We interrupt this blog with an announcement...

Apologies for anyone expecting to read the 'coping strategies’ I promised in my
previous blog but I have an announcement to make, a rather significant announcement for a wannabe writer…

Last weekend at the inaugural Festival of Romance International Convention I was awarded runner up in the New Talent Award. As someone who doesn’t normally like to sing my own praises, I’m sure you’ll allow me, just for this once to bask in the glory, especially given the year I’ve had.

Only a few weeks ago I didn’t even know whether I’d attend, having booked the weekend on a whim during one of my fight back moments. For aspiring author's to attend, one of the conditions was entering the New Talent Award. Back in August when I (somehow) managed to complete my first novel, 'Mother's Love' for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme, I received some excellent and encouraging feedback, but with everything else that has gone on over recent weeks, I haven’t got round to starting the suggested revisions. And so I duly emailed the required first chapter and synopsis of ‘Mother’s Love’ to Kate Allan, delightful author and organiser of the Festival without another thought.

And what a Festival it was! Superbly organised and executed by everyone involved, it was a joy to mingle with, and learn from established authors, agents and publishers, and to get to know better some of my AA (Aspiring Author) counterparts. What a lovely bunch of Romantic Novelists.

The backdrop of Hunton Park couldn’t have been a better setting, and I almost expected Mr Darcy to come romping across the lawns in my direction. He didn’t, alas, but I got my kicks elsewhere; in particular the session on Erotica versus Erotic Romance, which I’d never dared to even think about but now, especially as I’m a singleton, I may consider ;)

Dressed in my best Audrey Hepburn style posh frock, by the time of the evening dinner, Ball and award ceremony, the residual nerves and lack of confidence were banished by the half bottle of red wine I drank before going out. Thank you to all who kept me company throughout the weekend, and for those I didn’t manage to meet, we’ll hopefully get together at the RNA Winter Party

The awards ceremony commenced – a glitzy, glamorous affair with top talents in the Romantic Genre and Historical being recognised. Then it was onto the Festival’s New Talent Award, with agent, Jane Judd presenting the awards. (I’ve long had my list of top agents and Jane features in my top three.) Looking round the table of talent, I wondered which of my fellow rookie writer’s names might be called. And the first name out…

‘Debbie White receives the commended award for her novel, "Tough Love."’

I don’t know whether it was the fact that the title of the novel wasn’t mine, or that I was so stunned to have a 'commended' that made me freeze in the chair.

‘Go on, that’s you.’ Celia Anderson gave me a little shove, encouraging me to get up and shake hands with my heroine agent.
3rd place – the lovely Sarah Callejo
2nd Place – Rosemary Dun’s name was read out but the title of her novel was mine, ‘Mother’s Love.’Poor Rosemary had had to go home early with dreadful earache.
1st place and winner of the coveted New Talent Award - went to Henriette Gyland Congratulations Henri!

There was evidently some kind of a mix up with the author’s names and titles but it didn’t matter to me. I’d been commended, and for the next hour or two my emotions leapt somewhere between giddy excitement and pure emotion at how I’ve never given up my dream, and at last, irrespective of the eventual outcome with my first novel, I’d had some ‘proper’ official recognition that I can write. I DO have potential. The reason I attended the weekend was to kickstart my badly neglected writing career after events of the last few months and health problems, and this couldn’t have been better incentive.

Late in the evening I saw Jane Judd and her husband look as if they might be making a move, and fuelled by yet more red wine and the knowledge that if I didn’t properly introduce myself I’d always regret it, a wave of courage suddenly gripped me and catapulted me into her path, blocking her exit.

I shook hands nervously, bumbling that there had been a bit of a mix up with the titles, but thanking her for giving me the commendation for 'Mother’s Love.’

‘Is that the one about the Grandmother?’ Jane asked.

‘Yes that’s mine.’

‘No, that was definitely second,’ she said. ‘And it was a close second. I voted for yours to win…’

Second, fourth, I genuinely don't care. I'm sure my fellow AA's will agree, to be able to reach the top four in any kind of contest when you crave publication is massive achievement and big boost of confidence. For me, hearing Jane's comments and to get the opportunity to submit to her is prize enough. Needless to say the rest of the evening passed in a bit of a blur, not only because of the red wine.

