Lesson 1

Doncha just hate those books about people writing books written by people who write books? Books where all the characters become so enmeshed in analysing the nuances of their own febrile personalities that nobody ever actually gets around to doing anything at all, let alone acquiring a life?

The writer hones the subtleties of his own emotions in book after book, each fatter (500 pages of the agonies of a Cambridge Academic discovering someone else has simultaneously published a similar book, with a subplot about Proust) or, more mercifully, thinner (100 pages on whether a sensitive young playwright living in Fulham should have gone to bed with a girl who plays the harp).

At this point, the author has refined his characters’ interior angst to the point where his books can only really be appreciated by people with similar cultural backgrounds and those living in specific London postcodes. Fortunately for him, this is where literary critics and Booker Prize judges also live. Indeed, they go to the same parties as the author, and even appear in his books as finely nuanced but (to the consignetti) recognisable minor characters. They, of course, think they are normal, and so they rave about the writer’s shrewd observation of ordinary life.

His editor, meanwhile, has long since despaired of managing to edit, or even to read, the latest piece of effete naval-gazing, so just publishes, regardless of length and turgidity.

Which is of course how the author manages to get away with it.

And, and the end of all that, here I am, a person writing a blog about writing a blog. Sorry.

In my defence, this is not really my fault. Left to myself, I would not blog. I’m not sure I consider it a Nice Habit – a sort of verbal onanism (means ‘masturbation’ but sounds less smutty – look it up if you don’t believe me). But I am doing evening classes in feature writing, and this is homework. My homework, not yours. So whilst I have to write this stuff, you are under no obligation to read it. I should stop here if I were you. I’ll understand.

Still there? Well, that is kind. I don’t really know what you’re expecting, but I’ll do my best for you.

Our first feature writing lesson focussed on magazines. There are, we learnt, many types of magazine feature, the most common in terms of sheer volume being the Reader’s True Story, of the ‘I married my son’s gay lover’ variety. These are easily my favourite. I read them mainly in doctors’ waiting rooms.

My own doctor is great on magazines. He always runs at least 20 minutes late, even for the first appointment of the day, which you must admit takes talent. I, meanwhile, never remember this, and always bowl up a considerate five minutes before time, allowing 25 glorious minutes minimum to skim the Chats, the Gossips and even, if he’s having a really bad day, the Interiors magazines. I enjoy myself so much that by the time I’m called I’ve generally forgotten what was wrong with me and why I wanted to see him.

My dentist is much less fun. She’s a better timekeeper for a start, and has much duller taste in magazines, running mainly to ‘Country Life’ and ‘The Beano’, neither of which really hit the spot.

Hospital waiting rooms are a bit of a random punt. The main Outpatients is usually fairly promising, if well-thumbed, being strong on mainstream women’s monthlies (sounds rather gynological – sorry) with a nice line in Saga if you’re into that sort of thing. But, working on the Disneyland principle of hiding most of the queue round a corner so it looks shorter, you are siphoned off after half an hour to a smaller waiting room packed with people who have clearly slept in their coats, equipped only with a plastic box full of tattered Richard Scarry books and a copy of Osteoarthritis Today. We are talking NHS of course. In the Nuffield, for all I know, ante rooms come complete with pristine copies of next month’s Vogue, the free sachet of facial serum still gummed to the very page.

In the hairdressers, I mainly read celebrity interviews, and the fashion pages. This is because hairdressers themselves can see what you’re reading over your shoulder as they work, and I don’t want to be caught revelling in ‘My three stone weight loss was Triplets!’ or ‘Twenty ways to please Your Man in Bed’ (none of which, incidentally, is Me not Snoring - My Man’s bedtime pleasure of choice). Hairdressing salons are not, anyway, ideal places to read in, unless you can do it comfortably with your chin pointing at the ceiling and someone squirting warm water in your ear. I read at the hairdressers purely to avoid having to discuss the paucity of my personal life and reveal that no, I am not doing anything special tonight, or at the weekend, or indeed probably ever.

Let’s face it - I’m not my own best target audience. I don’t actually buy magazines: I just read other people’s. And I don’t read blogs, but I suspect that if I did I wouldn’t bother with this one.

