Character Sketch Series - #1

A brief introduction: I'm developing some character sketches for short story work, so will be posting several of these over the coming days/weeks. Really they're just experiments in creating (hopefully) believable and interesting characters in a relatively short section of prose, and seeing how they could be developed along with their suggested storyline. Your thoughts and comments are desired and welcome!

#1

Mrs Lesley Broomfield was out watering her tomatoes as the grey silent dawn lifted out of the sea, and stealthily crept over the shore. Its watery light sprinkled the dappled leaves of the apple tree before daring to shed precious drops along the lawn, coming to rest on Mrs Broomfield’s blue-clad shoulders. Her husband was still asleep, she thought, deadheading a few roses with rough fingers. 

Yes, he was asleep, and that was comforting. She might take him coffee, might watch him for a moment and trace the lines of youth yet found in his face, might remember a day years ago and find a smile. And yet, she fretted, as she boiled the kettle, perhaps she shouldn’t disturb him. She unscrewed the coffee jar.

By the time Lesley Broomfield mounted the stairs, trepidatious, green mug in hand, the bed upstairs was empty. She saw the smoothed cover, the dented pillow, the book’s curled pages, the lampshade’s dust.

‘Will?’

Her voice was tentative, strained. The wardrobe was open, the briefcase missing.

‘Will?’

She clasped the mug handle tighter, fingered her cardigan button, stared into the empty bedroom. She would have to live with her sister. ‘He had a will of his own,’ they would pun cruelly at The Lion. The woman at the post office would stare when she went in. She would be a nameless tragedy, wandering the streets in her blue anorak, no one to carry her shopping for her.

The bathroom door creaked, and a man in a towel tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Is that coffee for me?’

She handed it to him wordlessly, received a mumbled thanks, gazed with silent relief at his retreating figure. She wouldn’t move to the valley. She would stay here, and still be Mrs Broomfield, watering tomatoes at dawn. 

In Which I Discover That I Am Not Naturally Good at Kayaking

Symonds Yat East, Wales, September 2013

It's 4.34pm, and already today I have played the intrepid explorer no less than three times, at least to my reckoning. Firstly there was the matter of breakfast, which necessitated an early morning foray of five miles into nearby Ross-on-Wye to raid the local Sainsbury's for bacon (I am led to believe that bacon is a legal requirement on camping trips), and sundry other 'necessaries'*. Deeming it an excellent idea to purchase a £1.75 baking tray to act as a griddle, Lis and I were confident upon our return of a successful cooking episode, and were subsequently disappointed that, while the bacon was excellent, the tray warped and scorched in the centre. Retrospectively we shouldn't have been surprised given what we paid for it.

 Breakfast complete, challenge number two was the voyage up-field to the toilet shed (no other name would really be accurate) for the undertaking of morning ablutions. Anyone who has ever camped will no doubt agree that this is a quest of great proportion and not to be undertaken lightly - it requires a vast array of plastic-bag-clad toiletries, and no small measure of bravery. This particular toilet shed did have three sinks (one of which was either a bidet or a spider house and therefore viewed with suspicion) and two mirrors, not to mention a working light. These amenities already placed it in the higher echelons of camping facilities; however, it lacked the following:

- soap, a basic sanitary requirement
- shelves, so all bottles ended up in the sinks
- hand-drying equipment, so just-dry jeans became damp again

We made the best of it and yes, I did attempt some make up, as pointless as it may be on a campsite.

But the greatest exploration of the day has been a soggy and strenuous one, piloting kayaks up and down the Wye - and for me, read 'piloting' as 'utterly failing to pilot and drifting in ever more frustrating circles'. Lis and Sian, being the boaty types, were in their element, while I lent merely my excitement and some brawn to the effort, pumping up Lis's inflatable two-man and helping to heft it down the steep stone steps to be launched. I watched with increasing concern as Sian slipped effortlessly into her little blue hire kayak, deftly paddling out into the stream, followed by Lis making barely a ripple as she seated herself at the helm of her own vessel. How to follow without capsizing it, falling into the water, or generally making a fool of myself was my first worry. Once I had managed this, keeping up with the strict paddling regimen of a woman who has coxed Oxford rowing teams was my second. While not hugely experienced in boats, I did think I had sufficient power and accuracy to a) paddle in a straight line, and b) steer accurately. Both assumptions were to be severely tested over the three hours we were on the water, and the water was on us (I'm still drying off as I write this).

