An Olympics experience

My daughter is staying with us, the actress and writer Maggie Gordon-Walker. She has brought her two young sons - if you listen hard you may hear them. Her partner is here too, but on the way to join us at our house in southwest France he spent a day in London. He was passing by Victoria Park in Hackney (as one does) when he noticed a big outdoor screen showing the Olympics live. Hello, he thought, I'll just go and have a look.

Alas, he couldn't just have a look, he first had to pass the same security procedures that have made Heathrow airport justly famous throughout the world for efficiency and friendliness. There was the metal detector, the X-ray machine,the full body pat down and then the security guard who told him to open his bag. The security guard showed suspicion of something and held it up. "What's this?" My sponge bag. "I'll just open it up..." The security guard prodded round and produced a Bic disposable razor. "You can't take that in. And what's this?" What it says on the can - shaving foam. "You can't take that in either." What do I do with them? "Chuck them in the bin."

This, mind you, was to watch the Olympic Games shown on a big screen in a public park. What did the security goon think he was going to do - attack the screen with a throw-away razor and reduce it to shreds? 

Life in deepest France

We live in a one-dog sort of village. He can usually be seen lying on the road near the church. If you arrive by car he will raise his head, give a mournful yawn and get out of the way with great reluctance to allow you to park your vehicle. If you arrive on foot he may bark at you - all French dogs seem to be trained to do that - but really it is more of a welcome. His tail will be wagging furiously.

Ours is a not a big village. Oh all right, it is a small village. The commune is divided up into a number of small hamlets and ours just happens to be the biggest. All told, the commune number about 350 people. But we have a mayor and two deputy mayors and nine councillors. In fact when you discount the children it seems everybody can have a turn at being a councillor. Even foreigners can be on the council - and we have one Englishwoman who got elected and her responsibility seems to be water. I don't think she is doing her job properly as we haven't had serious rain for four months. We read in the news of all the rain they have been having across the Channel in Britain and sometimes wish they could send a bit our way.

So a foreigner can be on the council but legally may not be mayor. Our mayor is a retired post office official and a widower. Just the other day a marriage bann appeared on the notice board: the mayor is getting married. He signed his own notice of marriage so it must be true. Most village gossip is exchanged in the bakery. I was approached by Monsieur Bien Cuit. I don't know his real name but he always asks for his baguette to be Well Cooked so that is how I think of him.

"Do you know," Monsieur Bien Cuit said, "our mayor is getting married?"

"Really?" Yes, I had seen the notice but it is always better to let a neighbour think he is letting you in on a secret.

"Yes," Monsieur Bien Cuit said, "our mayor is like a leek upside down: he is white on top but green down below."

What a poetic way of putting it.

Reluctant blogger takes tentative first step

The sky is blue, the sun is shining, the birds are tweeting so what am I doing inside at my desk writing this? My daughter has come to celebrate my birthday yesterday and today she has taken me in hand. You’re an author, dad, go on Twitter, write a blog, stop hiding away in a French village, get yourself better known.

She’s right. I have just had a book published on Kindle – To El and Back it’s called. It’s a collection of sixteen short stories, set in places round the world I have visited. So the settings are real, a few of the characters are also real, but the stories are fiction. Well, mostly.

This is how one of the stories starts.....

                                                                                             Poland, 1984

A knock on the door in the dark hours was never welcome news. I glanced at the alarm clock – 1.33 – and sat up in bed. What could I hear? Just a car accelerating away in the street, dying to silence. That knock which woke me, I decided, wasn’t made by a fist or boot. It was only four years since the murder of the priest Jerzy Popieuszko. Maybe the SB was learning a more subtle approach. I heard nothing more, no muttered voices, no impatient shuffling, so I got out of bed and crossed the room.

‘Who is it?’

‘Marisia.’

‘What do you want?’

No answer.

I unlocked the door, opened it as far as the security chain allowed and leaned into the gap to look down the corridor. What was I jittery about? Men in belted raincoats and squat hats flattened against the wall? She was alone. Her hair was long and straight and dyed platinum. The shiny plastic bag looped over one shoulder was the same pink as her lipstick. She wore pink plastic boots too. She was dressed for a fairy tale. Her eyes flickered to my shoulder and registered I was naked.

Well, that is how the story starts. As to how it ends... If you want to find out, you can download the whole book. It costs less than a beer in an English pub. I think they are great stories but I’m prejudiced.