The End!! A great place to be...

It’s that funny time, that weird hiatus after pressing the most stressful button on the computer.

 New editor, new publisher, new type of book, it’s all kind of...well new! After months of scribbling and writing and stressing, suddenly…nothing.

                                                

I start to notice things; there are no clean dishes, one of children is 6 feet 2 (suddenly!), the dog is fat from  not being walked, the frosted glass in the windows turns out to be clear glass covered in cobwebs… oh and the kitchen ceiling has fallen in. I confess that I had noticed that last one but I had it on my ‘deal with it once the book is done’ list.

                                                       

                                                           I used to have a Barbie. I dissected her.

That list is quite extensive. It’s nearly a book on its own.

So I am sailing out in new ventures and happily so.

When I am editing I tend not to sleep. My brain goes into a mish mash of regurgitation,  going over difficult scenes in my head, practicing dialogue to make sure it sounds real. It can be hard to switch off,  and I need to get up in the morning for the day job. So I make a point of reading something else – usually something marvellous – but this time I picked up a ‘first novel’ from someone who is now extremely famous – a huge best selling person, multi millionaire, clean socks, good aftershave  etc

And it was awful!

Really dreadful. So bad it made me laugh out loud.

The plot was James Bond meets the A Team with the cast of Emmanuel Five in supporting roles. I still can’t tell you what it was about but there was a Russian in there somewhere. 

It has been republished and repackaged. I found a recent  interview with him where he said that this novel was the fourth book he wrote, but the first book that was published. Then added, if you think that was bad, you should have seen the first three! .. and I would like to.  But he made the good point that all writers need to learn their craft. And now not that many get the chance.  It was interesting to see  how his talent has developed from those early days.

                                             

Ian Rankin was famously nearly dropped after book 4. It was book 5 that got to the top of the best sellers. My pal, nominated for a Gold Dagger, left ‘crime ‘at the end of book four to change genre completely, successfully I may add. But her crime publisher was not interested in a book five, no matter what kind of book it was.

So now I am in my hiatus. I’m 60 000 words into book 6 and researching  7. But I need that wee gap in my head… and the house needs hoovered,  the dog walked, and I need to phone a roofer.  Before  that I read the responses to PD James words of wisdom for writers in Red Herrings… and thought I would add my own.

                                       

no not him, that's P Diddy

                                       

                                                      This is PD!

 Because I can.

And I can’t be bothered phoning the builder.

                                             

You must be born to write.

Ms James said that you can’t teach people how to use words effectively and beautifully.  Chris Fowler said that curiosity about the world and its people shapes a writer more and I think I agree with him. Someone with a good imagination can learn the tools of the trade, learn to find their own voice and you can be the finest wordsmith in the world but you still need something interesting to say or a good story to tell. 

Write about what you know.

Well I don’t, I’ve never murdered anybody. Pretty sure PD hasn’t either.  I make it up! Fiction is fiction. Do the research about the stuff you don’t know. As I advise my students, get it written then get it right.

                                      

                                                                 Angela Gils Klocke

Find your own routine.

Very true. Having a full time job means I  don’t have time for writers block. Or housework. If in doubt get on with it. I am a Martini writer. Anytime, anyplace, anywhere.

Be aware that the business is changing.

I know fellow authors  who network relentlessly and hassle editors and publicity people. One pal  got a row for stalking their publicity person by emailing her too often! I can’t be ar…d with all that.  I write, get the words on the paper and agree to any events I’m offered. I prepare myself well if I am asked to do a panel.  People get paid to chose my covers, they know about marketing so I let them get on with it. Or am I wrong?

Read, write and don’t day dream

Chris Fowler thinks that this is the  worst advice possible. I think they are both right. It depends on the day dream. Daydreaming in that creative space, walking the dog while working out a plot point pays dividends. The day dreaming in that fantasy space where you are being invited for coffee by George Clooney or you have woken up and are a size 10…. Maybe not so much. Then it is time to apply bum to seat, pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.

