having bits of you fall off or cease to function concentrates the mind wonderfully. unfortunately its in an inward direction. paranoia and hypochondria become close associates with severe introspection. the merest twinge and i envisage all my sutures popping out merrily (which is daft because they were taken out weeks ago, but i have a graphic imagination) and i see the plastic grinning through a ghastly gaping wound. i fiddle obsessively with my sling which is rapidly losing its velcro ferocity and is becoming limp, i am becoming limp too.and exasperated.
my 'notes' seem to have taken independant action and have tripped off. these are vital to my physiotherapy and i am in limbo. i am not backward in coming forward and i complain with brio but i am caught, along with the notes between two hospitals. neither hospital can treat me apparently. so i scuttled quickly to my local brand new physio clinic by taxi when they offered me an appointment. i listened with interest as my afghani cabbie was delighted to explain to me the current situation there. he made rather good sense to me with his talk of robbing americans and russians.his theory that the west was prolonging the war as an excuse for their continued occupation was not an idea i have come across before but sounds as likely as any other. i will give it some thought.
the new physio centre in its bleak and windswept location with only a giant tesco for company is just that. new. it is like an aircraft hanger but much gaudier and looks very expensive, the equipment is excellent and if only it wasn't many miles from the centre of town and if it was on a bus route it would definitely get my approval, guarded of course. its old slightly scruffy venue was on at least 6 bus routes and close to the town centre. the therapist here was charming though she couldn't treat me until the errant notes catch up with me.
she wrote a note to the london therapist. i have an appointment with her this week
GREAT.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Thursday, 18 March 2010
A FAN
and now for something different:. i first met nick churchill, arts and music journo when he interviewed me for the bournemouth echo in 2006 on publication of ' a blues for shindig'. he has been a fan and a great support ever since. at our first interview he said 'i didn't know old ladies wrote books like this!' i told him he's been mixing wit the wrong kind of old ladies.
i asked him to write a review . this is the result
A Blues For Shindig
Mo Foster
Just in case any teenager – or 20-, 30-, 40-, even 50-something for that matter – was damn foolish enough to contend it was their generation that invented sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, Mo Foster’s A Blues For Shindig puts the needle on the record to set it straight.
In fact, the hep cats and hip chicks of the 1950s Soho she invokes were far too cool for the easy pleasures of rock ‘n’ roll – they were digging jazz, man… with a side order of blues for those comedown mornings.
The titular heroine Shindig makes her luck and earns her crust in the scruffy bars of W1. More likely to be serving Scotch and light ales to sweaty men in cheap suits than cocktails and canapés to coffee bar stars, she’s liked, almost respected even, by a certain type of gentleman who doesn’t appreciate being asked about his business.
When one of their less classy members oversteps the mark and Shindig lays him out, she is propelled on a journey that takes her high and low, very low, beneath the veneer of a capital city emerging from war-time austerity and flexing the muscles that would see it swinging wildly within a few years.
By then, of course, Shindig will be long gone, ahead of the game as usual – as much by luck than judgement – but no more comfortable in her own skin than before.
Shindig makes for a bold and brassy companion in this romp. At once pre-dating the ladettes and It-Girls who’ve since become tediously familiar, yet also touchingly old-fashioned enough to still recognise her own vulnerability, not play on it. Too much.
The milieu will be more than familiar to readers of Colin MacInnes, George Melly and Jake Arnott among many others, but its allure remains undiminished by this racier excursion into its flesh pits and pitfalls which only accentuates the sense that it was a world existing separate from, but adjacent to, what passed for real life outside.
Foster’s lack of linguistic artifice and obvious affection for her deviant subjects keeps the reader’s grubby finger turning the page, each new adventure and episode always well within reach. A Blues For Shindig is a fine testament to youth – yours, hers and mine.
Nick Churchill
WOW
thanks nick
i asked him to write a review . this is the result
A Blues For Shindig
Mo Foster
Just in case any teenager – or 20-, 30-, 40-, even 50-something for that matter – was damn foolish enough to contend it was their generation that invented sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, Mo Foster’s A Blues For Shindig puts the needle on the record to set it straight.
In fact, the hep cats and hip chicks of the 1950s Soho she invokes were far too cool for the easy pleasures of rock ‘n’ roll – they were digging jazz, man… with a side order of blues for those comedown mornings.
The titular heroine Shindig makes her luck and earns her crust in the scruffy bars of W1. More likely to be serving Scotch and light ales to sweaty men in cheap suits than cocktails and canapés to coffee bar stars, she’s liked, almost respected even, by a certain type of gentleman who doesn’t appreciate being asked about his business.