Indeed I’ve been pinching myself ever since. I emailed Jane yesterday, saying it was good to meet her, and thanking her for the opportunity to submit the full MS which I will do once I’ve made the RNA NWS suggested tweaks. (I was also trying to prove that I could be professional and not a complete drunken buffoon.)Twenty minutes later she emailed back, not only confirming that I hadn’t dreamt Saturday night, but also giving me her feedback and the constructive feedback from Donna Condon, Senior Editor at Piatkus publishing.

With that invaluable advice, the hard work really starts for me, but bring it on. Everything happens for a reason. I always knew writing would be my salvation, and as I look back I see that booking the Festival of Romance weekend on a whim was not just a fightback moment, it might well be a defining moment. Life will get better from this point onwards, I just know it…

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

PS - Click here - for full details of the nominees and winners of Festival of Romance Awards. In particular, splediferous well done's to:
Sue Moorcroft - winner of Best Romantic Read
Jean Fullerton - winner of Best Historical Romance Read
Henri Gyland - Winner of best New Talent
Carole Matthews - Outstanding contribution to Romantic Fiction

PPS - All photos are courtesy of the wonderful talented Liz Crump - thanks Liz, and great to meet you!

It's a battle of heart and mind...

"It’s hard to tell your mind to stop loving someone when your heart still does."

I’ve read some great quotes lately, and another which particularly resonated was, "The pain of having a broken heart is not so much as to kill you, yet not so little as to let you live.."

Image-kateshudsons.blogspot.com




When the main holidays were over and the children went back to school, I was smacked in the face by reality, hence the lack of posts. I know you'll understand. Thank you for your lovely messages. They are a huge comfort, even if I don't always reply promptly ;)

Much of my limited free time I've wandered aimlessly, daydreaming, over analysing, and in between devoured the occasional self-help book as I tried to pick my way through the mess which had become my life.

But here I am, The Queen of fightback, sticking my head above the parapet to write this. As I type, outside there's a solitary swallow – probably the last of the summer, balancing on the telephone wire in the garden as it prepares to leave for a different climate. And as summer wrings its last few weak rays from the sun I’m struck by the parallels between the swallow and me. The summer has gone, and now it's time to move on to the next stage...

I’ve accepted my marriage is over, as surely as I concede that autumn means that most trees and plants die off to preserve their energy for the long winter months and to re-generate in the spring, anew. Start afresh. After the baby step progress I’ve been making, my epiphany feels like an empowering leap into the abyss that is the future. No more numbness; clinging and fighting, stumbling through the memories that are the past, searching for answers or to turn back time. It’s time to stop. Enough. I’ve had enough.

Six years ago, when it happened first time round I thought it was the end of my world but now, in between the emotional turmoil, I know it’s not. And occasionally I glimpse the fun-loving girl I used to be.

I realise I want to look forward, and grasp the future.

It doesn’t matter whether or not I still love him. I love myself more, and actually, if I’m being honest, I don’t love who he is now. The love in my heart is for the man I thought he was; the man he used to be. I’m tired of fighting for something that doesn’t exist any more; of analysing and second guessing what my ex is really thinking. With this realisation, I also see I’ve been clinging onto the past and to things that are out of my control. Any wonders it felt like I was trying to clutch for water flowing down a river. It's impossible to hold onto. The only control I have is over myself and my own actions, and its time to get a grip.

I still understand him, despite everything. Whether it’s just a temporary interruption – that normal service will be resumed soon – or whether he’s lost forever, I don’t know, and I can’t waste any more time waiting to see any more.I don’t want a man who lacks integrity, who isn’t as loyal and loves as unconditionally as me. I want inner peace and happiness back in my life. Its been missing too long. Every moment spent stuck on the past and him, trying to figure it all out is time wasted on re-building my life and future. No one else will do it for me. I need to champion my own cause, for me and the boys, so we can all strive to live, and move on.

We’re getting divorced. End of. I've filed the petition. I had to admit defeat. An unknown future is unnerving, but I'm not frightened of it any more, and I'd rather be alone forever than spend my time constantly looking over my shoulder, being second best, or waiting for it to happen again. It probably would. The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour, and having been here twice now, the chances of him changing and doing the right thing are pretty slim.

