RIDING AN ELEPHANT WITH PIERCE AND EMMA 

Well, this summer has been most eventful. I’ve spent several weeks in an Indian jail, where I’ve had the inevitable shits and been beaten up with a bag of oranges by a huge gang leader bully. I am currently staying in the swankiest possible five star hotel in Pune, surrounded by unimaginable luxury. But this is not to last; shortly I will be setting off on a long and uncomfortable train ride to the middle of nowhere, where the journey will be continue by elephant, (although my supervisor is not sure about the elephant bit), and God knows what misfortunes will befall us on the way. Armed poachers? Monsoon floods? Tiger attack? A stampede of rogue elephants?

And all the while, I am travelling with Emma Thompson and Pierce Brosnan. Yes! They are charming company and I am really glad I cast them in the roles of my two main protagonists. They spark off against each other quite wittily. The chemistry is ‘there’ as they say. Although this time, they are not playing a divorced couple, only an estranged couple. Emma and Pierce do not know yet that they are playing the lead roles in the film version of my book, (called The Elephant Trail, if you’re remotely interested), but I am sure they will be delighted to take it on….

 … this is the point where I have to stop daydreaming and carry on with my dissertation. Silly woman! Seriously though, casting actors in your head this way is brilliant. ‘Such fun’, as Miranda’s Mum would say. Try it. It really helps you visualise your characters and brings it all alive. It’s a technique that Robert McKee advises screenwriters to use, but it works for any kind of storytelling. As the Great Guru says, stories are a metaphor for life, and characters are a metaphor for people. If you use an actor rather than a real person it will be more likely to resonate and stimulate.  

For those of you who don’t know, I am currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Kingston University, with a view to moving from children’s writing to writing for an older audience. I have reached the 25,000 words mark now and I’m wondering when and where to stop. Do I get on the train and go off into the blue yonder with Ems and Pi? Do I do a bit more research for the next bit of the story? Have already read loads of books and the internet has had a proper bashing, with pages of links for the bibliography. Sadly the trip to India is not an option, although I have travelled a bit there and can dredge up some memories. Or do I go back now and make all those changes and revisions that have occurred to me along the way, or been suggested by my fellow students and my supervisor?

At some point, all of us will have to select the 15,000 words chunk that will be our dissertation, under the guidance of our supervisors, and start refining it. Under normal circumstances, all of us would be thundering along to the end of our narrative, without even stopping for petrol, to complete a first draft, before going back to revise, rewrite and edit. Some of us may even have got right to the end. I certainly haven’t.

Either way, it’s been a fun ride so far. I wish all my fellow students at Kingston, an extremely talented bunch, the best of luck. And elephants are lucky, so I hope my luck stays with me too. 

BIO

Lucy Raby has earned her living as a writer for 25 years, (as Lucy Daniel Raby) with a background in children’s TV, a few books, and a couple of plays which have been performed. She is studying for the Creative Writing MA at Kingston University and is planning to move into writing for older readers.

Website; www.lucydanielraby.co.uk

I visited what was left of the ‘Jungle’ refugee camp in Calais on Tuesday Nov 1^st with friend Mitch, who has been making regular visits over the last year and a half with various volunteer groups. I accompanied him and others for a working weekend last May, when the camp was still in full swing. The difference was starkly depressing.

The entire site, once a huddled city of makeshift tens and shelters, a place of both hope and despair with a huge community spirit, was now an empty and desolate wasteland, dotted with piles of burnt wood and the remains of shelters, still blowing gusts of acrid smoke in the wintry air. Bulldozers rampaged over the area, clearing the rubble.

Calais town was eerily quiet, but we sensed unseen presences behind closed doors.  Although the camp has been evacuated and demolished, thousands of inhabitants bussed off to other parts of France, where they are probably not welcomed by right wing mayors, there are still refugees scattered all over the area. Many of them were unable to register because of the chaos and inefficiency of the registration system. Some have fled into the woods to set up makeshift camps and live rough. Some have gone into hiding with kind French people, (yes there are some in Calais) until they can sort themselves out. One Frenchwoman took in an Afghan family with young children. They were taken back to the camp and she was arrested and interrogated for four hours, and told she couldn’t offer shelter. Some are staying in the Salaam refuge, a Moslem centre which will take anyone from any religion. Some have been staying in a Catholic refuge centre. And many have gravitated to Paris, where they have been camping out in the open and treated brutally by French riot police.

All that was left of the camp itself was a collection of what I all the ‘Container Kids.’ 1500 unaccompanied minors who had been left behind after the main evacuation last week, to be temporarily sheltered in the containers at the edge of the camp. There was no running water or electricity and no provision to feed or care for them, so they have been relying on food brought to them by the charity organisations. During that last week, 200 of them were unable to get into the containers and were forced to sleep in the open, leaving them exposed and vulnerable to people traffickers.

