Thanks But No Thanks

There are certain professions in this life which attract rejection. My days are a catwalk model are long gone, but I still remember taking my coltish limbs, pouting lips and luxuriant hair from one agent to another and hearing those dreaded words, “Sorry, darling, your look is too last season.” When I finally made it, bursting on to the fashion world as the muse of legendary designer, St John de Laslos, I was able to laugh in the faces of those who had crushed my youthful dreams.

Tiring of the vacuous world of modelling, I turned to acting, as you’ll know if you’ve followed my career. I appeared in a handful of critically acclaimed arthouse movies, cementing my reputation as the inspiration for the short-lived Film Mwah movement. Success didn’t come overnight for me. I had to get used to letters of rejection from directors, telling me that my radiant beauty and international fame would overshadow the true meaning of their films.

At thirty, two Oscars and a Bafta under my belt, I felt it was time to wave goodbye to La La Land and allow my remarkable gift for writing to flow unchecked. And so, now one of the UK’s most revered authors, I sit in my well-appointed writing studio, framed letters of rejection papering the walls and muse on the strange and febrile nature of success.

OK. I’m back. Don’t worry, it’s still me. I am sitting in the dining room, laptop perched on my knee, straggly hair in plaits (nice!) with the smell of dinner drifting in from the kitchen and a tottering pile of clean washing just within my eye line.

Most weeks, I get to early evening on a Wednesday and ask myself what on earth I’m going to write about this week. I’ve spent the last few days working on my novel, The Diary of Isabella M Smugge, non-stop. The deadline to have it finished and with the publisher is in thirteen days’ time. I love a deadline. It really sharpens the mind.

Let’s go back to rejection. I was rejected by four publishers before Isabella found a home with Instant Apostle, God bless them. This, of course, is nothing, compared to the twelve rejections that JK Rowling received before Bloomsbury accepted Harry Potter. Imagine being one of those publishers. You’d never be able to let it go.

The Beatles were rejected by a Decca Records executive back in 1962. According to them, guitar groups were on the way out. “He must be kicking himself now,” mused Paul. “I hope he kicks himself to death!” riposted John.

And how about this letter of rejection from Marvel to Jim Lee, now Chief Creative Officer of DC Comics? “Your work looks as if it were done by four different people. We suggest you resubmit when your work is consistent and you have learned to draw hands.”

The thing about being a creative type, like what I am, is that you really believe in the work you produce. Few writers have the gift of constant inspiration. As Thomas Edison once said, “Genius is one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration.” You might come up with a brilliant idea, but it takes work and lots of it to hone it into a good piece of text.

When someone says, “That’s not for us” or, “Your style isn’t quite what we’re looking for at the moment,” it’s hard not to take it personally. Doors closing in our faces can discourage us from trying again. But it’s important that we do.

Where would the world of mechanical cleaning be without Mr Dyson and his persistence in the face of rejection? No-one took him up on his revolutionary idea for a bagless vacuum cleaner for over fifteen years but he never gave up. Now, he’s a billionaire.

Dear readers, I was never a catwalk model. Nor am I an Oscar-winning actor. You probably knew that. But I am a writer and I do know all about rejection. It’s hard, it’s tough, but if you keep believing in yourself and fixing your eyes on the goal, you will, one day, get that email or that phone call that makes all your dreams come true.

I’m racing towards a deadline to have my novel finished and sent to my publisher. Gosh it feels good. Like the pain of childbirth which ebbs away as you hold your newborn in your arms, the anguish of rejection is now just a memory as I work as hard as I can to make my book the very best it can be.

“Rejection is the sand in the oyster, the irritation that ultimately produces the pearl.”

Images by Unsplash

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out in March 2021. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

Don’t Squeeze Your Bag

We moved from Essex to Suffolk fourteen years ago, leaving a metropolitan area on the edge of London to come to a hamlet surrounded by fields. Some of the first people I met were my immediate neighbours.