I'm brave enough to face it and who know's, it may even be exciting. In a few days when I have more time, I’ll share the coping strategies that I’m learning along this rocky path. Hopefully they may help someone else who may be in the same position as me if they are stumbling the same route and find my blog.

Until then I’ll leave you with a few more of my favourite quotes about moving on and letting go:-

"If someone you love hurts you cry a river, build a bridge, and get over it."

"If you can’t save the relationship, at least save your pride."

“When one door closes another door opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us.” — Alexander Graham Bell

“Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.” ~ Hermann Hesse

One final one:-

"No matter who broke your heart, or how long it takes to heal, you’ll never get through it without your friends."


Thank you all for being there.

Until another day

Bye for now

Xx

Image Kate Hudson Blogspot

I want more than this...

It’s been a tough few weeks of firsts and facing things alone.

One of the hardest aspects is fronting people but it has to be done. It’s sad - terribly, unbelievably, gut wrenchingly sad - but as the old saying goes, “Life moves on,” and I have to do it some time. The boys need me to keep going. There’s no chance to curl up under a stone to hide away, however tempting the prospect so I have to overcome these events and push through the pain.

When things first kicked off I managed to keep a distance from the bus stop parents by dropping off and picking up whilst remaining in the car, waving and forcing a smile. However, the school summer show was less forgiving. Only a couple of days after I'd found out, I had to brave the other mums and dads, and watch them walk around hand in hand with their eyes twinkling and smiling faces, I couldn’t help comparing their happiness to my life a few months ago, wondering what might be going on behind closed doors, and whether any of them were betraying their partners.

Walking into the school hall to see the judging of the Home Entries was tough. Neither Quiet Mousie nor I had entered anything this year. Despite our good intentions, we didn’t feel like it once events took over. Child sized tables displayed the categories; best home produce, best half dozen eggs, best teatime fancies, best flower arrangements etc…

I glimpsed the entries for the men’s cookery section but couldn’t bear to look at the scones on display remembering the hysterics of some of hubby's attempts over the last six years and the caustic criticisms from the judges; “Lacked presentation,” “Too much butter,” “Should have been placed on a doily instead of straight onto the tray…” His cookies were sublime and I'll never forget how we all cheered when we went into the hall and spotted the gold 1st rosette next to his entry. He feasted on his success for weeks but there will be no more domestic chaos on the weekend of the summer show in future with our family stressing and rushing to pick all the flowers, do the displays, bake the cakes, make the jams and finish all our entries to get them to the hall for the cut off for judging in time. And Quiet Mousie only has one more year of the summer show before he goes to secondary school.

Despite the emotion and spending all day with my sunglasses on to mask my eyes, I did well considering, and lasted an hour and a half then slipped away and left Quiet Mousie to go home with our lovely neighbours.

Two days later, sports day was slightly easier. I only cried three times and lasted the duration, although I chose not to partake in the refreshments afterwards.

A couple of weekends ago was the first time of facing the other mum’s and dads from QM’s footie club. I couldn’t let him down as he’d been looking forward to a night camping with all the kids and parents.

If I'm very honest, it was horrendous and I spent most of the weekend trying to keep my face from crumpling, especially when someone’s sincere words and good wishes touched me, or as I watched QM stop playing with his pals to check his mobile phone and see if he’d had a message from his Dad. A year ago I would have abhorred the thought of my ten year old having a mobile phone but hey, he’s over the moon with it and is in more contact with his dad now than he was before with him being in London through the week. QM is doing remarkably well, considering.

To him the weekend was a huge success and that's all that mattered. The people were wonderful and protected me throughout, and as they detected my fargile mood, they left me to my thoughts and solitude and let me continue to gaze into the flickering, leaping flames of the camp fire. And they understood when I chose to sleep in my car alone rather than in the dorms with two of the other mums.

Last weekend was the hardest hurdle so far. The annual village party, the one time of year when everyone in the village gets together, we all hire a marque and bouncy castle, each bring food and drink and have a merry time. News had travelled through the village grapevine apace and I’d had many sincere offers of support and help, but so far I’d managed to avoid people (other than my nearest and dearest neighbours) by simply driving through the village, giving a wave and a weak smile as I passed them in their gardens, walking their dogs, or in their cars.

