Author: anneethompson

Nobody told me—or perhaps I wasn’t listening—that size matters

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Nobody told me—or perhaps I wasn’t listening—that size matters

When I was 9 years old, my favourite book was Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. I had a hard-backed abridged edition, bought from a jumble sale at the end, when they were reducing all the books to a few pence each. That is how we acquired all our books in those days. I still have it. I used to read it late at night by torch light, while hidden under the covers, and I loved it. I don’t know, now I’m all grown up, how much I understood at the time, but something about the language, the passionate exchanges and the romance of a plain girl being loved by a strong rich man, intrigued me.

It remained my favourite book, until I was 17, and studied it for A level. Being forced to learn passages, to discuss the use of gothic imagery, and all the other awful things that English teachers encourage their pupils to do, completely killed the romance of the book, and I put it away, never to be read again. Until now. Because recently, I was thinking about how long it has been since I was completely engrossed in a book, and I remembered Jane Eyre, and my love for it. I decided to give it another read.

I bought another hardback copy, because I fancied reading it the old-fashioned way, rather than on my Kindle, and I began to read. Yet again, I was captivated by the story, mesmerised by the characters; and although I didn’t need to read it under the covers, I did find I was putting off things I ought to be doing, so I could read another chapter. It is a completely brilliant story, full of deep emotion, and passion, and despair. Really, if you haven’t read it recently, buy a copy and set aside a long weekend to forget about reality and fall in love with the dark figure of Mr. Rochester.

However, as I read, I was reading with ‘writers eyes’. This is bit of a hazard when you become an author, as every so often, something about the style of writing, or the placing of punctuation, catches your eye and whips you out of the story, and instead you analyse how the author has created a particular scene or atmosphere. (And oh, do I wish, I could create an atmosphere like Charlotte Bronte did.) Much of the punctuation, the placing of exclamation marks mid-sentence, for example, is very different to the standardised punctuation we use today. There are also lots of dashes—which leads us to the title of this article.

In an attempt to find out when punctuation was standardised, and whether Bronte’s punctuating would be acceptable today, I stumbled on some articles about dashes and their uses. Now, maybe everyone else in the world knows that there are three different types of dash, all different lengths, and all used differently. But I didn’t. Even though my manuscripts are returned by my editor with every dash changed, it has never occurred to me to wonder why. Now I know. Finding out how to type the dashes took a little longer, as I work on an old MacBook Pro (good old Apple!) and it’s not always easy to discover some hidden punctuation. Just in case you too have missed this interesting piece of English grammar, I will explain.

The first dash, used to hyphenate words, is found at the top of the keyboard, with the numbers. It is used, without spaces, to link words, like well-adjusted.

The next dash, slightly longer, is called an en dash (because it’s the length of a capital N). It is used to denote ‘until’ or ‘to’ such as in a list of dates: 1st July–3rd July, or a list of numbers: 22–32. On a MacBook, you press ‘alt’ and the hyphen key.

The last dash is one I use all the time when writing, but have always wrongly used a hyphen with a space either side. It is called an em dash (because it’s the width of a capital M). It denotes a break in thought, or instead of brackets. I used them—to make an interesting example—in the title. They don’t need spaces between the dash and the word, and on a MacBook, you press the capitals arrow, the alt key, and the hyphen key, all at the same time.

I now need to go and change all the wrongly written em dashes in my new book. But maybe I’ll read another chapter of Jane Eyre first…

Thank you for reading.

Love,
Anne x

***

You can follow my blog at anneethompson.com

*****

When you are useless…

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Do you ever feel that everyone else is more capable than you are? They seem to have more friends, more purpose, to achieve more—and you feel as if you’re playing ‘catch-up’ the whole time? I think we’ve all felt like that at some time. The trouble is, we tend to evaluate ourselves in comparison to everyone else, we see what they’re achieving, and we feel less able, less capable; a bit useless really. In 2014, I really was, utterly useless. Let me explain.

In 2009, I was a working Mum, teaching in the local school, preaching occasionally in local churches. We had returned from a few years in New Jersey, the husband’s career was developing nicely, and all seemed good. It wasn’t, but it seemed good.

But then things started to unravel for me. I started waking each morning with headaches that lasted all day. I was forgetting things, and I felt, very slightly, as if I wasn’t quite coping. Teaching seemed more about politics and pleasing parents, and less about the pupils. Preaching felt more ‘head-knowledge’ than true. The family and house and animals all seemed slightly too much. I put all this down to stress, cut down on teaching, stopped preaching, and tried to get the home bit right.

Then one day, while emptying the tumble-dryer, I came up under the work-surface and knocked myself out (as you do). The next day I had an awful headache, so went to Casualty, where they did a CT scan. They told me that I had a small benign tumour, right in the centre of my brain. When I got home, I did some online research, and found this was very rare, often undetected, and sometimes caused “sudden instant death”. So not hugely reassuring.

