Pilates

I went to Pilates this morning, the first time in maybe five years. In Ireland the class was in the Parish Hall, it was run by the Rector's wife and a wood burning stove was lit to take the frostbite out of the air.
Today I stretched my stuff at World Beat Fitness Centre, with some very grand ladies of leisure. The carpark was full of clean Range Rovers so I parked outside on the road. The instructor was a fabulous advertisement for Pilates - slim, tight, elegant and supple. I felt like a lump beside her - the wall to wall mirroring didn't help!
But once we started to stretch it all came back in a rush - what the Rector's wife had taught me about breathing, and concentration; the zen like calm of the graceful movements. I never broke sweat and I felt no pain, but now I'm utterly exhausted.

Half-wit?

What's that quotation - something about a prophet never being welcome in her own country? In one of today's Irish newspapers, in the book review section, I came across this line-
the current vogue in Irish fiction for (either) gormless chick-lit from semi- literate half-wits.
Is this Irish newspaper really slagging off the commercial success of its countrywomen? Irish writers Marian Keyes, Cecilia Ahern, Cathy Kelly, Patricia Scanlan, Sarah Webb and Shiela O'Flanagan have sold hundreds of thousands of novels each. They are published all over the world, and translated into countless languages. They are rich and respected beyond my wildest dreams. They are the elite of a cut throat business.
What is half- witted about that?

Heaven

I got this email last night from my publishers:
Hi, Anne,
Would you be interested in contributing to the Question of the Week for HQ Magazine, the Herald's Thursday lifestyle magazine?
The question is; "Do you believe in heaven, and can you describe it?"
Answers can be 20 words maximum, and as always the deadline is ASAP - she will need your answer by tomorrow morning - Irish time.
Thanks
Heaven is just like earth only better. It's kinder and cleaner; no-one is sick. People say 'good morning' and mean it.

Surrender

I cannot do it. I cannot think creatively while home schooling four children. Today I'm trying to juggle a project on Blackbeard the pirate, an Amazonian Rainforest diary, a poster of the ancient Egyptians, the two times tables, Key Stage Two spellings, and a rewrite of Chapter 3.
This morning I actually said, "Stop breathing children, you're breathing too loud."
They're having a little break now - hopefully not breaking each other - while I'm quickly chopping up vegetables to make cauliflower soup for lunch, and a chicken korma for tea.
In the afternoon I will take them to the pool, and in a relay each child will do fifteen minutes reading with me while the other children are swimming. I will then try to snatch five minutes when they're changing to read the end of Claire Allan's book Jumping in Puddles, which I'm reviewing for the Belfast Telegraph.
Through the ringing in my ears I can hear a small voice of reason. It says -
Why don't you leave your reading and writing until they go to bed? Why can't you devote your day to your off-spring?
Because I'm so tired at the end of a day of undiluted parenting, I go to bed too.

Family Life

FAMILY LIFE
Paul Charles
I’d like to begin this book review with a scene from Gone With The Wind. Katie Scarlett’s upset because Ashley is going to marry Miss Melly. In an attempt to cheer her up her Irish father tells her he’s going to leave her Tara, his big cotton plantation in Georgia. Scarlett is only a slip of girl; she’s not impressed or grateful. She says, “Plantations don’t mean anything to me.”
And Gerald O’Hara says, “Land is the only thing in the world worth working for, worth fighting for, worth dying for, because it’s the only thing that lasts.”
“Oh Pa, you speak like an Irishman!”
Cue a panoramic sunset, and a crescendo of emotive music.
Family Life by Paul Charles is set in rural Ireland. The story opens at a birthday dinner for Liam Sweeney, a prosperous farmer. His grown-up children have travelled with their families to Donegal to join in the celebrations. They are gathered in the farmhouse dining room, impatiently waiting for Joe, the youngest son, who still lives at home.
Inspector Starrett the local policeman arrives with very bad news. Joe’s body has been found near the docks in Ramelton and he has been murdered.
Joe is a good and decent man; he has no known enemies and has never been in trouble so Starrett is forced to focus his investigation on Joe’s family. He finds it hard to believe Joe’s parents could ever have killed him so this leaves only his siblings. And they seem to have plenty of motivation, for on the death of their father it was Joe who was going to inherit the farm. And the land is worth a pure fortune. It’s in a development zone and Joe’s sister-in-law Mona knows a developer desperate to buy it; he’s offering 12 million euro. Mona, a clever solicitor, has been stirring trouble within the family; there have been heated discussions and rows as to why the farm cannot be broken up into four pieces and each sibling get a share. Mona has pride of place at the top of the prime suspect’s list until Liam Sweeney, the grieving father, makes a shocking and spontaneous confession – he says he killed Joe. Incontrovertible evidence is found at the scene which appears to incriminate Liam. But the Inspector is not convinced of his guilt. He has known Liam all his life and cannot believe he could kill his own son. He digs deeper in his efforts to discover the identity of the real murderer...
The success of a detective story often hinges on the winsomeness of the detective. My personal favourite is Lord Peter Wimsey, the eccentric, aristocratic amateur, but I think Inspector Starrett deserves a generous mention. He’s a gentle, ruminative soul. As a young man he tried for the priesthood and failed; he likes tea and buns; he struggles to give up smoking. He’s not a show-off and he does not have issues with strong drink, hard women or fast food. I imagine him very charming and softly spoken and his Donegal accent would be music to my ears...
Paul Charles is from Magherafelt and writing novels is not his only career. For the past thirty years he’s been an agent and music promoter for a wide range of brilliant singers, among them Christy Moore and Tanita Tikaram. This would probably be enough for most people but Paul Charles is also a prolific writer: Family Life is his eleventh novel, his second featuring Inspector Starrett. Before that he wrote nine Inspector Christie Kennedy mysteries, set in Camden Town, London, and several books about music.
*
VERDICT: A well paced story with a thoroughly convincing character line-up and a very believable plot. And I would know - I’m from the country!

News Flash!

Enchanting Alice is at Number 12 on the Irish bestseller list! Fingers crossed it goes higher next week. I'd love it to get in to the Top Ten.

Cheap Plug

Just to say Enchanting Alice has gone on sale in paperback. It's in bookshops only in Ireland, you can also buy it on Amazon.
Farming, babies, sex, eccentricity: Jane was seventeen when Michael whisked her away to the wetlands of rural Ireland to share a farmhouse and their marriage with his mother who sleepwalks, his father who snores and an unmarried sister who hates her. It was never going to work. Jane pulls on her wellies and keeps walking till she reaches street lighting, pavements and independence. She moves into Stove Pipe Town. Michael stays and continues to farm his cows will always come first. Their children are born and Jane stops missing him. Then she goes to a rock concert. Dressed to kill in her black halter-neck frock, Jane catches the eye of the lead singer who smoulders from every poster on every lamppost in Ireland. He invites her up on the stage to dance ...