As I pulled up at this year’s host’s garden and saw the melee of people and children, the kids on the bouncy castle, I felt physically sick and wanted to turn on my heels and run but my neighbour, who had followed me down in her car so we might arrive together geed me up.

‘Come on, or I’ll grab your hand and drag you in!’ she said, guiding my arm with her hand. Then Quiet Mousie spotted me, beamed and waved frantically, happy to see me and there was no choice but for me to go through the gate to join them all...

I’d planned to stay an hour then go and collect Idle Jack from work, drop him there and make my excuses to go home (knowing my neighbours would bring the boys back up the lane.) But once I was there and felt how my wonderful community wrapped me and the boys in their warm blanket of friendship and care, I actually ended up being one of the last to leave.

Along with me at the end of the evening were three good male friends who sat at a table, merrily tittering, drunk, cracking their juvenile jokes as their wives stood opposite, smirking at the state of them, knowing they would suffer in the morning and rolling their adoring eyes in feigned annoyance. If recent events hadn’t happened, my hubby would have been there, ‘one of the lads,’ his humour more juvenile than them all, and I would have been crying with mirth at the scene.

As I sat there smiling at their antics, I remembered the words that he said to me when I first discovered the affair;
“I don’t know when, but at some point in the last year I realised I wanted more than this…”

I can’t tell you how many times, I’ve replayed those words in my head over the last couple of weeks. And I wondered, how could he possibly want more than this?...

Until another day

xx

Farewell...my love...

"Living well is the best revenge," according to George Herbert.

I’m not there yet. It may take some time, but I will, one day, before too long. I hope.

Those of you who know me know I've been here before, and from a previous post will see I’m rather a master of resilience and overcoming adversity. Thankfully, this time it doesn't feel quite so much like it's the end of my world. I know I'll survive. It’s what I do best, and boy, after everything I've had in the last year - in the words of Monty Python, 'Tis but a meagre scratch.'

I jest. Oh, that what I’m going to go through in the next few months would be quite so painless. I’m all too aware, after twenty-two years with someone, this is going to hurt.

I don’t want to put on the worldwide web the innermost details of my personal life. You'll understand and read between the lines. Suffice to say; over the last two weeks my life has crumbled, and it’s nothing to do with cancer…

But hey, I have the best friends and family a girl could wish for - and you good folks - although I know you'll forgive me for saying that despite all this wonderful support, I can be in a roomful of people, yet still feel like the loneliest person in the world.

The reason for this is because I lost my truest, bestest friend about six or seven years ago. We never truly recovered first time round. It's not all his fault. I played my part, and I appreciate I've never been quite the same since. Then last year, with my jaw problems, I know I was a grumpy bitch being in pain. And this year with the cancer scare (although happily it turns out I'm simply a menopausal old bag.) What I'm trying to say is I know all the things I did wrong. It's just that I always believed we had a love that was so special, it would conquer anything.

But I see now, sometimes, love alone is not enough. Naively, I believed the amazing friendship we’d had (and overcome everything thus far) would win through every time. I presumed it was a deep bond that only soul mates have. I took that for granted. Our friendship wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough…

I’m not often wrong about affairs of the heart. I was this time. However, I gave it my best, for the sake of me, and my children. Even writing this I'm pricked by the knowledge that if I hadn't have had children, I might have made different decisions a few years ago and been through to the other side, onto a happier life by now.

I doubt it. I have no regrets. I truly loved my husband, with all my heart. I/We tried. It wasn’t to be, and perhaps, the one crumb of comfort I have to keep me warm at night in the vast space of bed beside me is that having been there before, I know I will get through this time even though it feels as if part of me has died. I don't have to go through the pain of giving him a second chances this time, no begging him to stay, fighting for him - none of the endless months of torture and heartache. Once I’m through the shock and initial panic of sorting out and unravelling twenty two years of marriage, I will bounce back in my usual, inimitable fashion. That doesn't stop me finding writing this hard, feeling so very sad, knowing how final things are and that my future will be alone. It's a good job I like my own company ;)

I’ve had so many people asking where I am. Thank you for caring. Those who knew what has happened have sent wonderful messages of support, and reading your comments on my last post, I felt I had to post this.