It transpires that it's not really enough to maintain a steady rhythm and stroke hard with the paddles - the angle, the length of stroke, the depth to which the paddle-head is run, the speed - all of these factors which I hadn't considered were suddenly thrust upon me, and I rapidly realised that I was an amateur in the more negative sense of the word. This didn't matter so much at first given that I was second fiddle in the larger, more stable kayak, and our progress up the river against its flow was steady, if not rapid. It was when we beached so I could swap into the blue kayak that the trouble really started.

In order to exit the first boat, I had to clamber out into the shallows in my trainers (my wellies were broken so I hadn't brought them). Then, wet to my ankles, I had to turn the small kayak around and get onboard without over-balancing it, which is far too easy with such a light boat. Once in, I discovered that my legs were several inches too long for the farthest reach of the foot-rests, which are important for steering, so I had to attempt adjusting the seat position instead. With numb fingers and taut straps this took almost five minutes, and a tourist boat came by while I was stood in the kayak, bent over with my bottom sticking out toward them - probably not a sight to have been mentioned in the guide book. Poor Lis and Sian, as patient and helpful as they were, must have been desperate to carry on with the voyage. Finally I had made every adjustment I could and, knees still sticking above the 'cockpit' top, I pushed off from the beach ready to conquer the river.

Twenty minutes later, I had got all of twenty yards upstream. Every stroke I took was changing the direction of the boat, every corrective stroke was an over-correction, and as hard as I tried to emulate the directives and demonstrations being shouted downstream by my fellow-campers, I simply circled about in a helpless splashing eddy of irritation. 'Paddle, paddle, lean, push, wait, which foot do I push with? oh dammit, I'm going the wrong way... paddle, paddle!' Etc.

After half an hour I had almost managed to make it to the yellow boat on the shoreline which we had set as our target, but by a highly convoluted route and only narrowly avoiding being hit by two other tourist boats. I was exhausted and more than a little embarrassed at being apparently unable to master even the rudiments of this sport, especially as a good two dozen other kayaks had passed me, and none of their occupants seemed to be experiencing even the slightest difficulty. We agreed it would be best for me to swap back into the bigger boat and, feeling defeated, I turned back downstream.

But lo! what miracle was this? A gentle touch and the help of the current were, it seems, all I needed to ease me into some degree of confidence in this reactive craft. Forgetting 'proper' technique I went with my instinct, paddled gently, and made it back to the beach with some grace if no real expertise.

Lis decided to take a turn in my nightmare and I took the front seat of her two-man, so Sian and I could lazily drift/direct our way back downstream. It was this half of the journey that really brought the river to life for me - I was no longer struggling against it, but running at its own pace and becoming part, for a while, of its landscape. Beyond mature willows and aged pontoons, the shore rose steeply into the hill of Symonds Yat West on our right, heavily wooded and studded with houses, their elegant presence taking commanding positions along the rise. To the left the tree line was not so steep, and the road was briefly visible between fields of sheep. Before the final bend along the return to our campsite, a whitewashed pub with wrought-iron lettering and its own moorings and slipway beamed invitingly in intermittent sunshine. Two dogs took it in turns to retrieve what looked like a small breadloaf from the water, and laughter echoed from the landing area as canoeists jostled in friendly manner for a place to stop off. Around the corner the Saracen's Head became visible at the far end of the next stretch of river, also whitewashed and beckoning, small blue umbrellas lined up along the front.

