Is this the future? by Sheila Claydon

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Climate change is happening. We all know that because the climate has been changing from hot to cold to wet to dry and back again for millennium. It’s what it does. The argument which is waxing ever louder is whether humankind is making the process worse. According to some we only have a few years left to save ourselves, while others, usually from the scientific community, are working to a more optimistic timeframe, even though they too say we must do something to slow things down or even (is it possible) stop it altogether. This is not the place to have those arguments, however. Instead it’s about remembering how we once lived and how, if we want to do our bit for climate change, we might have to live in the future.

We don't have to go back thousands of years to do this. We only have to be old enough to remember the 1940s and 50s in the UK and many other Western countries to get a glimpse of what such a future might be like. No central heating, air conditioning, double and triple glazing, memory foam mattresses, food mixers, TVs, mobile phones, The Internet, supermarkets, out of town shopping malls, nylon tights, minimum iron clothing, steam irons, frozen ready meals, exotic foods from across the world, disposable nappies, babygros, 24 hour shopping...the list is endless. 

While none of these things were available in those far off days just after WW2, most homes burned coal or wood for heating, and as we all know, coal is responsible for some of the most noxious gases that are threatening the planet. We paid for it  in the winter, however, when our towns and cities were lost in a greyish yellowish smog and pale bricks became coated in a sooty, tar-like substance until everyone forgot how they had looked in the first place. We coughed a lot too, and more people got bronchitis or died from pneumonia.

The coal fires kept us warm in the winter though, sort of! Of course legs were scorched if we sat too close, and we got chilblains if we warmed icy feet too quickly, and there was always the danger of clothes and rugs catching fire from spitting sparks. But if we sat further away from the fire the room was often still cold, as were all the other rooms in the house, so that going to bed was only bearable if the sheets were first warmed by a hot water bottle, and vests and bed-socks were worn under thick fleecy pyjamas while furry slippers and dressing gowns were a must in any transit through the house. 

Clothes were different too, especially for children. Then it was a woollen vest and knickers with a thick cotton liberty bodice buttoned over the top. Home knitted woollen jumpers, cardigans, long woollen socks, home knitted leggings, a thick winter coat (woollen again) and home knitted hats, gloves and scarves were the order of the day, and woe-betide the child who removed a single item of clothing. There were no padded, waterproof all-in-one suits. No easy-wash, easy-iron fabrics. Nor were there washing machines or tumble dryers, except for the very wealthy few. Instead clothes were washed by hand or, in the case of white items, in a boiler. before being hand wrung or passed through a hand cranked wringer, and then hung out to dry if the weather was fine, or draped around the house if it was raining. Depending on where people lived this could result in crisp white sheets smelling of sunshine, or soot flecked bedding courtesy of coal fires and steam trains.

Shopping had to be done almost daily, although milk and bread were delivered to most people, and some had groceries delivered too. The majority did their own shopping, however, carrying it in string bags or in paper carrier bags, often for long distances while the string handles cut into fingers and palms, leaving red weals and temporarily cutting off the blood supply.

Of course it wasn't all bad...in fact none of the above was bad because it was what people were used to. Cooking was always from scratch with most of the ingredients grown or sourced locally, and it was all seasonal. Sprouts, cabbage and root vegetables in the winter, peas, beans, salads and tomatoes in the summer. Nothing was frozen. If peas were needed then they had to be podded by hand (usually a child's job) and it was the same with fruit. Gooseberries, apples, pears, plums, rhubarb, black and redcurrants, cherries, strawberries and raspberries were all plentiful in season but there were few bananas or oranges, and nothing exotic at all. Pies and puddings were made by hand, and cakes were mixed the hard way with a bowl and wooden spoon.

Few people owned cars. Instead they used buses and trams or cycled or walked. Hardly anyone travelled by plane. Instead long journeys were by sea, taking the length of time only the rich could afford, or the very poor who were sailing away in search of a better life in.

Entertainment consisted of card and board games, word games, charades and guessing games, reading, jigsaw puzzles and the radio. A lucky few had what was then called a gramophone where they could play scratchy sounding records, and in houses with a piano there would be musical evenings where everyone sang. Screen time was visiting the cinema to see whatever film was playing that week. There was no choice. It was also the only time anyone saw a curated newsreel of happenings around the world. Consequently daily newspapers were the lifeline of almost every house. They were eagerly read from cover to cover and then used to light the fire before the coal was added, or to wrap rubbish before it went into the trashcan. 

