Jesus in my taxi

My husband is cross with me. On this occasion, unusually, he could actually be right. It really was a stupid conversation to get into. I mean, if you were being driven across London, hot-bed of religious retribution, in a black Mercedes mini-cab, by a total stanger (as mini-cab drivers usually are) would you get into a conversation about religion?

But my husband doesn't understand. It's things like this make life worth living.

Anyway. I was in one (black Mercedes mini-cab in London) and, as usual, doing authory things. Whendoievernot? And the conversation went like this:

Me, (making polite conversation despite having been kept waiting for 40 minutes for a pre-ordered taxi): Is it usually this busy on a Friday evening? (Stupid question if ever there was one. For crying out loud, it's London, it's Friday evening, it's slashing with rain, it's about to be December: of course it's flipping busy.)

TD (taxi driver): Busier than usual actually, madam. It's nearly Shabbat and people are getting ready.

Me: (senses now alert - am I in a Religious Situation? Are the doors unlocked?) Oh, of course.

TD: Are you Jewish, madam?

Me: (now bricking it. I mean, I'm blonde, in a highlighted kind of a way, and I really don't know if either "yes" or "no" is going to be acceptable. Seriously, are the doors unlocked?) Er, no. (Is this the right answer?)

TD: Ah.

Then - and I cannot explain this, and my husband is now really really furious with me. I mean, he did not plan to marry a martyr of any faith - we embark on a Religious Conversation in which I bizarrely though truthfully admit to being an atheist. For goodness' sake, I am in a black Mercedes with white leather seats and a total stranger, to whom I owe money, who has asked me if I am Jewish. Has he also injected me with a truth drug when I wasn't looking? Anyway, we have a strangely calm and reasoned argument, in which I profess to a calm and reasoned atheism as well as utter, total and really very fervent respect for all beliefs contrary to my own. I have no idea at this point what religion he is from but he seems like a very pleasant and reasonable guy so I have no reason (other than common sense) to pretend anything.

TD: That's good. That you respect others.

There is a pregnant pause. Then surrealism conquers my life again. He tells me that he is Iranian (interesting, but this could mean nothing. It could, on the other hand, mean a lot. I am certainly not equipped for this. My experience of the sensitivities involved is limited. After all, I live in Morningside, near a place called Holy Corner, the entire holiness of which is imparted by the ominous existence of four Christian churches) and that he was brought up as a fervent Muslim (I'm slightly losing it now. I'm a really nice and mutually-respectful person but is that going to help?). He spent many years hating Christians. The word he actually used to describe himself was "anti-Christ". Now, I am fingering the door-handle and my phone and wondering why the hell I didn't listen to my husband more often when he told me that I should stay in Edinburgh and quite preferably in the kitchen. On the other hand, since I'm not a Christian, I am not entirely sure what the problem is, but I am fairly sure there is one. Surely I am innnocent?

Then, my taxi-driver tells me that something happened. Jesus came into his life. Specifically, Jesus came into his taxi. Oh yes. And actually he (sorry He) was sitting just where I'm sitting. I feel slightly uncomfortable about this and shift a little way along the white leather seat. It doesn't seem right, really. To sit there. But really, it's true. Jesus sat there, he says, as real as I am (possibly even more so at this point, as I have completely lost any sense that I exist at all, or at least on any plane of reality that includes sensible and real things like Starbucks and tomato ketchup).

Jesus, bless him, had absolutely without warning got into the taxi to tell my taxi-driver to come off drugs, because he was an addict and his life was a mess, and the taxi-driver did. Just like that. It was amazing. And now he drives a black Mercedes, which proves it, because before that he was driving a Ford Fiesta. (You see, as I had to work out for myself later when attempting to rationalise this story, it wasn't actually THIS taxi, because at that point the taxi-driver didn't have this one.) I have a feeling that Jesus did a pretty good job, as my taxi-driver seems like a very calm and nice individual.

Unfortunately, he (taxi-driver, not Jesus - I think) dropped me in the pouring rain absolutely nowhere near the place I'd asked him to, so that I had to ruin my turquoise boots stomping around in the rain trying to find the place, but hey, that's life.