Before going to the containers, we visited the Warehouse, the Auberge de Migrants, run by the main volunteer group Help Refugees. Despite the fact that the camp has been cleared, the warehouse is still alive with activity. Volunteers are working round the clock, sorting donations to be taken to refugee camps in Greece, Turkey and Syria, where they are now actively operating. At that point they were also busy preparing food for the container kids and taking it to them. We talked for awhile with some of the volunteers and heard some horrific stories about police brutality to the young refugees. We heard about arms being broken, police going into containers and pepper spraying young boys, a boy hit by a rubber bullet who has been in hospital and will probably never be the same again.  

The CRS, the French riot police, are pretty monstrous. As described in the previous blog entry, they look like the Storm troopers from Star Wars except in black, with big shoulder and knee pads. They frequently use water cannons, tear gas and rubber bullets during protests and riots. These people are being treated like animals, they are angry, confused and frightened, and I think that anyone would lose the plot in that situation. It has been exacerbated by fascist thugs going into the camp to attack refugees, and violent people traffickers attacking lorries. 

The riot police were already gathering in force when we arrived at what was left of the camp. At around 2.00 in the afternoon, a phalanx of about 20 riot police vehicles swooped down the side road leading to the containers, blue lights flashing, and parked up.
Smirking police officers stood around, flexing for a fight.


At that point the area around the container camp seemed relatively calm. They were just a bunch of teenagers, larking about, riding donated bikes, playing football in a nearby field, groups of giggling teenage girls exchanging catcalls with the boys. There was mix of all ages and both sexes, contrary to popular perceptions. Many were as young as 8, but most were aged between 15 and 17. (Think about it - 8 year old kids on their own, no parents, no support.) There were several groups of white European volunteers dishing out food from makeshift soup kitchens. The kids were cheerful and friendly and I was amazed at their resilience and courage. There are Afghans, Syrians, Eritreans, Somalis, many different national groups, but most of them orphans whose parents have been killed in the conflicts they have fled from. Fights do break out among them, because resources are scarce and they are all fighting for survival. They are lonely, frightened and confused.

Most of them want to come to the UK because they have family here and they speak English. They don’t want to stay in a country alone where they don’t speak the language. We forget that English is the main language of the world because we had a big empire spanning the globe. Talk about own goal.

Many people also don’t realize that there are 15 conflicts going on around Africa and the Middle East. It’s not just about Syria. Last May I talked to many young boys and men and heard their stories. All of them heartbreaking, about families torn apart, young people forced to flee to apparent safety from conflict and persecution.

And here’s another reminder – only 4% of ALL refugees are trying to get to Britain. The rest are heading elsewhere. Yet the tabloid press seem to create the impression that all of them want to come only here.

We left at around 5pm to catch the ferry home and later learnt that another riot had broken out after we left. Apparently the youngsters were protesting about their inhumane treatment and not knowing what was to happen to them. The French riot police responded with their usual brutality.

The next day at 8am, on Wednesday 2^nd November, coaches arrived to transport them to unknown destinations around France, where they await to hear about their fate, and whether they will be allowed to join their families here in the UK.

And that’s it – the end of the jungle. It’s gone. A sad end to a sad story, which will be continuing elsewhere. It’s not over yet.  

I can’t stop thinking about these kids. What will happen to them? Anyone who is a parent and knows the truth about what’s going on can’t fail to be concerned. No doubt the government will take a token few of them for appearances sake, to gain some bogus humanitarian credentials.

Most importantly, what has happened to our humanity? How can we turn our backs on people who are running away from terrible situations that our governments here in the West have helped create, with our arms dealing and foreign policy interference?

This is the biggest story of the century, the last test of humankind. As Angelina Jolie points out, this problem is not going to go away, and if we keep ignoring it and thinking it is not our problem, it is going to get worse and impact on us all.

Needless to say, the tabloid press have been doing their best to undermine public sympathy for these people. With de-humanising language like ‘hordes’ and ‘swathes’ and ‘migrants’ instead of refugees, which in my mind they all are. And of course, big emphasis on the fact that some of those newly arrived in the UK are older than 18, despite the fact that they have probably been refugees since before they were 18. Does being over 18 suddenly make people sub-human? This is typical tabloid sleight of hand, a distraction technique designed to brainwash the gullible public into dismissing these people as undeserving of compassion.

One paper has been giving balanced coverage of the refugee crisis and I attach the links below. Do please read if you have time. And spread the word if you feel inclined. The more people understand about this situation the better we can find a solution.