I could go on about compost heaps, collecting horse droppings from the street to feed the roses, growing more vegetables than flowers, making jam from surplus fruit, buying everything loose from potatoes to biscuits because there was no plastic packaging. Instead it was cellophane, waxed paper or cardboard. String instead of cellotape. 

Very few people had telephones and as there were no mobile phones,  messages were either written and sent by post or, if they were urgent, by telegram, both of which entailed a visit to a post office and quite possibly a long wait in a queue.

Of course, in memory, the summers were glorious with day after day of sunshine, and children had the sort of freedom few can imagine now. Days spent collecting frog spawn from muddy ponds, picking huge bunches of wild flowers, climbing trees, building dens in the woods, chasing butterflies, lunch often no more than bread and butter and an apple.

Living this way took a lot of effort and energy and most women toiled from morning to night shopping, cleaning, washing, ironing and cooking. There were very few households with children where both parents worked, and even fewer households with paid help. Instead men (and it was nearly always men) mowed the grass, dug the garden, grew vegetables, filled the coal buckets, collected and chopped wood, and mended things. Nothing was thrown out. Not a screw or a nail or a piece of string. They were kept in jars and tins until they were needed to patch up a fence or fix a loose broom head or mend or make a toy. Clothes too were never wasted. Worn out underwear was torn into rags for dusters and wash cloths, knitwear was unraveled and the wool rolled into balls and used again, frayed shirt collars were turned, and worn sheets cut down the middle so the strong sides could be sewn together again.

A lucky few had sewing machines but much was done by hand, including making clothes, especially baby clothes. And looking after babies was a whole new ball game because every single cotton nappy had to be washed and dried whatever the weather, so 24 nappies flapping on a clothes line was a common sight winter and summer. The clothes too were all either wool or cotton, nothing was easy wash and dry, and almost everything from bonnets to sheets had to be ironed. And in a time when few people owned steam irons this sometimes meant sprinkling water over over-dry sheets or shirts, rolling them up and waiting until they were damp again. Using a wet cloth over the top of a very dry item was another trick but even this was difficult in the houses that still didn't have electricity. Houses where a heavy iron had to be heated over a fire before it could be used. Houses that still relied on candles and gas lights. Houses where the radio would only work if the battery was replaced every week, which entailed a long walk to the nearest shop that would recharge it.

Until I started writing this I had forgotten quite how much things have changed in the past 70 or so years. I had forgotten, too, what it would be like to live without foreign holidays, exotic food, and instant access to family living halfway across the world thanks to the Internet, computers and mobile phones.  Are future generations going to be content with buying less, travelling less, no exotic holidays, giving up the convenience of cars and the comfort of central heating, air conditioning, man-made comfortable easy-wash clothing, out of season food, convenience meals...as I said before, the list is endless. Or are we all going to hope that the scientists have got it right and that there are technological ways out of our growing dilemma of climate change?

Part of my book Remembering Rose is set in an even earlier time when life was harder still but when the fields were still full of a multitude of wild flowers, when songbirds and wildlife were much more plentiful than they are nowadays, and when horses were a common form of transport. How times have changed...and will keep on changing...

A modern Miss and a modern kiss...by Sheila Claydon

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With teenage grandchildren I am under no illusion that today's writers have to look to their politically correct credentials if their stories are to pass muster. My goodness how times have changed!

I was first published in the early 1980s when it was still entirely possible for the heroine to be kissed against her will or, through lack of a voice, be coerced into doing something that was anathema. Of course we all know this still happens in real life, in sad situations where women and, more often, young girls remain powerless, but there is no longer any place for this in the sort of escapist romances I write.  Nowadays the heroines are all feisty (and rightly so). They have careers and independence. Their sexual back history is usually alluded to sufficiently to make it clear they are not entirely innocent. They are also prepared to walk away from any romantic liaison that doesn't satisfy them emotionally.

They are, of course, also computer savvy, carry cell phones, drive, often own property and are frequently fearless when faced with either physical or emotional dilemmas.

The only way around this is to write historical romances when life and behaviours were very different, and this became very clear to me when I wrote Remembering Rose, the last book I had published.  It is a story of several romances, one of them being that of Rose who lived in the 1800s. The juxtaposition of Rose's life and that of her great-great granddaughter (researched from historical accounts by real people) is a real eye-opener. I am old enough to remember the attitudes of past times, however, and the practical reasons behind them, whereas modern teenagers and twenty and thirty somethings are not, and why should they be. Life has changed almost beyond recognition and is continuing to do so, and writers have to try to keep up with it.