I then started a whole era of brain surgeons, MRI scans, and frequent migraines. For five years, I lived in this rather tense bubble, because the medics said removing the tumour would damage the brain, so it was better left where it was and monitored. My migraines meant I was too unreliable to teach or preach, so I felt a bit useless. Except, God still had a plan for me. Because however incapable we might feel, God can use us, and life can be good and full of meaning (which is the point of this article).

Being ill is mainly boring—so I decided to learn Mandarin. I practised by teaching English in the local Take-Away restaurants, and I made some very special friends amongst the Chinese community. I often hurt too much to talk, but I learnt to listen.

In 2014, the tumour changed and became dangerous, so my surgeon took it out via a craniotomy. He cut through the right side of my brain, right to the middle, and patched me up with bits of metal. There I was, a middle-aged woman, with half my head shaved, an impressive scar, and a terrible memory. Pretty useless really. Plus, as they cut through the part of the brain that controls anxiety, I also became anxious about really daft things—like leaving the house to have coffee with my mum. (And although my mum’s coffee is pretty awful, it’s not something normal people become anxious over.) My rather dodgy maths became even worse, so counting or having any awareness of time became very hard. As the brain was having to make new, less efficient pathways, I grew tired very easily, and found too much stimulation (noise, lights) exhausting.

As a scarred brain doesn’t really heal, it just finds new ways of doing things, all those things, to some extent, are still true today.

However, the left side of my brain was undamaged, and my language was intact, and this became very important. Gradually, I grew more confident. I found that people didn’t mind the over-emotional woman with the terrible memory—in fact, some people preferred her. Leaving the house is still a bit scary, but I have learnt to force myself, to pray very hard (and to carry Immodium at all times!) The more I do, the more God enables me to do, the more I realise that I can trust him. It started with tiny steps, the “Please God can I have coffee with my mum without having a panic-attack” sort of prayer.

Since then, I have travelled the world, in fact last year I was walking through the slums of India talking to people, researching a book. Because now, I write books. When I was at the “leaving the house is too scary” stage, I started to write a blog. This developed into longer articles, and finally books. All the stories I have always had in my head, are now forming themselves into words, and I find I can write them down. Excitingly, people are buying my books, and liking them enough to buy the next one. Gosh!

So the next time you feel useless, are tempted to think that everyone else is doing rather better than you, remember this: You were created for a reason, and whatever happens, however weak, and dependent, and incapable you may become, if you lean on the God who created you, you will never be useless. Because there is a plan. We simply have to learn how to follow it.

xxx

These are my books. They’re available from book shops and Amazon. Please will you buy one to read this summer?

Following my diagnosis, I began to learn about how the brain works, and am fascinated by how controlled we are by our brains. I then began to explore other illnesses and disorders, focussing on psychopathy. Psychopathy is a mental disorder, not an illness, and it causes certain personality traits – most psychopaths are not violent, or ever convicted of any crime – but the way their brains function mean they have certain behavioural characteristics. As I studied psychopathy, reading books by neurologists, listening to psychopaths as they talked, and even finding two mothers of psychopaths who were prepared to talk to me about raising a psychopathic child, I realised that most people have no idea how a psychopath thinks, why they behave as they do. In response to this, I wrote two novels: JOANNA and CLARA. Both show how people are affected by the way their brain processes information—and the impact on people around them. (When selling these books, I am often asked by people if any US Presidents are psychopaths. I think if people read CLARA, they will be able to decide for themselves!)

Thank you for reading.
Anne E. Thompson

 

The latest, and best book (in my opinion). An exciting novel written in the first person, which shows how a psychopath views the world. The story encompasses the world of women trafficked in India, and shows how someone very bad, can be used to achieve something amazing.

This tells all the things I wish I had known when first diagnosed. A helpful book for anyone with a potentially terminal illness. It shows how to find a surgeon, how to cope with other people’s fears, how to not be defined by an illness. It also has a few funny anecdotes – because even when you’re ill, it’s good to laugh.
Available from Amazon (you can get it free if you have a Kindle).

A hilarious romance for when you want to relax.

A gritty thriller, which shows what it means to be a psychopath, and how it would feel if someone in your family did something awful. (Because every psychopath has a mother.)

Hidden Faces by Anne E. Thompson.
An easy read, feel good novel, set in an infant school. An ideal gift, this is a book to make you smile.

An exciting novel, set in the near future. One family shows how they cope with driverless cars, new laws, and schools run by computers.

I missed the ambulance when it arrived.

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I missed the ambulance when it arrived, sirens blaring, lights flashing, roaring up my driveway. I wasn’t there, I was at Lunch Club, serving fish and chips because the week was too busy to cook, so I had cheated, and ordered take-out food. But it meant I missed the ambulance, when it came.

