a year in the provinces

It's been a year since my family downshifted to the North and I was just wondering whether Strife in the North would ever be as successful as the Mayles and the O'Reillys had been before me when Milly ran into the kitchen. ‘Mummy’ she cried, ‘The vicar just parachuted in to the back garden!’ This was no surprise of course. It’s a large parish here in The North and the last incumbent had made it quite clear he was taking his bicycle with him when he retired. I followed my daughter outside where a large familiar grin appeared from under a billowing pile of red silk. ‘Oh bloody hell!’ he said, ‘where the fuck am I?’ I had rather hoped that after falling ten thousand feet from a plane and my face being the first thing he saw then some witty comment about seeing angels might have been the least I could have expected. Obviously a protestant, I thought. I didn’t hear that kind of language from Cormac Murphy O'Connor when he dropped in, and he went right through the roof of the greenhouse after his reserve failed.

‘I was sure this was the airfield!’ He said, ‘I saw the runway!’. ‘That was my drive dear’, I explained. ‘But what about that great big fucking cross on the grass?!’ he added. Well, I make no apologies for my herbaceous borders being arranged to show The Almighty where to concentrate the little amount of sunshine he saves for The North. My Church of England suspicions were confirmed when I saw that he was jumping with an organisation called the Red Devils. It was all for charity, it was explained to me. I just hope this doesn’t make people think only Anglicans are concerned about others. The Archbishop of York may have joined up with the Paras to raise money for charity but our very own pope already joined the Hitler Youth for their humanitarian work years before.

'This is all very embarassing', confessed the bishop, 'You won't tell anyone about this will you?' he asked. I smiled reassuringly. I thought I might mention it on my blog but that was the next best thing to keeping it a secret. The parachtists began arguing amongst themselves (yes, definitely Church of England) so I decided to leave them to it and quietly returned to pondering how I could break with the legacy of the downshifting memoir and reassure readers I wasn't just making it all up, sigh...

in liltin' wifey territory

‘Mummy’ began Tilly. 'Yes dear?' I replied, quietly so as not to disturb the couple in the front row of the cinema whose snogging I had been writing down in my notebook of astute observations of everyday life. ‘Is Eva Green from Newcastle?’ ‘Why do you ask that dear?’ I asked. ‘Because it's snowing and she's not wearing a coat', explained Tilly. ‘I thinks she just kept that dress from Casino Royale dear’, I replied, ‘along with her make-up, character and leading man. ‘Mummy?’ continued Tilly. ‘Yes darling?’ I smiled. ‘If everyone’s soul follows them around in animal form what do they do when they want to go somewhere that has a sign saying guide dogs only?’ I was just thinking about that one when I heard ‘and mummy...’ I sighed. ‘You know this film is all about a fierce animal that’s really a king in a mysterious snowy land?’ ‘Yes dear?’ ‘So I take it CS Lewis’s Narnia copyright has expired then?’ she speculated. 'No darling, you don't und...' I began, but suddenly my thoughts were awakened. Perhaps if I went North I could come back with a good story to tell of wild animals, strange locals, and comedy trousers. ‘I’m going to The North children!’ I announced. I would take the train, I thought but remembering the new year engineering works I added ‘I may be gone some time’. ‘Will there be ice bears?’ asked Milly. ‘Don’t be silly Milly’ I smiled. ‘ I think wife in the north shot them all at the weekend’

I arrived at the station just as the train pulled in. It was a sad sight. The GNER colours had been covered over with the horrible new National Express stickers which were also stuck on the roof so they could still be read when the train was lying on it's side like one of their buses and on the side of the locomotive the Highland Chieftain name plate had been replaced with The Alex Salmond Express. I took my seat and as the train rolled away from the platform and into the unknown I began to write. ‘Excuse me’, said another passenger, pointing to a sign on the window, ‘this is the quiet coach, no electronic equipment allowed’. ‘Don’t worry’, I reassured him, gesturing towards my typewriter, ‘even valves weren’t invented when they made this thing!’ and began to tap away as the coach slowly and rather mysteriously grew ever more empty of passengers the further north we travelled.

