Propagating geraniums – how to take geranium cuttings.

 Picture of man in shed from the internet.

The geraniums in the tub below are beginning to look a bit tired.  Time to take cuttings.

I decided to start with the red one in the pot. Look at the next picture.  Can you see the larger stalk on the right of the red geranium?

That’s the one I’m starting with. Cut it off with your secateurs, just below a growing tip. See next picture to make sure you know what I mean by a growing tip.

Now remove and discard all the lower leaves and any flower stalks that are still apparent.  If you do this then the growth will go into the making of new roots and not into the production of more flowers. The larger leaves would die anyway so they need to come off. Now you are left with a perfect cutting. This will become a new plant, which you can put in your border next year, but you have to keep it indoors all through the winter.

Find your compost.  I put mine in a large blue tub, which doubles up as a play piece for my grandson when he comes round.  He loves to dig in here and it is relatively free from germs.

Put some of the compost in a small flower pot.  This one is a four inch pot. Incidentally this is not very good compost. I bought it in the Supermarket and it was cheap, but it is quite woody and not ideal for this job. The best compost is John Innes no. 2 which is a much finer compost. However I’ve put it in here so you can see the difference.  This would not be suitable for sewing seeds into. For that job you would need a much finer compost.

Poke the cutting into the compost in the pot until the growing tip is covered.  I’ve left this one a bit proud so you can see what I mean. You will need to poke it in further than this one.

Notice that a caterpillar has had a chew at this leaf.  Make sure he’s still not on the leaf when you plant the cutting (for obvious reasons).

This morning I did several.  I planted them together in a tub in the garden. They should be fine in there for another month and will benefit from the sun and the rain.  It will also make them hardy.  When I come back from America in mid October, I will take some more pictures of these cuttings so you can see how they’re doing. By then they will need to be put in pots and brought indoors before the first frosts arrive.

In the tub I have a selection of white, red, pink and peach cuttings.  It will be interesting to see which ones do the best.

These are cuttings of lychnis and Sweet Williams.  I’ll talk more about them another time.

After all that work, I reckon I deserved a nice lunch so I went into Oma’s kitchen and made myself a fry-up. Yummy!

What are you doing today?

In a village lives a scarecrow…

In the village there are scarecrows, so you’d better watch out.

You never can tell when one of them will pop up and give you a fright!

like Mr. Pumpkin head here…

or this irate farmer!

Sometimes they appear over hedges with large sharp instruments in their hands…

…and quite often they creep up behind you and throw their arms wide…

It’s hard to tell which of the people are real and which are not!

Some are jolly happy people and some are not!

Some are lazy and prefer not to chat!

Some carry guns!

…and some can’t be seen, but you know they are there…

Scarecrow, scarecrow turn around.
Scarecrow, scarecrow touch the ground.
Stand up tall and blink your eyes.
Raise your hands up to the sky.
Clap your hands, then tap your knees.
Turn around and tap your feet.

Scarecrow, scarecrow touch your toes.
Scarecrow, scarecrow tap your nose.
Swing your arms so very slow,
Now real fast to scare the crows!
Tough your head, jump up and down.
Now sit down without a sound.

First Encounters in America or ‘How the hell do I get out of this airport?’

My first impressions of America were made in Atlanta, on arriving there from England for the very first time in April 2006. I was going to spend ten days with my Fanstory friend, L and I was very excited about it.

Atlanta airport is massive and I, having been detained in the immigration office for four hours, was unsure of where to go next. I was alone with my carry-on bag as I found my way down the long escalator to the two waiting underground trains.

I had no idea where they went. In my mind, I thought they probably went to downtown Atlanta and that was definitely not where I wanted to be. I needed to meet up with L and as quickly as possible. Would he still be waiting for me, after four long hours with no communication? He would know that the plane had arrived and must be wondering where the hell I was since everybody else had already come through the International Arrivals.

I discovered all too late in the immigration office that my English mobile phone did not work in America, despite the fact that the young man in the telecom office in my local shopping mall in England, assured me that it would work!