I’m not sure when I’ll surface again. I know I’ll miss the deadline for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme now. But I will most definitely be back…

Here's a quote I made up which maybe I should enter into the google archives:

"Don't despair when the person you love leaves you. The truth is, it's not your loss, but theirs, for they have left the only person who loves them unconditionally, and wouldn't have given up on them..."

See you when I see you

Until another day
Xx

Positive vibes welcome. Please

Tomorrow, Tuesday,7th June,I find out whether I have Endometrial cancer.

I tell you this because earlier this week, I watched a documentary about Joseph Merrick, better known as Elephant Man, and how he lived for his short twenty seven years with the terrible affliction of Proteus Syndrome. Speculation still surrounds his death and whether it was accidental or deliberate on his part. And as I listened to the programme it struck me how his infirmity must have affected him, living with it day in, day out, and I found myself empathising, understanding if he did stage his own death why he might have done so.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never encountered anything like the physical difficulties or prejudices Merrick had – in fact, the outsider would never know from first glance anything was wrong with me. But living with Behcets,an auto-immune disease means there’s always some new health hurdle to contend with and I can totally understand how someone who lives with terminal illness, or chronic pain or illness might decide they’ve had enough.

Pain has been my lodger, my cross to bear (or ignore) for the last twenty five years. There's always something. Usually it's arthritis but I also experience colitis, ulcers (mouth and vaginal,) or some other aspect or by-product of the treatment for my condition. I've had septicaemia, avascular necrosis, miscarriages. The latest development is some sort of vascular problem with my hands, feet and head which I'm seeing my Rheumatologist about in a couple of weeks. Six months ago, I thought I’d tackled the biggest obstacle with the jaw replacements and hoped there might be a little respite for a couple of years. However, it seems Mother Nature has other ideas.

I’d ignored ‘women’s problems’ (constant, heavy bleeding and niggling stomach cramps) for months and put it down to the stress of the surgery, perhaps my system lashing out, or maybe being forty four years old I was simply a menopausal old bag! Eventually, I relented to hubby's badgering and went to see the GP. As a result, for the past few weeks I've had all sorts of investigations which have found an enlarged uterus, abnormal blood and smear tests, and in between, you may recall we had to cancel a trip to New York in March because two days before we were due to travel, I ended up in A & E with crippling stomach pains. As I lay in that A & E bed, I turned to my hubby and meant it when I said, ‘If it is cancer, I don’t want to have treatment. I’m weary. I’ve had enough.’

To be fair the hospital has moved quickly and after more delving, a couple of weeks ago I had a biopsy to test for Endometrial cancer, the most likely cause for my symptoms. In my heart, I don’t think it will be and even if it is the ‘C’ word, the prognosis is good if I have a full hysterectomy and chemo/and/or radiotherapy. But do you see what I mean? I thought I’d come through one big, bad lot of surgery; of life being on hold, cancelling holidays and experiencing pain so bad, I literally used to writhe in agony on the sofa. If it's not cancer, months of treatments may lay ahead and if none of them work there could be the same end result - a hysterectomy. And what really peeves me is whatever the outcome, as sure as night follows day, something else will come along. It's the nature of the beast that is 'auto-immune disease.'

Hubby and my boys have years ahead to enjoy their lives. Do they really want to carry this sickly, relentless burden around for the next thirty, maybe forty years? And am I not entitled to decide when I've had enough?

NO. As one of my best friends pointed out, I’m a mother and with that role, there is obligation and responsibility to my children. There isn't just me to think about. I have to carry on doing what I do best - fight - whether this is cancer or just another manifestation of the Behcets.

I’m in a perfectly lucid and rational mood - I promise - so please don’t think this is me being depressed or feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want tea and sympathy, although some positive vibes for Tuesday might help ;)

I suspect only those who live with chronic pain or illness will truly understand what I’m alluding to in the above. Perhaps if you read this and it means something you might leave a comment so that those close to me don't think I've gone completely bonkers, and that I know I'm not the only person who wishes in today's modern world we had the right to choose when and how we might turn the lights out.

We all deserve to be able to say, 'Enough is enough,' don't we?