I knew we had really reached the North when we passed a group of workman erecting the new Welcome to Wife in The North Country sign by the tracks. The train rumbled on and I wondered what other influence my inspiration could have had on Northumberland. Suddenly the intercom burst into life. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’, began the announcement, ‘as the North Sea lies as cold, still , grey and unforgiving as the steel of a reiver’s sword and the river flows muddy brown past the silent stone walls guarding the mysterious secrets of the mist shrouded history of the ancient border we shall shortly be arriving in Berwick on Tweed’. I closed my eyes to steal myself for the arrival and breathed deeply as page after page of lilting possibilities scrolled past my eyes. ‘Please mind the gap’, concluded the announcement. I opened my eyes again and as the train coasted across the Royal Borders Bridge high above the dark Waterstones of the River Tweed I knew what I must do. I alighted from the carriage as soon as the train pulled in and called to the guard. ‘I say, what time is the next train?' I asked. ‘Where are you going to pet?’ he queried. ‘To my destiny', I answered confidently, 'as author of the great northern downshifting novel’. ‘That’ll be the 15.40 from Platform 2 pet’, he said. ‘Don’t be late though’, he added. ‘It’ll be standing room only on that service’.

a hopeless dawn

Wife in The North poured out the last of the gin and wiped her eyes. She was even more upset than I was at not winning the most consistently entertaining Blogpower award. ‘Thanks ever so for coming round Rilly’, she sobbed. I smiled sympathetically, trying to hide my own pain at having lost to Bryan Appleyard. Outside, a tall ship sailed past on the ocean, it's rigging clearly visible to everyone for miles around. ‘You’ve been like a sister to me’, said Wifey. ‘I knew Bryan when I worked for the Sunday Times of course’, she began. ‘He was always ruthless, even back then. We always used to say don’t upset the Appleyard whenever there was a difficult job that needed giving to someone.’ We both took out our handkerchiefs and had a good blow, drowning out the North Sea fog horn just outside the kitchen window. ‘You mustn’t be too downhearted though, Rilly’, she reassured me. ‘Remember that Bryan gets paid to write his stuff. He doesn’t have to go to a proper job as well so he has all the time in the world to write his blog and promote himself’. I permitted myself a weak smile of agreement despite my own grief as my gaze wandered over to the black kettle and matching pot that sat atop the aga. ‘I suppose you have to be getting back’, she sighed, standing up. I nodded. ‘Perhaps you should take a holiday Rilly, darling, get away from it all for a bit’. she suggested. I thought that sounded like good advice. Suddenly she grabbed my arm. ‘Oh Rilly!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re not going to write about our chat on your blog are you?’ I smiled reassuringly. I walked down the garden path, and turned to wave goodbye. A cold wind blew in from the sea so I dug my hands deep into my pockets, and switched off the tape recorder. A holiday, I thought, was just what I needed. I got in the car, switched on the sat-nav navigation thingy, and typed in airport.

tagging along

I have been electronically tagged by the lovely Nunhead Mum of One to disclose eight previously unknown facts about myself. As this is very much a ‘confessional’ style of blog there isn’t much intimate and personal detail that hasn’t been included already but Ill have a go anyway:

1. The chancellors of Oxford and Cambridge fought a duel to decide who had the honour of me attending their university. They both missed, as hitting educational targets is rather red brick, after all.

2. Even though I knew Iain Dale when his famous diary was just a single sheet newsletter run off on one of those manually operated duplicating machines and delivered through the letterboxes in his cul-de-sac when Iain did his milkround he still has not added Strife in the North next to Wife in the North on his blogroll and I try as I might I cannot think what I did back then to upset him.

