‘Come thou, love, my own, my only,
Through the battlements of Groan;
Lingering becomes so lonely
When one lingers on one’s own.’
- ‘Linger now with me, thou Beauty’,
from Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake

On Thursday the University of Wolverhampton hosted a lecture by Sebastian Peake, son of the poet, author and artist, Mervyn Peake, most famous for his beautiful Gormenghast books. Biting cold kept the hordes away, but I was appreciative of the intimate nature of the talk; Sebastian shared many things about his father’s upbringing and personal life, and indulged us with a question and answer session at the end (after frantically scrabbling for a vaguely intelligent question, I settled on asking him about his recent recording of Peake’s Progress for a centenary audiobook). It was highly enjoyable; I got a copy of Mervyn Peake: Two Lives signed by him, and can now brag about having shaken the hand of someone who held hands with Dylan Thomas whilst being walked to school. Oh yes.

Have you looked outside, lately?

Yes, yes, England has snow. It’s nice to look at and all, but honestly, for all I care it can sod off. It’s cold, it’s wet, old people shrivel alone, cars crash, buses fail to climb hills, I fall over in it, people throw it at me, it ruins carefully straightened hair, it makes walking a chore. I’m avoiding Facebook and Twitter because  every damn time it snows, people behave like they’ve never seen it before. It’s so ~MAGICAL~ and so we must rush out into it, severely underclothed and begging attention from frostbite and friends. Good grief. Ask me to choose between gallavanting around in the snow and curling up on the sofa with homemade pizza and a bad comedy…well. Gimme dat pizza.

I’ve got some days with which to do something, this week. I want to write, read, find something to apply for, do some work on my book (I can’t bear to wait much longer – anticipation is a torment), go for a wander…I need to buy a new pen. One that won’t smudge, this time. Have unsmudgeable pens been invented yet?

I can’t seem to concentrate on my notebook unless I’m out and about, so I went for a wander around Bridgnorth again the other day. It was bloody freezing,  but productive; five pages of shaky prose is better than nothing at all. I went past the ruins, took in the view, warmed myself with milky coffee then took the bus back to Wolves. A brief escape, but worth it.

Lovely place. It’s not the same as discovering new places in Holland, but it’ll have to do…travel in Britain is noticeably more expensive, so I’ll probably be too broke to go anywhere more adventurous than Walsall before long. Whatever the stories ask of me, though. Naomi posted a few very kind tweets yesterday, saying she enjoyed reading the top secret work-in-progress finished version of Doors. Well, it’s “finished” so long as I don’t get my proofed copy back, dripping in red lines and crosses…oh dear. Let’s not jinx it. I’m so happy to have positive comments – it’s all good confidence food. Naomi’s a very different reader to myself (ie. she actually reads books with character development and plot, whereas I am all about the surface and style – if it’s lacking in grammar and brimming with pretence, COUNT ME IN!), so it’s a precious opinion to have. I’ve been playing around with cover ideas and I think I have something I’m happy with for a first attempt…I’m dying to upload it but I’ll resist. A lady must have her secrets.

Question: If I use the same lunatic in two different pieces, does that make it a series? I think I am writing one long poem, sliced into thinner pieces. In case you missed it, Charley burnt down a house last week.

Charleyboy’s Following

Man at a desk.
Headphones on,
looking down a lens at
a nice guy on the street,
one he’s watched for
a while, oh, long while now.
Leaves his office every week day at
[ 5 : 1 5 ]
coat on, lights up,
hits the pavement for a
short journey home.

POINT ONE:
Nice guy always walks home alone.

When he reaches the corner
he waits for the signal,
crosses carefully to
cut through the park.
It is here he must be met by
the watcher at the desk, before
he reaches the strollers,
pedestrians, perhaps
willing to chance
a rude heroic act.

POINT TWO:
Though he’d like to,
man cannot wait for the dark.