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

My name's Debbie, and I'm an alcoholic...

Photo: Jocelyn Durston

Or at least I will be, if I keep drinking wine like I do.

What’s the big deal I hear you ask? It's only a couple of glasses of wine at night. Where’s the harm?

I’ve been drinking at least two or three glasses of wine every night for maybe a year, and what I don’t like is that my little habit has turned into a battle of wills, with wine winning more often than not.

Like most women, I'm always trying to shift a few pounds. Following my recent health problems and surgery, in January I made a decision to get back in shape and thought giving up alcohol for a few weeks was bound to help the waistline. Easy enough, yes?

No. I made the decision mid-week but by Thursday my resolve was weakening.On Friday when hubby poured himself a glass and asked if I fancied one, I found myself justifying the craving. "It's only one glass. It’s your only vice. You deserve it” ‘Oh, go on then.’ The words were out before I could stop them and I caved. A few weeks later in March I tried again. I lasted two weeks, and actually, every day since, I’ve told myself I won’t have a drink, or I’ll only have one glass, but every evening my willpower ends up round my ankles, not to mention the guilt, the castigating, and disappointment with myself.

This realisation of my unhealthy relationship with fermented grape juice has crept up on me. I don’t remember exactly when the penchant began. Like many people, when I worked, I liked to come in from work at night and pour a glass of wine while preparing dinner. After the kids came along, it was "wine o'clock," that magic ‘me’ time after the little blighters had gone to bed and calm was restored chez nous, and I’d sit and watch TV, or read, with a glass of wine clasped firmly in hand. When I retired from work on ill health grounds, I carried on the habit. Hubby would come in from work - I’d already have a glass on the worktop as I prepared dinner - I’d get him a beer and pour myself a top up as we chatted and ate dinner. After clearing up, I’d pour another glass as the family sat down to watch TV. Three or four glasses said in context doesn’t sound excessive, does it?

The trouble is, then there's the occasional glass of Dutch courage I need if I'm going somewhere and feel unconfident, like one of hubby's work parties. Or the habit I've developed of having one while I do the ironing in an evening. And there's nothing like sitting on the patio, admiring the view and watching the swallows while sipping a cold glass of white...

These little associations to alcohol aren't healthy. Don’t get me wrong, drinking doesn’t affect my day to day life. I’m not out of control or a binge drinker. I rarely get drunk. Two or three bad hangovers in my early years of drinking are deterrent enough to stop a desire to get blotto. And unless we’re having Sunday dinner or on holiday, I can't stomach a drink before tea-time.

But am I the only woman, who around the time of 'The Weakest Link,' finds themselves watching the clock, waiting for the magic moment when it will be six o’clock somewhere in the world so I can get the corkscrew out and open the next bottle?

Evidently not. When I speak to my friends, some of them share the same habit. And according to several articles there's a growing trend for middle-age women to hit the wine bottle in the evening, not falling down drunk, but a glass or two at the end of the day. Every day. That's me. Who would have thought about the 35+ units it adds up to.

Photo:Luis Rock

As many as 1 in 6 has a problem with alcohol dependency. More than 1 in 3 women over 35 drinks more than they did in their teens. And 1 in 5 women over 35 admits to regularly binge drinking.

It’s a standing joke in our house about "Mum and her wine."
Even the kids see the association. It was funny at first but now I’m starting to feel it’s all a little sad. I don't want to turn into a bag lady. I started buying boxes instead of bottles. It didn’t look quite so desperate (or was it because it hid how much I was drinking?) But then I realised I could get through a box of wine in three to four days. It’s too easy to keep topping up with a box. And it was even more of a shock when I calculated how many units are in a box. Mum’s psychological crutch had increased to a bottle of wine a night. How shocking is that?

The fact that I've been able to stop in January and March without any ill effect shows I’m not physically addicted as such. However, I don’t like the thought that psychologically, my drinking habits are hooking me in, as alcohol insiduously teases me towards the slippery slope. It might be a way of helping me to wind down, but is the increase because it takes more and more alcohol to achieve the same effects, as your body becomes used to it. Because eventually alcohol might become the only way to wind down...

Am I over-analysing? Do I have a drink problem? I should be the one in control, not the wine, so I guess that makes it one, if it’s a problem to me.