3. I'm often asked what do I think is the attraction of this blog. I put it down to the fact that in these busy times people do not have time to watch paint dry anymore, but they do still like to read about it.

4. It is a great regret to me that I have no recollection of the births of any of my four children due to the amount of drugs I was high on at the time. This applies to their conception as well and I feel equally, erm, regretful about this too, sigh.

5. I want to live like the common people, I want to do whatever common people do...

6. I failed my maths O-level

7. Very badly, which is why I had to withdraw my book advance in cash and count it on the kitchen table, a hundred and seventeen times

There are my eight facts then. Thank you for bearing with this blog whilst it struggles through this month apparently lacking in meaning or purpose, but I suppose at least I’m not alone in that respect, and thank you as well to anyone who nominated SITN for the blogpower award. Would I get expenses to go down to London to attend the ceremony does anyone know, it’s just that I have a meeting down in town with my agent coming up...

resignation, resignation, resignation

I picked up the local paper. A large photograph of a proud smiling young local man in military uniform looked out from the front page. I sighed. Yet again somebody else’s bad news had pushed my bad news from the headlines. My agent was going to be furious. I used the newspaper to mop up some baby sick. Just then the phone rang. ‘Rilly, darling!’ said a man’s voice. ‘Who is this?’ I demanded. ‘It’s me dear!’ said the mysterious stranger. ‘You remember, 1997, you, me, the vicar?’ ‘Tony? I thought we weren’t going to mention that night again, and anyway, haven’t you got something else on today?' Then I remembered that was the year I got married and sighed. ‘I’ve got a big surprise for our wedding anniversary!’ my husband told me, excitedly. ‘I’ll pick you up in an hour’. I yawned. He only ever got that excited when he had managed to get Barbara Streisand tickets. What could he possibly have in mind?

I should have known. We stood in the drizzle. Trimdon Labour Club on a wet thursday lunchtime. The great orator, up north for his final oration, but we were out in the cold. 'It’s not that I’m ungrateful’ I said ‘but didn’t you think to get tickets dear?’ I asked my husband. ‘Yes, but the chap from the party I gave the money to was arrested by Scotland Yard five minutes after I left. That kind of thing’s a bit hit and miss at the moment. If anyone tries to sell you a raffle ticket today, just say you haven’t got any change. It’s too risky’. ‘Remind me, why are we here again?’ I asked. ‘Tony Blair is part of our history!’ he exclaimed ‘You’ll be part of my flippin' history if we don’t get in the warm soon!’ I told him. ‘Oh look, I can see some people I know, I’ll see what I can sort out’ he said and he shuffled off with an ‘air hellair’ here and a ‘good to see you old chap’ there until he faded from earshot and from sight.

‘Mummy, why do you like Tony Blair?’ asked Tilly, tugging on my sleeve. ‘Because Tony Blair likes people that work hard dear’. ‘Like Natalia you mean, Mummy?’ ‘Mummy works hard as well dear.’ Tilly looked at me blankly. 'Mummy?' I looked down at her inquisitive expression. 'have you ever met the prime minister?' 'You'll have to buy my memoirs dear', I replied. ‘Mummy?’ 'Yes Tilly?’ ‘Who was that man that Daddy was talking to?’ 'That was Peter Mandelson dear.’ ‘And why did Daddy put his hands in his pockets?’ ‘I think he was just trying to look working class dear.' ‘Mummy?' ‘Yes Tilly, dear?’ 'Who are those men dressed all over in orange and shouting at Tony Blair?’ ‘They are very bad men Tilly.’ ‘Are they terrorists Mummy?’ ‘No, dear, I don't think so, they must be Liberal Democrats’. ‘Mummy, one of those bad men said Tony Blair drops bombs on children. Tony Blair's not going to drop a bomb on me and Milly is he, Mummy?’ 'No dear, he only does that to bad foreign children, but maybe we’ll move a little closer to Wife in the North and Tom Watson over there just to be on the safe side.' ‘Mummy? ‘Yes Tilly, what is it now?' ‘Why are you wearing a red rose?’ ‘Because if I buy a rose it offsets the carbon emissions from Tony Blair’s private jet from London, dear’. ‘Mummy, I need a wee’. ‘Oh, I can’t take you now Tilly, I’ll miss the speech, go and ask one of the men in orange jumpsuits to take you.’