When one of their less classy members oversteps the mark and Shindig lays him out, she is propelled on a journey that takes her high and low, very low, beneath the veneer of a capital city emerging from war-time austerity and flexing the muscles that would see it swinging wildly within a few years.
By then, of course, Shindig will be long gone, ahead of the game as usual – as much by luck than judgement – but no more comfortable in her own skin than before.
Shindig makes for a bold and brassy companion in this romp. At once pre-dating the ladettes and It-Girls who’ve since become tediously familiar, yet also touchingly old-fashioned enough to still recognise her own vulnerability, not play on it. Too much.
The milieu will be more than familiar to readers of Colin MacInnes, George Melly and Jake Arnott among many others, but its allure remains undiminished by this racier excursion into its flesh pits and pitfalls which only accentuates the sense that it was a world existing separate from, but adjacent to, what passed for real life outside.
Foster’s lack of linguistic artifice and obvious affection for her deviant subjects keeps the reader’s grubby finger turning the page, each new adventure and episode always well within reach. A Blues For Shindig is a fine testament to youth – yours, hers and mine.
Nick Churchill
WOW
thanks nick
Monday, 15 March 2010
MEETINGS
i think i fulfilled my quota of meetings long ago i reckon i went to two a week for quite a long time, at least that's what it felt like.then there were always people who relished meetings, their eyes would gleam with joy as they went through the agenda and if they had a chance to jump on some poor creature who had their facts wrong they nearly orgasmed with delight. i was never one of these, i was always an observer and i would watch the bitter rivalries between various leftist factions in the anti apartheid movement and between cliques in the women's solidarity groups and wonder at the fact that these groups got things done at all, and they did. for me the focus was always on the pub for the post meeting gathering.
so when my friend told me about a meeting of artists on a sunday evening i was not at all sure about going, the only thing it had to recommend it was the fact that it was in a pub.i went along anyway and i am not sure what i expected. a row of suspicious faces suspecting dodgy motives perhaps, critical appraisal from a crew of hostile 'artists' who would spot me as a non participant..i wasn't sure, and as my dedication to the pint has lessened i was not keen. what i got was a big welcome - mostly because of my friend i suspect - but people moved over to let us sit down and the lovely lithuanion girl beside me asked about my shoulder, giving me a chance to be both pathetic and brave. my friend shot me daggers from her eyes so i kept it to the shorter version.
the only other brit was a south london guy, a sculptor who chatted and his wife pia hugged me - quite unlike my experience of meetings.the entire experience was thoroughly enjoyable and it makes me wonder if artists are nicer people or if the fact that the nationalities, which went from finnish through jewish, italian, spanish, argentinian to algerian and autralian were so diverse that made it such a different experience. i dont really care but i will be there again on sunday 28th and here are the details: the venueis the shakespeare head pub, kingsway , within yards of holborn station at 7pm. for anybody involved in the arts - writers included.
the thought just came to me that i might have changed and become more mellow with advanced age,
heaven forfend!
so when my friend told me about a meeting of artists on a sunday evening i was not at all sure about going, the only thing it had to recommend it was the fact that it was in a pub.i went along anyway and i am not sure what i expected. a row of suspicious faces suspecting dodgy motives perhaps, critical appraisal from a crew of hostile 'artists' who would spot me as a non participant..i wasn't sure, and as my dedication to the pint has lessened i was not keen. what i got was a big welcome - mostly because of my friend i suspect - but people moved over to let us sit down and the lovely lithuanion girl beside me asked about my shoulder, giving me a chance to be both pathetic and brave. my friend shot me daggers from her eyes so i kept it to the shorter version.
the only other brit was a south london guy, a sculptor who chatted and his wife pia hugged me - quite unlike my experience of meetings.the entire experience was thoroughly enjoyable and it makes me wonder if artists are nicer people or if the fact that the nationalities, which went from finnish through jewish, italian, spanish, argentinian to algerian and autralian were so diverse that made it such a different experience. i dont really care but i will be there again on sunday 28th and here are the details: the venueis the shakespeare head pub, kingsway , within yards of holborn station at 7pm. for anybody involved in the arts - writers included.
the thought just came to me that i might have changed and become more mellow with advanced age,
heaven forfend!