I didn’t know there’d been an accident, until I arrived home, and was met in the driveway by one of the men working on the pond. He asked if I’d been told, if someone had phoned to tell me what had happened. I instantly assumed that one of the cats, who I’d been unable to shut away that morning, had been run over. The workmen were using a digger, and a tip-up truck, to move the soil where the pond will be, and I thought one of the cats must have run in front of a vehicle. I hid behind my sunglasses, and waited for him to tell me, not sure that I was going to react very well. So when he told me that someone had been injured by the bucket on the digger, and they’d called an ambulance as they thought his leg might be broken, I tried hard to not say:
“Oh good, I thought you’d killed one of my cats!” Instead I managed to look concerned (which I was, after I recovered from the relief of not having lost a cat) and asked how he was.

Apparently, whilst changing the bucket on the digger, it had bashed into his leg. He had managed to crawl up onto the lawn, and call one of the other workers, who phoned for an ambulance. I thought about the amount of silt that had been there a couple of days before, and how falling over in that quicksand would have been so much more horrible.

Other than injuries, the pond seems to be pretty much on track. They pumped out the water, and dug out the silt – which was several feet deep and an evil grey colour. Then they began to build the new wall with sleepers, backing them up with clay so they don’t leak. Next they will dig down, to where the water-table is (the pond is fed by the water table, which is very high just there, and tends to flood that lawn after lots of rain).

The island is a rectangle of earth that they left – if you dig around earth that is already compacted, it makes a much better island than one that is constructed with sleepers and then filled in. They will taper the edges, so the ducks can clamber out when the water level drops. One of the problems with a water table pond is that it’s very full after a lot of rain, and very shallow in dry months; so it’s hard to grow aquatic plants as they’re either submerged or dry. But ducks tend to eat absolutely everything anyway, so plants aren’t really possible unless you fence them.

At the moment, it’s all rather scary, as the lawn looks like a building site and the pond is empty. I do hope the new pond is okay, and it will be easier to stop it silting up as it’s further from the trees.

The ducks are complaining about being in a cage, and I’m constantly refilling their water bowls, as their main activity is splashing the water all over the sides. The chickens are desperate to be free, and try to escape every time I go up to see them. Thankfully, the hen has now gone broody and is sitting on her eggs. They should hatch in a couple more weeks. As the cockerel is half bantam, I’m not sure if the chicks will be small. It’s a time of waiting. I will let you know how things turn out.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the leg wasn’t broken, but was seriously bruised, so needs a few days of rest. But my cats are fine…

Thank you for reading. Have a safe week.

Love,
Anne x

*****

anneethompson.com

The Royal Academy Summer Exhibition

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Have you visited the Summer Exhibition this year? There are worse things you could do. The annual exhibition at The Royal Academy of Art is always an eclectic mix, as it has an open submission, so the great and famous are displayed next to Aunty Mabel—assuming Aunty Mabel has caught the eye of whoever is this year’s coordinator. This year, Grayson Perry was in charge (he’s the man who resembles a pantomime dame) and, like his dress sense, the exhibition is flamboyant and unexpected. With over a thousand works of art on show, it’s impossible to even notice them individually, never mind trying to assess each one. They range from the completely brilliant, to the absolute rubbish (in my opinion). But overall, the impression is one of colour and fun and strong political statement. This year’s show feels very contemporary, and I for one enjoyed it.

Much of the art, I really do not understand. When I got home, I tried to find online reviews of individual pieces, or at least explanations, but there weren’t any. Perhaps there are too many for the critics to cope with. I will therefore share with you my own highlights and lowlights of the exhibition. I am not an artist, so I expect I missed the point on some of them. However, as art is subjective, I will go ahead and give you my brutally honest review.

 When you first arrive, you’re greeted by this stupendous piece of haberdashery. It is huge, and for anyone who has ever sewn anything and agonised over straight seams, it epitomises skill. It is knitted and sewn and embroidered. I have absolutely no idea what it is meant to signify, or what will happen to it after the exhibition (it will be a nightmare to dust) but I loved it.

 

 

 

 

 

 The next gallery is painted bright yellow. This made the room very exciting, even if you didn’t like the art. In fact, I would say that this year, all the galleries could be viewed as a whole—you walked in, and thought “brilliant” or “terrible”, without needing to examine the individual works. Some were displayed so high that you couldn’t see them anyway (unless you happen to have a stepladder in your handbag).

This particular photograph made me laugh. I assume the model is the artist’s mother. No one else would be prepared to dress up as a compost heap. She doesn’t look especially pleased. Hopefully she’s proud of him now.

 

 This gallery also had a picture by Banksy, with the ‘Vote Leave’ slogan changed by a heart shaped balloon to ‘Vote Love’. It was for sale at the price of £350 million (bit sarcy).

There was also a large portrait of Nigel Farage. Above it was a portrait of a man being sick. Which I’m sure was a coincidence.

The picture on the left was simply a nice picture—one of the few on display that you might actually choose to hang in your own house. It was wonderfully chocolate-box, and little children could write whole stories about it.

 

 Talking of stories, this should definitely be used for the cover of a book.It had some wonderfully clever imagery, with people of different heights, and all sorts of political messages.