Pretty soon, I found that these ladies baked, made jam and went blackberrying while still managing to work and bring up a family. I felt a touch inferior, the city girl who used shop-bought crumble mix and didn’t know a crab apple from a bullace. My mum had always made jam and chutney, the cupboards filled with neatly labelled jars of preserves. Shop-bought jam never made it on to the table in our house. I had neither the time nor the energy for such goings-on, but once we moved, I began to change.

It was a slow process. I had my work cut out looking after three little children, getting to grips with school and working from home. I cooked from scratch most nights, but I took short cuts too. At toddler group, we’d sit and laugh about what our children were eating that night. My speciality was, “Doigts de poisson avec sauce tomate.”

Time went on. The children grew. By 2013, we were applying for a high school place for our eldest. That September, I popped round to a dear friend’s house in a neighbouring village. I walked into her kitchen to find her wrestling with a large piece of muslin and a pan of bubbling apples.

“Give me a hand with that muslin,” she said, tying a knot in a long piece of twine. We hung it up over a large bowl and she poured the apple mix into the muslin bag. I had no idea what she was making.

Over coffee, she told me it was apple jelly which she’d finish with strips of chilli. “You should try it. You don’t even have to peel and core the apples.”

That sold me. By now a fully paid-up member of the bish bosh bash school of home cuisine, such an easy process appealed to me. I bought a book (The River Cottage Preserves book – excellent) and got to work. I chopped up piles of apples, stewed them with water and strained them through my newly acquired muslin. Satisfyingly, the pulp would drip gently into the bowl, a tranquil backdrop to the frenzy of visiting various school open evenings and wrestling with complex application forms. I was incredibly proud of my first batch and so began my love affair with preserves.

I branched out, making jelly with bullaces, crab apples, medlars, raspberries, blackberries and herbs. Bent over my pans, inhaling fragrant steam and stirring the bubbling mix, I felt like an alchemist, turning fruit into a beautiful, clear, set jelly.

After a couple of years, I had several preserves books on the shelves. All of them gave the same warning. “Never be tempted to squeeze your bag or your jelly will go cloudy.” I never did, although it was hard, watching the slow progress of the juice through the muslin and longing to hurry it up. Like so many things in life, there was a golden rule and breaking it would have led to a spoiled batch.

This autumn, I’ve experimented with different types of hedgerow jelly, all of which have turned out well. My outhouse is full of jars of gleaming ruby, blush pink and deep orange jelly. I love making it, but it has a bittersweet edge.

My dear friend died suddenly at the end of August a few years ago. The grief which hit me felt like an Atlantic breaker, roaring towards me and knocking me off my feet. I cried for months, woke up from dreams in which I found it had all been a mistake and she was still alive, saw books or earrings or scarves that were perfect for her birthday and then remembered with a jolt of pain that she would never wear them again.

It took about two years before the worst of the anguish subsided. I realised that I had to go through it, not around it. I began making jelly again, always remembering her as I stirred, strained and tasted. One day, three and a half years later, I sat down and wrote a poem about her. It just came out. I didn’t even have to think about it. Here it is.

Apple Jelly

“I remember that day so well. September, apples rosy on the trees.

Leaves just starting to turn. The smell of woodsmoke in the air.

I popped round for coffee, as I so often did then.

And there you were, making apple jelly.

The sharp smell of fruit in the air, the sound of bubbling from the stove.

Quick cutting with your sharp knife, pips and stalks and leaves intact.

You flung open the cupboard door to reveal treasure within.

Jar after jar of clear gleaming apple jelly, chilli-jewelled and glowing.

“It’s easy. You should try it,” you said, smiling as I held the muslin bag for you,

Apple pulp dripping luxuriously into the waiting silver bowl.

“No peeling or coring, just cut them up and chuck them in. Boil vigorously.”

We both laughed, liking the idea of a really good vigorous boil.

You had less than three autumns left. Neither of us knew that day.

If we had, my tears would have dropped into the apples and ruined the set.

My sobs would have drowned out the sound of laughter, the scent of coffee.

You were still well, your years uncounted and no end date in sight.

Like that sharp knife quartering the fruit, your days were numbered.

Like the sugar boiling with the fruit, our memories were sweet.

