So, it’s the newness of some new challenge wherein lies the magic but, when you’re 60, what else is there to do that could generate that same frisson?  Bungee-jumping?  Climbing Mount Everest?  I think not.  Then Teresa told me that she was starting piano lessons with our mutual friend, Barney, a professional musician and songwriter (Barbara Dickson, Cliff Richard etc).  Ping.  I was in the process of being mugged.

I’ve always loved music but have never been able to play a musical instrument.  Ping.  Why not?  To cut a long story short, I had my first lesson yesterday and have to say that I enjoyed every new magical moment.  It’s like starting to glimpse behind a curtain that hides an entire new world of discovery.  I know that it’ll take a hell of a lot of effort before I can even bash out Chopsticks or Für Elise but I feel the same excitement that I have when embarking on any new exploit.

Barney teaches in a non-academic way; he’s basically a guitarist.  It’s all about chords, fingering and getting ther brain used to the left and right hands doing different things at the same time.  Later comes the sheet music but he’s a believer in working it out mechanically and visually, then doing it blind, that is, not looking at the keys and doing it by sound alone.  It works.  However, practise is necessary so I’ve ordered a Yamaha Clavinova which arrives on Monday.  I can struggle away getting the right digit on the right key whilst imagining I’m playing the Waldstein piano sonata in Carnegie Hall.  Then I can drive myself mad by bashing away and listening to the musical desecration via headphones.  This way lies madness, methinks.

But I’m planning to enjoy every magical moment of it.

I am keen, however, that FID, being a very current novel ‘of this moment’ should not pass its sell-by date.  If the Iranians block the Straits of Hormuz, I don’t think it’ll affect the plot, but if the Israelis launch a nuclear attack on Iran, it would.  I recall hearing West-End impressario Cameron Mackintosh talking about the end of the cold war.  It coincided with his east-west cold war musical ‘Chess’ and he was shit-scared that world events would affect its success.  They did, of course.  Please don’t let this happen to Flight Into Darkness!

I don’t think it’ll happen but am aware that getting a novel into print is a long-term process.  After the year it takes to refine to a point where an agent picks it up, we then have to go through the process of revising it in the light of his market feedback.  Ok, this has been done.  Now, when…or if…it gets picked up by a publisher, the process starts apparently all over again until they have a book that they think the market will go for.  Then they have to do the advance marketing and plan a launch.  This may be a muted affair for an unpublished writer and the priority may be low for them.  When they can make a million by publishing the life story of some wannabe Sun celeb with big tits or some inarticulate moron who can kick a football, why take the risk with a book that might get their HQ bombed?

Celeste did a bacalhau dish last might.  Very Portuguese.  Bacalhau is a staple of the Portuguese dinner table.  It’s salted cod that can be stored forever and comes from a time before the fridge.  For Portugal that was probably about twenty years ago.  Anyway, you buy it in great salty slabs from the fishmonger who slices it up with a guillotine, as if he was chopping wood.  You then soak it for two days to get rid of the salt, although this never seems to be entirely successful.  The result, regardless how it’s cooked, is tough and salty and tastes a bit like soggy Bombay Duck (Indian dried fish).  Actually, not that palatable and bearing little resemblance to the moist, succulent cod that we are used to in England.  The funny thing is that this Portuguese staple actually all comes from Norway, from the Lofoten islands, as cod is not caught here any more.  I’d love to taste fresh cod again.  Oh, for an English chippie!

So, with the novel it’s hurry up and wait.  I think I’ll go off to a pastelaria and have some coffee and Portuguese yummies.  Not bacalhau, though.

Now that northern Europe is in the grip of a cold spell, you might get some satisfaction to know that it is cold here as well.  Ten degrees yesterday and no central heating.  Reminds me of when I was a kid!  I see that UK has had about 10cm of snow and has ground to a halt.  That makes me smile because in Germany, that would barely be noticed.  In Cologne, you can get 30 cm and life goes on.  Now, Cologne is not deepest Germany, it’s a spit away from Belgium, Netherlands and France but gets continental weather.  Still, it doesn’t snow every year.  I remember four consecutive years with no significant snow.

Celeste now has seventeen layers of clothes on and is still complaining.  Time for some hot soup.  Or a tumbler of whisky to celebrate!

The beta readers have almost finished their review of Flight Into Darkness.  I’m grateful for their devotion but am aware that this kind of proof-read has its limitations because it’s impossible to be objective about a novel.  Some like it, some don’t and my experience with beta readers is that they usually tell me what I want to hear whereas what I really want is to hear about what’s bad.   I’m no better.  I can recall the number of manuscripts that I’ve sent out, thinking they were word-perect, only to find out that my understanding of the rules of English grammar was not as good as I had thought.  Well, it’s 45 years since I did them at school.  Give a guy a break!