‘When is Tony going to make his big speech?' I asked the lady next to me. ‘It was over an hour ago pet’, she said. ‘We’re just waiting for the raffle to be drawn’. I looked down at my glass of champagne. The bubbles had gone but the raindrops falling on the surface made it appear not quite completely flat and the cold damp northern wind had kept it cool. I looked up and a single raindrop fell on my face and ran down my cheek like a tear, like having a real emotion.

only the lonely

I saw my agent while I was in London last week. ‘We’re really pleased Rilly’ he said, ‘the book's coming along nicely’. He peered down at the manuscript, reading a witty neologism here, a poignant paragraph there. ‘They haven’t made the final decision which department to give you to for marketing purposes, Chick-Lit, or Wrist-Slit-Lit, but I know they really want to do something with this…’ I noticed his attention drift away from me as he began to read a particularly wistful and moving description of when the range rover drove through a puddle and got slighty muddy. Tears welled up in his eyes and began rolling down his cheeks. He was soon weeping uncontrollably. ‘Is my writing really that emotional?' I asked. He shook his head. 'I’m Sorry Rilly, this just makes me realise how much I miss wife in the north, I wish she’d come back from holiday, reading her stuff’s the only pleasure I have in life these days’. I rummaged in my handbag and put every tissue I possessed on the desk.' I know dear' I consoled him, 'we all miss her' and, hoping that Wifey would be back soon for all our sakes, slipped out of the office to leave the poor man alone with his grief. I hope his lonely tears didn't cause the ink to run too much on my book manuscript. That was the only copy.

Newcastle, New Title

I went to Newcastle, where they have the nearest working telephone to my village, to pick up a message from my agent in London today. 'Rilly, dear' he began, 'Ran your idea for the new title of your book about how grim it is in the north past Viking-Penguin earlier and they say The Satanic Mills really works for them dear, on so many levels. They had a big hit with something similar a few years ago as I recall, went down a bomb, and as well as that whole Salman Rushdie meets Chariots of Fire meets Jilly Cooper eighties nostalgia thing (you're a genius dear!) they reckon if they send a couple of their Australian lads up north to wind up the spiritual leader Geoffrey Boycott about The Ashes they can even get a fatwah out on you. Apparently Komeini asked for 5% last time and although they reckon it might cost a bit more this time around as we're dealing with those awful Northerners instead of the Iranians it doubled the sales back then so it's worth a shot. Anyway, got to go darling, I'm taking Wife in the North to Fifteen. The staff there all feel sorry for her with her grim life you know, being disadvantaged themselves, so we get extra helpings, talk soon dear..' and as the dial tone replaced my agent's enthusiasm over the handset I thought to myself, could I really be so successful as an author writing about how grim it is up north that I could afford to buy a bigger place down south? The truth really is stranger than fiction...

disappointment

'Hmmm', frowns your agent, peering at you over the top of his spectacles as he ruffles the pages of your latest manuscript, 'I presume this is just a working title'. 'Er, oh, of course' you reply as you recall the long northern winter of toil it has taken to finally come up with Petite anglaise in the north with a one track mind. 'And you really need to include some short and snappy pieces which give the impression that you have other things to do in your life than blog but not that you've nothing to write about because not much of interest has happened to you lately'. You're already mulling over his advice as you get up to leave. 'Oh, Rilly dear, one more thing...' he calls out as you reach the door. You turn around in anticipation 'Send wife in the north in on your way out, there's a love'