Wednesday 2^nd Nov

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/02/calais-refugee-children-evacuated-as-camp-clearance-winds-up

Tuesday 1^st Nov

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/01/calais-camp-hit-riots-refugees-teenagers

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/nov/01/calais-camps-child-refugees-leave-wednesday-plan-bus-childrens-homes-france-application-uk

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/nov/01/calais-camp-children-refugees

Sat 29^th October

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/29/calais-camp-charities-attack-uk-and-france-over-unaccompanied-children

Friday 28^th October

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/28/calais-french-british-officials-passing-buck-end

Thursday 27^th October

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/27/theresa-may-policies-calais-rough-sleeping-children-camp-refugees-tories

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2016/oct/29/kindertransport-heros-daughter-urges-uk-to-welcome-calais-refugees

PEACE TO ALL 

Positive thinking is the way forward!

Forward thinking is the way forward!

And Glucosamine Sulphate is the way backwards. I met a neighbour on the train the other day who told me that if you take it regularly for about two million years, it replaces knee cartilage, turns back the clock to when you were able to do girl power kicks, play badminton without looking like a demented ballet dancer, ride horses and ski down red and black runs. That was the sort of thing I used to do, when Izzy was young. When I was younger. Now a flight of stairs is a major challenge. Could glucosamine sulphate be the Knee Fairy in disguise? I am off to Holland and Barrett tomorrow.

The knees are getting better, thanks for asking, getting used to this new active student life. Sometimes I can hear them singing ‘I will Survive’ very faintly. 

 Last week we went to see Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Noel Coward, with David Walliams as Bottom and Sheridan Smith as Tit. Fab production, very pagan-hippie, (as if the play wasn’t pagan enough already), all the fairies styled as festival goers from the 70s, crustie dreads, the lot. In the last production I saw the fairies were punks with shaved heads and Doc Martens. How times change. And OMG, why did I not notice that whole bestiality thing before? I must be really thick. Oberon had a West country accent, which seemed to change to an Irish one when he doubled as the Duke of Athens. The sets were superb, a massive moon against which David Walliams’s ass ears were silhouetted to great effect. He camped it up to the hilt, played it bi-sexual. Towards the end he lapsed into the Scottish hotelier in Little Britain mode. David Walliams was being David Walliams.  

I love Shakespeare. Who doesn’t? If you want to see this production, hurry before it closes on October 16th

 I got to walk across the fields at the back of my house the other day, after a 15 year gap, or is it 13 years? It was a beautiful Sunday evening with the sunlight slanting in that Autumnal way across the empty fields and the ring of trees all around us.  The farmyard is deserted now, not a cattle grid in sight and looking very forlorn. Unless our farmer friends get the tenancy soon, these beautiful fields, that I look out at from my bathroom window, will go to pot, full of thistles and weeds. That scrubby ‘set-aside’ look. 

 Izzy obligingly accompanied me and all the old memories came back.

 So Izzy and I recalled silly antics we did when she was a child and she went along with it, indulging her Mum. But then she had to get back to drive back home to Twickenham. Home. Her new home.

 I was going through the shoe baskets the other day and realised it was much emptier than it used to be. She and Dan have left home properly now. The shoes have gone with them. I do miss them. Them, not the shoes. Offspring do have to fly the nest eventually. And the birds do keep coming home to roost. If you’ve got a good relationship with your kids you will never lose them.

And this MA course is keeping me busy. It's getting interestinger and interestinger. There’s been a lot in our recent Critical Challenges reading about declining literary standards. It’s true, there is a lot of crap out there, but still some good stuff. And I do think that commercial success and literary quality can co-exist.

Our neighbouring farmer, has just delivered a trailer load of manure. You wouldn’t give it to someone as a Christmas present. But it’ll help me grow some spectacular vegetables next year. Not all shit is bad.

Friday September 27^th 2013

 I hate my f***ing knees! Where is that bloody knee fairy when you need her? I need a new pair of knees, like, now, not in ten years’ time.  Preferably along Cara Delevigne lines, or perhaps Sophia Loren, more age appropriate.

The tooth fairy was pretty reliable I seem to remember. Bang on time, sixpence under the pillow the next morning, or if you were lucky, a shilling. Enough for a liquorice sherbet. (In those days sweets were like drugs and your local confectioner was your local dealer.) But the Knee Fairy is very flaky and I have decided to stop believing in her. So there. That’ll teach her.

By the way hello! I am a bad housewife for many reasons, which will become apparent. 

And here’s one of them. 