Like the glorious autumn colours, it was all over too soon.

Too soon.

Since then, every year I harvest the apples and forage for fruit.

I line up the chutneys and jams and fruit jellies.

I gaze into the bubbling, fragrant, vigorous boiling and see you as you were.

Smiling in your kitchen, generous, kind, loving till the last.”

She left a wonderful legacy behind her. I wish I could have her over for coffee again, to chat about how the children are doing, wander over to the veg patch and try some of my jelly. But I can’t. That time is gone. I suppose, like the jelly, my memories are composed of the sharp, bitter bite of apples and the sweet unifying taste of sugar. Sour sweet. But never cloudy.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” is coming out in March and she has another work in process. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

Too Much of a Good Thing

 

July and August are the months of plenty in the gardening calendar. Tomatoes, beans, soft fruit and just about anything raised in the greenhouse bursts into life and keeps on doing so until the first joy of picking your own gives way to a desperate hunt through recipe books for something – anything – to use up all those courgettes. Did I mention we grow courgettes?

Every year, it’s the same in the Leigh household. My green-fingered husband gets out his tin of seeds and pores over them. He likes to get them in by mid-April and every year, the conversation goes something like this.

Me: “How many courgette plants are you putting in this year?”

Him: “I thought four or five.”

Me: “Four or five?? Remember last year? We were inundated and that was even after one of the plants died.”

Him: “I know, but I’ll put in five just in case.”

In case of what, he’s never explained. A national courgette shortage perhaps? Such a thing has never happened in all the years we’ve been growing them. As I shared earlier on in the year, we spent a good deal of time in early summer bending over the raised bed gazing fondly at the tiny plants and nurturing them with water and encouragement. Like new parents, we were ecstatic each time a new shoot appeared, delighted with each buttery yellow flower and over the moon with an actual fruit lying glossily on its loamy bed. The excitement lasted for about three weeks. Then my CAD kicked in.

I suffer quite badly from this condition, and I don’t think I’m alone. It’s a seasonal disorder, generally lasting from late May until early September. There should be a support group for those who grapple with it, but I can’t find one. To what am I alluding? Why, Courgette Anxiety Disorder, of course.

Those who are diagnosed with CAD have a number of distressing symptoms. They may begin to make odd dishes, adding a courgette where a courgette does not belong. For example, Eggs Benedict with a courgette foam, grated courgette on toast or even duck à la courgette. In extreme cases, a visitor to the home of a CAD sufferer may be offered a cup of tea or coffee garnished with courgette rosettes.

Courgette can be added to a perfectly nice dish to bulk it out. We tried making courgette and mint soup in the summer. Delicious, and it used up loads, but the children turned their noses up at it. We sneaked a whole one into the weekly leek and potato soup after that, and they never suspected a thing.

There are those who swear by courgette cake. I’ve never tried it and I probably never will. Call me old-fashioned, but a cake to me is composed of eggs, butter, sugar and flour with chocolate or coffee or fruit added.

In late July, even though one of the plants had passed over due to an unknown disease, the other four spread themselves seductively over the raised beds and got busy. One day, I picked ten. Ten! I ask you. We had courgettes with dinner every night, sometimes I made an omelette with sage and courgettes for lunch and one morning I presented my husband with a breakfast including courgettes fried in butter and sage and sprinkled with black pepper.

Something had to be done. My CAD generally manifests itself in a sudden outburst of alarming generosity. Unwary visitors are asked leading questions in a casual fashion. “Are you growing anything this year? Tomatoes? Oh lovely. Have you got any courgettes?”

CAD makes you cunning. I mentally file non-courgette growers’ names and addresses away and when driving through the village, engage in a spot of guerrilla courgetting. This is when you leave a selection on top of their wheelie bin or in their porch and then drive away.

At first, the recipients were delighted. They sent me pictures of courgette spaghetti and quiches. After a second visit, not so much, and following a particularly lavish guerrilla session one evening, they realised that they too were running out of ideas for interesting recipes.

