Everything has its place.



Rain. Sweet Rain that filters through the chalk downland to refresh the river Test and its tributaries. Rain also in France but all the same Gilles phoned to say he’s going out on his bike with les garcons. Now, where do you stand on the whole Lycra/lunch box issue? Should skin tight sports clothing be like booze, fags and solvents with an age limit where no one over the age of say 50 should be allowed to buy it? There is also the issue of speedo swimwear. Last year Gilles was banned from the local piscine for wearing swim shorts. An obliging attendant was on hand to sell him some budgie smugglers.  In the UK you get banned for wearing speedos cos apparently one looks like a dirty old man.(Well the men do I guess).  Personally I hate the whole screaming in chlorine flavoured urine experience and never go.


On the subject of bikes I’ve noticed a new trend here in the UK. In France old guys ride about on 30 year old Peugeot racers. Here you see mobs of exec types with i pods and smart phones riding bikes with bleeping sat naffs. One of those pelican things swept through the village yesterday evening.  The bikes wouldn’t disgrace those carbon fibre exotica of the Steroid-EPO team. Watch out for this team in the Tour de France- they’re almost certain winners. And where are the girls? I just hope they’re warm and dry with a good Romance to read. “Zak unclipped from his pedals and stepped away from his Fandango carbon XR47 special edition and leant it against the wall. As he turned towards the street in his turquoise Lycra shorts, Immelda’s legs buckled and she sank to her knees.”


Rosina was up early tapping out some blurb for a book about electric trains. She did bring me  a cup of tea and enquire if I would be working on my book with a kinda tweaky eyebrow high flyer human dynamo expression on her face. These Anglo Saxons are just so angled.

Genda benda agenda

Wow! here I am in the beautiful Test Valley. My wonderful friend and literary agent Rosina  picked me up from Southampton airport and I find myself in the green green grass of Hampshire. They say there’s a drought here – but believe me, they know nothing. Gilles dashed me to the airport for 12.30. Lunch was a Flybe sandwich. No time for baguette this morning and no writing done! Ah well – it’s a day off. Her cottage (she says its haunted),  is close to the country town of Romsey and the gorgeous gardens of Mottisfont Abbey and House. I might just give you a little hint that my latest novel could involve unsuitable and forbidden love in an English period house.


It was at Mottisfont house a few years ago that I chanced to find a real treasure of a book in a second hand sale. The book is called “Indian Love” by Laurence Hope. I had never heard of her before. She had to pretend to be a man and also pretend that her poems were translations of Indian love songs since they were so passionate,(perhaps slightly sexually ambiguous ladies) and therefore quite unsuitable for a respectable gal. Won’t drone on about her cos you can look her up on Wiki and her poetry speaks for itself.If she needs any other endorsement let me say that Thomas Hardy was a fan.  She took her own life soon after the death of her husband in 1904.


I’m missing my lovely man….he’ll have a sweet little bunny rabbit in the pot by now. I just know her will!

Certified organic

Walking on the banks of le Charenton I chanced to see a very large but cute beast in the water. It looked like a cross between a scottie dog and a rat. Excitedly I told my neighbour. She shrugged and replied “Ragondin – you can eat them”. Seemingly there are thousands of escaped coypu in streams and ditches that are regarded as vermin – but edible. Life has two separate forms here in France. The first form is edible life. The second form is inedible life and comprises of human beings and outside of revolutions and long strikes, their pets. Yes – everything else is edible including all moving parts, bones, organs and plumbing. It’s just the same in the UK but it’s shaped up, covered in yummycrum and sold as swizzle twizzle escalopes. Ragondin makes a delicious terrine or pate I was told – mmmmm.


Tomorrow I’m gonna fly to the UK from La Rochelle. Gilles will be left to his own devices and I know just what he’ll do. He’s gonna go native. I’ve seen him eyeing up the rabbits chez le boucher. The minute I’m gone he’ll be down there. By dinner time the pineau will be out and les garcons will be round to re-find their roots in the soil. Pineau? well that’s another tale from Charentes. It’s a kinda liqueur and it’s definitely kinda nice. When I was a kid in London my father had a scheme to breed meat rabbits. We ended up with over 30 pets and a desert garden. No one ever ate one. He died poor.