The water was full of bright streaks of colour, another dozen or so canoes and kayaks, no one boat matching its owner's helmet for hue - so many lurid buoys bobbing in the wake of yet another tour boat. We had to wait a good ten minutes for the landing strip at the foot of the stone steps to be clear, during which time we observed three kayaks launched down the steep chute and nose-down into the water with a splash. I was secretly very glad that we had not chosen this method ourselves, as wobbly as I might have been climbing in earlier in the afternoon. I wasn't much steadier upon exit, hauling myself onto the wet muddly concrete and finding that in three hours my legs had forgotten how to perform on land and were only just capable of getting me back up the steps.

And so, 3pm found me drenched from my own splashings, ravenous for lunch, and of the decided option that next time I was forking our for a lesson. After all, I couldn't get any worse!

*so designated because I'm not convinced that dark chocolate, fresh orange juice, and breaded ham quite count as essential. 

Use Me Break Me Mend Me Make Me

During the holiday, after weeks of procrastination and forgetfulness, I reluctantly pulled out a few choice items from the Mending Pile. My mum had one of these piles, and despite her excellent needle skills and multi-tasking that would put a politician on the campaign trail to shame, as far as I can remember it was never empty. In fact, even though she now only has two children living at home (at least one of whom gave up garden mudslides long ago enough not to have ripped any jeans lately), I'd be willing to bet there's still a Mending Pile somewhere, hiding in the bottom of a box or the back of a cupboard.

If you're wondering why I'm capitalising the phrase, the reason is very simple: dread. The Mending Pile goes hand in hand with such institutions as The Spring Clean, The Clear-Out, Unpacking Boxes - activities which we know we should embrace as part of the natural rhythm of life, but which for all but the Bree Van De Kamps of the world pose the kind of challenge that we'd rather hide under the duvet from. The knowledge that something is going to take an enormous chunk out of my day/week/life, and be onerous into the bargain, makes it a much bigger deal in my books. There just isn't time for all that, is there?

So I thought, until a pre-flight mending-related spat led me to reassess the situation (partly because it was 11pm, I was getting up at 3am the next day, and the bedroom light was still on while the offending item was being hunted out). Buttongate made me realise quite how much procrastination I justify with the phrase 'I'm too busy', and how many things I've left unfinished. Admittedly some of those things were and are best left incomplete - no one wants handmade mittens that look like oven gloves, a folder full of photos of Hayden Christensen, or my involvement in an improvised play. The flipside, however, left me with a long list of unjustifiably-abandoned projects: a jumper I've been knitting for Stan since 2010, a short novel I started at university, dance classes I promised myself I would take, research into evening classes so I can re-learn French, this blog which had all of two posts in the last year... and a whole host of other, some bigger and some smaller, things that I'd let go of.

Analytically-minded as I like to think I am, I couldn't actually formulate a sufficient reason or excuse, not for all of it anyway. Yes work is busy, yes there's always something to be done in the flat, yes I have people to visit instead of sewing buttons. So, have I just taken a more practical approach to life and sloughed off the plans of my past as unnecessary distractions? Or have I become lazy? Or am I afraid?

None of this is the best food for thought when you're trying to sleep before a long-haul flight, but I never was good at choosing the moment on that front (and I have the late-night Skype records to prove it). Consequently I had more than one wry smile as movie after movie on the flight tried to teach me I should do whatever I wanted as long as it made me happy; it seemed far too simplistic after all my soul-searching, but at the same time I was aware of how ridiculous it was to start re-assessing my entire life over a missing button. Ladies and gentlemen, step up to see, The Button! The metaphorical straw that broke the writer's metaphorical back! See her collapse under the enormous implications of an insignificant domestic incident! See her refer to herself in the third person in an attempt to inject more humour into her narcissistic diatribe!