 

 

 

 

 

 Here’s one for my Aunty Margaret. Not sure she’s ever knitted/crocheted anything quite like this. Something to aspire to perhaps. Or perhaps not. It wasn’t something you really wanted to look at for long.

 

 

 

 

 This one was by Harry Hill, who apparently used to be a medic. I didn’t like it. But I guess someone did. It reminded me of the game: ‘Operation’ which we used to play when I was a child. (I didn’t like that much, either.)

 

 

 

 

 

 I have no idea why anyone thought this head was worth displaying. If it had been in a primary school art room, it might have been considered good. But not here. And not at that price. 

 

 

 

 This was brilliant. Completely brilliant. It is made from broken egg shells. Wow. Glad I wasn’t responsible for transporting it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The carpet bear was another favourite. Though again, I imagine the artist’s mother was somewhat cross when she came home and saw what he’d done to her best rug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 On the topic of broken things and mothers, next time you break a tea-cup, here’s what you should do with it. A brilliant way to avert anger. It wasn’t until I spotted the handle that I realised it had once been a cup.

 

 

 

 

 This was a great picture that was spoilt by the terrible lighting in the gallery. I’m not sure why we needed lights on anyway, as the sun was bright enough. Several works were very hard to see. Maybe the exhibition is best visited after dark. Or on cloudy days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 This one would be impossible to spoil. It was an upturned television and a block of concrete. Why? No idea. My best guess is that it was put out for the bin men and someone took it to the academy by mistake. It said nothing to me, and was ugly. (Sorry if it was your child who created it.)

 

 

 

 

 This was a display of carved soap. There wasn’t a scent (it just smelt of the pine display rack). Very clever. The soap is prison soap. We had trouble stopping the man next to us from touching it, but I did know what he meant. There was something about it that made you want to touch it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 This was a chair, with the seat the wrong way up. All I can think is that someone ordered something from IKEA, lost the assembly instructions, and then was too embarrassed to admit they’d messed it up, so entered it to the academy instead. Not something I needed to see.

 

 

 

 

 I don’t even know what to write about this one. It was sort of hidden behind a display cabinet. Were the workmen having a laugh? Really?

 

 

 

 

 

 This was my favourite. Unicorns, galloping through a forest, all made from twisted wires. It was beautiful, a whole story.

 

 

 

 

 

 You have to see this one in real life really, as the details are too small. It was very contemporary, with lots of references to politicians and modern life. There was so much to see, it was very skilful, very intelligent, a visual feast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 As an author, I had to include this one. A finely balanced work of art, which said that we need books to be balanced (at least, that’s what it said to me!) Excellent.

 

 

Thank you for looking at the art with me. Try to find time to pop to London to see the exhibition for yourself. It’s there until the end of August.

 

Have a good week, and don’t melt.

Love,
Anne x

Thank you for reading anneethompson.com

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Caution: Old(er) Woman Running

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It was Grandpa’s 80th birthday, so we invited the family round for cakes and scones. Those of you who remember that I am meant to be reducing my cholesterol levels, might be wondering how cakes and scones fit with this. But my mother told me to never answer questions like that.

To be fair, I have tried to increase my exercise, and I have started to run. Opposite our house is a big field, about 125 miles in circumference, and when I walk the dog, I now jog for some of it. It’s nicely remote, so no one can see me, and I started to run just a few paces, then walk to recover, then run a little further. I can now jog around 3/4 of the field, which I think is pretty good going. I won’t be entering the marathon, as other people might measure distances differently.

As soon as I start to run, the dog picks up a stick, and then trots in front of me, tail up, head forward, as if showing me that she thinks my speed is pathetic. When Son 2 is with me, I have to tell him I am jogging, otherwise he might just think I am doing a funny walk. There is not much discernible difference in speed between my walk and my run. In fact, the only real difference is my face goes very red, and stays that way for about 3 hours afterwards. I have no idea whether it’s making any difference to cholesterol levels.

My other news is that we have started work on the pond. It’s quite a large pond, and it’s under some large oak trees. The trees drop all their leaves into the pond, so the bottom was filling with silt, and the water was becoming ever more shallow. It was also eroding the edge, so was in danger of undermining the roots of the trees. We therefore decided to hire someone to move it. Which has turned out to be fairly major work.

Firstly, I had to catch all the ducks. This worked well with my aim to teach the duckling who was hatched by the chicken, that s/he’s a duck, and over the course of a week, I managed to catch all the ducks on the pond. They’re now in a cage, very unhappy but safe, and I spend lots of time cleaning them out and refilling water pots.

Yesterday the workmen arrived. They first had to dredge the pond, so removed the fence to make an easy access point, and began to pump out the water. They also had to move some plants that we hope to keep. A delivery of sleepers arrived, and these will make a wall on the side where the trees are, so it doesn’t erode in the future. The other edge will be natural, so it will be easy for the ducks to get in and out. They painted the grass to show where they plan to dig. The island had to be far enough from the edge to be safe from foxes, so they asked how far a fox can jump. They can, according to Google, jump 2m, so I’m hoping that’s an exaggeration or requires a run-up. I’m not sure how athletic the foxes around here are – more athletic than me, that’s for sure.