Ruining the turquoise boots is probably a sign. In the words of my favourite film, "it's a sign by any standards". It's certainly a sign that I should do what my husband tells me.

I am left with one niggling doubt after this encounter. And I don't think it's a question I'll ever know the answer to. What do you think - did Jesus pay his fare or was he free-loading?

Of boots, escalators and photographers

I have always adhered to the motto "Be prepared". And now I know I was right.

I had to go to London, for various reasons including a Times interview and extraordinary photoshoot. This was to take place in a fake dungeonesque place in a museum, after dark, in Docklands, and a load of people had gone to extreme lengths to set it up. So there was no possibility of chickening out.

Anyway, 7am train from Edinburgh, into King's Cross, across to Liverpool St, left my suitcase in L'pool St, got the train out to Essex, did a school talk, back on train into L'pool St. Decided, in my infinite wisdom, not to collect my luggage but to leave it there while I rushed to Docklands for the photoshoot, because Paul, the nice-sounding photographer, had already been waiting a long time and probably wanted to go home, because Paul, unlike me, has common sense.

So, I hurry onto the Underground in the middle of rush hour. I can do this - I am strong and fit and I used to live in London. A long time ago. Before Docklands existed. I get to Bank and I hurry through more crowds to the Docklands Light Railway. I am slightly concerned, as I have not been on it before and it could very easily be dangerous. There are, however, no warnings about the type of danger I am about to encounter.

As I step onto the escalator, my foot kind of slides gently and undramatically from under me and I almost fall. But, being strong and fit, and desperate not to be uncool, I don't fall. I try to put my foot down again, but it doesn't seem completely to be there. This is a disconcerting feeling, as, last time I looked, it was. However, I look behind me and see an object sitting at the top of the escalator as I rapidly leave it behind. I put two and two together and realise that the heel has come off my boot.

Those of you to whom this has never happened need to understand: this is not a funny situation. It is not possible to walk properly like this. And my luggage, where spare footwear should be, is in Liverpool St Station.

But I was in the Girl Guides and we know how to deal with situations like this. In fact, I remember my Docklands Light Railway badge and one of the tasks was, quite definitely: carry a spare pair of boots in your handbag. This, naturally, I have done. Yes, really, I have a pair of red suede boots in my handbag. I am not joking.

So, end of story, you would think. But no, because I am in very heavy crowds on a very busy escalator, about to enter throbbingly full tunnels full of fearsome marauding Londoners, who are quite happy to laugh at me now, but will not be if I stop in the middle of them to change into red suede boots for reasons known only to me. I could be arrested. So I hobble. At first, people feel sorry for me because they think I am injured. Then they laugh. Then they get annoyed, as I am not walking fast enough for them.

This is not helped by the fact that on the DLR, there are no friendly maps telling me where to go. I am like a tourist. I have to ask for help. But I can't, because I have only one heel and this renders me pathetic. Being in the Girl Guides did not prepare me for this. Luckily, a business man, perhaps finding a woman with one heel unpleasantly interesting, asks if he can help. I want to ask if he is a cobbler but even if he is he is fairly unlikely to carry a spare heel and hammer with him. Unless he was in the Boy Scouts. I am disinclined to ask this. This is London. You don't ask questions like that. It's the sort of thing that starts incidents.

I pretend that I have not noticed anything amiss with my footwear, and I ask him which train goes to West India Quay. "This train," he says, smiling in the way that only businessmen who have other motives than cobbling do. He gets on the train with me, which is worrying. But I still have not managed to change my boots, which is more worrying.

I cannot change into red suede boots with this man watching me. I also cannot change into them because I have no idea whether West India Quay is one stop or ten and I might be caught mid boot. So, between each stop, I do not change my boots. I tuck my feet beneath me and pretend that I am demented, hoping that everyone will ignore me. This works disturbingly easily. This is, after all, London. I must remember that. That as long as you don't get in anyone's way, or ask for help, you can wear broken boots if you want to.