Last week, I shared the exciting news that I’ve got a book deal and that my first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” is going to be published after Christmas. Last week, some old friends came over and we had a wonderful evening together. One of them came up with a brilliant idea for book-related merch. She suggested I make sustainable bookmarks with dried courgette slices, then varnish them. The reader can simply chip away the varnish if they get peckish. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

My CAD is getting better. I no longer check the courgette bed every day in a fever of anticipation. I gave away a marrow this morning, but I asked first. There’s no effective treatment for the disorder, short of persuading Mr Leigh not to plant them next year, and that’s never going to happen. So, for now, I’ll enjoy my autumn and winter free of this distressing condition and do a bit of research into what I can use the glut for next year.

Courgette Caponata, anyone?

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” is coming out after Christmas and she has another work in process. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

Hereinafter called the Author

As I told you in my very first ever Big Words and Made Up Stories blog on 5^th November last year (https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2019/11/how-i-became-writer.html), I’ve never wanted to be anything except a writer. And for the last twelve years, I’ve been one. I even get paid.

I’m a freelancer, which means that someone gets in touch, asks me for six hundred words or so on a topic in three weeks and I do it. I’ve got a roster of clients ranging from charities to florists to builders to radio stations and I write blogs, articles and content for them as required. It’s taught me how to write succinctly, clearly and to a brief and I’ve learned loads along the way.

My life since we moved to Suffolk in 2006 has been centred around children (mine), school and work. And Mr Leigh, of course, who is a wonderful and deserving man, without whom Ruth the Writer would not be the woman she is today. I picked up my first freelance writing contact in the summer of 2008 when I was gigantically pregnant with child number three. Slowly, very slowly, I got a few more. I tootled along with three for many years until there was a sudden burst of activity a couple of years ago. Then I started my own content writing business, Contentability, and I got some more.

Picture me then in March this year, just as lock down hit. I had so many clients that I decided to start a waiting list. Hooray! And then, just like that, about 75% of them disappeared. This was no surprise as many of them were small businesses, just like me, and had to put all non-essential work on hold. Others, like The Highbury Centre in London (a guest house) had to close. The long and the short of it was that I was left with about three clients again.

I’m an optimist. At this point, I had two choices.

1.    Wail, rend my garments and plead for sympathy.

2.    Get on with it and come up with a Plan B.

I went for option two.

Lock down for me meant not having to get up for the school run, dash about from pillar to post and try to cram a quart into a pint pot. Suddenly, endless days stretched ahead of me. One day, halfway through “Pride and Prejudice” (always a go-to book), I had a thought. I wrote my thought down and it turned into a short story. I wrote six more. Creative writing. Hold that thought.

As well as this blog, I write for More Than Writers, the blog for the Association of Christian Writers. It’s a great group which has taught me huge amounts and introduced me to some delightful people. For my April blog, I decided to write a funny piece about a very annoying smug writer who brags about her success on social media (I bet you can all think of someone like that). Staring out of the window, I tried to think what this woman was called. She had to be smug, so her first name would need to start with an I. And so, Isabella M Smugge (I Am Smug) was born. If you want to read that blog, you can click here: https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2020/04/the-utter-joy-of-ones-craft.html.

People seemed to like it. I didn’t give Isabella another thought until it was time for my May blog. It was a more serious piece, but I thought I’d put her in there again. That was on 7^th May, a day I’ll never forget.

I was sitting up in bed with Mr Leigh sipping tea and reading the comments. Quite a number of people said they’d love to know more about Isabella. A couple suggested that I might write a book about her. I laughed. She was just a fun, throwaway character – I wasn’t going to take her any further than that. 

Suddenly, in came a message. It was from a fellow ACW member who works as a literary agent. He agreed with the comments and asked if I would like to send him two sample chapters and a story arc. He would then pitch my book to publishers for me. I nearly choked on my tea while nearly falling out of bed. All my Christmases had come at once. Tea cooling on the bedside table, I replied that of course I would be delighted to do this.

So, I did. I sat there and wrote the first sentence. And I wrote and wrote until I’d written those two chapters which was at tea time the next day. My jokey, annoying character had turned into a real person with a back story, a family and a story arc. I was as surprised as anyone.