Lisa, the heroine in that first book of mine, Golden Girl, now republished by Books We Love as a retro romance, is light years away from Rachel, the heroine of Remembering Rose. And so is the storyline. Nobody would ever try to push Rachel around whereas Lisa had to fight off unwelcome advances and suffer in silence when nobody would listen to her voice.

So what does that say about me? Someone who lived in London in the swinging sixties, which, unless you were part of a small coterie of celebrities, were far, far less swinging than history would have us believe! It says I started off as a Lisa but have ended up as a Rachel, something that has happened to many women of my generation but certainly not all. To keep up a writer needs to mix with people of all ages, especially younger ones, and learn from them, or become irrelevant.

I thought of this when I revisited the half written manuscript of my latest novel, the one that has been sleeping on my computer for almost two years while I concentrated on other things. After a hiatus I can feel the need to write stirring again but, because life changes are moving exponentially nowadays, I read it was some trepidation.  What was I going to have to change? Fortunately it looks OK. The language and attitudes are fine and the storyline is still relevant. I am having trouble with moving it forward though because this time there will be teenagers involved as well as the main protagonists who might end up as step parents ( a first for me)...oh yes, and a ghost as well...just like in Remembering Rose. It seems that the village of Mapleby, which is the setting for both books, and for a further one in the future, is haunted...not by ghouls or goblins but by the spirits of past romances. Writing again promises to be an interesting ride.

Characters or friends?..by Sheila Claydon

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I'm taking a break from writing at the moment despite having a half finished manuscript on my computer...the second book of my Mapleby Memories Series. I don't have writer's block, nor am I struggling with my characters, it's just that this year the needs of family and friends have had to come first, and will continue to do so for a while yet.

A few years ago I would have struggled to deal with this. Writing had become an obsession. The need to type words on a page a daily necessity. So what changed? Well having 12 books published, mainly by Books We love, but a couple by other publishers too, made me realise I really was a writer. I had nothing left to prove. I could do it. I could write stories that other people wanted to read. A trickle of fan mail helped too, making my earlier efforts and disappointments all the more worthwhile.

More than that though, and mad as it might seem to a non-writer, it's the stories I've written that have calmed me down. Now, if I choose to, I can live in a world inhabited by a whole lot of characters who, at times, are almost as real as the flesh and blood people around me. I have never been able to start writing until I can see the main protagonists in my mind's eye. I don't draw up astrological charts for them as some writers do, or create detailed past histories for reference, I just need to see them.  And once I can do that, then they start to develop the story all by themselves.

It's not always easy because sometimes they won't follow my plan no matter how hard I try to make it work. Instead they go their own merry way as if they were a real person with ideas of their own, and that's what I mean about my world. I might not have the time to write at the moment but I can still see all those characters from my books, and sometimes, when I visit a place where I've set a story, or I make the same journey a character  made in one of my books, then I can imagine them there with me all over again.

In my experience writing a book expands my world. Sitting in front of a computer for hours might seem lonely to the onlooker, but then they can't see the host of new friends I've created who will always be with me.

One of my favourite characters is Rachel in Remembering Rose, the first Mapleby Memory, and Daniel in Reluctant Date is to die for!

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The Ultimate Challenge...by Sheila Claydon

One of the important characters in my book Remembering Rose is an elderly woman, a grandmother, who uses a wheelchair and who is on the downward journey towards dementia. She has chosen to spend her final days in a care home despite having a large and loving family.

...so in the end she went into a nursing home. For the first week we thought she'd be heartbroken and we all felt guilty, but she took to it like a duck to water. Within days she seemed to have forgotten she had ever lived anywhere else, and Hester, who has always been the bossy one, set up a family visiting rota, so that rarely a day goes by without one or other of us calling in to see her.  She likes that, mainly because we take her chocolate biscuits and wine. Even at ninety-four years old she is still partial to a glass of chardonnay at six o'clock.