I decided to ask the immigration officer if he would be kind enough to phone my friend and let him know that I had been delayed. He did let L know, but not by phone, so at least L knew I was in the airport, but other than that, L would not know why I had taken so long to reach him. Perhaps he would guess what had happened or perhaps not. I had no way of knowing. I began to worry that L would get tired or fed up waiting and return to the hotel he had booked for us to stay in that night.

I looked at the two trains and decided not to get on either of them. I would ask directions first. There was no-one around down there in the train hall so I went back up the escalator to find the Enquiries Desk and asked one of the airport officials if they could tell me how to get to the International Arrivals desk? They looked at me as if I was stupid and indeed I did feel stupid. On the other hand, I had never been to Atlanta before or America even and I was not familiar with the airport or the systems they had in place there. They told me they couldn’t help me, which to this day I find remarkable, so back I went down the escalator again. Since there was nowhere else to go but onto the train, I tentatively got on it and went a couple of stops. Then I got off.

I looked around, but could find no map of the airport to help me and still there was no-one else around to ask. I decided it was pointless to ask a fellow passenger, who would probably be as befuddled as I was. A cleaning lady, pushing a large trolley full of mops and buckets and cleaning equipment came into view. I asked her for directions.

‘I want to go to the International Arrivals,’ I told her.

She was more helpful than anyone else I had so far encountered, telling me to get back on the train and go to the Baggage Hall, which was at the end of the train ride. I was relieved to hear that. At least I wouldn’t find myself in the middle of the metropolis, out of the airport and completely lost.

I got back onto the train.

The stops on the train ride are labelled in letters of the alphabet and a mechanical voice tells you where you are, not necessarily where you want to be.

‘This train is now stopping’, the disembodied voice kept telling me. ‘The next stop is Concourse C’….

At the baggage hall I felt my feet getting sore. I was wearing high-heeled shoes and they had begun to pinch. I looked around for the console containing the luggage from flight BA226. There was none. I concluded that everyone else had already got theirs and mine was who knows where! My heart sank. My new camera was in that bag. Again I would have to find help and ask where the bag was likely to be.

All this took more time than I wanted it to. Eventually, I was told that my bag would have been taken to the B.A. office at the front of the airport and I would be able to claim in the next day after 12 o’clock noon. I did a quick time check. That would mean that L and I would have to stay near the airport in order to pick up my bag from the left luggage after noon, when the Check-In office opened. That meant that we would not be able to leave the airport when we wanted to, but would have to wait at BA’s convenience. ‘Could this get much worse?’ I wondered, scenes from the movie ‘Terminal’ playing in my mind. Perhaps I would be marooned in the airport forever more unable to find a way out or locate my friend. Plan C suggested looking for food in rubbish bins in order to stay alive and sleeping in corners where no-one would see me, but the mind was playing tricks because I was tired.

Fighting off the need to cry, I saw another escalator ahead of me. Surely this one would lead to the Arrivals Hall? If I didn’t see L soon, I would go mad. There is only so much one person can stand and I was reaching that limit.

I walked towards the escalator, clutching my carry-on bag tight. Stepping on, the escalator began to ascend. I could see an enormous mural at the top, welcoming new arrivals. I must be in the right place, but would L be there for me or would I be all alone in this new land?

Getting in a spin!

I’ve been spinning up a storm this week and now have enough of this cream-coloured merino wool yarn to make a garment.

I always admire the yarns I see on Etsy.com but quite often there is only enough available to make a scarf or a shawl or a pair of socks. These days I prefer to make something a bit more substantial, which takes at least 500 gms of yarn. I haven’t decided what to make yet, but it will inevitably be something for the winter months because this yarn is so lovely and warm.

Already there is just a touch of Autumn in the air and when I get that feeling I start looking out my knitting needles and sewing kit and planning what I’m going to do during the darker evenings.

I have all my knitting needles in this handy hold-all, which can be used for coloured pencils too. I love having them in here because I can find just the ones I want without difficulty.

Maybe I’ll even do a little quilting…

and a little wishing and cauldron lighting when the fancy takes me…

Have a great week everyone.

