It's all going terribly well

Here at the House of Stories we are lurching from one exciting episode to the next. Various relations are crocked. We had actors from the wonderful Riding Lights Theatre Company to stay last week - if you're in the UK and get a chance to see Simeon's Watch, do go. A thoughtful, wise, moving and funny play about dementia, with faith themes woven in and out of it and a nod towards Christmas. They were lovely house guests, too.

There was just time to change the beds before The Golden Child and her family came to stay. I think the highlight of the visit was a bit of exploited child labour when we let them climb The Tree and it took them about twenty minutes to harvest their body weight in apples. All this with late autumn sunshine, and I'm sure our little garden was full of angels.

On Saturday we had Hexham Abbey full of children. The extraordinary people who organise these things felt that instead of being disapproving and 'the church doesn't do Halloween', we'd offer something that took Halloween back to its Christian roots and made it possible to talk honestly about death and sadness. We did skeleton building and made candle boats, and talked about remembering the people we love. In the first hour we had about twenty children through. Nice steady pace. And then they flooded in, queuing up in their costumes, all the little Draculas and witches holding their mummies hands, and we were raiding cupboards so we didn't run out of stuff. And they LOVED it. Result.

A beautiful Sunday autumn afternoon in the garden, gentle weather for putting the garden to bed, and I burned garden rubbish in the little outdoor stove that Tony gave me a few years ago. The smell of woodsmoke hung around me and came into the house, and was perfect.

On Tuesday, a very beautiful service of remembrance, with people who've been bereaved in the last year gathering in the Abbey. My friend Wendy and I were on duty doing tea and coffee afterwards, and were surprised at how many people stayed for a cup of tea (not coffee). As my mother once said to me, never turn your nose up at people who make a pot of tea in a crisis. Sometimes it's exactly what's needed.

And at last, yesterday I was at the bank sorting out a new account which I would have done weeks ago if not for family upheavals. Very nice young woman with a computer got it sorted, except that every time she was about to put everything through, the computer went down. Fortunately we both laughed about it, instead of unplugging the thing and banging it against the wall even though we had more crashes than the Grand Prix. By the time I left it was raining, but never mind - I popped into a charity shop and bought a Terry Pratchett, which redeemed the day.

It's all going terribly well.

Attic

We have visitors coming this week, lots of them, so I have had to sort out the attic.

The attic is one of the reasons we bought this house. It's a vast roof space which the previous owners made into a very pleasant room with sloping beams you can bump your head on and cupboards all the way round under the eaves. Windows look out for miles across the hills. There was already a corner with a desk and bookshelves, just waiting for me. There's room for two single beds, one at each end, and I have a couple of rugs and a comfy chair in there, and - well, lots of stuff looking for a home. There are Christmas decoration, a lot of knitting and craft stuff in a chest and a basket, and, because this is The House of Stories, a lot of cuddly toys live here. They sit on top of the chest and have a great time up there. They include Captain Lugg, Mother Huggen, an otter and innumerable squirrels. (Oh, and a baby bath that we got for when grandchild comes to stay. That was before he was born. We've now found that he doesn't like the baby bath, he likes to go in the big bath with his mum.)

There are also a few toys from my children's past and the dolls' house that Father Christmas made for me, with help from my dad, when I was tiny. And that was the problem yesterday, because I couldn't resist giving it a bit of a sort out when I was doing the attic. Finally I remembered that I was supposed to be cooking a meal, not playing with my dolls' house. I left a lot of clutter on the sitting room floor for the dolls to sort out. But Smallest Goddaughter is coming this week, and I'm sure she'll get on to it.

By the way, I am very particular about who gets to play with my dolls' house. It's MY dolls' house, and there are times when I still want to play with it.

History Chat

One of the exciting things about living where I do is that I'm just ten minutes walk from another author, an aged lady with a lifetime of her own stories behind her as well as the ones she's written. We had coffee this morning and talked about the various things we have written/are writing/may write one day. Both of us love writing history. It's a bit of a shock to realise that my childhood is history now, but it means that I can sit back in an armchair, look up at teenagers and say, 'When I was a girl we had no mobile phones, television was a small black and white set and only on for a few hours a day, we walked everywhere and played in the streets, and a sherbet dip was tuppence in old money'.

Prue told me about a book she'd set in 1824, in which somebody was in prison for murder. She did her research and found that 1824 was the year when they changed the procedure for keeping prisoners at Newcastle until the assizes (trials). in fact, they changed it twice, and as records were incomplete she couldn't find out where her murderer would have been held, and had to take a calculated guess at it.

I told her about Hold My Hand And Run, which I set in 1628 in a city based on Durham. I researched to find out who the bishop was at the time. That was the year when Durham had three bishops in quick succession. I worked out that Kazy ran away just between Bish Two and Bish Three.

You might wonder why Prue had to choose 1824 and I had to choose 1628? Because we had to. Because, taking all the elements of a historical novel into account, there is only one time when it could have happened. It's a natural rule of historical fiction, just like getting the details of food, clothing and housing right. On the subject of research, my dear friend Eleanora, who died not so very long ago, was an expert on historical costume, the only person I ever knew who could talk with authority about pattens. If you want to know what pattens are, do some research. That's what writers of historical fiction do, again and again.

We're Back!

I haven't been neglecting you, honestly! But at some point about two months ago the Blogger Gate Guardians locked me out of my own House of Stories and I couldn't get back in. But this weekend, Lovely Older Son and Lady Sunshine came to stay, and LOS had a few firm words with the computer. He knows how to speak computer, and the door of The House of Stories flew open when he used the magic key. I am delighted. There has been so much to tell you over the last two months. Unfortunately I've forgotten half of it.