After a few rejections, which are only to be expected, Tony emailed me to let me know that my book had found a home with Instant Apostle, a small independent publisher which specialises in new authors. People talk about dreams coming true, don’t they? I never understood that, but now I do.

Isabella M Smugge (as in Bruges), her husband Johnnie, her three children, her au pair Sofija, her awful mother, horsey Davina, her hideous agent Mimi Stanhope and a cast of supporting characters have sprung into life. I’ve got three more chapters to write and I’m done.

At the risk of sounding sentimental, becoming a published writer has been my dream since I was six. And now it’s here. I would say words fail me, but you know me well enough by now to know that’s not true. I’ll finish with the words of the contract which I must have read fifty times just in case they vanished into the mist.

Agreement – this contract made between Ruth Leigh (hereinafter called the Author) and Instant Apostle Ltd (hereinafter called the Publisher).

Hereinafter called the happiest woman in Suffolk. I’ll keep you posted.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, four budgies, eight chickens, six quail and a kitten. Her first novel, The Diary of Isabella M Smugge, has just been accepted for publication and she has another one on the go. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

I've Heard Worse

What a heavy few days it has been. I was going to announce Big News this week, but that can wait till next Thursday. 

I’m writing this on Claydon Ward at Ipswich Hospital. My 94-year old father is propped up in bed with a nebuliser clamped to his face. He’s eyeing up a tuna sandwich and looking longingly at his crossword. This time last night, I was sitting on the edge of my seat while he tried to get out of bed and pull off his oxygen mask. He was delirious, suffering from pneumonia and heart problems, and possibly not long for this world.

My father is made of stern stuff. A lifelong abstainer from anything harmful (unless you count cake and biscuits), he’s walked purposefully through life avoiding all the usual hurdles and hazards which trip up ordinary mortals. As he lay gasping for air on the sitting room floor on Saturday afternoon, the ambulance crew asked me for his medical history. All I could come up with was his appendectomy at fifteen and his recent diagnosis with Alzheimer’s and heart disease. Not bad going.

I’ve written before about Dad’s experience at Ipswich. Then, as now, the staff were kind, caring, gentle and compassionate. Watching them caring for a confused, weak, elderly man who had no idea where he was, I was touched beyond words. They work so hard. They deserve so much more than what they are given. They pulled Dad round on Tuesday night, giving him strong antibiotics and a sedative to help him sleep. I thought I was going to be planning his funeral. Instead, I’m bellowing at the top of my voice over the nebuliser (no hearing aids, natch) and answering his questions about Mum and the rest of the family over and over again.

Which brings us on to Saturday night. Mum came back to our house for tea and to sleep. This meant she joined us round the table for a multi-generational meal. The diners were aged between eleven and ninety. Our eldest son is growing his hair and currently sports a fine curly auburn mop. Clad in a sleeveless Mötley Crüe T-shirt, he chatted politely to his grandmother about his band and their latest songs. After some gentle encouragement, he selected a track and played it to her on his phone. When it finished, she said, “Hmmm. Well, dear, I’ve heard worse.”

We all erupted into laughter. A ringing endorsement if ever there was one. I could see the posters: “Live on stage – Black Alice on their triumphant European Tour, “I’ve Heard Worse.” I amused myself by inventing imaginary tours for other metal giants.

Alice Cooper – What Time Do You Call This?

Metallica – I Hope You Don’t Think You’re Going Out Looking Like That

Iron Maiden – You’ll Catch Your Death

Motörhead – While You’re Under My Roof

Def Leppard – Turn It Down for Goodness’ Sake

Feel free to join in – what would Anthrax, Slipknot and Led Zeppelin’s grandmothers christen their world tours?

With mum at home along with the kitten who’s taken a shine to her (“It’s because you sit still all the time, Grandma,” explained our daughter), my sister began the long journey up from Hampshire to Suffolk. The poor thing fell foul of the dreaded diversions and had a lively and unexpected journey through hitherto unknown parts of Essex and Suffolk. She arrived at 2 o’clock in the morning and we conversed in whispers over a Twix until 7 o’clock when the rattle of the tea trolley announced the beginning of the day.