Beautiful Blogger Award

I have received a beautiful blogger award from Tamara at My Botanical Garden. I would like to thank Tamara and also pass on my award to 7 more bloggers whom I admire very much.

The rules are:

• Thank the person who nominated you and link back to them in your post
• Share 7 things about yourself
• Nominate 6 of your favourite bloggers you admire
• Leave a .comment on each of the blogs letting them know they’ve been nominated

7  things about myself:

1)  I live a double life, some in England, some in America.

2)I am proud to be British.

3) I adore animals.

4) My three favourite (famous) people are Jewish.

5) I write in different genres and have two pseudonyms as well as my own name.

6) I am a pagan.

7) Music and art are very important to me. I once ran an entertainment agency.

Here are the rules:  

•  Copy the Beautiful Blogger Award logo and place it in my post.
•  Thank the person who nominated me and create a link back to their blog.
•  Nominate 6 OTHER bloggers for their own Beautiful Blogger Award

I nominate:

Futureworld

Rusty Duck

Learning from dogs

Florida behind the scenes

D-Janity

Why not visit some of these blogs and enjoy sharing a little glimpse of an interesting life?

Oma

In the garden with Oma – time to take cuttings!

I always take my cuttings in August so now I need to get busy.  I’ve already taken some Sweet Williams’ cuttings and they are doing very well. The lychnis too are fine but I have yet to get stuck in to plant wallflower seeds for next Spring.

Just look at this rhubarb leaf! I don’t exaggerate when I say it’s as big as an umbrella. If it started to rain, I could stand underneath it and keep dry.

The phlox are in full bloom just now.  They are so pretty and so prolific and welcome at this late summer time of the year. There’s a teasel in the bed too, cheeky!

This pretty pink rose is an old timer.  It’s been with me in the garden for a very long time.  So long that I’ve forgotten what it’s called!

This year it has thrived, other years it hasn’t done so well and I’ve threatened to dig it up, but I never do.

I think it’s done better this year because I’ve been fussing over the petunias, see picture below. I’ve made sure they’ve had lots of water and food and the rose has benefited from the extra attention. (Make note for next year – fuss over old rose more!)

Now back to my cuttings. Must get on and do them NOW.

Oma

Cheese Flan (Quiche)

Once or twice a week we have a cheese meal at the cottage. Today’s recipe is for cheese flan, as it used to be called or the more modern form – cheese quiche. There are lots of variations of this dish. This is the basic one.

Ingredients:

1lb of short pastry, made up. I make my own pastry using self-raising flour, Flora margarine and Trex shortening.

(American readers: I find that Crisco is very similar to Trex.)

80zs mature Cheddar cheese (American people can buy this in the foreign section of Food City. Kerrygold do an aged cheddar, which is very nice).

Small tin of evaporated milk (or half a large tin).

(American readers: If find that your evaporated milk is thinner than the one we buy in England. Therefore, don’t put too much in or your flan will be too loose.)

2 eggs. I use medium size.

1 tomatoe for garnish

 Have you noticed how thin the tins are getting these days? It’s hard to find one that is easy to open now. 

Method:

Make a lb of pastry and leave in the fridge to cool for 20 minutes. Meanwhile light the oven and set to hot. By the time you’ve made the filling, the oven will be just the right temperature and the pastry will be just right, ready and waiting for you in the fridge. (ice-box).

Next make the filling.

Grate the cheddar cheese, keeping back 2 ozs to sprinkle on the top of the flan.

Put the grated cheese in a medium sized bowl, add the two eggs and all of the evaporated milk.

Stir together with a fork.

Slice a tomatoe fairly thinly and set aside until later with the 2 ozs of cheese.

Take the pastry out of the fridge and roll out a third of it. That should be enough to line the base of a medium sized flan case.

Line the flan case and trim the top edge with a sharp knife.

Pour the filling into the flan case and lay the tomatoe slices on top.

Sprinkle the remaining 2 ozs of grated cheddar cheese on top of the tomatoe.

There will be enough pastry left over to make a meat pie (recipe coming another day) and a batch of jam tarts.