I'm not addicted, but it's a habit which is starting to make me unhappy, and therefore one that needs breaking. Besides anything else, I take a lot of medication already for my Behcets disease – Methotrexate (an anti-cancer drug,) Sulphasalazine, (an anti-rheumatic,) Celecoxib, painkillers (sometimes morphine based.) I won’t bore you with them all, but you can see the amount of toxins my system has to cope with. I really shouldn’t punish my body by adding more.

And also, I have a new set of health worries to contend with - more about them in another post - but I need to make sure I’m strong and able to cope with whatever the outcome. Time will tell. Perhaps it's this scare which has given me the jolt I need, and to this end, I’ve stopped drinking. No wine has passed my lips for...err... forty-eight hours... but it's a start, and giving up for one night was the first psychological hurdle.

I won't set myself up to fail by declaring I'm going teetotal. For the time being, I’d like it to stop for longer than the two weeks I managed earlier in the year and to show I’m serious, I’ve posted this blog for the world to see and that I can re-read it as a reminder to look after myself better.

Right, it's your turn to be honest. Do you drink more than is good for you? And if so, have you tried to stop? Or if it's not the booze, what habit would you like to break?

Until another day
Cheers!
xx

Above statistics and information obtained from:
Drinkaware
NHS live well
Alcohol Substance Abuse
The British Liver Trust

Have I got news for you!

No, I didn’t make it onto the Times Rich List. In fact, not many other writer’s made it, except the Great JK Rowling (and her literary agent, Christopher Little,) Jeffrey Archer, and Jamie Oliver (Chef, author, restaurateur. But most writer's I know are realistic, and don't expect to make much from their chosen profession. For me, I have something far more valuable. While I was away I was awarded another three blog awards! I am honoured. A thousand thank you’s to:

The super Elizabeth Mueller for recognising that I’d finished the A-Z challenge.




The lovely Cherie for the Blog on Fire award

And, the splendiferous, Anita who has awarded me an Inspirational blog award.

Oh yes, and not forgetting, I won a prize - a free 2000 words critique from writer, Jeffrey Beesler. Cheers Jeff!
Thank you all for your support and encouragement. It has been great to make your acquaintance over the A-Z challenge, and beyond…

Well, I’m back from the caravan after waving my little arm off flying the Union Jack flag for the Royal Wedding. And what a glorious and memorable day it was for me (hopefully the happy couple enjoyed it too.) I cried, I laughed, I ate salmon and strawberries and sipped Bucks Fizz. And that frock… (sorry, that’s a ‘dress’ for American reader’s) was divine! I thought everything was spot on – just the right amount of pomp, ceremony, and intimacy, considering millions were watching around the world. Most of all, it wasn’t too ostentatious.

Now I’m home, it's time to knuckle down to the WIP for the NWS, but not before I post this newsy, finger on the pulse blog.

Unfortunately, a gagging order prevents me from disclosing the latest line up of celebrities who have been caught, metaphorically speaking, with their pants down and in flagrante. But the question is, do we really care? Or am I the only old fart to ponder where the insatiable feeding frenzy for celebrities and the interest in their prurient, trashy lives comes from? I don’t give a stuff who’s made it big, despite their poor, troubled upbringings. I have no interest in vaguely famous people's stretch marks, their unsightly facial hair or latest drug,booze or shag-fest? Premier league footballers and their antics - pah! - I couldn't care less!

Photo: P A Wire

I don't do politics in my blogs and won't go on about the Lib Dem massacre in the local elections but I had to mention that it hasn't been a good week for Mr Clegg, seeing his electoral reform dream crushed. And it will be even worse if he happens to spot my blog because seeing a photo of him last week, I couldn't believe how much he's aged. They say a week is a long time in politics. But it's only been a year...

May 2010 - baby-faced and handsome Photo:Angela Harbutt

You wouldn’t catch me being a politician or Prime Minister, not for a squillion pounds! What a thankless job. And it wouldn’t be much better if I were still in banking.