Friday, 12 March 2010
ON SMILIMG
i spent a lot of my life snarling in public. there are, or were, photographs of me at weddings , an angry little girl, tummy and bottom lip protruding into the world. knees clamped together - all chakras closed down if you believe in such things - always with a bow in my hair and wearing some very feminine confection made by mum. to be fair there were also pictures of me in happy disarray on a donkey at the seaside or up a tree. at school i glared out of formal photos, yet i was a clown in the classroom, a smart arse sniggerer and disruptor of lessons that bored me - a swat at the ones i liked.
really the seventies were a very good time for me, i became a feminist and it seemed quite acceptable to hit the world with a nice grim face, in public anyway, because we were aware of vast unfairnesses. in fact it was the time of the anti nazi league and blatant racism so a grim visage was appropriate. it was also a time of great liberation for me and i probably laughed more then than i ever had before. i enjoyed the company of women enormously.
i grew up wanting to be a boy - mainly for the clothes and for the sheer convenience of peeing upright - which i tried with messy results. my brother got a better deal in both liberty and pocket money, i felt cheated. but somehow it was a given that going out with a male was preferable to going out with your mates, so if your friend got a date with a boy and dumped you that was ok.
things have changed in this department and i have take up smiling big time. partly i think because i live in an area where few women speak english and smiling is my main communication, i limit my smiling, mainly to the female population and i hardly snarl at all. i enjoy being smiled at and partly because i have a dog.in a area where the only other dogs are large grim creatures so people cower at my small terrier- and she reciprocates by running in terror from squealing kids - so a reassuring smile is part of my equipment.
anyway i take my smile everywhere with me. in moscow it was received with stoney lack of comprehension in berlin i got unwarranted smiles from most people and in london a mixed reaction. it pleases me to smile and though it could be seen as sign of weakness, i don't care.
i shall smile with vigour but if you don't reciprocate i shan't mind, and don't be fooled, the snarl is still intact and fully operational!
ps
this week i have much to smile about because my 1st novel 'a blues for shindig' has been chosen as part of the new exceptionally independent list. i am delighted and look forward to blagging and putting myself about to promote my book - along with the other writers i hope!
really the seventies were a very good time for me, i became a feminist and it seemed quite acceptable to hit the world with a nice grim face, in public anyway, because we were aware of vast unfairnesses. in fact it was the time of the anti nazi league and blatant racism so a grim visage was appropriate. it was also a time of great liberation for me and i probably laughed more then than i ever had before. i enjoyed the company of women enormously.
i grew up wanting to be a boy - mainly for the clothes and for the sheer convenience of peeing upright - which i tried with messy results. my brother got a better deal in both liberty and pocket money, i felt cheated. but somehow it was a given that going out with a male was preferable to going out with your mates, so if your friend got a date with a boy and dumped you that was ok.
things have changed in this department and i have take up smiling big time. partly i think because i live in an area where few women speak english and smiling is my main communication, i limit my smiling, mainly to the female population and i hardly snarl at all. i enjoy being smiled at and partly because i have a dog.in a area where the only other dogs are large grim creatures so people cower at my small terrier- and she reciprocates by running in terror from squealing kids - so a reassuring smile is part of my equipment.
anyway i take my smile everywhere with me. in moscow it was received with stoney lack of comprehension in berlin i got unwarranted smiles from most people and in london a mixed reaction. it pleases me to smile and though it could be seen as sign of weakness, i don't care.
i shall smile with vigour but if you don't reciprocate i shan't mind, and don't be fooled, the snarl is still intact and fully operational!
ps
this week i have much to smile about because my 1st novel 'a blues for shindig' has been chosen as part of the new exceptionally independent list. i am delighted and look forward to blagging and putting myself about to promote my book - along with the other writers i hope!
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
TV TIMES
my friend is in moscow where women's day is a public holiday and women are given flowers. i was feeling a mild chagrin about our neglect in britain and the fact that i was supposed to be reading in berlin and i had cancelled due to the thought of jetsave one armed terrifying me. but then bbc4 came up trumps with programmes about the women's movement in the seventies (omitting much) . then a play about evil bankers
( wankers?) with the divine sarah parish who has the most gorgeous gob in the business - then greenham common was 'done' , ( with the ubiquitous fay weldon putting in her 2 pennorth irritating as ever bless 'er)then grunwick. oh frabjous day! none of these programmes was perfect from my point of view, nothing ever is but until i make my own progs i will shut up. i went to grunwick once and amid the usual fear of being trampled underfoot, it was inspiring to a serial protestor like me. I went to greenham many times on large protests to embrace the base and with a mate who camped there every weekend - i would slope off home, i was never a camping kind of gel. the only time i stayed for longer than a night - 3 days at green gate - nobody spoke to us (2 women a child and my dog in a 2 man tent) except to say that my dog was unacceptable as he was intact in the balls department, i offered to cut em off but mercifully nobody took me up on it. the soldiers chucked stones at our tent t all night to wake the dog who woke us. on the third night people spoke to us and we succumbed to the blandishments of the boozer.then a trudge back in thick mud and not a taxi in sight. i always found greenham horribly oppressive - the vibes y'know. but i admire the women who stuck it out and i believe that it was a successful campaign BECAUSE it was women only. it did change many women's lives too.
i digress yet again
back to tv: then, late, a programme about the first african woman president in liberia, it looked like she had her work cut out but, having stayed riveted all evening ( i usually kip as soon as i sit ) me and the dog went to bed, i expect it will be repeated, i hope so.
i reckon that's my licence fee well covered.