But seriously. It's just a button, and I'm totally not having a crisis, but I do wish I did more. More stuff that matters, little things like buttons and jumper-knitting, and big things like going out on a limb with wacky creative ideas, and taking the risk of failure to actually try things I've been talking about for years. The old 'use it or lose it' adage has a serious ring of truth, as anyone who has heard me play piano lately can testify (lead fingers doesn't even cover it). I don't think I can buy into the movie dream and just throw myself into things without thinking of the consequences, but I'm guilty of sitting so far at the other end of the scale that I might never do anything at all for fear of it going wrong.

So - Buttongate has kicked me sufficiently toward some kind of resolution. If you're reading this, then when you next see me you'd better ask me what exactly I'm doing about it. Don't let me make excuses!

#I'drathernotthanks

I've come to the conclusion that I might be what some people would term a social media snob. Not in the 'hipster' sense of the term, i.e. needing to be on board with the latest site/app/means of networking before it becomes too mainstream, but (and you can read the above pigeon-holing as an example) more in the 'this is where I'm comfortable and the rest of you who are trying too hard look a bit silly' sense. I don't think they've come up with an acronym for that one yet.

The trouble with age, they say, is that you get stuck in your ways. For those who spent/are spending their teens and early twenties posting duck-face selfies and ambiguous song lyrics, one could be forgiven for expecting (or at least hoping) that this isn't the case. It's a worn-out cliché really, one which has sat in common parlance for long enough to no longer be qualified by most people using it. I would posit that it's likely we simply become more comfortable with criticising the ways of others. After all, it can hardly be argued in this day and age that people in their forties don't use social media because it wasn't around when they were younger, or that 50 is the upper threshold for trying new foods or travel experiences - or, indeed, that age carries with it a bigotry or judgementalism forgiven only by virtue of the generation to which it belongs. Children born into the sexual revolution of the 1960s are reaching fifty now, and while it shouldn't be assumed that they all therefore perpetuate or approve the subsequent relaxation of social mores, there is a lot to be said for recognising that age doesn't equal closed-mindedness.

That being said, the natural confidence grown through age and experience does tend to leave us freer to differ in opinion from one another. This is where I think my snobbery comes in; as I become less worried about how people think of me, I develop less tolerance for the actions of those I could, in less kind moments, perceive to be 'les poseurs'.

It's a worrying development. Now when I see facebook posts involving multiple hashtags, rather than a pang of envy directed at those who have been effortlessly incorporated into the hallowed realms of the twittersphere, I have to fight the urge to lash out in a spasm of grammar-related angst. I once tried posting the (what I thought was smug and ironic) response, #don'tyouknowthisisn'ttwitter - only to be rebuffed with '...and?' Amidst the #justsayin', #YOLO, and, a personal favourite, #Armani #jeans (wouldn't you just put those words together?!), I no longer see myself as the aspiring, uninvited outsider but as the spurned voice of reason. I try to fight it, reminding myself of tipsy bathroom selfies and poor poetry verses which I have almost certainly inflicted on cyberspace. Or, which may be more dangerous, I can observe from afar and observe silently - poor little fad followers, how would they know any better?

My problem is that, whatever my personal reaction, I feel deep down that neither party in this exchange is on the right side of the long-term balance. I am told that I am missing out on participating in a form of communication which puts countless ideas, opinions and unique thoughts at the fingertips of the masses in a condensed and globally-accessible format; that humanity is able to participate in conversations spanning geography, ideology, age and gender; that modern business success is dependent upon harnessing and wielding the power of such a tool. All of which are excellent arguments, and exactly what I would base an academic argument upon - if I felt it were true. In reality, when faced with yet another 140-character slating of a TV talent show and strings of words without any coherent sentence structure to make a thought intelligible, I just can't be bothered. Is there a haiku-only media site? A political forum with verifiable, digestible tidbits? Great, sign me up. Anything that requires a bit of thought in the expression so that I feel it's worth my time to read it.