I hobble off with increasing and impressive agility at West India Quay, which was five stops away, which is annoying because I easily could have changed my boots. But the day hasn't been going my way so far, so why would it change now?

West India Quay is deserted. It is an unmanned and unwomanned station. It also has no signs or maps and I have absolutely no idea where I'm going. I need to fnd a really sleazy, dark street corner to change into my red suede boots. Luckily, there is a wide choice. I manage to change without being arrested or propositioned, largely because there is no one around at all.

Docklands is like a sci-fi film set. There are looming sky-scrapers, distant lights, boats with no people, restaurants with no people, a creaking saloon door and tumbleweed tumbling along the dusty highway. I have absolutely no idea where to go.

My phone rings. It is Paul. "Where are you?" he asks. "I don't entirely know," I say, "but I think I'm here." We then do a passable impression of the Anneka Rice show from years back, and I find the Museum of London and, in it, Paul and Simon. I half expect to find Paul Simon, but that would not happen on a day like this. I would not be prepared anyway.

Paul is dressed a bit like a cat burglar so he is quite hard to see. Apart from this, he is very, very nice. He has no idea about my stressful incident. And I don't tell him. I prefer him to think that I am calm and cool, that I always wear red suede boots on sci-fi film sets and that I am not the sort of idiot who would lose a heel on an escalator. He photographs me in all sorts of poses in all sorts of varieties of dungeon, amongst the artificial smells of ancient life and strangely authentic soundtracks of 18th century people drinking mead.

Simon keeps holding a thing to my chin, flashing a light and reading out a number. This feels important but I haven't a clue what's going on. Paul doesn't ask me to smile, not once - because, as I say, he's very nice and nice photographers don't ask me to smile. He asks me to think about the characters in my book. I say, "But you said you weren't going to ask me to do anything, like act or anything." "I'm not," he says, smiling, "I'm asking you to think. I take the pictures, you think." This suits me fine and I think about the characters in my book.

It is an extraordinary experience, surreal, soporific. Oddly pleasant. At one point I nearly fall asleep, and at another point I start laughing. I try to explain to Paul that I have had a weird day. A few hours ago I was failing to understand the accents of some Essex convent girls and one hour ago I was legless on an escalator, and now Paul is taking photographs of me in a fake dungeon. I don't explain this well. I decide to shut up in case I am smiling in a photograph.

I don't know which picture he'll use. But if you read the Times on December 15th, you will see. And you'll maybe see the red boots - I hope so, as they certainly served their purpose that day.

You may be wondering why I had red boots in my handbag. It's simple. I love boots. And I thought it might be a good idea to wear these red ones for the photoshoot but I knew it would really not be a good idea to walk around London in them. Those boots were not made for walking.

After all, what if I lost the heel on an escalator?

My Mad Moniaive Monday

The launch to end all launches? Well, I think so. 85 primary kids, about 20 adults, 6+ journalists and photographers, a Baron (yes, Baron) and a TV crew, all squashed into a tiny 18th century cottage of such 18th centuriness that there were NO LOOS. Then imagine the guy who'd written a book and wanted me to read it THEN, the guy who my daughter rightly called 'the personal space guy', (as in invader of) and the little old woman who kept saying how proud she was of me and giving me hugs because I needed 'hug therapy.' I thought maybe I knew her. I thought maybe she was my mother. But everyone assured me afterwards that she wasn't.

Here we have the TV crew, doing their best ...













The brightly-smiling person in the photo below is Moira McCrossan, the dynamic head teacher of the school, without whom this would never have happened and I would never have survived.












The photos (very very kindly sent me by Hugh Taylor, Moira's husband, who is a professional photographer and who gave up his working day to come and take pics) show me sometimes smiling and sometimes looking decidedly strained.

But how can I thank the people who did all this? I have no idea. They were amazing - Moira, who had organised it all and who somehow managed to squeeze everyone in and sort them all out, the kids who enacted some scenes from The Highwayman's Curse so well, the people who gave up their time to clear space in the cottage and light a peat fire that had to be lit 3 hours before the event, the people who poured tea and coffee, and goodness knows how many people who did many other things that I hardly had time to notice.