Still reading Fantasy Lover. Emma x

Home for tea

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Oh dear – gonna have to go back to UK for about a week. The guys at Gallo-Romano Media want to do some audio stuff and video trailers for Knockout and my new book. It’s at that stage where I feel like a marsupial momma. There’s this little live thing peeking out of my pouch. Oh world, I’m not ready yet – please be kind.


I like to write early although I do need lots of Yorkshire Gold tea and often the Gallic hot baguette before I get going.(Now then -that’s fusion for thee in’t it lass). Then I do my blog which I really enjoy because it allows me to just chat. Book characters have to be disciplined and follow some kinda plot. I can’t write onto a a keyboard – If I do, the work looks finished and of course every line needs a bit of polish. It means I am slow and several novels have gone straight in the bin. At least they will have been recycled into toilet paper. I’ve probably bought back a few chapters at the hypermarché…..but at least it’s a sale!


Of course I like to read Romance, particularly in styles that I simply could not do. That way I’m not gonna steal anything. Today I’m reading “Fantasy Lover” by Sherrilyn Kenyon on my Kindle. I’m halfway through a Greek love slave. No baguettes or stuffed olives so far but it looks like he knows a few tricks with flour and anchovies. This has had good reviews on Amazon. Should I review it? What the hell do I know anyway? AND SHE MIGHT BITE.


So, let’s look up the Brittany Ferries web site and choose some clothes. I’ve sorta hippied out in France and the Anglo Saxons are hardcore big biz. I’ll stock up with Yorkshire Gold anyway.

Turned off? Get your hands on your switch and enjoy.

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Those things that influence us fall into two categories. Those we are aware of and those that are hidden or so built in that we just cannot see them. Other writers obviously influence me. Good writers create readers. Great writers create other writers. Ho hum, I’ll settle for readers! The singer Edith Piaf has been the most powerful influence on my life and work. I heard her singing on the radio by chance and was so drawn to her sound and language that I decided to teach myself French. If you’ve ever longed to learn a language and the school system turned you off, get some music of the language you want, turn yourself back on and get singing. Put all those classroom humiliations behind you and learn a song. Sing it in your head. You don’t have to show out until you are ready. Babies just gurgle and listen. Suddenly WHEN THEY ARE READY they go for it. Also try using the accent and flavour of your new language in your own tongue. Oh wee, ziss is ow you can do eet. I tell you, zair will bee uh no regrets.


Check out the life of Edith Piaf in the film La Vie en Rose.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5gpBncR8zI&NR=1


I’ve added a poem which reflects my own tiny homage to her soul. It’s about living with who you are and what you are. Chanteuse

It’s Sunday – Lettuce Pray

At last it looks like rain. Farmers are out in their combine harvesters several weeks early in order to save what they can of the crop. Tant pis for the ground nesting birds that still have chicks in the nest. This morning I watched un paysan who marched back and forth to a ditch to fill his bucket. Each journey was 100 metres and each bucket watered a lettuce. He had known them each as seeds. His psychological profile probably ruled out the corporate thrust yet his lettuces survive in the dust. Corporate empires shrivel overnight.
News of the cat. “Les tests sont clean.” My neighbour informed me in franglais that she had picked up on a dubbed American TV show. We did 4 kisses and then 4 with Gilles and several batches of 4 with other locals who generally do 2. The cat lady is from some other region where they do 4. Its location is too far away to be of interest, but it must be a very foreign place. No one has ever been there.

The cat’s out of the bag

Woken at 7 o’ clock by piteous wailing in the road outside. Looked out to see neighbour from a few doors up holding shopping bag in her arms. I will translate the conversation.
“My God! My God! She will die. Oh my angel- my little flea.”
A cat’s head appeared from the bag and said something similar but in the first person. (Ok I’m a grammar geek writer).
I went out.
“My pussy will die. Oh Emma- Madame I pray to you. Take me now and I will fill you up I promise.”
The neighbour lit a Gauloises, sliding into the car seat beside me. Obviously the cat was a passive smoker.
“I know the place – it is in Rochefort – I will fill you up”
We set off. Even through the smoke I felt kinda important. I was a romantic novelist on a real heroic mission at last.