Today is chosen because
it’s a Friday;
most others gone early,
leaving luckless old Larry
lonely as he treads down the
path what he walked up
that morning.
Cigarette lit as usual,
this time no menthol,
puffing in time with
his thoughts, week’s work
and high hopes
for the weekend.
Friend’s birthday, a
dinner with mum,
quiet curse said on Sundays
when he remembers
it all starts again.
Face on his feet as
he heads for the gate,
the park and, beyond it,
high-rise known as home.
Doesn’t see a shadow
slipping out of a doorway,
dim porch lost in cardboard, neglect;
all a lie.

POINT THREE:
This plot stewed for months,
threads lovingly tied.
Our watcher is an
expert in fieldwork,
real pro: plumbing depths
darkly sculpted, to which
only he goes.

Charleyboy, on the run
from his prior bad act
brings a scalpel
to the lips of
the doctor, this man
he has followed
and trapped
like a rat
in an alley. This
careless man of medicine,
fearful and reticent, reluctant
to beg which is well
for he won’t get no
mercy from
that one. The mad one.
One lickin’ chops
with a knee on
the chest of
a good guy, so close
to the corner, to
the park, crowds and
safety in numbers,
commuting anonymous,
not knowing a comrade
who dies, soaked
in numbness.

Following, waiting games
that paid off, a life
he has cast off like
neat rows of wool
knit tidy with needles.
Charley lingers at
the alley mouth, looking
this way and that,
slips the scalpel in his pocket,
steps sidewards on the street.

He counts on the lady with
the push chair to be
the one who
finds him there,
dead doctor with
no motive wrapped up
in his hair.

MURDER!, broad daylight,
what ought not be.
Charleyboy wants attention,
wants to be one watched by
the watchers again.
Done watching others he’s
watching his step
adjusting watch strap
watching traffic
watch him step up
to the front door
of the station, off to
hand himself in.

POINT FOUR:
Though it ends here,
be patient for the
patient sat across
from a doctor, a live one,
in a white room where
the third act begins.

Body count: 2. That we know of.

Surprise Cupcakes

The best kind of cake is surprise cake, so don’t tell anybody you’re making these – just throw them together in an afternoon, have fun decorating, then turn up at a friend’s house with a plateful. +1 popularity, +1 happy stomach. This recipe, enough for 20 cupcakes, is completely dairy-free and can easily be made gluten-free by using alternative flour and baking powder – everybody eats, everybody wins. Continue reading for the recipe and more photos…

INGREDIENTS:
300g self-raising flour
300ml water
250g golden caster sugar
125ml sunflower oil
2 tsp vanilla essence
1 tsp baking powder

TOPPING:
For peanut buttercream:
225g icing sugar
75g smooth peanut butter
35g soya spread
25ml water

For glacé icing:
450g icing sugar
50ml water
Food colouring

METHOD:
1. Preheat your oven to 200C/gas mark 6. Line muffin trays with 20 paper cake cases.

2. Sift the flour into a bowl, then stir in the baking powder and caster sugar. Add the sunflower oil, water and vanilla essence, then beat to combine. The mixture will be smooth and runny – if you want to change up the flavour of the sponge, try sifting in 60g of cocoa powder, or grate in some fresh lemon zest. You could also try dried fruit, vegan chocolate chips, crunchy hazelnuts…you get the picture. You can, of course, just keep it plain and simple for a classic vanilla flavour.

3. Spoon the mixture into the cake cases (or if its easier, transfer to a mixing jug and pour). Place in the centre of the oven and bake for 20 minutes. The cupcakes are done when a fork inserted into the sponge comes out clean, and the tops are golden and glorious.

4. Carefully remove the trays from the oven, and transfer the cupcakes to a wire cooling rack. Whilst they cool you can prepare the toppings – there are no rules here, but I’ll quickly explain how to do an easy peanut buttercream and glacé icing. You can go mad and use all sorts of things like vanilla or almond essence in a buttercream, or a nice strawberry jam swirled on top, or chocolate, coffee, and so on…

5. For a sweet peanut buttercream, sift the icing sugar into a small bowl. Cream in the soya spread and peanut butter – you’ll get something close to a dry, powdery crumble mix. Add the water carefully, stirring all the time, until you have a smooth, creamy consistency. Smooth on top of the cupcakes with a palette knife (or you could pipe it!) and sprinkle with demerera sugar to finish.