One thing though - I'd made brain cake (as described in Know Your Brain) but it was all eaten before I'd had time to explain what it was. It's delicious is what. And brainy. Buy the book if you want to know more.

I then went on to Castle Douglas High School where I had a great time with some keen pupils, some of whom had read and reviewed Highwayman's Curse.

That was my Monday. My Tuesday involved an event I wish I hadn't got out of bed for. A school whose pupils entirely failed to realise that I was doing the event for nothing and had given up half a day for it, a day when I actually had much better things to do than crowd control. It actually wasn't the librarian's fault - she was lovely and enthusiastic. I'm not totally sure whose fault it was.

Anyway. Mustn't complain. Actually, I must complain. There are too many great kids, great schools and great teachers in the world for me to spend my time in the ones that don't care.

My Wednesday - a lovely lovely launch party. Actors, brain food, lovely guests and I had a ball.

Thank you to many people for that too - firstly, the people who work at the venue and who spent loads of time getting it ready. If you want great charity to support, support The Yard in Edinburgh - a play centre for kids with learning support needs. It's an amazing and unsung place.

And a massive thank you to the wonderful pupils of the Mary Erskine School in Edinburgh. You'll be hearing about them a lot more in the next year, as they're helping with my next novel, but on Wednesday they basically ran my launch for me, were incredibly professional and NICE, and two of them did an amazing piece of drama that would not have been a speck better if they'd been professional actors. Thanks to their English teachers, Diana Esland and Neil Dawson, who have been so supportive - Diana marshalled and organised those girls wonderfully.

Too many festivals and schools for one tired pair of feet

Back from a silly number of book festivals and school events. trying to forget most of it. Like the boy who wrecked the crucial moment of my gory story by putting his gloves on his ears for comic effect. Oh, how I laughed. And the school hall where they couldn't find the lights and so I thought I'd help by walking through it to see if the light switches were at the other side - maybe they were, but I didn't get there as I crashed into the chair and table which had been positioned for my talk.

Stuff happens in school events. Most of the time, you wouldn't believe it if I told you. The rest of the time I couldn't tell you for fear of defamation. There was the school where I arrived to find no audience when the biology teacher wouldn't let her class come, because they were digging worms. Visiting award-winning author vs a couple of worms - yes, I can see it was a difficult decision. Then there was the boy who had to be carried from the hall for bad behaviour and the invasion of another hall by five marauding deliquents being chased by two teachers.

And of course, there was the librarian who proudly announced, "We had a famous author here once."

Mad New Project

I've started working with some lovely and brillant pupils at the Mary Erskine School in Edinburgh. They are helping me write my next novel. It's about a girl being stalked by a man who is obsessed by insects - something this girl hates. Why is he stalking her? I haven't a clue, frankly, but all will be revealed (and I hope it will be revealed to me first).

The pupils have had some great ideas for the title and we've discussed the character of the girl. They are desperate to find out who the stalker is.

Er, so am I.

Librarians - the bad, the good ...

Something's been bugging me and I'm going to share, as they say.

I recently heard about a comment of a librarian whose school I visited near Newcastle a while ago. She said I "seemed quite nice" but "wasn't very chatty" and the kids didn't seem very impressed by having met me. Yes, I remember that school - the librarian didn't introduce me to the audience, the kids arrived late and were hyper, the teacher marked work at the back and had never heard of my books, and I was doing three separate events that day. I was, understandably, highly irritated and was wondering why I bothered. I was frankly looking forward to getting out of that dull place. So, my message to that uninspiring and unfriendly librarian is, "You get what you deserve."

Most school librarians are utterly wonderful and do an enormous amount to prepare the pupils and staff for the visit; and most events consequently go beautifully and everyone benefits. However, most authors can tell you horror stories of dire events where the organisers had made every mistake in the book. It doesn't take much to generate a bit of excitement and interest and to introduce the author to the audience.