The alternative is of course that I am a terribly judgemental old crone who takes advantage of a decent education and a blog log-in to argue the living daylights out of anything that annoy me. After all, I didn't get a MySpace until it was dying, lasted on Bebo all of six months before Facebook took over, and never understood how to use Twitter well enough to get anything out of it other than weekly email updates which go, unread, straight into my trash folder. For the thousands who have been published on sports blogs, the fans whose days have been made by a celebrity re-tweet, the artists who have successfully promoted an event, the lucky few who have wrangled key job interviews - I have no doubt Twitter and other social media has been a godsend. Not everyone spouts a crazed diatribe at the least provocation. Not everyone feels the need to make their life a melodrama and their cyber buddies the pawns of social-mobility-related schemings. Not everyone has forgotten how to conjugate a sentence.

However, it may also be worth mentioning that not everyone understands that my reticence in the use of social media isn't necessarily a direct reflection on them. I received a LinkedIn connection request in late May from an acquaintance whom I had met a handful of times and was never in contact with anymore. Not being able to access LinkedIn at the time, I left it. Last week I received a Facebook email from the same individual, a sinister and unexpected on-liner, reading simply: 'LinkedIn.' Apparently it's now acceptable to threaten people into participating in the great game of 'love me!' When did this happen? One thing is for certain - I shall not be making any endorsements for him anytime soon.

Scarlett Johansson's Bottom (and other distractions in my kitchen)

Vaulting the Block

Ladies and gentlemen of the literary jury, I need your help. The more observant among you may have noticed that I am not a gymnast (anyone who would have mistaken me for one, I'm flattered, but you may need your eyes testing). As days and weeks of good intentions have melted into months of lazy-mindedness, I find there's just one block I can't seem to shift or clamber over - not with any elegance, anyway. My blog has lain here quiet and abandoned, and every time I attempt to scribble something of any substance, I find myself falling after the first or second hurdle, to mix in yet another sporting metaphor.

I used to think it was a myth, like the mid-life crisis my father has yet to have, or a photograph of Roy Hodgson that doesn't make him look like he should be in the Hundred Acre Wood misspelling birthday cards. Either that or it was just an excuse for people who were too easily distracted by other pursuits. Well, colour me distracted - I really don't know what to do. And this, I hope, is where you may come in.

A few weeks/months ago (let's not get into the big ball of timy-wimy stuff), at the suggestion of the hubby, I made a brief, spontaneous, and rather absurd list of possible writing topics that would require maximum humour and hopefully just enough effort to get me back into my stride. I put them to you now, in (sic.) format:

Topic One
 - the tiny hamster that lives under my bed.
 - his name is Melvin.
 - he is ginger and white and he eats marshmallows.

Topic Two
 - 3-legged centaur named Grumble.
 - he is the guardian of the Christmas tree forest, protecting all the trees throughout the 'off-season'.

Topic Three
 - Reasons John Prescott would make it as a professional wrestler.
 - Punching and ugly women...

Topic Four
 - The perils of Just For Men (and other possible indicators of the fabled mid-life crisis).

It seems I may have come full circle in my references with that last one. As you can see, the list verges more on the side of the fantastical than the socio-political commentary I should probably be going for, but then again who says the two are so very far apart, or can't mix? Of course since the penning of the list I have had half a dozen other ideas, but nothing that I can work with at the moment. I think that's the challenge of any kind of creativity - can we stick at it for long enough to get it finished before the next thing steals our attention? Please tell me I'm not alone in this specific form of ADD.

So what I'm trying to ask in a rather roundabout fashion is, what should I write about (other than my inability to write)? If you have an opinion, please voice it! I will attempt to be open-minded.

Of course if no one responds then I will have to conclude either that a) no one reads my blog and I should have invested more in marketing, b) all the above ideas are too ridiculous for words and you are laughing at me, or c) you have more important things to do than indulge me in my set of First World Problems (please don't take that phrase as too politically loaded as I am just referencing a meme), and I had better just buck up on my lonesome.

As I type this, I have a cake in the oven, fruit steeping in wine on the side, and pastry in the fridge, so if all else fails I can just become a food blogger and irritate everyone with comments about wine having a nose and other such nonsense. Your call, dear reader, your call.