Cook the flan at the top of a hot oven for 30 minutes. Test after 25 minutes. Take the flan carefully out of the oven and give the flan case a slight shake (note: slight). If the flan filling is under-done in the middle, it will wobble a bit. If it does, put it back in the oven for the last 5 minutes. If the filling is firm in the middle, the flan is done.

30 minutes does it for me. I use Gas 6.Your oven might be different. I usually turn off the oven after the flan is done, but leave the flan in the oven. That sets the filling for sure. Make sure most of the heat has escaped from the oven before you do this, otherwise the flan will keep on cooking and may even burn.

Let’s take a closer look, Yumm!

Serve with a salad.

The jam tarts will be perfect for tea tomorrow.

This is another recipe from Oma’s kitchen.

The Archdeacon’s Bottle of Gin

The Archdeacon laid aside his Sudoku puzzle, stretched and looked out of his study window to see if his 10 a.m. appointment was coming up the tree-lined road.  It was summertime and the mature lime trees were in full leaf, looking beautiful as always, but making it difficult for parkers to get out of their cars in the confined spaces.  The trees had grown to their full size, their roots causing the paving stones on the path to lift and separate.  It really could be quite dangerous.  I must ring the council and let them know, thought the Archdeacon, nobly reaching towards his old, oak desk to retrieve a pen so he could write himself a reminder note.

This particular Archdeacon was missing his parish; the beautiful church overlooking the town, the commodious rectory and most of all, his flock.  It was a large parish and a lot of thank you letters to write once he had accepted the promotion from Rector and Rural Dean to Archdeacon three years previously.

The Bishop had assured him that he was ‘just the man for the job’ and this was borne out by the number of phone calls to ‘see how he was getting on’, that he received in the six months after he left.  An Archdeacon no longer has a parish of his own.  He lives in a church house; in this case a beautiful one, built to a high standard in the 1920’s and he is responsible for the whole archdeaconry.  Archdeaconries vary in size.  Our particular Archdeacon is in charge of an archdeaconry with nine deaneries in it and each deanery has up to twenty-nine parishes in it, all with their own Vicar, Priest-in-charge or Rector.  That’s three hundred churches, up to three hundred Vicars and six hundred Church Wardens.  That’s a lot of responsibility so the Bishop has to be very careful that he does pick the ‘right man for the job’.

Of course with all the cut-backs, sometimes one Vicar has to cover up to four churches, but that would mainly be in the country districts.

The Archdeacon’s house is situated in the centre of a busy town although you would never know it if you took your tea on the lawn in his well- manicured back garden. A gardener was employed to come once a week and keep the weeds under control. In reality he did much more than that, assuming that he was storing up points in heaven for when he eventually parked his lawn-mower in St. Peter’s garden shed.

The hierarchy of the Church of England is very rigid and so once you get the call to higher office, off you go. Mostly Vicars move on every so many years, each time taking on a larger parish, until they are deemed experienced and responsible enough to become a Rural Dean.  This post extends their duties as Rector of their own parish and prepares them for future promotions.

Once our Archdeacon was in post, he became the Bishop’s right-hand man and he was quick to learn the intricacies of the job.  Apart from being the first point of call when one of his many Vicars had a problem, he was also responsible for the annual inspections of the many beautiful and ancient buildings that grace the English countryside in his own particular archdeaconry.

To help him in his daily work, he had a part-time secretary, to whom he gave the accolade ‘The Real Archdeacon’ because, in his humble opinion, she did all the work! This faithful soul kept all his appointments up to date, typed the many letters, organised the annual Visitation of Church Wardens and was always on hand to intercept telephone calls when she was able to shield her boss from the most unnecessary intrusions.  Perhaps her biggest task was sorting out the annual inspections.  There was just time in one day for the Archdeacon to do three inspections. However, with three hundred ancient buildings to visit, it was vital that all three were near to each other.  She couldn’t allow her Archdeacon to criss-cross the Deaneries in a haphazard fashion. Sounds easy? Well it wasn’t.  It was an almost impossible task, but one that the faithful secretary took in her stride.