That librarian seemed far more interested in telling me about a famous author she'd met - implication that I really wasn't famous enough. I felt sorry for the kids in that school - I didn't meet a single member of staff who seemed in the slightest bit interested in them.

Luckily, I meet many more teachers and librarians who shine and are inspirational. And you see it refected in the pupils. In fact, I'm going to name a wonderful school I went to last week: St Columba's High School in Clydebank, nr Glasgow. Great librarian, fantastic bright-eyed keen teenagers. They should be proud of themselves.

For the record ...

One day, I will learn how to give a newspaper interview and actually spot which way the interviewer is going to take my words. Amongst other things this week, I did a long interview for the Edinburgh Evening News and somehow accidentally managed to give the impression that my daughters are shouting all the time. What do you do when you have an interviewer with selective deafness? For the record, a) I said that SOME houses are full of angry teenagers shouting all the time and b) my daughters are wonderful. Also, my older daughter was NOT "in bed" at the time of the interview, but IN HER BEDROOM, WRITING AN ESSAY. On the other hand, I am very grateful for having such a long article and in a prominent place in the paper. Not to mention the enormous picture of my dog sitting on my sofa. And my daughters will forgive me if I buy them some chocolate.

They're cheap.

And wonderful.

No shouting at all.

Honest.

Arrival of new baby ... sorry, book

That amazing moment when your long-awaited, much worried-over book arrives in its real and touchable form never loses its power. I don't know about other authors, but I want to stroke the book, and smell it, and generally coo over it. I usually carry it around with me for a few days, desperate to show it to someone. But one thing that I am far too frightened to do is actually open it. What if I spot a mistake? What if I want to change something? What if it's rubbish?

Again, I don't know about other authors, but I have discovered that I can't open it at all until someone - anyone - says they've read it, or even part of it, or they've heard of someone who's read it, or part of it, and that they LIKED it. THEN I grab the book and open it and try to feel like a reader, not a writer. Anyway, that happened today, because my husband started reading it and he said he loved it. You might think, 'So what? HE WOULD say that, wouldn't he? After all, if he doesn't, you won't cook a lovely meal tonight.' Well, you obviously don't know my husband .... He will say what he thinks. And he's perfectly capable of cooking his own meal, and mine too.

So, I can now read it. But first, a bit more stroking of the gorgeous cover. Thank you to all the wonderful people at Walker for that - and, of course, Christian Birmingham, the artist. But now, I'll stop being all gushy and loveyish. And go and cook that meal.

But it IS a lovely cover, don't you think? So very strokable ...

Hobby Horse 1 - Secondhand books

Rant alert. There's something that's bugging me. Secondhand books and Amazon Marketplace. Let me explain.

If you go onto Amazon and search for, as an example, my book Fleshmarket, you'll find it there. Good. However, you'll also be tempted to look at 'New and used'. This takes you to Amazon Marketplace. Here, you will find Fleshmarket sold at as little as 1p. Big problem - not for you, but for me.

Some of these 'new and used' books are not genuinely secondhand and have never earned a royalty: some may have 'leaked' from the publisher's warehouse before earning a royalty, for various unclear reasons, such as returns that have not been resold; others are proof copies, marked as 'not for resale' (which is a problem if they are offered before publication; and perhaps not such a problem later, as most are bought as collectors' items and PROBABLY don't affect real sales much - EXCEPT that some buyers on Amazon Marketplace will just be buying them because they're cheap and won't care or notice if one is a proof). Others are genuinely secondhand. NONE of them brings me any income. And it's the first and third categories that I'm irritated by. But I don't entirely understand how the first category comes about, so let's focus on secondhand books and the fact that authors don't get royalties from them.

So what, you say? Aren't royalties just a bonus? What's the difference between buying a book secondhand and buying anything else secondhand. Don't you get properly paid?

Ah, there's a big difference and no, royalties are not a bonus. And no, I don't get properly paid - not until people buy my books, in shops or through internet sites like Amazon, but NEW. Authors are paid an advance - money set against the royalties on future sales. If you cause an author to lose a future sale, you are actually taking away the prime source of payment. In effect, you are taking the author's wages. It's NOT like buying a piece of clothing, where the maker is being paid a wage or salary which does not depend on how many are sold.