6. For glacé icing, simply sift the icing sugar into a bowl and gradually add water, mixing well until you have a thick, runny icing. Divide the icing between smaller bowls and add a couple of drops of food colouring – red and blue always looks good! You could use white icing, as well, to give your cupcakes a sweet surprise – just create a hole in the centre of the cake using the end of a teaspoon, pushing it all the way through. Drop a bit of icing off the end of the teaspoon into the hole and refridgerate to set – then decorate the top of the cake as you see fit. The only thing better than a cake iced on top is surely a cake that’s iced in the middle, too.

7. If icing just ain’t enough, you can scatter all sorts of decorations on top to finish. Try cherries, pecan nut halves, a sprinkling of sugar, cookie crumbs, sugar strands…whatever you can get your paws on, really.

It’s not seamless, but. I found myself hanging on a wall today. Still, isn’t my rabbit pretty?

He knows he’s a looker.

I want to start thinking about the cover for Doors. I need to sit down with some paper, a marker pen and some bad ideas and a can of kerosene, to try to work something out. Something simple? Nothing busy. I’ll think of something. Alex, who is kindly proofreading that most sorriest of affairs, has a new book review blog, so do check it out. As for me, it’s back to the drawing board. And by drawing board I mean sofa.

I hope Rafa’s not emotionally bereft after losing the Australian Open final yesterday (I sure am). What a Herculean contest! He’ll bounce back…hopefully with both knees intact

Charleyboy’s Burning

When he wakes
the man sees he is done;
tied to a chair,
mouth stuffed with rags,
eyes gummy with heat.

Oh.
Oh, wait,
wait what
are you doing
with that?

Charleyboy watches the waking,
confusion and grog as it
mucks up his face.
What the man sees is Charleyboy standing
with fluid in one hand,
matchsticks in the other,
grin on his chops like the
mother of all maladies.
It is nightmarish, really; horrific.
The man wills himself back to sleep.

Charley wakes him by driving nails
into the tips of his fingers.

And across town a copper
watches a screen, ignores calls,
glazes over reports, thoughts linger
on a face he knows, fraught with suspicion.

The man in the chair bleeds,
is wet now, stinking of
petrol and defeat.

Charley brushes his black hair,
adjusts his new tie,
rolls up his sleeves,
checks his coat tails are neat,
spares one moment more
for the man he has trapped,
leaves the room for the landing,
the top of the stairs.

This house is a wreck;
empty for years,
Charley found it whilst rambling,
ambling through wooded wastes;
he kept it in mind
as the plan crept to life,
this grey kingdom rules over
so bleak a place.

When the copper stirs
on naught but a hunch
Charleyboy is downstairs,
dripping petrol behind,
heading to a front door
leading onto a circle of firs.

Outside is white,
thick blanket of snow,
Wastes wrapped in ice
where Charley will go.

Still got that matchstick;
breathing cold plumes, he
looks at the sky,
wonders if the man wakes
as his skin starts to prick.
And as Charley bends to
tie his laces, copper moves,
driving reckless through streets to a
long country lane where a
house sits, desperate, empty
for time, fears it now occupies
two faces, one missing, one wanted,
and he knows it is happening
so faster he races.

When Charley hits the first match
it is just past two,
sky heaving with night,
man upstairs struggling,
mind blurry with fright.
First match dies so
the boy tries another, and another
and at last
he gets one
to light.

Crackling, an agony
to hear, a torture
for the man at the top of
the stairs. He hears the fire
creeping closer to cook him,
taunted by peeling walls,
smoke swirling on the
legs of the chair.

Ah,
Charley smiles
as it goes up
in flames, sees his burning;
fire takes time to grow
and explode, it is learning
to blaze like a glory
it was born to be,
heat close to blistering,
Charley writing his histories
as he turns to leave.
Back hot from the house,
front cold from the snow,
and in the distance are sirens
coming near, so he goes.
Feet kicking up white,
striding into the fields,
passing between trees;
got his scarf pulled tight,
arms folded for warmth,
eyes on the floor,
his figure is slight.

