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Newsletter one hundred
Mar. 28th, 2014 03:46 pmTon up! (Newsletter wise.)
Life chez Cochrane is recovering from gastro-enteritis and gearing up for a big weekend in Cardiff, celebrating the middle Cochrane’s 21st birthday. If you’re in Cardiff Bay tomorrow night...well, maybe best to avoid it.
Writing News:
'Sand' which was in the anthology 'Last Gasp' from the now defunct Noble Romance (don’t ask about that experience!) has been given a thorough going over and is now in edits for re-release from MLR. More news on dates, etc when I have it.
“Second Helpings” will be coming out from Riptide in the summer (planned for 21st July). Here’s an in-edits snippet:
“Stuart! Thank God you’re here,” Mr. Collins said, as he opened the door and almost dragged his son through it. “Got a crisis.”
Stuart’s heart sank. He wasn’t prepared to deal with any sorts of crises.
“First batch of Yorkshire puddings sank. Like a U-boat had torpedoed them.”
“Is that all?” Stuart replied, relieved.
“All? All? It’s a national calamity.” Dad flung open the kitchen door. “Look at them.”
“Blimey.” Stuart poked one of the sad little flattened rounds, then ran his finger along the tin. “Is this new?”
“Yes. I decided the old one was too disgusting.”
“You never threw the thing out? You can’t make Yorkshire’s except in a grotty old tin.”
Dad threw up his hands, sending up another flurry of flour. “How was I supposed to know? It’s here somewhere.”
Stuart smiled. “Leave this to me. Get me the tin then go and wash yourself. You look like Miss Havisham.”
He got on with making the batter while the newly washed—but still sufficiently old and grotty—tin was warming in the oven along with the roast potatoes. The smell of fat and sounds of sizzling took him back to childhood again, Mum here in the kitchen producing miraculous meals.
“Thinking of your mother?” Dad’s voice was quiet, calming.
“Since when have you been reading minds?” Stuart asked, turning round.
Dad smiled. “It’s the same for me. I smell a roast or hear a song on the radio and she’s back here. Peeling potatoes or cracking jokes.” He sniffed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. There’s nothing wrong with remembering.”
“I know.” Dad put his arm around his son’s shoulders, something he’d not done since the day of Mark’s funeral. He cleared his throat; this was evidently going to be something important. “But there’s a point where memories aren’t enough. You move on and look at new horizons.”
“Too soon for me, Dad.” Stuart returned the hug. “Tell me it gets better.”
Inspiration:
My favourite island
Life chez Cochrane is recovering from gastro-enteritis and gearing up for a big weekend in Cardiff, celebrating the middle Cochrane’s 21st birthday. If you’re in Cardiff Bay tomorrow night...well, maybe best to avoid it.
Writing News:
'Sand' which was in the anthology 'Last Gasp' from the now defunct Noble Romance (don’t ask about that experience!) has been given a thorough going over and is now in edits for re-release from MLR. More news on dates, etc when I have it.
“Second Helpings” will be coming out from Riptide in the summer (planned for 21st July). Here’s an in-edits snippet:
“Stuart! Thank God you’re here,” Mr. Collins said, as he opened the door and almost dragged his son through it. “Got a crisis.”
Stuart’s heart sank. He wasn’t prepared to deal with any sorts of crises.
“First batch of Yorkshire puddings sank. Like a U-boat had torpedoed them.”
“Is that all?” Stuart replied, relieved.
“All? All? It’s a national calamity.” Dad flung open the kitchen door. “Look at them.”
“Blimey.” Stuart poked one of the sad little flattened rounds, then ran his finger along the tin. “Is this new?”
“Yes. I decided the old one was too disgusting.”
“You never threw the thing out? You can’t make Yorkshire’s except in a grotty old tin.”
Dad threw up his hands, sending up another flurry of flour. “How was I supposed to know? It’s here somewhere.”
Stuart smiled. “Leave this to me. Get me the tin then go and wash yourself. You look like Miss Havisham.”
He got on with making the batter while the newly washed—but still sufficiently old and grotty—tin was warming in the oven along with the roast potatoes. The smell of fat and sounds of sizzling took him back to childhood again, Mum here in the kitchen producing miraculous meals.
“Thinking of your mother?” Dad’s voice was quiet, calming.
“Since when have you been reading minds?” Stuart asked, turning round.
Dad smiled. “It’s the same for me. I smell a roast or hear a song on the radio and she’s back here. Peeling potatoes or cracking jokes.” He sniffed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. There’s nothing wrong with remembering.”
“I know.” Dad put his arm around his son’s shoulders, something he’d not done since the day of Mark’s funeral. He cleared his throat; this was evidently going to be something important. “But there’s a point where memories aren’t enough. You move on and look at new horizons.”
“Too soon for me, Dad.” Stuart returned the hug. “Tell me it gets better.”
Inspiration:
My favourite island