Not everything about this old lady is a figment of my imagination. A ninety-three year old friend, who has recently died, checked herself into a care home when she no longer felt able to manage alone. She had daughters who loved her and would have cared for her to the end but she wouldn't let them. She had no intention of being a burden to anyone, least of all herself. Instead she downsized her life but not the way she lived it. She still socialised, still went on holiday, still went to church and to Bible class, and still poured herself and anyone who happened to be visiting a glass of wine to the very end. She was also slim and elegant with immaculate hair and nails despite being registered blind. She loved company, especially dogs, who she favoured over her human visitors, and was the best listener I've ever met. She was totally my heroine for many years and if I am lucky enough to live to her great age I want to be just like her.

Nor is she the only one. I have another friend who is almost ninety. She is very deaf, is in constant pain, and can only walk with the aid of a frame or a stick because her body has become twisted and lop-sided with age, but none of this stops her from being a demon Bridge player, a welcoming and gracious hostess to any and all visitors, and a wonderful raconteur. She still manages her own home too, although with increasing difficulty, because she values her independence above almost everything else. Although she has lived a very interesting and eventful life, to the unknowing onlooker she is a tiny bird of a woman, overtaken by old age and fragility. Only when they notice the subtly coloured and carefully curled hair, the plucked eyebrows and the lipstick do they realise she was once something far more, and still is if they would only take the time to listen.

To quote the great Bette Davis, old age is no place for cissies, and it's true. Age brings aches and pains, chronic illness, the loss of loved ones, and being sidelined by the young. However, she also said, 'The key to life is accepting challenges. Once someone stops doing this he's dead.' And that is what my dear friends have done. They have accepted the challenges of old age, which in their case includes illness, frailty and widowhood, and decided that life is not only still worth living but is worth cherishing as well.

In old age not everyone is lucky enough to have sufficient money to be comfortable or the mental capacity to face life head on, and even for those who can it is still the ultimate challenge. There is no one stronger than a very old person who has seen it all, however, and their resilience is something to aspire to. The grandmother in Remembering Rose, although a very different character to my friends, has something to offer the heroine that nobody else can and she doesn't care who she has to inconvenience to do it.

We live in an era that considers youth and beauty two of its most valued commodities. It's a time where the younger generation knows little and understands less about the way life was in the recent past let alone almost one hundred years ago. Such ignorance is an incalculable loss. Listening to very old people is a history lesson in itself, and watching them face the challenges of their ageing bodies  and minds with stoicism and wisdom is a lesson worth learning because one day it will be us.

Never ignore an old person because hidden in their silences and half forgotten memories is a rich history, and if you listen to them you will be able to see the years fall away as they remember what the world was like when they were young.

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The Spirit of Happiness...by Sheila Claydon

Have you ever been to a place where everyone smiles at you, or stops for a chat. No, I hadn't either until this week when I visited the small city of Canterbury in England. It is an amazingly happy and friendly place. Although I have lived in the UK all my life I had never been there before. I had heard of it of course because Canterbury Cathedral is the Mother Church of the worldwide Anglican Communion and seat of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the man who recently conducted the marriage service of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, better known to the world as Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.

So why is the Mother Church in a relatively small, out-of-the-way place close to the East coast of England and only 40 miles across the sea from Calais in France instead of in London. Well it really has to do with King Aethelberht I, king of Kent, whose was married to Bertha, daughter of a French king. Bertha was a Christian, so when Augustine, later St Augustine of Canterbury, and another 99 monks arrived in the city in 597, exhausted from their long and arduous journey from Rome, Bertha insisted that Aethelberht offer them bed and board until they recovered sufficiently to continue their journey to London. At the behest of Pope Gregory 1, their task in London was to reintroduce christianity to England. The monks, however, didn't find the prospect of another dangerous journey across country very enticing so they stayed in Canterbury instead... and stayed, and stayed...for a thousand years, until King Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and made himself Head of the Church of England in the middle of the sixteenth century.

Canterbury has been occupied since pre-Roman times but the city proper was established by the Roman Emperor Claudius in 43 CE. The remains of his Roman city is buried beneath the modern day buildings and the many beautiful green spaces surrounding the centre. Some of the old Roman walls are still standing and there are Roman roads still in use. Watling Street is the most famous. Today the city is a living, breathing history from its beginnings to the building of the first monastery and church by Augustine and his monks, to the murder of Thomas Becket by supporters of Henry II, to the dissolution of the monasteries. There is even a very modern moment of history. The Cathedral's Chapter House is where the UK Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and President Mitterand of France and their Foreign secretaries agreed and signed the Channel Tunnel fixed link treaty in 1986.  An agreement that would eventually result in the first land link between Britain and the European continent for 8,000 years!