The burning man does not scream,
he accepts; relents,
neglecting to fight,
regrets the life that
has brought him to this.

Copper’s coming with others
but too late, wheels screeching
as they fight round tight corners;

In the distance is smoke.

It’s that feeling of stubborn refusal
when you know you are fucked
but you still harbour hope.

In the trees, Charley’s heading for home,
spies a wolf at the cliff edge,
sanctuary in its eyes.
He don’t laugh, think or reason,
he flees from the scene and
meets the wolf with
his victory between them.

When he arrives, copper watches the wreck,
building burning, sizzle on the air.
What he smells is his breakfast
and he’s dirty with hunger,
embarrassed and exposed by the cold.

Footprints end in the firs,
from then on just scuff marks,
prints left by feral paws.
Teeth clattering, he makes for the cars
where the hounds wait,
officers shuffle next to
the shell of the house.
He sees shapes at the edge of the land,
squints but they’re gone,
and behind him the wreck is a husk.

Men picking over charred bits of bedlam,
body there somewhere,
though much is mixed with floorboards.
The copper laments,
ultimately accepts
that it happened and
his case loops again.

Charleyboy, out in the wild,
thinking of fire and winning,
of penning his own sticky end.
He runs to the nearest town,
emotions a labyrinth,
tricky question of
who he might drown.

Boy cooked a man,
medium-rare case of
cruelty, cooked tender with vex.
The papers don’t say who was burnt
for they can’t;
all that’s left
an unfortunate mess.

I’m tired this week. Dutch-tired, as in close to how I felt after cycling around a campsite all day, digging trenches late into the night. Fuckin’ knackered would be another way of putting it. It’s all these late nights followed by early rises to kill myself at the gym, then kill myself further reading French grammar. De des eaux cette pourraient voyons jerais celui-la ces WHAT NOW? WHAT? NO REALLY, QU’EST-CE QUE C’EST? Oh, go bougre yourself! And remember: c’est la guerre.

Last night I went to Molineux to watch the FA Cup second leg tie between Wolves and Birmingham City. Our seats were directly above the mildly abusive Blues supporters, so it was noisy, but I enjoyed the atmosphere. I hadn’t been to a football match in so long; you forget how different it is to watching it at home. No covenient replays, no commentary, no worryingly orange Gary Lineker, no close-ups of the melodramatic pansies as they wilt under flimsy tackles, falling to the ground and flailing around like jilted schoolgirls…we ate at City Bar beforehand because they have an excellent vegetarian and vegan menu, as well as things stuffed with meat for everybody else.

The ground wasn’t even half full. Can’t say I blame people for not going, though. Not only were Wolves tepid and uninspired (they lost 0-1 so NO WEMBLEY FOR YOU), but it was also bloody freezing. I believe I left a few toes behind in the Steve Bull stand.

I’m really excited about a lecture being held at the local university on 2nd February. Sebastian Peake, son of Mervyn Peake, who wrote the incomparably beautiful Gormenghast books, is lecturing on his father’s work and career in the Millennium building. It’s in the evening, so if I have to work that day, I hope I’ll be able to get back in time. I cannot think of a subject I’d enjoy more over a two-hour lecture, except maybe The Most Rewarding Aspects of Stalking Spanish Tennis Players, Discussed Over Tea And Biscuits. And even then, I’d be giving the lecture.

There is more good university-related news…I have an interview next month for a librarian position in the learning centre. I need to do my homework for this one. It’s a part-time position, and I’d love to give it a try. I have retail and customer experience; I’d be up for trying something different that still allows me to obsessively re-order shelves of books. It’s a while away yet, but I’m going to work hard for this interview. I opened the letter yesterday and couldn’t quite believe they’d picked me, but there you have it. Proof that you never know what’s happening next.

Well, time for me to expire. No actual death involved, you understand, just an expiration of sorts involving sofas and duvets and television and little else. I’m at the bookshop more next week, and on the days between I want to start work on a competition poem and tackle that imposing block of tofu in my cupboard. White, rubbery, unappetising brick, you will be scrambled in paprika and cumin! I did herb-roasted potatoes the other day, which was a success. And surprise cupcakes. Just call me Delia and get outta here, yeah?