I see in the last few days Lloyds Bank has set aside 3.2 billion for claims likely to arise from the incorrect selling of Payment Protection Insurance (although City analysts think the actual figure will likely exceed £10bn!)
Conditional selling, mis-selling - how underhand and unethical, I hear you shout! And you're right. There is no denying today's sales culture is about greed; banks make bigger profits, shareholder value etc. But having been on the 'other side,' I also understand why it's happened, because I have to admit, the news didn't surprise me.

In the early/mid 90’s before I joined Lloyds Bank as a Manager, I was Sales Manager then Regional Training Manager for Lloyds Bank Insurance Services – a wholly owned subsidiary of the bank. In essence it was my job to sales manage (and train) branch staff, from counter and enquiries staff to Senior Managers, how to sell insurance.

Branches had targets for everything; Overdrafts, lending, mortgages, numbers of personal loans, amount of loans, insurance take-up for mortgages and loans, freestanding insurance products, credit cards, bad debts... I won’t go on - you get the message.

Much time and training went into maximising every customer interaction, face to face and phone call, or ‘opportunity.’ Monitoring of leads, interviews and results, making sure staff didn't miss anything and were proactive. I observed interviews and coached. Staff sat in my interviews so I could demonstrate techniques. What I’m trying to show here is how sales and revenue were part of the culture and way of life. Back then, it was a struggle to get some of the old dinosaur staff to sell, especially the Senior Managers but slowly it dawned on people that working in a bank was no longer a ‘job for life.’ Everyone had to share in the sales effort, including cashiers and enquiries clerks who were expected to pick up snippets in conversations with customers, to identify leads, introduce them to an 'advisor.' There was constant resistance from staff who walked the fine line between providing customer service and giving help and advice, whilst at the same time increasing sales. Many staff hated the changes but their jobs depended on it. If you didn’t adapt to the changing ethos, you wouldn't survive.

As the pressure to grow sales revenue increased, targets got higher and higher, and everything and anything was tried to improve results; Competitions, rewards, tickets for sports events, holidays. Other gimmicks like ‘points made prizes’ (the more you sold, the more points you got, the bigger the prizes.) Clever incentives introduced a competition element, playing people off against each other. Successful individuals were hailed saviours; talisman of success, to be admired, and to aspire to. Branches were revered as the chosen ones, their methods studied, simulated, and best practise ideas spread across the network.

Nowadays, there can't be anyone who works in a branch who doesn't accept sales and targets as part of the job (even if they don’t like it.) In some cases branches have been de-skilled to the point that there are few skills left at all, only sales people. And I'm not knocking this. Being of this 'new breed' was the reason I was recruited all those years ago. It hasn't got any easier over the years for staff in branches. It doesn’t matter that times are tough in the economy, jobs are insecure, money is tight, customers don't have the disposable income etc etc. Branch targets are still there. In fact, more than ever there is huge pressure to increase sales revenue. Overdrafts and financial worries facilitate loans, and ‘talking up’ loans to increased amounts. Further advances may need to be secured against property, and re-mortgages. With an increased chance of redundancy and stress-related illness, there’s never been a more necessary time to have insurance. So the demand for loans won’t diminish. However people must see that when jobs, careers prospects, salaries, bonuses are inextricably linked to performance and achieving targets, it's going to be open to mass mis-selling. If a failure to meet targets means bank staff lose take-home pay, is it any wonders misconduct is widespread, and systemic?

The debate will continue to run but I wanted to show you a slightly different perspective and that you might see how hard it must be, trying to do what’s best for the customer, selling to their needs, when you have to balance reaching targets and surviving in a dog eat dog world.

I don't see obvious solutions. The above is the reality and unless banks stop the hard sell culture and have a major about turn on targets, bonuses, prizes and other incentives for staff to meet sales targets and shift the emphasis back onto customer service, I don’t think it will ever improve.

Sorry, I’ve got on my soap box a little there but with the recent revelations it gives a chance to voice something that's been glaringly obvious to me for years! I won't say any more as I have some very dear friends who still work for the bank;)

Anyway, I hope you liked the newsworthy blog. Let me know your news. And for now, I'd better get back to the novel...


Until another day

Bye for now
xx




PS - As most of you may know, Google's Blogger platform went down for a day. It erased most of my Wednesday, Thursday and Friday morning comments to this post - at least twenty of them, and I can't remember for the life of me who you all were. Sorry ;)