A quick search on the Internet will give you 2,000 years of history as well as beautiful pictures of the cathedral, the many historic buildings and the quaint streets. You will also see the lovely River Stour, the parks and river walk. From the Internet you will learn far more than I can tell you in a blog, so let me go back to the beginning. The friendliness of Canterbury.

I don't know whether it is left over from being a place of sanctuary and reverence for so long, or whether it is because it receives so many visitors from all over the world every year, all year, that it is used to playing host. (Over 7 Million visitors last year!) What I do know is that it is one of the most welcoming places I have ever visited. From the taxi driver (now a local but originally from Mesopotamia) who told me it was one of the safest places he has ever lived, to the various local people who sat beside us in cafes and restaurants, to the shop assistants and their customers, everyone wanted to talk.

I was asked my opinion by people in dress shops and shoe shops, I was regaled with history by the volunteers at the Cathedral, I was welcomed by waiters and shop assistants, and by ticket sellers and by people just walking past. I had mussels and frites served by a French waiter (don't forget Calais is such a close neighbour that many of the shops have notices in French as well as English) that was so redolent of a holiday spent in France I could almost imagine I was there. Another lunch, in an English restaurant, was equally as good, and in both cases the conversation with the locals at neighbouring tables was so interesting and friendly that I could have stayed all day.

I suppose I might have just struck lucky. After all it was sunny and warm and before the tourist season proper, so less busy than it will be in July and August when the quaint medieval streets will become impassable, so everyone I met was relaxed and happy. I prefer, however, to think it was more than that. That it truly is a happy place where neighbour looks out for neighbour and everyone welcomes visitors in the spirit of the 100 monks whose arrival more than 1500 years ago opened the heart of an English King. 

For the true history of England past, Canterbury is a good place to start.

I enjoy history and my book Remembering Rose is a history of sorts, where the heroine travels back in time to her family's past. Although it is only about one family it offers a picture of how swiftly times change and how none of us can know even our closest ancestors however hard we look. The looking is the point though, whether it's family, a village, a town, a city, a country, or the whole world. History teaches us a lot about ourselves and about the people around us. It really does repeat itself too. One final anecdote about Canterbury proves this. 

At one point in their history the monks of Canterbury, having rebuilt the cathedral after a fire, had no money left to build themselves a monastery, so they did what any hopeful business person does today, they crowd-funded!! They approached all the wealthy families in the land with an offer of earthly and heavenly glory if they would seed their start-up fund, and guess what...the monastery was built.  And on the arched ceiling there are the countless coats of arms of all the wealthy families who donated. They may have been pious monks but the entrepreneurial spirt was strong and very successful!!

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How to be 4 years old in a modern world

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If you have read my books you will know that they often include children. Sometimes the hero and heroine are their parents, sometimes not; sometimes they are integral to the storyline, sometimes not; but whatever their role, writing about them is a joy. While I frequently have to wrestle with the main characters, children are more straightforward. Portraying their emotions is easy. It doesn't matter whether they are happy or sad, excited or curious, angry or frightened, their language is always simple and direct.  They are not introspective. They live in the present and rarely worry about what other people think.

I was thinking about this the other day as I worked on the as yet unnamed sequel to Remembering Rose, because the same children will feature in that, and while I was thinking my phone rang. It was my almost four year old granddaughter calling from Hong Kong. Why was she calling? Because she wanted a bedtime story! So I dutifully exchanged my phone for my tablet and complied, not once but twice. I read a Charlie and Lola story, and Superworm. The previous week we read Stick Man. Then we said goodnight and I returned to my writing. It was only later that I registered how very different her childhood is to mine and to that of her parents and even her older cousins.

At almost four years old she is multiracial (Chinese/English/Irish), multicultural (she has already lived in 3 countries and been totally immersed in their cultures (England, Australia and Hong Kong). She has visited mainland China, Wales in England, Paris in France and Dubai. She is also multilingual (English, Mandarin and Cantonese) and will soon attend an International School where she will also learn French. She has attended 4 different nursery schools, all of which had a rainbow mix of children  from across the globe, and the wonderful thing is, that to her, all this is normal. Far from confusing her, it has enlarged her world so that she is confident and friendly, and interested in everything around her. What she isn't, is introspective. Just like the children in my books, she lives in the present and very definitely doesn't worry what other people think. Sadly she might in ten years time because that is what teenagers do. Until then may she continue to enjoy her life as a very modern four year old who thinks asking for a bedtime story on Skype is normal, and I'm looking forward to the day when she decides to read to me across the miles instead.