So, when you buy a book secondhand, that sale brings no royalty and denies the author his or her rightful income.

And, authors are generally not well off. If you want to know the facts: more than two thirds of members of the Society of Authors earn LESS THAN HALF the national average wage. And half of the Society's members earn less than the minimum wage.

If we erode authors' incomes, we cause a situation where authors cannot write the wide and deep range of books which they currently do. Publishers will only want to publish books which will sell in truckloads, rather than the full range as they do now. Authors will not be able to write books on topics which are of huge interest only to a few thousand people. 'Will it be popular?' will be the only question publishers ask, instead of 'Will it be brilliant? Will it be useful? Will it be important?'

So, the increase in the secondhand market is damaging to authors, to literature, to academic quality, and ultimately to readers themselves.

I'm not saying don't buy secondhand. After all, secondhand bookshops are a great way of finding a book that is out of print (so you couldn't buy it new). And buying a book that is out of print can sometimes leading to that reader buying another book by the same author. And I don't want to knock charities. However, realise that what you do has consequences. And realise that Amazon Marketplace in particular is potentially threatening author income by its huge success.

Finally, let me remind you of Article 27 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights: "Everyone has the right to protection of the moral and material interests resulting from any scientific, literary or artistic production of which he or she is the author."

There! I've said my piece!

Turning Japanese

Got the author copies of the Japanese edition of Mondays are Red today. How very weird. And there's even a picture of my dog on the front cover. (Yes, she did have a small part in the book). It's very disorientating having a book back to front. But I am delighted to be in Japanese. I recently gave the Polish editions of Mondays are Red to a woman who bought my bike from ebay. Yes, don't worry - she was Polish. Still is, as far as I know.

Just waiting for the Serbian edition of Blame My Brain now ...

Why Ghostly Galleon?

Why Ghostly Galleon? All will be revealed. More to the point, why on earth have I decided to start this blog NOW, when I have a million and one other things I should be doing? Probably because I have a million and one other things I should be doing.

Maybe because I have a new book coming out in November and I am at that stage when I am convinced it's going to dive into the void, never to be seen again. And I'd kind of be sad about that.

It's called the Highwayman's Footsteps. It's set in 1761 in the north-east of England and features a highwayman. No it doesn't - it features a girl and a boy, who are both highwaymen. It's been described as 'Robert Louis Stevenson on caffeine'. I like that! Pure adventure, exciting, frightening, thought-provoking. There's death and horror, cruelty and injustice. But friendship and loyalty, bravery and beauty too. And it was great fun to write, more fun than anything I've done.

ANYWAY, there's an added twist: you see, my favourite poem of all time is Alfred Noyes' The Highwayman. You know, the one where Bess, the landlord's 'red-lipped, black-eyed daughter', and her lover, the handsome highwayman, die at the hands of the dastardly redcoats. Or, to be precise, Bess shoots herself to warn him 'with her death' and when he hears what she has done, he rides back in fury and allows himself to be shot 'down like a dog in the highway'. ANYWAY, the point is that I decided that Bess and the highwayman had had a child, a girl, also called Bess, brought up by her father in the devious ways of a highwayman.

But that's not the twist. Last week, I went to stay in Alfred Noyes' old house and while I was there I actually LISTENED to an old recording of him reading his wonderful poem. An utterly amazing experience. I've written about it for Carousel magazine and several other places are interested in publishing it after Carousel comes out.

So, do you know now why Ghostly Galleon?

In which case, you might be surprised to know that Noyes' original first draft didn't use 'ghostly galleon' but 'Flying Dutchman'. How do I know? Because his grandson gave me a copy of an early draft, in the poet's own handwriting ...

How did all this come about, this visit to the house and listening to the tape? Because of the poet's daughter - Lady Nolan. She read my book and gave permission for me to use the poem. 'Why don't you go and stay in our old house?' she said. 'And listen to an old recording of my father reading The Highwayman?'

How could I refuse?