What we need here, of course, is something to liven things up. Like my own Reader’s True Story. There, I knew that would grab your attention. There is nothing more satisfying than reading about the Triumph over Tragedy of some total moron who has spectacularly screwed up her life by having her stomach stapled to her nipples or by marrying her best friend’s dog. It gives you the wonderfully superior feeling that your own life is actually quite sane and under control.

But the fact is, if I had married my best friend’s dog (and I’m not saying that I haven’t, mind), I don’t think I’d blog to you about it here.

It’s not because I’m ashamed of the relationship: I’m not. Spot is a deeply caring, sensitive individual and I am proud to be his bitch, in every sense of the word. I can understand that some people may think it’s a bit weird, but the fact is I have finally found my One True Love – after all the years of searching, there he was on the end of the lead all the time!

But, and this is the important bit, I am a professional woman, a respected member of Neighbourhood Watch, winner of Third Prize for Potatoes (sub-category: Whites) at this year’s horticultural show and, even more importantly, a Mother. How can my sons face their school friends with whole world knowing that their step-father (though not their real father - our Union has not yet been Blessed) is a Pedigree Irish Setter? How can I ask them to live with that level of public humiliation? It’s bad enough having to take along a poop scoop bag to Parents’ Evenings.

What price my children’s self-respect? From their own point of view, I suspect, not a lot. My youngest would currently sell his very soul for a Nano Ipod. The elder would probably hold out for a Bugatti Veyron and an autographed photo of The Stig. But they are mere children. They don’t have the foresight to realise that when they are both Prime Minister (taking it in turns, obviously, I’m not daft) they may feel they have sold their paternity short. I am an adult. I know how the world works. I’m talking seven figures – no make that eight. But for that you get 10 pages of pictures including the D-list celeb wedding and bedroom scenes, plus an interview with Katie Price.

No, wait, I could probably do better. I need an agent. Did you know that there are a whole lot of Press Agencies dedicated to selling your Reader’s True Story to the highest bidder? Max Clifford is, it seems, just the tip of the iceberg. Go on, take a look.

Tempting, isn’t it? But of course there’s a catch. The stories have to be true, and I bet they have ways of checking. Once the truth gets out that Spot is not but a dog but a 46 year old Computer Programmer from Cardiff, my literary reputation will be in ruins. And if I do eventually manage to give birth to puppies, nobody’s ever going to believe me.

So, assuming the Reader’s True Story is out, what are we going to talk about. Probably best to start somewhere safe, if dull, like the general/special interest feature.

Here is a list of things I think I could write about, with a bit of research (which sounds scarily like hard work, but I guess that’s a professional hazard):

*Working from home (use Bev, me, Julian etc)
Nick Drake Gathering
School appeals
*Museums with good stuffed animals
Zoos? Interview Dudley
Hens – care and maintenance
Sikh temple – modern cathedral alternatives in multi-cultural Britain
Staying in a convent
Bulemia?
Murals – Jenny, Sezincourt, Ragley
*Distressing – how to give it up.
Smoking – review of cures
*Houseparties – teenagers (Sian etc)
Toby’s driving school experience
Popularity of cycling
Isle of Findhorn (travel feature)
*National Garden Scheme – extraordinary gardens
Felix Dennis interview
*Shakespeare effect – stratford
*Indian running ducks
Guide dog boarding – temporary animals
Schools making money (uniforms, funds, advertising etc)
*Ways to be buried/cremated.
*National X day – different days of the year
Signing on the dole
12 days of Christmas – where did the song come from?
*The Themed Christmas – Germany/France/US/Australia
*Christmas present ideas??

What do you think? I suppose the big question for me is ‘Would I bother to read any of these?’ – answer ‘No’ – but that’s because I already know about it.

I have starred (*) those subjects about which I don’t feel I could easily avoid being humorous – though the fact it, most of them do seem to me to lend themselves to potential humour (the Sikh temple might be pushing it but – oh, I don’t know….)

I do feel a genuine secret lurking desire to write for ‘Practical Yachting’ despite knowing nothing about yachting and not being very practical. I’m afraid it’s the pictures – all those big white phallic hulls against sparkling blue skies, all that chrome and harbourside chic….

Oh dear, I’m not sure Ill ever get the hang of this.