Yesterday, desperate for sleep, she tried to start her car, but the battery was dead. I leapt into mine and drove around trying to buy a set of jump leads. People say our society’s in decline (Guns 'n' Roses: What’s the World Coming To?) but I don’t think it is. Lovely Nick in Tesco regretted that he didn’t have any, but suggested I tried the Apple Garage on the hospital roundabout. Sure enough, they had lots. In the meantime, my sister had struck up a conversation in the car park with Jean from Stowmarket who offered a virtual hug. A kind couple, seeing a person in distress, stopped and offered their own jump leads. It did my heart good.

It’s Thursday now. I slept in my own bed last night. It felt pretty good. I left dad surrounded by Twix wrappers doing his Sudoku. He’s looking infinitely better but of course, we don’t know what the future holds. He’ll be 95 in October, God willing, and once again, we’ve got cause to thank our fabulous NHS. Tracey, Leena, Gincy, Roo, Collette, Amy, Alison and all of you on Claydon, plus all your colleagues – thank you, from all of us who rely on you. Because we really do.

The prognosis isn’t as bad as we were expecting. Lots of antibiotics, rest and a pacemaker. I’ve heard worse.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

Diamonds, Good Eggs, Sunshine and Chocolate

Living in Britain is great. If you’re ever short of a conversational opener, you can say anything about the weather – and I mean anything – and it will keep you going for at least five minutes. Too hot? We wipe our foreheads and talk wistfully about the thunderstorm that’s forecast tomorrow. Unseasonably chilly? Well, the nights are drawing in, but they say it will be sunnier next week.

Investigating your family tree can uncover some exciting facts. My ancestors have donated a dash of French DNA, possibly some Dutch and Belgian about fifteen generations back, but mostly good old Scottish genes, which have blessed me with extremely fair skin. In winter, I’m blue. In summer, I go white. Then red. I don’t get on terribly well with extreme heat so this week has been a bit of a trial.

Realising that 2020 was the year of our sojourn in Costa del Loudham, my sainted husband got out the pool, blew it up and applied vast amounts of glue to mend the many leaks. Next, he purchased floating hammocks and some drinks holders in the shapes of doughnuts, palm trees and watermelons. On Monday, I was so incredibly hot and grumpy that I betook myself to my chamber, dug out my bathing costume and poured myself into it. Wrapped modestly in a towel, I ventured out into the garden. We live in a semi, not massively overlooked, but if our neighbours had glanced out of their bedroom window that afternoon, they would have been treated to the sight of a Rubenesque middle-aged lady lowering herself into the water while yelping. It was COLD. Good Lord, how cold it was.

After a bit, it became bearable, then blissful. Every day this week, I have galumphed over the lawn and hurled myself in. Yesterday afternoon, I found myself lying on the said hammock, cup of cold water held by the said palm tree having a lovely chat with my daughter. We lay there, gazing up at the intense blue sky and watched as two buzzards circled and swooped and cried out to each other. It was lovely. I was completely happy and relaxed. If life gets better than lying in a large paddling pool from a Spanish hypermarket on a roasting hot day, I’d like to know about it.

Wednesday was a top day all round. I went out and had brunch with four dear friends in the morning, which felt like a real adventure. Going out of the house. Entering a place of entertainment. Seeing people who are not blood-related. I think we all felt rather daring.

Well, it was the most fun ever. We haven’t seen each other all together for I don’t know how long. As with all good friends, it was as if not a moment had gone by. We laughed solidly for about the first half hour. Gales of merriment echoing around, five ladies gulping down cooling iced drinks and snorting with laughter. We certainly made our presence felt.

We covered a huge amount of ground in the two hours we spent together. We caught each other up on our lives, we listened, we encouraged, we learned. We’re all women of faith and it was so good to be able to talk about that. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed socialising, how much I miss my friends and how much I need that human contact. I left the café beaming from ear to ear and drove home in a haze of happiness.