Today, a digger arrived, to dig out the rest of the pond. I had to shut the ‘outside cats’ in the workshop, as they won’t necessarily be helpful. The remaining chicken and cockerel are also still in a cage, so the fox can’t get them. Which means all my animals are caged, and I do not like animals in cages. I will let the hen go broody, so she has something to do, and then I will allow them out again in September, when any chicks she hatches will be big enough to be left. The ducks will be free in a couple of weeks I hope.

Hoping you have a healthy week.
Love,
Anne x

Anne E. Thompson is an author of several novels and one non-fiction book. You can find her work in bookshops and on Amazon.
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com

A Quick Pop to Cowdray

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Cowdray Ruins

Well, I have had a nice few days – always good when a few positive things happen.

We had a lovely weekend, meeting with different friends. One couple (the ones we went to Brazil with) live near Cowdray, so we met them there. Have you been? It’s one of those little English villages that you drive through and say, “Ooh, that looks interesting, we must come back one day.” And then you never do. We, however, did.

We did a quick Google search first, and found that the ruins are closed for repair. Husband made a few sarcy comments about the owner should be careful about repairing ruins, as their brokenness is sort of the point, but we ignored him. We could in fact, walk very near to the ruins, so had a good look around despite the fences and ‘keep out’ signs. There is a board which gives you some information, so we learned that the ruins were built in 1542, and the original house would have resembled Hampton Court. It was a place where Henry VIII stayed, and the information told us to “imagine Queen Elizabeth I arriving, galloping towards the mansion with her train following behind…” (More sarcy comments about looking for the railway.)

In 1793, the house burned down, while it was being refurbished for Viscount Montague’s wedding. This is the sort of thing you dread when planning a wedding. I seem to remember that some windows were smashed in the church just before our own wedding – which doesn’t really compare.

In the walled garden.

There was a walled garden, which was lovely, as it had tables placed around the garden, and you could order tea. We didn’t want tea, which was lucky, as there didn’t appear to be anyone serving, even though there were other customers sitting having tea. I suggested they might be ghosts of customers past – it was that sort of place.

There was also a small house on stilts. I have no idea why, but have included a photo for your interest.

Cowdray also has a farm shop, and Polo Club. Last time we drove through, we saw people playing polo, which was rather fun. This time they were playing cricket – on a different field, obviously. Rather less fun to watch.

Should you want a venue for your wedding today, and have less to spend than Viscount Montague, you may be interested in Cowdray House, which is also on the estate, and can be hired for functions. I found it online, though we didn’t visit. It all looks lovely, and I whiled away a few minutes, choosing which of the 22 bedrooms I would like to stay in. The website was rather coy about listing prices though.

Apparently, the whole house is for sale, if you have a spare £25 million, as Viscount Cowdray would like to sell it. He wants to hold on to the park and polo fields, so I’m afraid you can only buy the house, which it says in the advert he is selling “so it isn’t a burden on funds for his son and grandson,” which I felt was not a very good marketing strategy as it rather deters one from bothering to get a surveyors report done, doesn’t it?

Thank you for reading. Have a good week.

Love,
Anne x

****
If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

***

Anne E. Thompson is an author of several novels and one non-fiction book. You can find her work in bookshops and on Amazon.
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com

A Flaming Nuisance

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A Flaming Nuisance

Sometimes life doesn’t go to plan, does it? In fact, sometimes, quite major things can go wrong, and part of life is deciding what to do next when disaster strikes. This week has been a little like that.

One disaster was due to the hot weather we’ve been having. My mum, having survived a week in Camber with me, then phoned in bit of a panic, as the trees near her house were on fire. I went down to see if it was safe for her to stay there, and found the whole area filled with smoke and the smell of charred wood. There was a fire engine, and a lot of people, mainly neighbours who had come out to watch. The people who lived right next to the fire had been evacuated, and the other neighbours were finding them chairs and cups of tea, holding their hands and being generally helpful. Sometimes people are very nice.

I decided to bring Mum to my house, mainly so she didn’t have to breathe all the fumes, and also so she could recover from the shock somewhere peaceful. Animals are quite calming, and I have lots of animals. Her own house wasn’t damaged, so after a few hours of being climbed on by cats and bounced by the dog and watching the ducks and chickens, I took her home. Mum is fine, but the trees look very sad.

(When I went to collect her, I needed to drive over a fire hose, and I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to. So I asked a fireman, who said: “Where are you parked sweetheart?” I don’t get called sweetheart by beefy firemen very often. So that made my day!)

My other disaster was a chicken massacre. Usually the fox is too scared to come into my garden because it gets chased by the dog. So my chickens roam freely all day, and I shut them in at night. But when I went up to shut them into the cage, only one hen appeared. I shut her in, and went to investigate. The compost heap and orchard were covered with feathers. Not a good sign. While I was searching, the fox came back, presumably for the hen I’d shut away, and the dog chased it away. But I couldn’t find the other chickens.