August was approaching and with it came the Archdeacon’s birthday.  Each year the secretary bought him something he would really enjoy.  This year she decided to buy him a bottle of gin.  He can take it with him on holiday and drink it on the beach, she decided, feeling generous because the cost of the gin would make quite a hole in her weekly wage. He works so hard, he deserves it! She justified the cost to herself.

The secretary knew that the Archdeacon’s holiday with his wife and family was to coincide with his birthday the following week, so that night she stopped off at the local supermarket and bought the biggest bottle of gin she could afford and some pretty paper to wrap it in together with an appropriately sober birthday card.  As she wrapped the present up that evening, she pictured him opening it and relishing the partaking of it. This happy thought brought a smile to her face.

Next day she carried the present carefully in to work, setting it on his desk in a prominent position.  He’ll probably think it’s a bottle of Ribena, she surmised.  She wasn’t trying to curry favour; she was just grateful for her job, which gave her the opportunity to work flat out for four mornings a week and any extra hours she could manage for free. She didn’t work Fridays so this would be her last opportunity to wish the busy man a happy holiday and clear up all the many loose ends from his untidy desk before he made his departure the following Saturday.

The Archdeacon was surprised and pleased with the unexpected gift and after due thanks, he moved it to a safer place than his untidy desk, to a corner of the sideboard in the dining room.

‘Don’t forget to pack it, will you? It’s meant for you to enjoy while you’re away,’ said the secretary.

‘No, I certainly won’t,’ he replied.

The last morning passed in a flurry of letters dictated and typed.  Of course there were twice as many phone calls as usual and an emergency to deal with when suddenly a loud crash caused the Archdeacon to look out of his window. He watched in astonishment as a runaway car rolled down the hill without a driver and came to rest with a loud bang and a shattering of glass right against the front of a safely parked car further down the slope.

‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed the Archdeacon forgetfully.  ‘She must have forgotten to put the handbrake on when she parked it!’

‘She?’ replied the secretary quizzically.  ‘How do you know it was a she?’

The Archdeacon looked a tad embarrassed and sheepish when he realised he was being sexist.

‘Well whoever’s car it was that rolled into the other one, he’ll probably get away with it because from where I’m sitting it looks like the other car bashed into his!’ observed the secretary remembering that it was deemed the fault of the person behind when an accident such as this occurred.’

‘Maybe,’ replied the Archdeacon, hoping he wouldn’t be asked to be a witness. He refrained from calling the police, but remained on the alert for developments.

During the two weeks that the Archdeacon was away, his industrious secretary worked hard.  She got to grips with the mountain of filing and shredding and then set about sorting through the annual inspection returns.  There was a complicated spread-sheet to design, where in to show the results and a number of new Churchwardens’ Handbooks to send out.  This of course involved a lot of wrapping up and carrying of heavy boxes to the Post Office, which naturally she did after her working hours were over so as not to waste valuable time spent in the office doing more important things!

All the while she worked, the Archdeacon’s cat kept her company, leaving little presents under her desk for her to clear up when she got in each morning and once or twice an even larger and smellier present in the hallway or under the settee where even the longest broom handle was unable to reach.

The faithful secretary took all this in her stride and looked forward to the return of her boss and his family in due course.

On his return the Archdeacon was tanned and refreshed and full of his adventures at the seaside.  At coffee-time he showed his secretary the lovely photographs he’d taken on the beach, in front of the guest house and walking on the seafront, his family looking happy and relaxed complete with sun-hats and ice-creams.  The weather had been warm and pleasant and not too hot to take advantage of the beach whenever possible, he told her as she smoothed her lank hair away from her white cheeks, which had not seen the sun since the day the old King died.

‘It’s hard to get back in gear after two weeks away,’ sighed the Archdeacon as he picked up the mountain of mail that was waiting for him on his desk.

‘Indeed’, said the secretary.  She had been sure to sort the mail so that the most urgent letters to be answered were on the top of the pile.

‘Are there many e-mails?’ he asked, reaching for the dictating machine.

