down in the new school year. University students are settling into their accommodation before the studying begins, and college kids are getting used to a different routine every morning. I love autumn and that change in the seasons, from the hurly burly of summer to a more contemplative, meditative time of year. New beginnings and all that. For me, that means returning to that wonderful place of learning, The Open University , where I'm just about to start a masters degree in creative writing. At fifty-eight, it was now or never because my eligibility for a student loan runs out at the age of sixty. As soon as I discovered that, the choice was already made. It was, in an expression I absolutely loathe, a no-brainer. My degree years with the OU from 2007-2011 were among the most creative I've ever experienced.  The culture of supportive learning was a real tonic and stood me in good stead. I'...

On Sunday morning, there are two sheep sauntering in a very confident manner down the street. Unfazed by the local peloton of cyclists zooming past in formation, the sheep look right, look left and then look right again before crossing the main road, heading in the direction of Lyme Regis. They'll be corralled in a garden soon, way before they have the chance to place their towels out on the sand or frolic about with buckets and spades. Their adventure will probably be over within minutes. But they're out there, giving it a go. I am out here too, with two little girls laden with sweets from the village shop, each one far exceeding their £2 allowance, Young children are canny like that. They knew I'd lose count once the liquorice bootlaces and fried egg candies started going in the basket at speed. There were just too many figures to add up in my head. Unlike the sheep or indeed their grandmother, who got a grade three CSE in maths three times (even with private tu...

I'm back in my old haunts, up on the hill, dog walking when I make an interesting discovery. I haven't been up here for months but  I vow to thee my country that I'll get back to my old routine and do this early morning walk at least three times every week. At 28 kilos, Arty certainly needs the exercise. And me, at ahem I prefer not to mention but said quickly in imperial measures is at least a stone too heavy, well, I need to exercise too. It's late summer and the children are still on holiday but ready to go back to school soon, with new uniforms, shoes backpacks, sandwich boxes and pencil cases all to shop for this week.  (It always irritated me immensely that high street stores insisted on 'Back to School' displays as soon as the children broke up for the summer. How dare these commercial types spoil the magic of holiday time. Talk about pressure.) This morning, it's quiet on the hill until the rain starts dropping in ever increasingly large spl...

It's the height of fete time here in France, with the weirdest, wildest, wackiest festivals you could ever imagine. Most of them involve eating and drinking, which is perfectly fine if you're into that sort of thing. Luckily, I am. I think I'm going native. August is the time to have fun with friends. However old or young you are. I could be here for some time. This one involved rows of mussels in soaked paper and then straw put on the top and set alight. Seems rather a convoluted way of cooking mussels en masse, but ho hum, why keep things simple? Later this week we'll be enjoying an omelette made with two and a half thousand eggs. Porquoi? Porquoi pas. That's about it. Love Maddie x