Later that evening, the cockerel turned up at the kitchen window, looking a bit lost. I picked him up and put him in the cage. Am guessing he hid when the fox came (not exactly the chicken equivalent of beefy fireman, as he let the girls get eaten).

So now I only have one cockerel, and the hen who escaped. What a shame. The fox has visited a few times since, so I’m guessing it’s raising cubs and has become more daring. I will leave the birds in cages for a few weeks. They are not happy.

On a lighter note, the duckling that the hen hatched is still doing well. I am now trying to teach it that it is a duck, not a chicken. I moved it into the big aviary and caught a duck from the pond to keep it company. The duckling spent a whole evening crying for his ‘mum’, which was rather sad. I have now moved the other ducks inside, so he is getting used to being with ducks. I’m hoping that in a couple of weeks, when all the birds are free again, he will want to go on the pond, and not into the chicken coop.

When the egg first hatched, it was hard to see if the hen had hatched a chick or a duckling!

As the duckling grew, mother hen was rather perturbed every time it jumped into the drinking water.

 

 

Feathers start to appear after a couple of weeks.

At 4 weeks, fully grown, though not yet fully feathered. Moved into a cage with ducks from the pond, so he can learn how to be a duck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hope you have a week that is free of disasters. Thank you for reading.

Take care,
Love,
Anne x

If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

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Do you want an interesting book to read on holiday? An easy read novel, full of excitement and interesting ideas? Why not buy a copy of CLARA? Available in bookshops and Amazon, as both paperback and ebook, this book will both entertain and challenge you. You can order copies directly from me, for the reduced price of £7.95*, simply use the contact form below.

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*Compared with £11.95 from WH Smiths and Waterstones.
Payment by bank transfer or cheque will be requested on receipt of the book.

Travel with Clara from an English town to the slums of India, and see how someone bad can achieve something amazing.
An exciting, fast paced novel.
CLARA – A Good Psychopath?
by Anne E. Thompson.
Buy a copy today, and prepare to become engrossed in a whole new world.

Mini Review of Camber Sands

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Well, our holiday at Camber has finished, and we both survived. We had a nice routine, with me working (inefficiently) for the morning, then meeting for lunch. We then ‘did our own thing’ until 4pm, when we went to the beach, followed by tea, then Netflix until bedtime. All very civilised and relaxing. It was also nice to spend time with just Mum, to properly listen to her stories about the past, without having to rush off to do things. Camber Sands, out of season, is ideal for this.

We stayed in a holiday cottage on the White Sands estate, and this was ideal. Mum called it ‘Toy Town’ and with all the little houses, I know what she meant. We walked around, guessing which ones were rental homes and which ones were lived in. I’m assuming that most people don’t, by choice, have ornaments of sea-gulls and anchors in their normal homes. Many of the gardens were full of lavender, and it’s all very pretty.

There are a few places to eat in Camber, even out of season, though some were closed until July or working limited hours. So the fish and chip shop was only open in the evenings (though you can get very good fish and chips from the friendly man with a ponytail, in the cafe on the grass carpark, near beach C). We ate a couple of times in Dunes Bar (5* hygiene rating and friendly staff) and sometimes drove to The King’s Head in Playden (which has the above plus the best food, I think).

I prefer Camber in the winter, when you can walk the dog along the whole beach, but it’s cold. Even in the summer, it always seems to be windy.

We had very good weather. It was always windy, but it was dry, and warm in the sand dunes. On Friday, the main road was quite busy, which gave a taste of how it must be in high season, when I imagine it would be fairly difficult to cross the road if you’re a slow walker (which one of us was).

The beach is flat and sandy – so great for kids wanting to build sandcastles or old ladies who like to paddle, or dogs who want to dig and bounce through waves. The east end of the beach is where all the water sports enthusiasts are allowed, and when the wind is right, you can see lots of coloured kites with mad people attached. (I did offer to pay for Mum to rent one, but she made lots of excuses.) The carparks all seem to have toilets, and there are plenty of bins to put your bags of dog mess (so no excuses for cleaning up after them people!)

However, the tide comes in unevenly, so you have to watch out so you don’t get cut-off. This can be dangerous for non-swimmers. And there are rip tides, which are dangerous for swimmers. They now have life-guards on duty (which I’ve never seen before) and signs telling you the tide times and where is safe to swim. One day there were jellyfish in the water, but I have come to Camber many times, and never seen them before, so perhaps we were just unlucky. Another hazard is towards the Rye end of the beach, where at low tide some of the sand is oily. It is the wet sand, and your feet sink into the sand and then come out black, which is very unpleasant, and bit of a worry with the dog, who was most unhelpful about being taken into the sea to be washed. I still maintain that wellies are the best footwear for a beach (see last week’s post).