The secretary smiled encouragingly at him and opened up the Inbox containing the latest collection of e-mails.  Most of them were from the usual addresses: the Diocesan Office, the Bishop, several applications for appointments from the clergy.  One unusual address caught the diligent secretary’s eye.  It was from a guest house in Sandy Bay, where the Archdeacon and his family had spent the last two happy weeks.

‘Dear Archdeacon’, it read… ‘I am writing to thank you for the very generous gift of a large bottle of Gordon’s gin.  It was most unexpected and welcome and I want you to know how much Ted and I appreciate the gift.  After you left I found your mobile phone charger, which I will send on to you when I can get to the Post Office.  It may not be till the end of the week because my leg is playing up again, but I assure you, I’ll send it on as soon as I can.’

‘Well I never!’ exclaimed the secretary, her cheeks flushing with annoyance.  She carefully printed all the emails and took them in to the Archdeacon with the one from the guest house on the top.  The Archdeacon read that one first.

‘Damn!’ he exclaimed when he’d read it.

A Bible, which was perched precariously on the corner of his desk suddenly broke free of its constraints and fell with a thud to the floor causing the Archdeacon’s coffee cup to fly out of his hand and spill its hot contents all down his trousers.

‘Damn, damn, damn.’

The next day the Archdeacon was at a Property Meeting at the Diocesan Office.  His secretary arrived punctually in her office at 9 a.m. and sat down at her desk. She picked up the map of the nine deaneries, which was awaiting the planning of the annual church inspections. With her longest ruler she measured the distances between the churches taking care to make sure that the three daily inspections she was going to arrange were as far away from each other as possible. Then she started her list.

That should do it she thought as she stroked the Archdeacon’s cat behind its ears. The cat purred loudly.  Was that a smile on its face?

+++

This was an Archdeacon’s Story from Oma’s library.

Murder in the School – Chapter 1 – Introducing Mrs. Smithers

Chapter 1 -Introducing Mrs. Smithers

My last post concerned characters and the control of them. It’s not an easy subject. As a writer, it is easy to let your characters run away with your story so caution is needed to keep them contained.

Here I am posting the first chapter of my book ‘ Murder in the School’ , which is a murder mystery set in a school in a large, urban town. The book is available from Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk as an e-book to read on the Kindle or on your computer. I’ll give you the link at the end of the post.

I am currently writing the sequel to ‘Murder in the School’, which will be called ‘Justice Will Prevail’. It should be finished around Christmas time.

In this first chapter we meet Mrs. Smithers, the school secretary, who has some secrets, which the reader will learn about as the story progresses. The other characters in this chapter are:

Ms Althea Gardner, the new Head Teacher

Mrs. Riglett, one of the parents and her son Georgie is also mentioned.

Mrs. Wales, the general assistant/medical lady

This first chapter is written in the first person. Mrs. Smithers is speaking to the reader and explaining how she felt when she first met the new Head Teacher, Althea Gardner. I have not flooded the first chapter with lots of characters for the reader to get confused about because when I am reading myself I like to get to know the characters slowly. That’s just my choice.  What is your opinion? Do you like to meet all the characters in one go? or do you prefer to be broken in gradually?

Although this is a mystery story, it is also a study of human behaviour in an institution, like a school. Therefore we have to wait a while for the murder to happen. If I was writing Crime Fiction, I suppose the murder would need to happen in Chapter One, in a dramatic way, so as to grab the reader’s attention immediately. That’s fine and it works on T.V. and films, but what is the hurry with a book? Let’s be a little patient and take time to get the feel of the school and what is happening there.

So here is Chapter One. I hope you enjoy reading it.

My name is Mrs. Smithers and I was a part-time school secretary at PrimrosePrimary School in the urban sprawl known as Langwitch.  My office was in the part of the building, which was formerly the InfantsSchool.  The Infant and JuniorSchools were amalgamated recently and a new Head teacher, Ms Gardner was appointed in charge.  Ms Gardner had been in post for three weeks and already she had instilled fear in the hearts of the staff throughout the school.  Even the goldfish in the tank in the foyer swam frenetically back and forth when she passed by.  The day after the first joint staff meeting Ms Gardner started her individual interviews.  She wanted to see me first and my appointment was for 9 a.m. in her office, which was in the larger, junior side of the school.

I spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in my bed worrying about the interview.  What was this all about I wondered?  Did she really want to get to know us all better or was there a hidden agenda?  Should I be forthcoming and friendly and open with her or would it be better to keep something back and show my more reserved side?

Dressed in a navy blue suit with a white blouse, I felt smart and perhaps if I didn’t say anything untoward, I thought, the interview should go smoothly.  Just as I was about to leave for the interview, the phone rang in the office.  I picked up the receiver.  It was one of our most irritating parents, Mrs. Riglett, phoning to explain that her Georgie was ill again and she intended to take him to the doctors that day but there weren’t any appointments till much later on so she was going to keep him indoors and give him lots of hot drinks and cool flannels……….! And…………! And …………..!

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Riglett” I almost shouted down the phone with exasperation.  “You’re doing the right thing and we look forward to seeing Georgie soon when he’s quite better and in the meantime, yes I will go and ask his teacher if she can look in his desk for his library book.  Now I must go.  Thank you for phoning, goodbye.”

I looked up at the big clock on the wall of my office; 9.10 a.m.  showed.  I was going to be late.  I really didn’t want to be late and now I would be.  I grabbed my handbag and ran.  The new administration block, joining the two schools, was not quite finished so I had to run across the car-park.  It was raining so when I got across to the far door my glasses were covered in rain spots and I couldn’t see much.  A large magpie observed me with pity from the overhang on the porch door.  “One for sorrow!” I thought.  The door swung shut behind me and there was Ms Gardner’s office with a new brass plaque on the door.  “A. Gardner” it said.  I wondered what the ‘A’ stood for.  I knocked politely on the door and heard her say, “Come in”.

Ms Gardner was wearing an exotic perfume, which put me in mind of the markets in Marakesh.  As usual she was immaculately dressed.  Today she was wearing a russet brown suit; in keeping with the season, I thought.  Two gold bracelets shone bright against her bronze skin; one on each wrist.  She was sitting in her chair, which was in front of her desk on a dais.  She motioned to the only other seat in the room, which was not on the dais and thus she had the advantage of the highest seat and an imposing position.  I had the advantage of being able to see what was on the wall behind her.  I looked for a picture or a photo to give me a clue what her background might be; nothing.  I looked at her desk, again nothing.  No past, I thought.  Nothing to give a clue as to what she held dear in her life.

“Now”, she said. “Tell me how you see your role in this school?”

“I have been a part-time school secretary over on the Infants side of the school for 13 years”; I began. “Since L.M.S. (Local Management of Schools) I have had to become adept at managing the school finances”, I explained.  “I enjoy the financial side of the job but it is difficult to concentrate on finances when I also need to keep jumping up and opening the door to visitors”.

Ever since the incident at Dunblane in Scotland, in 1996, when a deluded 43 year old man, Thomas Hamilton, massacred 16 children and a teacher, our main door has remained shut and locked.  No longer were visitors allowed in of their own choice and without an automatic opening system, it fell upon me to allow visitors to enter.  “

“I work well with Mrs. Wales, the General Assistant”, I continued. “ We would like to change our hours so that she does less hours and I do more.  That way we can cover the new responsibilities of the combined schools.  Mrs. Wales is very capable of tackling the office work and would welcome more responsibility and I would like to spend more time on the finances, perhaps combining that with library duties?  We thought that with our family commitments we could each work ¾ time.”  My voice tailed off as I saw Ms Gardner’s expression change from mild boredom to irritation.

“Impossible”, she said.  “Mrs. Wales is to be placed in the classroom as a teacher’s help and in the office what I want is a full-time efficient P.A.!”