The Red Velvet Debacle

On a bright February morning, facebook played host to the most innocent of suggestions: ‘Come and stay? I’ll make cake.’

I’ve issued these invitations before, and they’re usually declined – not because I’m not an awesome person to visit (I am) or because my cake isn’t good (it’s excellent, she claims modestly), but because I live in the Middle Of The Country. Those of you who share my fate will know what I mean. We’re the farthest from the sea, we’re neither glamorous urban nor idyllic getaway, and most train tickets from most places cost as much as getting to London in peak hours. Therefore, despite residing in the county of Shakespeare, walking distance from a castle and with the cutest little flat that urges you to curl up on its sofas with one of my many fluffy blankets, I’ve not had many visitors.

But this time, something wonderful happened. ‘Yes!’ came the reply. ‘How’s three weekend’s time?’

I can’t lie, I did do a little dance of joy at the prospect of spending the weekend marauding around Stratford-upon-Avon and other choice haunts with my purple-haired college buddy. And then I got to planning – starting with le food.

My friend is vegetarian, and living as I do with a man who doesn’t consider anything to be a proper meal if it doesn’t contain meat, I was a little nervous about catering appropriately for all three of us for an entire weekend. I checked a few recipe books; I sought a friend’s advice; I may have even Googled. Yes it was probably a bit OTT, but this was someone I’d not seen in ages, and I wanted to feed them well.

In the end it was a completely different food requirement that gave me all the trouble. By the time the weekend in question arrived, my one guest had turned into three and we were on course for a proper reunion. Which was great – until I asked an ill-advised question. 

Lesson one – never let your food-snob friend (sorry Tonny but it’s true) decide what type of cake you’re going to make for their weekend visit.  What started as a quick mercy run for eggs and sugar will become an eighteen-item hunting expedition, which will on at least one occasion result in blank stares from uncomprehending store assistants who have never heard of buttermilk.

I had of course heard of the celebrated Hummingbird Bakery and its brightly coloured flagship-cake – what foodie hasn’t? But when I downloaded the recipe, I was disconcerted to find that my kitchen lacked a significant number of the required ingredients – including white wine vinegar. Who puts vinegar in a cake? Apparently, I was about to; that and enough red food colouring to keep an entire primary school hyper for a week. 

What was going into these cakes filled almost my entire kitchen table, so that I barely had enough space to measure and mix, and was constantly worried that I might have done something in the wrong order and upset the delicate balance of my culinary experiment. Was it meant to have the texture of meringue, and be the colour of primary-school-party strawberry jelly?

Eventually, I was ready to entrust the results to my oven - probably the most dangerous part, as it has a reputation for changing temperature and has a fondness for burning the outside and undercooking the inside of baked goods. I decided that after all my shopping and mixing efforts, I couldn't afford not to sit sentinel, and spent a rather anxious twenty minutes peering periodically into the oven before returning to my icing-making.


It was silly-o-clock by the time they were all cooked and cooled, so I decided to resume my efforts in the morning. 7am found me making butterfly wings (the cake kind), and smearing icing everywhere to create my rather-more-pink-than-red masterpieces:

I was pretty proud of myself, but I have to be honest - they really didn't seem to taste any different to most other cupcakes I've made! The chocolate element was barely noticeable, the texture wasn't exactly velvet, and the overall effect, while pretty, dried out too quickly. So much for posh cupcakes; clearly I still have some way to go!

However, the joke was on my cake-fussy friend a few weeks later, as he decided to undertake the red velvet challenge himself. I was inundated with slightly befuddled and entertaining text messages: "What is buttermilk?" - "So I churn the milk?" - "When the cake is cooked is it supposed to wobble?" - "Is it safe to put foil in the oven?" - and so forth.


Next time I'm going with plain vanilla, and I don't care what anyone says. Some things are just not worth the hassle!