What's in a name?

As you all know we've been on our holidays. So this morning I've come back to work to face a mountain of emails. I appear to have had a large number from people I don't know, all offering me little blue pills or a way to 'lengthen your man rod'. I'm pleased to say that I don't need either.

However, one benefit of all this is that I now have a wonderful store of names. I can never think of names for my characters when I write so I am always looking for new places to find them. And here they are. For anyone else who has difficulty naming their characters feel free to help yourselves from the list who 'wrote' to me while I was away!

Dorothea Burch
Terrell Wilder
Glenda Stevenson
Joyce Eaton
Herscel Brandt
Charlene Mooney
Jan Ritchie
Henry McCallion
Toby Covington
Art Hester
Darryl Anaya
Clark Christian
Errol Hahn
Darwin Woodward
Leslie Hartman
Ashley Keat
Tricia Cohen
Danny Terrell
Norris Stroud
Faith Lacey
Josef Nunez
Caroline Smart
Eric Eden

Back from our holidays

HASTINGS - an ode

We went on vacation to ‘Astings
And stayed at the top of the cliff
Ate seafood and saw lots of places,
And walked till our knees had gone stiff.

The journey down South was a long one
And seemed like a heck of a way
With a stop-off at Tunbridge for sarnies
It really took most of the day.

The town was once famous for water.
Kal-ee-bee-at Spring it was called.
They reckoned its power could cure ‘owt
And even stop men going bald!

The cottage was clean and quite pretty
With a wonderful view of the sea
The edge of the cliff’s in the garden.
As close as you’d want it to be.

In Hastings they have lots of cafés
With plenty of shopping at hand
But remember to take lots of money
Cos the use of bank plastic is banned.

The fishing fleet works off the beach front
And offers fresh shellfish for sale
Cos they go out each morning to fetch it
Except when it’s blowing a gale.

They store all their gear in tall net huts
That stand on the sand by the quay.
Unique – but they’re having to move some
Cos that’s where the gallery will be.

Hastings  is one of the Cinque Ports,
They say it so it sounds like ‘sink’
But there isn’t a danger of sinking.
It’s to do with the Normans, I think.



The old town of Rye is real ancient
With cobbles in every street.
They make it all look quite attractive
But they’re terribly hard on the feet!

The towns are all full of French students
Who can’t understand what you say
But they all get the message quite quickly
When you tell them to ‘Get out the way’.

At Brighton, Prince George was a peacock
He built a fun palace right there
Where he took all his mates for big parties
And sometimes a breath of sea air.



A wonderful place is the palace
Reminds you of China a lot
On account of the bamboo and dragons
And turnip-shaped domes that it’s got.

Victoria (Queen) didn’t like it
And sold it as soon as she could.
She couldn’t see sea from her bedroom
So she reckoned it wasn’t much good.

We spent the week walking on beaches
And staring out over the bay
We had a great time down in Hastings
We really must go back some day.






Just a few of my photos from the holidays. And a quick ode - with apologies to Marriott Edgar

When in Rome

We are on holiday this week. Sadly, not in Rome. Although the ultimate subject of this little essay will be featured during the week!  Apologies if I don't get to anyone's blog to comment this week. These posts have been set up in advance.  

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There was only one thing on my ‘absolute musts’ list when I went to Rome and I was determined not to go home without experiencing it. I was fitting in the Eternal City around commitments on a business trip and it was hard to make time for the glories that I knew to be around me. As a first timer in the city I had researched as much as I could before setting off so that I would not waste a minute. I had a notebook full of ideas but only one thing had a big red star by it. 

It would have been impossible to see everything in just a few days anyway, during snatched hours between report writing and emailing my office, but I managed to find a few of Rome’s gems.  In The Pantheon, with its miraculous concrete dome that demonstrates the building skills of the ancients who established the city, I sat on a wooden seat and craned my head back to see a tiny hole so far above me. The roof sweeps upwards in a glorious curve, ending in a circular gap where the light passes in a bright column to the floor. The dome forms a perfect half sphere and I was so delighted by its geometry that I forgot myself and sat transfixed for quite a while. I had to keep rubbing my neck after I left because it hurt to look around at ground level.

I encountered the towering Trajan’s column with its carved details of the emperor’s war victories as I wandered near the Forum, deciding whether to spend time among the ruined market area or to continue my exploration of the Baroque city. I opted for the latter.

Rome has fountains, hundreds of fountains, and many are world famous. The largest is the Trevi, which even starred in movies and had a song named after it. The sculpture from which the water flows is probably beautiful, but the throng of tourists who gathered there made it impossible to tell. Traditionally, if you want to ensure that you will return to Rome you should throw a coin into this fountain and it is said you are bound to come back.

The elegant beauty of St Peter’s Square brought me close to tears with its sweeping colonnade, patterned paving and the imposing buildings of the Vatican. The Basilica itself is huge and ornate and slightly confusing, as if several churches have been thrown together.   With other visitors I stood, pilgrim-like, before the Pieta, the wonderful sculpture of the Madonna weeping over the crucified body of her Son, in awe of the artist who created it, but ashamed that it now stands behind bullet-proof glass to protect it from vandals.

A restful stop along the way for a cool beer was chance to watch, while the well-dressed residents strolled by, or rode past on their ubiquitous little motor scooters. They ride, perfectly poised, with never a hair out of place. One woman rode pillion; side-saddle so she would not crease her immaculate skirt. On her lap was a small basket, from which peered a tiny dog, its hair tied up in an elegant ribbon bow.

The Colosseum has a Metro station right next to it, and I felt slightly off balance when I emerged from the dark tunnel and saw it ahead. It has such a familiar outline that it is somehow unreal when it is right in front of you. It is as if it should not actually exist except as a concept of Romanness.

Still I searched for what I believed to be the one essential thing in a trip to Rome, but it was not until my last night when I was lost in rambling, twisting streets that I spotted my goal. There it was, a small, hand-written sign, fixed to a batten on a crumbling brick wall. In front of it were two flimsy tables covered in red and white checked cloths. The paper was pinned up with a rusty thumb tack and many people would have passed it by without a second thought, but I knew I had found my holy grail. A broad smile spread across my face as I read: spaghetti vongole.  I took a seat and enjoyed the best of Rome.