( wankers?) with the divine sarah parish who has the most gorgeous gob in the business - then greenham common was 'done' , ( with the ubiquitous fay weldon putting in her 2 pennorth irritating as ever bless 'er)then grunwick. oh frabjous day! none of these programmes was perfect from my point of view, nothing ever is but until i make my own progs i will shut up. i went to grunwick once and amid the usual fear of being trampled underfoot, it was inspiring to a serial protestor like me. I went to greenham many times on large protests to embrace the base and with a mate who camped there every weekend - i would slope off home, i was never a camping kind of gel. the only time i stayed for longer than a night - 3 days at green gate - nobody spoke to us (2 women a child and my dog in a 2 man tent) except to say that my dog was unacceptable as he was intact in the balls department, i offered to cut em off but mercifully nobody took me up on it. the soldiers chucked stones at our tent t all night to wake the dog who woke us. on the third night people spoke to us and we succumbed to the blandishments of the boozer.then a trudge back in thick mud and not a taxi in sight. i always found greenham horribly oppressive - the vibes y'know. but i admire the women who stuck it out and i believe that it was a successful campaign BECAUSE it was women only. it did change many women's lives too.
i digress yet again
back to tv: then, late, a programme about the first african woman president in liberia, it looked like she had her work cut out but, having stayed riveted all evening ( i usually kip as soon as i sit ) me and the dog went to bed, i expect it will be repeated, i hope so.
i reckon that's my licence fee well covered.
Monday, 8 March 2010
HOME FOR THE ONE ARMED NON HERO
So here i am in splendid isolation the better to write, with my dog for company - though she is a late riser and doesn't show until after 9. i am still one armed though doing my physio and have slung the sling except when i go out,. 4 the sympathy factor - has not yet worked but am hopeful.i discovered a djebella that i got in tangier, adjusting trousers is another thing hard to do with one hand a, along with cutting up food, putting on a beret, picking up dog turds, hanging out washing, peeling spuds and typing. i. was very disappointed nobody noticed, was reduced to drawing attention to my exotic wear - somebody mentioned cultural imperialism so i shut up,but i will not be put off.. i have also recycled a few skirts that fit - unfortunately i seem to have become completely tubular so they tend to descend -very slowly but with the inexorable power of gravity, inducimg the most godawful feelings of insecurity...so either i buy braces or dump them. i do intend to return to finish my previous WHOOPEE blog and tell about the marvellous meeting i began to speak of.
been tuned in to radio 4, it murmurs in the background a lot of stuff about venables the 10 year old killer, emotive stuff too. i think it would be very surprising if, after years of incarceration he had emerged intact - but what do i know....however i was in prison in the 60s and though i met some lovely women i can't say it equipped me for a glittering or dull career, on the contrary i was scared of traffic and institutionalised after 4 months so imagine how traumatised a child would be after many years!!!
hurray my first exclamation marks for weeks!!!
been tuned in to radio 4, it murmurs in the background a lot of stuff about venables the 10 year old killer, emotive stuff too. i think it would be very surprising if, after years of incarceration he had emerged intact - but what do i know....however i was in prison in the 60s and though i met some lovely women i can't say it equipped me for a glittering or dull career, on the contrary i was scared of traffic and institutionalised after 4 months so imagine how traumatised a child would be after many years!!!
hurray my first exclamation marks for weeks!!!
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
WHOOPEE
still one armed but have been putting myself about and blagging like crazy because my novel 'a blues for shindig' is one of the books to be promoted by'exclusively independent' in libraries and bookshops in london this month. I got news that my mate katie ann is being pursued by agents for her 'little book of the unhip' which is on authonomy and is very funny and. well worth a look. another friend has been shortlisted by croydon warehoue for his play 'tar baby' so it feels like things are moving in the right direction.
last night i went to a meeting of - oh dear i have very cleverly lost more than half of this posting dammit! i shall attemp to recover it and if not...i shall rage and bang some pots about but am limited by one arm status even in doing me nut.....as i said before a mild DAMMIT.
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