A Valentine Worth Waiting For...by Sheila Claydon

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So it's my turn to post on Valentine's Day again! Not surprising really as I always post on the 14th of every month. Last year I wrote in detail about the history behind Valentine's Day. How it started off as a pagan fertility ritual which segued into a feast day in the Catholic Calendar of Saints when a  third century Pope  named 14 February Saint Valentine's Day. However it wasn't until the Middle Ages that the poet Chaucer linked St Valentine with romantic love. Now, centuries later, it's hearts and roses all the way...or is it?

I thought so, but then I write romantic novels so I would, wouldn't I. And remembering back to my own long ago youth, I thought all young girls longed for a valentine card to land on their doormat. I thought they spent a lot of time yearning for romance and Mr Right, but a recent conversation with some modern teenagers has shown me otherwise. While they are happy to be part of a mixed sex friendship group, like it in fact, they are not looking for a boyfriend. I was fascinated so I kept listening.

One of the best comments was, 'why would I want to tie myself down with a boyfriend when I'm this young? There is a great big world out there full of things I haven't seen or don't know yet. I want a career too, so I've a lot of studying and learning to do. Being exclusive to a boy would get in the way of all that, and it might mean I wouldn't see so much of my friends either. I'd rather just be part of a fun group until I'm much older.'

These are all beautiful, bright, confident girls. They don't know it of course, because their teenage hormones often tell them otherwise, so sometimes they beat themselves up about their looks, their figures, their exam results...but on good days, when they look in the mirror they know, and they also know when the boys in their group ask them for a date. 

Sometimes one of them succumbs for one date, or several, but never more. Then it's back to the friendship group, boys and all, where they variously do things like skating, sailing, horse riding, hiking, playing sport, eating pizza, having sleepovers (the girls), playing musical instruments, singing, experimenting with hair and make-up, watching films, baking, reading, discussing life...

So off you go St Valentine. The young girls of the twenty-first century might want romance eventually...but not yet! They have too much to see and to do before they take it seriously, and they are quite right. It is a big and interesting world out there and they have a lot of living to do.

In my book Remembering Rose, the heroine is also looking for more. What is different about her is that she already has exactly what she needs, she just can't see it even though it's right under her nose. There isn't a valentine in the book, but there is love...real love...the sort of love worth waiting for. The sort of love I hope all those beautiful girls find one day...when they are ready.

Golden Girl is a Books We Love March release where another of Sheila Claydon's heroines finds love - but not until she's ready.

Gremlins and the Big Countdown by Sheila Claydon

Eighteen months ago I spent almost half a year in Sydney, Australia. I was there to help care for my youngest granddaughter. She was six months old when we arrived and just a few weeks shy of her first birthday when we left.  During that time she made friends with my friends thanks to her almost daily appearance on my facebook page and then it was all over and, as with any family separated by thousands of miles, we knew it would be a while before we saw her again.

I left with far more than happy memories though, I left with material for the book which eventually became Remembering Rose (Mapleby Memories Book 1), published June 30, 2016. Although the story has absolutely nothing to do with my trip to Australia, some of the characters do. The heroine, Rachel, is a new mother, and at the start of the story, Leah, her little girl, is a few months old. Then there's Daniel, the new Dad.  None of these characters are my family, nor is the story anything like theirs, but watching them learning to become parents and adapt to the changes a baby brings to a partnership helped me to develop the story.

Now, with the book finished and out there, we are all going to meet up again, only this time in the UK. The whole family are coming to England for 9 weeks and we are beyond excited. Unfortunately our excitement has attracted the attention of the gremlins who lurk silently in corners, always on the look out for an opportunity to cause mayhem. With us they hit the jackpot and the past couple of weeks have been a chapter of incidents and accidents. First I cut the sole of my foot sufficiently badly to have to visit the Accident & Emergency Department at our local hospital to be stitched up. Then, while I was recovering, the gremlins moved in.