As I drove back up Chapel Lane towards our house, a van came bowling towards me. We both slammed on our brakes, pulled into our respective passing places and waved at each other. The driver was young, with an open, smiling face. As he thanked me, he laughed and it was so infectious that I laughed too. He looked as happy as I felt and that joyous, spontaneous laughter (about what, I couldn’t tell you) lifted my spirits even more.

Let me end this week by sharing some lovely quotes about friends.

“Diamonds aren’t a girl’s best friend – friends are.”

“A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.”

“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”

“There is nothing better than a friend, unless it is a friend with chocolate.”

Enjoy the rest of the week. I believe that rain is forecast ……………..

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

Mrs America, not forgetting Ms and Miss

I’ve been watching a fantastic programme on iPlayer. Starring Cate Blanchett, Rose Byrne, Tracey Ullmann, Sarah Paulson, Jeanne Trippelhorn, Uzo Aduba, Elizabeth Banks, Margo Martindale, Kayli Carter and Ari Graynor, "Mrs America" opened my eyes to a period of history I knew shamefully little about.

In 1971, the ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) was reintroduced to Congress to be ratified. It sought to amend the United States Constitution to guarantee equal legal rights for all American citizens regardless of sex. And it was going through, being ratified by state after state. That’s until a woman called Phyllis Schlafly stepped in and started a campaign to halt the ERA in its tracks.

I’d never heard of Phyllis Schlafly. Brilliantly portrayed by Cate Blanchett in “Mrs America”, she’s a clever, articulate Republican who is violently anti feminism, communism and women’s rights. What differentiates her from other right-wing housewives is that she has a steely-eyed determination to stop the ERA and mobilise her fellow homemakers in order to do so. Schlafly calls herself a housewife, but in fact she’s no such thing. Married to a rich lawyer husband, her unmarried sister and her staff keep the house running and the children looked after, giving her time to go out on the campaign trail and run her STOP ERA campaign. What makes Phyllis stand out is her charisma, her cleverness, her ease with an off-the-cuff quip and her ever-growing mailing list. Years before Mail Chimp was even a twinkle in its inventor’s eye, Mrs Schlafly had all the names and addresses she needed neatly filed in her card index system.

Opposing the Far Right was a group of women linked by their views on equal rights for women, regardless of their colour or sexuality. These Left-Wing Libbers horrified Phyllis Schlafly and her army of homemakers. “Mrs America” tells the story of how the second-wave feminists came up against the Right and history was changed as a result. And most certainly not for the better.

In the early Seventies, Gloria Steinem was publishing, “Ms Magazine”, a feminist publication, Betty Friedan was on stages across America talking about the views expressed in her bestseller, “The Feminine Mystique” and Shirley Chisholm was campaigning to become America’s first black woman president. Change was in the air. How could the ERA fail? And yet we see it do just that, as the nine episodes unfold. Mobilising women across the country, Phyllis Schlafly succeeds in overturning the proposed amendment. She wins the battle, but the war is still being fought.

Men don’t come out too well in, “Mrs America.” There’s the odd supportive husband, but on the whole, they’re portrayed as sexist and entitled, smoking in their offices and groping their secretaries. Politics is a dirty business as both sides find out to their cost.

I loved this series. The casting is spot-on, the writers never fall into the trap of demonising anyone and the acting, music and costumes are superb. I learned a great deal and realised that not that much has changed. Women are speaking out and being listened to more in the USA, but racism, sexism and discrimination are still rife.

The ERA remains an un-passed piece of legislation, even now. The United States of America does not have it enshrined in its Constitution. I was horrified when I found this out, but not surprised. In a country where the President can use sexist, misogynistic language, treat women as playthings and survive sex scandal after sex scandal, why would they need the ERA?

I would recommend that you watch, “Mrs America.” It’s sparkling, funny, truthful and thought-provoking. It’s written by, directed by and stars mostly women. As we sit here, halfway through 2020, programmes of this quality making the points it makes, are rare creatures. As the final episode came to an end, I was left feeling angry, an emotion which didn’t leave me for several days. This is intelligent television, doing what it should do, which is to make us think and question.

I loved it. I was sorry when it was over. Let me know what you think.