The marshes around Camber are beautiful, and there are paths and cycle routes through them. You can hire bikes in Rye and Camber (ebike-hire.com 07960 587482). While we were there, the fields were full of poppies and chubby lambs and water birds.

So that’s it, a quick review of Camber Sands. If you would like to also borrow my mother to take for company, I’m sure that can be arranged.

Have a good week.
Take care,

Love, Anne x

Thank you for reading. You can follow my blog at:
anneethompson.com
Anne E. Thompson has written several novels and one non-fiction book. You can find her work in book shops and Amazon. Why not buy one today?
(I think the best one is CLARA – A Good Psychopath? which shows how someone very bad, can achieve something amazing…

Camber continues…

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Well, you’ll be pleased to know I have managed to not murder my mother, so far… In fact, we’re having a rather nice time, here at Camber Sands. The little cottage we’ve rented is turning out very well, everything works, and there are a few novelties. I am enjoying the Nespresso machine, Mum was unexpectedly taken by the spy-hole in the front door. I haven’t liked to ask how often she stands there spying on the neighbours. Even the dog is happy, as she simply adores the beach.

The beach is great, though we did have a near-disaster yesterday, as we hadn’t realised the tide was coming in, and we were walking along a sandbank, completely oblivious to the water rushing in between us and the beach. It wasn’t dangerous, just annoying, as I had to get my jeans wet wading across to the beach. Not helped by a particularly bouncy dog who thought it was great that I was finally joining her in the sea.

Today we had another disaster – not our fault – as we decided to go to Rye for the day. I hate driving, and find it particularly stressful driving through towns I don’t know, trying to find a carpark. And I know Rye has lots of one-way streets. There is a map in the cottage, but it doesn’t show the one-way streets AND it has South at the top. So it’s all backwards. (I find this completely irritating – who would draw a map with South at the top???)

Anyway, when Mum suggested that we could catch a bus into town, it seemed like an excellent plan. I took the dog for an early walk (ignoring her when she pulled desperately towards the beach path, as I didn’t want her to get wet, so she had to settle for the fields) and checked the timetable at the bus-stop. There are buses every hour, so we planned to catch the 11:13 bus, wander around Rye, have lunch, and catch a bus home early afternoon. Perfect – or so we thought.

We allowed plenty of time to walk to the bus-stop, so were there about 11:05. We stood at the shelter, and I worried they might not take notes or cards and I didn’t have enough change. At 11:13, there was no bus, but Mum, who catches a lot of buses, assured me they are often a few minutes late.

At 11:30, we made friends with the other lady waiting at the stop, who said the buses are often very late, and sometimes don’t arrive until about 50 minutes after their due time. She had been there before us, and had a very cute little dog, called Benjie. She said it was a new timetable, it began at the beginning of June, and previously there had been buses every 30 minutes rather than every hour. Mum then chatted to her (about the weather/her dog/what it’s like living in Camber/her political views/religion/her sex life, etc, you know what elderly ladies are like) and I moved slightly away and hid behind my sunglasses.

At 11:50 the bus arrived. Happy days. Chatty lady got on first, and was told: “You can’t bring the dog on, there are already 3 other dogs on, I’m not taking any more.”

Chatty lady said she’d been waiting nearly an hour, but the bus driver was adamant, he wasn’t taking any more dogs. Chatty lady got off the bus.

Mum and I stepped onto the bus. The driver said, “I can only take one of you.”

We stared at him. (I nearly asked which one – but decided it wouldn’t be polite.) Mum asked why. Driver said the bus was too full already (it was) and passengers weren’t allowed to stand beyond the blue line (a line – blue- painted on the floor). There were people standing almost up to it, though they could have all squashed back a bit. But Mum said she needed a seat, and I could see that there weren’t any, and I really couldn’t face the conversation with random strangers about which one was going to give up their seat for her, so we too got off. Bus then sped away, and we walked back to cottage. The dog was pleased to see us.

We ate in a pub in Camber instead, and had a nice time, and will take the dog on the beach later. But it was a bit of a shame, especially as until recently there had been more buses, so we’d have got a seat. It must be infuriating for chatty lady, who was local, to have the bus to Rye full of holiday-makers so she doesn’t fit on it. Perhaps the bus company will reconsider the cuts for the summer months. I hope so.

Thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this, why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

 

Travel with Clara from an English town to the slums of India, and see how someone bad can achieve something amazing.
An exciting, fast paced novel.
CLARA – A Good Psychopath?
by Anne E. Thompson.
Buy a copy today, and prepare to become engrossed in a whole new world.

Thank you for reading. You can follow my blog at:
anneethompson.com
Anne E. Thompson has written several novels and one non-fiction book. You can find her work in book shops and Amazon. Why not buy one today?
(I think the best one is CLARA – A Good Psychopath? which shows how someone very bad, can achieve something amazing…

If you enjoyed this, you will love my new book: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary.
I have always written a diary on holiday, so last Christmas, I decided to find all my old diaries and blogs, and make a book for my children. However, several other people also asked for a copy, so I have written a public version – it’s available on Amazon and has been described as “The Durrells meet Bill Bryson”!