The first thing they attacked was the cooker. One day it cooked a fine roast dinner for six, the next day nix, nada, not a flicker.  Call out charges and repairs for a 12 year old cooker were deemed not worth it so we ordered a new one. Then they set their sights on the refrigerator, putting it into deep freeze mode so that not only was everything rock solid,  the ice overflowed onto the kitchen floor, so a new fridge it had to be. Finally it was the dishwasher's turn. A gremlin leak did it. Thankfully our local supplier has assured us that all three items will be delivered and fitted on Monday, three days before our visitors arrive.

With this problem solved we turned our attention to the bedrooms because we have to accommodate a cot plus two and occasionally four additional adults as well as sleepovers from older children. That's when we discovered the gremlins had moved upstairs and pushed the bottom out of one of the drawers in the chest-of-drawers. They had also broken the loft ladder and made sure the shower head sprang a leak in solidarity with the solar panels on the roof, so now we have to drain the boiler on Monday so the plumber can repair the roof. The other things we can cope with ourselves even though this now includes the garden pond which, with a little invisible help from our gremlin invaders, has suddenly decided to seep water, exposing a very unattractive plastic liner instead of its usual pretty pebbles and stones. Then, in what I hope was their final act before leaving, they pushed one of the kick boards under the kitchen units adrift and now it needs new fitments.

Everything will be mended or replaced before our visitors arrive but at this rate it would have been cheaper to fly to Australia ourselves! It's not as if we treat our house and belongings harshly either, so, gremlins apart, maybe it's an age thing. Almost all of the broken items were around 12 years old, dating from when we had our kitchen re-fitted. They have all been well cared for and look as good as new. It's just the innards that have perished, so does this mean that 12 is the optimum number of years we can expect from anything nowadays?

I'm not going to tempt providence and say there's nothing else left to go wrong. Instead I am going to sort out all the clothes and baby items my daughter has been storing in her loft for this visit. Already we have a baby seat in the car, a stroller in the porch, a highchair in the kitchen and a full toy box in the conservatory. The bathroom has plastic ducks and frogs again, and there are several drawers of freshly washed hand-me-down clothes waiting for our little granddaughter plus, most important of all for anyone connected with Books We Love, a big basket full of picture books. It's like a leap back in time to when our older granddaughters were babies, and before that to when our own children were young. Now all we need is the energy to run a full household again after years of being on our own.

My next book, a follow up to Remembering Rose, and only started in my head so far, will include young children, so I guess I am already expecting to pick up pointers from my youngest granddaughter for the book I will start in October when she returns to Australia. In the meantime I only have four days left in the big countdown but please don't tell the gremlins or they will find something else to break.

Sheila's books can be found at Books We Love and on Amazon

She also has a website and can be found on facebook

Sepia photographs and other stories revisited by Sheila Claydon

Eighteen months ago I wrote about a sepia print I found in a box of old photographs and how the beautiful young woman and dashing young man who were its main characters transfixed me. I was so intrigued by their apparent happiness that I tracked down their story and discovered that while it didn't have a sad ending, it didn't have a happy one either. By the end of their lives they were careworn and frail from years of hard work and semi-poverty. Their lives were typical of many people who lived in rural England in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.  (To read their full story search for Sheila Claydon 14 September 2014 on this website)

Of course research prompts possibilities for a writer and before long I had the beginning of a book. It wasn't the real story of Rose and Arthur, although it borrowed a lot of facts from their lives, it was the one in my imagination.

There were two problems, however. The first was that I was still in the middle of writing Miss Locatelli, my book set mostly in Florence in Italy. The second was that however much I tried to avoid it, Remembering Rose insisted on being  written in the first person, something I had never tried before. It wasn't Rose's voice that was telling the story though, it was Rachel, her great-great-granddaughter.

It took me a while to discover that Rachel wanted to be Rose's mouthpiece across the centuries but when I did I had another dilemma. Time travel! I'd never tried that before either.

There was another problem too. I mainly write contemporary romance, so how was that going to work in a book that was about someone from the nineteenth century?

The end result, after wrestling for weeks with various ideas, is a number of intertwined romances, some contemporary, some historical, as well as a sort of family saga, and of course that elusive time travel. By the time I finished I felt as if I had run a very difficult marathon but it was worth it. I love Rose and Rachel even though they are very far from perfect, and I love their heroes even more.

Writing Remembering Rose has been like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle and although the real Rose and Arthur will never know they were the inspiration for this story, and would probably be horrified at how I've interpreted them, I like to think they would forgive me for playing with their lives if they did.

Sheila Claydon's books can be found at Books We Love and Amazon . She also has a website and can be found on facebook