Yes, this week the knees have been giving me extra gyp. Just when you need them to function at max. I’ve just started this fantastic course in Creative Writing at Kingston University. After 30 years of making a living at it, I’ve decided to learn how to do it properly.  I’m really excited about it, it is simultaneously scaring me and thrilling me to death.  We’re going to be challenged, stretched, jerked out of our writing ruts and comfort zones and ingrained habits and (in my case), smug white middle class assumptions and preconceptions about what we should be doing. And we’re hitting the ground running! Which is not good with bad knees.

I’m going in three times a week. There’s a bit of travelling on trains, up and down stairs, rucksack on back. And there I am, yesterday morning, going down the stairs at Surbiton station and feeling the paaaain and there’s a woman in front of me, also with a heavy rucksack, and a stick. And there’s that nice Film Studies lecturer I met the other day, also walking to the university, with a limp. And later, I’m catching the bus back to Surbiton station with my lovely new bezzie fellow student Alison, discussing what we’re going to write for our first assignments. Suddenly the bus screeches to a stop, and there’s a girl on foot, and with her a girl in a motorised wheelchair, and the ramp is lowered for her, and she zooms onto the bus, and it looks like she hasn’t even got knees. She’s smiling, really brave, just getting on with her life. At least I have knees. And I can walk.

 SO STOP MOANING BITCH!

There’s always someone worse off than you and you have to be thankful for what you’ve got.

Talking of walking, I have a dog to walk. She can talk the talk. Did you know border collies have a massive vocabulary? They understand over 240 words of their native language, more than the ape. Hence they seem, spookily, to understand what you’re saying and when you’re talking about them.  They are very, very intelligent. And I am hoping she might help me with my assignments. She will no doubt start her own Dog Blog soon, working in Woof for Windows.

She can also walk the walk. She is now glaring at me balefully with that look of doggy reproach, so in a minute I will take her up to the post box. Not to post her in it you understand, to post An Important Letter about cashing in an ancient  savings account to help pay for my course.

I went to pilates this morning, a stroll of bucolic splendour up the footpath to my friend’s studio. Everyone in the class has some problem. Neck, knee (that’s me), shoulder, arm, hip, tendonitis, arthritis. But Chris has got cancer and she’s being really brave about it. Yet another reason to feel humbled.

Did I mention that I live in the country? 33 years ago we bought a derelict bungalow in the middle of 10 acres of wasteland, for like, NO MONEY, and we’ve transformed it into a paradise. I say ‘we’ advisedly, since my husband did most of the building work, I just do the housework, laundry, shopping, cooking – oh and gardening. I grow flowers, mostly Mediterranean style, in pots, on top of china elephants and in anything I can find, like old sewage pipes. The herbaceous thing is a bit difficult in heavy clay and everything except shrubby stuff just gives up and slinks away when you’re not looking. I have statues of Buddhas and Greek gods and goddesses all over the place. Why are you not surprised? I am an old hippie. I also grow vegetables now, not very successfully this year, as I forgot to mulch the garden. Loads of runner beans though, so if you’re interested, apply here.

Gardening is a great counterpoint to writing and terribly good for the soul apparently. We farmed sheep for a while, and my daughter watched me deliver twin lambs once from her pushchair. (The lambs came out of the sheep’s bum not the pushchair.) She is now nearly 25, graduated and living mostly near work in London, although she keeps coming home with her laundry. Her place is a bus ride from the university, so I plan to turn up on her doorstep demanding hot meals and sympathy. Payback time! And I do miss her. Anyway, hence the empty nester decision to do this course. She doesn’t remember the woolly nativity scene, but I christened the lambs after her. Annoyingly they were boys, so it had to be Isambard and Florian. Pretentious? Moi?

Do not ask me how we farmed the sheep. Especially if you’re a vegetarian. We did sell the wool however.

Now we have our local farmer friends put their cattle on the fields. They look dead picturesque against that lush green background and they moo a lot when they’re hungry and bash their hooves against the water troughs. At night we hear of lot of murders going on around us, of the wildlife variety. And you get attuned to things like astronomy and birdsong. It’s all very earthy and spiritual. And we’re only an hour or so from London and Brighton.

So yes, I like it here. A lot.  It’s the best of all worlds, everything on your doorstep. But a lot to look after.

I am now going to ewalk my dog. That was a spelling mistake but I’ve decided to keep it in. It would be nice to take my dog for e walks, rather than real ones.

So I’m signing off now to stride purposefully around the fields and up the footpath, being brave about my knees because I’m lucky to have them and there’s always someone worse off than you, and post that Important Letter.

This is my first writing assignment on this course. It’s good to be writing again after a self imposed summer Sabbatical and I hope I have hit the ground running, or at least stumbling, in the right direction. I hope I can talk the talk and walk the walk.