Yes, that’s my voice tickling your ears. Gotta love a bit of yam-yam, right? You can find the story, as well as a few other brief testimonials, in Fight the Sky. If you liked the audio, you can also download the complete audiobook - just name your price. :)

Nothing outrageous, but it’s a start. I’ve got some tofu in the cupboard which I haven’t worked up the courage to open, yet; one of my cookbooks has an interesting scrambled tofu recipe, but I’m intimidated. Hopefully I’ll feel up to it later this week. Sadly, girl cannot live on cake alone, though there will still be cake. And biscuits. Probably a fair amount of crumble, too. Chuck in some custard whilst you’re at it?

I’m pleased to report that Monsieur Frite survived his recent skirmishes with the veterinarian surgeon, and whilst his stomach gurglings are still under par, he’s doing better every day. Eat that gourmet hay that costs a fiver a bag, young sir, or I will eat it for you. You heard me. That’s if Jaster “hollow legs, empty head, healthy appetite” Rogue doesn’t beat me to it.

It’s almost that time of year again. I can feel it in the air: an anticipation, yearning. Building in me. Buzz buzz buzzing in my head like a fever. It’s…almost…the start…of the first slam of the year…must…sound…the…trumpets…of war… ……… …. V.. V-V-VVV….

VA

AMMO

SSSS

……….

VAMOS RAFAAAAAAAaaaAaAAAaaAAAAAaa@aaaa…!!!!!!

*ahem*

Sorry about that. Just had to get it out.

The Australian Open is about to begin. Who will win? Will Rafael Nadal shrug off 2011′s year-long slump (apart from that glorious Roland Garros win, icu bein King of Clay) and recapture his #1 ranking? Will Novak “Absolute Headcase” Djokovic destroy every living creature unlucky enough to grace the other side of the net? Will that rarely seen mythological creature, Juan Martin del Potro, make a token appearance at a tournament before limping off injured for the rest of the season? Will Andy “No Slams” Murray continue his blistering form and fail to win anything of note the whole year through, sack his coach, and blame it all on his mum? Will Federer wear cardigans emblazoned with his own initials and make his own parents wear baseball caps bearing his sigil? Will Greg “I LOVE TENNIS” Rusedski say something ridiculous during commentary, forcing me to bang my head off the wall in despair? You bet your ass he will. Hot damn. Greg sure knows his stuff.

Tennis. It’s fucking awesome serious business, yo.

We talk politics, sometimes,
muse on the world.
She beats me at chess when
her hair’s set in curls and
if the lipstick is on,
nails dipped in black,
I know she’s all business
and means most emphatically
to win. La victoire,
the emperor of art,
parked her suitcase in my mind,
made her bed in my heart
and her roots go deep,
all talons and spurs;
she might do me wrong
if it’s what’s best for her.

I’ll drape her in pearls,
feed her oats from a spoon,
smile sweetly, speak furies
when she leaves the room.
She haunts me with vacancy,
her staring wet eyes;
try to act like I don’t mind,
lacing biscuits with lies that
I’ll feed her by hand
before she’s tucked in at night,
kiss her brow, squeeze her fingers,
wish her bright dreams and right then
she smiles, ever so sweet,
so I always smile back.

I’m wishing her sufferance
and she knows I wish bad.

She wouldn’t be here
if I was not what I am;
Tristesse, pale seductress,
playing tricks with the tears;
a mad mistress, my Sadness,
sleeps on a quilt stitched from years
that we spend together,
her and I, a future to share.

My eyes drift over corners,
and always, she is there.

It’s not all good news, though. My little love Chip’s been sick this week and spent a fair amount of the time at the vet’s. He’s got bunny-toothache and hasn’t been eating anywhere near enough, poor thing. I, of all people, can sympathise. He’s got some medication to be getting on with, so fingers crossed (or should that be paws?).

I’ve written two poems but it doesn’t feel like the right time to share them, just yet. Other realisations this week include how I desperately require a haircut and that Rafael Nadal is whoring out his own face to sell bags of snack crackers. Never change, dear.

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