However, all is well. Tony now has two new knees and is worth a king's ransom in scrap value. The Hobbits are thriving, and little Frodo is now on solid food, though I don't know why they call it solid when it's mush. A small amount gets into the mouth. The rest is spread over his ear, his nose, his chair and his mum, who tells me that some of it flew through the air and she hasn't found it yet. The Sunshines and the Cahooties are well, and the Cahooties are now Owners of Guinea Pigs. Much is sulking because I haven't cleared his border yet, and Dodger is chasing windfall apples round the garden.

About the apples. As you know, apple trees are very special to me. Our own apple tree (as far as an apple tree can belong to anyone) has been simply weighed down with fruit this year, I must have harvested twice my body weight already. We went out this afternoon with large shopping bags and a sense of purpose. I climbed the tree, Lady Sunshine climbed the stepladder, and LOS played hook-the-apples with a shepherd's crook. (That has its own story, which I may tell you one day.) As we picked apples off the grass, Lady Sunshine said that we could do with a recipe for apple and mint cordial.

'Sh!' I said, but it was too late. Already a rotund and beaming squirrel was wobbling across the garden.

"You want cordial, m'dear? You just give 'em 'ere, I'll do that for you, bring you half a dozen bottles, no trouble at all. Don't you worry if the slugs have been at 'em, I'll cut those bits off. I'll have some of that mint, and the thyme, and any other 'erbs that look like they're dying off. Don't matter about maggots, I reckon they take one look at the cooking pot and run for cover. Got any vinegar?"

Molypics

I'm not much of a sporty type, but this week I started to watch bits of the Smilycop, and then I started watching bigger bits. Because of the time difference between here and Rio, much of the action in the Polymics takes place when British lady bookstoryists are snuggled up asleep with their teddy bears, and it seemed that every morning I woke up to the radio announcer telling me that Britain had won something. This all got very interesting. And I do like watching the splishyjumps and the gymnelasticals, so I sort of got into the Limpycos.

This week there has been a lot of rideybikes and floatyboaties, which are both things Brits tend to do well at, so we've seen plenty of flagwavy National Anthem. Daley and Goodfellow did very well with their splishyjumps. You wouldn't get me standing on the edge of a thin wobbly board like that, I get scared just watching, especially over a pool full of crocodiles. Well, it could be full of crocodiles as far as anyone could see. Our male gymnasts have just won some things, but I'm not sure if it was climbing on things or jumping off things, or just jumping. We won silver at the Grubby Sevens and lost to Fiji, who are jolly nice people to lose to. A farmer chappie won a medal in Shooting At Things, then went home to get the harvest in. The Rockety-Scot is struggling in the tennis just now, but it's the final so he's sure to get a medal. Charlotte and her Dancing Horse will be on tomorrow. Between them they have all of six feet, and they still manage to get them in the right order. And that's just the Brits. Rio is hooching with brilliance!

Help!

Double Book launch today. Have just waved goodbye to The Hobbits, who have stayed for a few days. Sunshines and Cahooties arriving tonight (woohoo!) Various members of the family crocked. Daughter's car isn't too good, either. I have yet to buy drinks and nibbles for the launch, or prepare A-boards. Last night's washing is still in the machine. I'm greatly looking forward to cutting the grass. The garden is so wild it's ready to run away and hide up its own tree.

My brother-in-law has a T-shirt for occasions like this. It says - 'I can only please one person a day. This isn't your day. (Tomorrow isn't looking too good, either.)' However, we multi-taskers know that this is not the answer. Neither is 'I'm out' 'Beware of the Garden Gnome' or 'more coffee'. The question is the one Claire asks, and has taught me to ask, and it works. It really works. The question is -

'who needs me to love them today?'

Mistmantle

I happened to mention to somebody - I think it was Mother Huggen - that 1 August used to be celebrated as Lammas, or 'Loaf Mass'. It was a thanksgiving/celebration of the first bread made from the summer wheat harvest. In no time at all this story was all around the island, and you know how they like any excuse for a festival. Today, while Yorkshire celebrates Yorkshire Day and a few English villages nod in the direction of Lammas, Mistmantle animals have been setting up tables around the Tower and sharing bread.

If the otters made it, it probably has seaweed in it. This tastes better than it sounds, and because it was made by otters it may have a faint taste of fish. Hedgehogs - to be honest it's not always wise to ask what they put in it, but it tastes fantastic, and Needle and her family make the most delicious bread with berries in. Moles eat pretty well anything, and mole made bread is fine if you don't mind the earthy taste. The squirrels are best, as squirrel cooks have a real understanding of nuts and grains. Some of you will remember Urchin taking walnut bread to Crispin. To those two, walnut bread is the absolute best, but Sepia prefers hazelnut. Crackle puts red berries in with it. 'Bread' includes oatcakes, flatbreads, and all those other breads that don't go in the oven.

Did you ever make a 'damper'? We used to do it when I was a Guide. You make a kind of yeast-free bread dough, (mostly flour and water, I think, but I can't remember), wrap it round a stick, and cook it over the campfire. A damper, if it doesn't drop off into the fire, is best with butter and jam, if you have any, otherwise it just tastes of smoky stick. There is nothing to recommend it except that you made it yourself. And you have to be careful what kind of stick it is. One that won't poison you or catch fire is a good idea. Cold dampers are revolting, hot ones are edible, but it's one of those things where cooking it is more fun than eating it. That's why Fingal is supervising a lot of eager little animals, already stuffed to the gills with with Mistmantle bread, sitting round a campfire trying not to drop dampers into it.