Why not buy a copy today? I think it will make you laugh.

The US link is here:

https://www.amazon.com/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549015525&sr=8-1&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

The India link is here:

https://www.amazon.in/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549015429&sr=8-1&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

The UK link is here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarcastic-Mothers-Holiday-Diary-ebook/dp/B07N95281F/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1549014970&sr=8-2&keywords=the+sarcastic+mothers+holiday+diary

 

Camber Sands with Mother

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Mum said she wanted a week by the sea, and I can write anywhere, so I told her that if she didn’t mind being ignored until midday each day, I would take her to Camber Sands. Am hoping we don’t murder each other.

Other people’s reactions to the news were telling. My children all declined to join us, citing work/parties/washing their hair as plausible excuses. My siblings all advised I take lots of alcohol. My friends all said, “A whole week? Gosh!” I expect they were jealous.

We set off on Saturday. The dog filled the whole boot, so I told Mum we could only take what would fit behind her seat. I packed the dog, my stuff (one tiny bag) and the food (quite a lot of bags) and went to collect Mum. Her stuff was already packed, and in a long line down the front path and round the corner and half way to the next town. But we managed to fit it all in. And I quite like eating bruised apples and crushed crisps, so it’s fine.

Arrived at the cottage in one piece, despite my dodgy driving and fairly useless brain and completely useless SatNav. We have rented a two-bedroomed house from ‘Beside the Sea’ cottages. It’s on a little estate of pastel coloured houses, and is 3 minutes walk from the beach. The house is pretty small (Mum suggested we could empty a cupboard for big smelly dog to live in) but it’s very pretty. It also – most importantly – has a shower with decent water pressure, an outside hose (for rinsing big smelly dog) and two washrooms. There are also a few luxuries, like a Nespresso machine (am on my 4th coffee this morning and the world is buzzing) and Netflix. The owners have included helpful things like capsules for the dishwasher and hand soap for all the sinks, and we arrived to cake and biscuits and a bottle of wine. All very nice.

After a quick cup of tea, we walked to the beach. I don’t know if you know Camber Sands, but in the summer months, the only part of the beach where dogs are allowed is accessed via sand dunes. Dragged Mum over one the height of Snowdon but we made it to the beach. Tried to take selfies – realised neither of us were very good at this, and we now have several photos of our feet, and the sky, and the dunes. Both dog and mother went completely nuts and insisted on paddling. Mother told me she thought I was completely ridiculous to be wearing wellies on the beach in June. But I have lived with Husband for too long. And I hate sandy feet.

Sunday: I took the dog for an early run. The tide in Camber goes out for miles and miles, so we had a good walk. The only other people out there were fishermen digging for lugworms. I worried a little that the tide might come in and we’d get cut-off, but there were no warning signs (only about riptides for swimmers) so we walked 27 miles out to the sea and back. Kia chased seagulls and brought me dead crabs and stones to throw. (I didn’t throw the dead crabs, in case you’re wondering.)

Met Mum and we walked to the little wood and brick church on the main road, next to Pontins. People seemed friendly, and there was coffee and cake afterwards, which Mum stayed for as she likes chatting to strangers, and I didn’t, as I don’t.

We had lunch at The King’s Head in Playden. I’ve been there before, and it never disappoints. It’s pretty and cosy and the food is lovely. Spent the rest of the day walking and reading and watching Netflix.

This morning I walked along a footpath towards Rye (I couldn’t face even more sand and wet dog, I figured one trip to the beach a day would be fine.) The path went past fields of chubby lambs and great pools of deep water with fishermen next to them, and was lined with poppies. Camber seems to have lots of poppies in June. Came back to write this, and will now do some work. So far the week is going well, and we are both still alive. I’ll give you an update next week.

Thank you for reading. Have a good week.

Take care.
Love, Anne x

Anne E. Thompson is an author of several novels and one non-fiction book. You can find her work in bookshops and on Amazon.
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com

The latest, and best book (in my opinion). An exciting novel written in the first person, which shows how a psychopath views the world. The story encompasses the world of women trafficked in India, and shows how someone very bad, can be used to achieve something amazing.

A gritty thriller, which shows what it means to be a psychopath, and how it would feel if someone in your family did something awful. (Because every psychopath has a mother.)

This tells all the things I wish I had known when first diagnosed. A helpful book for anyone with a potentially terminal illness. It shows how to find a surgeon, how to cope with other people’s fears, how to not be defined by an illness. It also has a few funny anecdotes – because even when you’re ill, it’s good to laugh.
Available from Amazon (you can get it free if you have a Kindle).

A hilarious romance for when you want to relax.

Hidden Faces by Anne E. Thompson.
An easy read, feel good novel, set in an infant school. An ideal gift, this is a book to make you smile.

An exciting novel, set in the near future. One family shows how they cope with driverless cars, new laws, and schools run by computers.