I sat back on the chair realising that I had just blown it.  I had given Ms Gardner the ideal opportunity to get rid of me and by the same stroke she could demoralise Mrs. Wales by taking away the prestige of having her own room.  After fourteen years of loyal service Mrs Wales, capable Mrs. Wales, would lose the one special thing she had, the Welfare Room.  It was her domain and she reigned supreme in it.  Returning my thoughts to the present I heard Ms. Gardner say “Thank you Mrs Smithers, you may go back to the office now.”

I stood up and returned across the rainy car-park to my cosy little office on the Infant side of the building but I couldn’t get back in because I had forgotten my key to the main door in my haste to get to the interview on time.  I could see the key on the desk through the window.  Everyone was in the assembly hall so I had no alternative but to sit on the step and wait.  Now the tears came, mixing with the raindrops and splashing on the ground between my shoes.  Now I understood, my days at PrimrosePrimary School were numbered.  Whatever I had said to Ms Gardner, she would have given the opposite view.  Ms Gardner had other plans.  A shake-up was coming and we couldn’t do anything about it.  We were powerless, or were we?

When Mrs. Smithers returned home that afternoon she went straight to the cloakroom cupboard and took out her beautiful shiny besom.  “Time for a sweep”, she thought.  Her three black cats stretched their legs, gripping the carpet with their sharp claws and curling their tails around the broom and Mrs. Smithers’ legs and purrrrred with pleasure…….

If you want to buy the book, you can click on this link and it will take you straight to Amazon: I use a pseudonym, Amanda Marigold.

Getting to know your characters.

When I was writing ‘Murder in the School’ I had to create the characters. Each character has a purpose in the story. Some
are the main characters and others have only ‘walk on parts’.

The reader needs to identify with the characters before he/she can sympathise with them or dislike them etc.

Here are some of the characters and their reasons for being there:

Mrs. Smithers – to create mystery

Mr. Singh – to provide romance

Althea Gardner – to provide someone to dislike, hate even.

Alex Simmons– to provide a reason for Althea to be disliked.

Gerald – to provide grounding.

Nick Blunt – a figure of power, at the top of his profession, but ready to take a tumble.

Geoff Padstow – a figure of glamour and power who has been wronged and wants revenge.

Gina Blunt – a figure to be pitied. She is neglected by her husband and so finds love with another, creating a web so
tangled that it has become impossible to unravel.
Miranda – provides a situation where the reader can learn of Gina’s secrets.

Mrs. Catchpole and Mrs. manipulator – both spread gossip and cause events to take unexpected turns.

Mrs. Phillips – provides the reader with details about the other staff.

Marie Padstow – Geoff Padstow’s long suffering wife – knows Gina as a friend.

Martin Tennant – Chief Education Officer – a figure of authority.

‘Murder in the School’ is available in the Kindle Store as a Kindle e-book under my pseudonym Amanda Marigold
‘Justice Will Prevail’ is the follow-up, not available yet.

+++ After working with the characters for a while, the writer gets to know them really well. They pop into his/her mind
every day as new events are created in the writer’s mind.

Dianne Gray wrote an interesting post about her own characters. You can read it here.

Sometimes the characters create themselves.

For example Mrs. A goes into a shop to buy a newspaper. This act is important to the storyline, but to buy the paper she
has to engage with the shopkeeper. This is where the writer’s creative mind comes into play. Maybe it’s a quick exchange.
Mrs. A asks for a newpaper, pays for it, takes it and leaves the shop. Or more interestingly, Mrs. A asks the newsagent for
a newspaper but he/she engages her in conversation, a conversation which could add to the plot of the story. Now the writer
has to decide whether to create a character for the newsagent or to let it pass.

If you are the sort of writer who likes to write a character driven story, then you will most likely be tempted to create
that new character. If on the other hand you are the sort of writer who likes a plot driven story, you may be less tempted
or scenario 3, you may be even more tempted because now you are adding to the plot as well as the characters.

This is where you need to exercise caution. Don’t let your characters run away with your story… keep them in a cupboard and
only let them out when they’re needed, like actors in a play.

Interesting to contemplate, isn’t it!

ps I’m trying to get the formatting right on this post. Please bear with me while I fiddle with it! Thanks.
Oma