Before I get the MSs back I have time to waste.  One of the things I have always done is to go to the gym.  Most people would hate it, but it keeps me fit and makes me feel young(er) at heart.  Plus, you get the added benefits of endorphins, nature’s little drug that simply makes you feel good about yourself.  And it’s free.  Personally, I find it rather addictive.  You might think it strange for a retired person to be mixing it with the meat-heads but I’ve always done it and am a creature of habit.  I remember when I was about 35 working out in a gym in a hotel in Cairo when this young Egyptian of about 20 told me that he thought it was good for a person of my age to still be doing weights!   When I was 30 I thought I’d stop at 40 and grow old gracefully.  When that birthday came round, I thought I’d see if I could make 50.  Then I thought, why not try 60?  Now, I’m on the wrong side of that and think I’ll try for 70 and grow old disgracefully.  It’s a strange thing, but most men start to fall apart at 35 but I’ve always felt that we have been tricked by our brains into thinking that our bodies were made for sitting in offices, punching keyboards.  Actually, we still have the bodies of hunter/gatherers and, well, use it or lose it.  So, my overall philosophy is not to give up.  Be as good as you can be until you fall off your perch. 

I wonder whether those cherry trees bloom so wonderfully thinking that it’ll be their last chance.  If they could hear me I’d tell them not to give up.  Next year may not be as good as this year but it’ll still be next year.  Never give up.

The break from writing was actually very good for me because I was able to tackle it with a fresh mind, although the basic storyline is the same.  In addition, being retired, it’s easy to devote 5 or 6 hours a day to writing, something that I could only do at the weekends when I was working.    Consequently, it has taken far less time than I had expected; from beginning to end  took only two weeks.  I confess I had a writer’s block (or failure of enthuisiasm) before Christmas but with the new year came new inspiration and new ideas.

The main task was eliminating the hero’s girlfriend and replacing her with his female boss, a German Tornado pilot (yes, really), add some sexy sparks and away we go.  Of course, a book is never finished.  Every time I read it, I change something and will never be entirely happy with it.  Now it has to be left to simmer and be inwardly digested, then regurgitated to a couple of beta readers to test the recipe.  Then it’s off to Peter Buckman (Ampersand Agency)  for him to sell the cake.  Hope it doesn’t poison anyone.  My mum and dad (to whom the book is dedicated) will never read it, of course, because they don’t like the F word.  If one of my characters would use it, then I use it.  Basically, when you know your characters well, they write their dialogue themselves.  My fingers just do as they are told and I don’t have much say in the matter.  If you write, you’ll know what I mean.

I always know when I’m completely engaged in a book; it’s when I wake up at three in the morning with a new idea and have to get it down, like recording a dream.  Whilst that’s fine and dandy, I’m now looking forward to some decent nights sleep!  Something strange I have noticed is that I barely needed to touch the original writing for the bad guys.  Must say something about me, although everyone knows that the dragon is always more interesting than the white knight and damsel.  Yawn.

I’m still a little concerned that Peter wanted the hero to be more proactive.  The problem is that I did not intend him to be a proactive character, more Ewan McGregor than Daniel Craig.  As the story moves on, he develops and, by the end, is in control, and I rather like that personal growth.

Now, I can sit back and imagine the Hollywood blockbuster starring Ewan McGregor and Uma Thurman.  I want Jurgen Prochnow as the evil baddy but he’s too old now at 71.  Maybe there’s a younger version of him; someone ugly, tough and complex.  I’ll let you know how the premiere went…..

OK, I said some rather immoderate things about Christmas and the whole midwinter festival thing but, now that it’s finally over, I have to confess that it has actually been rather enjoyable.  We went swimming at Pintadinho beach on Christmas day and this morning, New Year’s Day, which seems to be an Algarve ritual.  It was fresh, I have to say, but the sun was beaming from a cloudless sky; made me feel quite worthy and, as a bonus, it’s a great hangover cure.  We went out to too many restaurants with friends; some English, some Dutch, Romanian, American, Canadian….very cosmopolitan and great fun.  Amazingly, amongst this small group are two writers, both who have been published (one writes non-fiction), and that makes me the odd man out.  So far….. watch this space!

Have a great new year, one and all!

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My anger at British intransigence and selfish arrogance has been brought to the boil over the next EU treaty which UK will not be party to.  Of all the EU member states, UK will not be part of it.  And they’re touting it as a kind of triumph.  The arrogance beggars belief.  This is a time when the world’s capitalist economies need to work together to sort out the mess that the bankers have created for us.  Economies are in recession, people are unemployed and any small world event, maybe in the Middle East, could push the world into a new depression.  So, while 26 EU member states decide to work together, the UK has decided that it knows better.  On its own.  If anyone needed evidence of just how much David Cameron is in the pockets of the bankers, they need look no further.  

My old friend and former colleague Naomi Gluckstein, has blogged about it as well; see http://naomismag.livejournal.com/ .  We are both Europeans, having worked for various European institutions, and live outside the UK.  We try to be Europeans and find ourselves ashamed to admit to being British.  She says:

Good.  That’s out of the way.  Now to today’s rant.  I hate Christmas.  I always have because I think it is a time for children and without them it’s just an excuse for a festival of excess; spend too much money, eat too much, drink too much, try to feel jolly and be forced to have a good time.  Ho ho ho.  Actually, I’m not averse to having a good time, it’s just that when the event is fixed on the calendar, I feel that some of the spontantaity is lost.  And what is it with all these bloody presents?  I don´t want anything – well, except maybe Season Three of Lark Rise to Candleford and I can order that myself from Amazon.

Joy to the world!  Peace and goodwill to all men.  Nice idea but the world is just as bad after Christmas as before it and just gets worse.  The whole of Christmas is fuelled by ritual and an unholy commercialism that sticks in my throat.  I heave a heavy sigh when I see the first Christmas decorations go up in the shops.  October, I think it was, and I’ve been in a seasonal depression ever since.  I should put up a few decorations myself but can never be bothered.  Maybe a token bit of tinsel and a sprig of mistletoe.  A mince pie or two.  Oh, bugger it.  What’s the point?  You only have to take them down again and more than two mince pies makes me sick.

As everyone knows, Christmas was invented by Charles Dickens, Coca-Cola and Bing Crosby.  Before Dickens, Christmas was a midwinter festival, the original Roman Saturnalia which had been cleverly hijacked by the early Christians.  Father Christmas was originally the German Weihnachtsmann and was green; I think Prince Albert invited him to England and introduced him the Dickens, thus was born A Christmas Carol.  Coca-Cola, of course, invented the red-cloaked Father Christmas who comes down chimneys.  For God’s sake, where did they get that ludicrous idea from?  I won’t go into the physical problems or the impossibility of visiting every good child in the world in a few hours.  At least children learn about making others believe that they believe all that crap because they get presents by doing so.  That’s a useful life lesson, I suppose; accept such a blatant untruth in the interests of personal gain.   He comes in a bloody flying sleigh as well…dragged along by suicidal reindeer, one with a red nose.  No wings.  It´s a good job no one gets to capture the real Santa because he would probably be sectioned and put in the loony bin. 

And where did the idea of cutting down a perfectly healthy tree, dragging it into the house and watching it die come from?  Another German ritual brought to England by Prince Albert (or Albrecht; his real name).  I suppose Queen Victoria might have been amused but then she didn’t have to clean up the needles.   Bing Crosby is responsible for the rest, that sugary confection of chestnuts roasting on an open fire and all that shit.  But I guess it all helps to sell stuff and that’s what it’s all about.

The only bright glimer is the chance to listen again to some great Christmas music.  The nativity parts of Handel´s Messiah are wonderful but, for me, the best is Bach´s Christmas oratorio, a collection of four seasonal oratorios that say more than all the jingle bells and winter wonderlands.

In Catholic Portugal, Christmas is not a great thing; the modern Christmas is a northern European invention – back to the midwinter festival, but there’s no midwinter here; the bougainvilleas are still in bloom, we never get frost, let alone snow.  As I write, it’s 20 degrees outside and sunny.  Nevertheless, we will still put up the wreath on the door daring the elements with ‘Let it snow!’ 

Then there’s that dreadful dead period between Christmas and new year.  I hate that as well.  What is there to do except watch repeats on the telly, watching other people having a good time, and getting pissed.  Well, there are other alternatives.  Writing for one; I’ll be doing the rewrite of Flight Into Darkness after a long furlough.  Should keep me off the wine for a while, at least. 

Then bloody New Year.  Invented by the Scots as an excuse to drink more whisky.  Say no more.  Normally, there is a 15 minute firwork display from Portimão but this year local government austerity has reduced it to one minute.  True.  Don’t blink. 

Sigh.  I wish I could take a hibernation pill that sends me to sleep on the 24th December and lets me wake up on the 1st of January.  Now, that would be a nice Christmas present.