                                             

Enjoy your own company , again I can write anywhere, with any noise (except attack toddlers and lawn mowers, but an attack toddler under a lawn mower is fine with me). My pal is a chic lit writer and she  goes to a  five star hotel  for a week and lives on room service and champagne ( both feature heavily in her books, so it’s tax deductible)  to get the plot right. Then comes homes and writes it,  but she has lots of very small children and no lawn mower so she probably needs to!

Choose a good setting

I think we all in MIE know the importance of that, murder IS everywhere, thank goodness. ..

Never go anywhere without a note book.

I don’t ( go anywhere without one), I buy notebooks the way other women buy shoes,  friends stick ideas on ipads and other swipey screen things that bing and bong, run out of battery and break when the dog sits on it. Not so with a pen and a bit of paper. It’s so much more creative and much less like work. And you can stick the good ideas  on your forehead so you don’t forget.

                                      

Never talk about a book before its finished.

I do, all the time. I chat to folk in my writers group,  my patients, various folk who live in my house. The dog. The latter is the best critic.

Book 7 features someone in a coma.  I’ve never been in a coma thankfully  but was chatting away to a patient who told me her son in law was in a coma for  four months. She told me a lot. Stuff you don’t get from having a medical degree. 

One weird thing was that when he ‘woke up’ he knew what they had been talking about over his bed. Not specific memory but an osmosis of the daily detritus of the conversation.  Mainly, the stress had caused his wife to go back on the ciggies. His mum had lost lots of weight through the stress.  The cat had kittens and all found good homes. And somebody was scoffing all the polo mints. (That was the wife disguising the fact she was smoking) .

Know when to stop.

Maybe writers like PD don’t get a word count to  stick to but it does concentrate the mind somewhat.  My new publisher likes shorter books, so I’ve had to edit and cut and trim. I think it has worked. I hope it has.

I had ‘blog’ on my to do list, ( I have a special note book for my To Do list) I can score that off now and phone the builder. It’s going to snow tomorrow, it will snow through the hole in the roof.

                                               

But first I’ll take the dog out, there’s a bit of dialogue I’m struggling with where the James Bond type character has driven over an attack toddler in a lawn mower and Mr T ain’t chuffed!

                                               

Caro

Leighton Gage. A man to be remembered.

This is a post lifted from the MIE blog site, as a tribute to Leighton Gage who passed away last year.  Cara is the  blogger for Tuesdays on the site and, as you will see, she  had the same editor as Leighton , and it is that editor  who is writing this tribute. I only met Leighton once at the Bristol Crimefest and we spent much of our time telling jokes. He spoke passionately about Brazil and I spoke passionately about Scotland. We both spoke passionately about our writing. It was Leighton who set up MIE, and is therefore responsible for  me meeting crime writers that I know I will be friends with for the rest of my life.  So ta for that Leighton!  Got my copy of the ways of evil men ordered. I shall savour ever word.
Juliet Grames: On Leighton Gage, as his Editor.

Juliet Grames is Associate Publisher of Soho Press, as well as the Editor of Soho Crime of which she acquires and edits for the Soho Crime Imprint. Juliet's the editor of several MIErs, myself, Tim Hallinan, Lisa Brackman and our dear Leighton Gage. After Leighton's passing she had this to say on Soho's Blog (not to steal her thunder on the gracious post she's doing below on today, the pub date of Leighton's The Ways of Evil Men):

"Soho Press, his publisher, and his Soho Crime confederates... are bereft, both at the loss of the gentleman himself and at the reality that his last book will, indeed, be his last book. Each of Leighton’s six published novels—Blood of the Wicked, Buried Strangers, Dying Gasp, Every Bitter Thing, A Vine in the Blood, Perfect Hatred—have each been critical gems, and I am heartbroken to think that Leighton will not witness the critical reception of his forthcoming The Ways of Evil Men, which is due to be published in January 2014—I am certain it will be the warmest yet."

Welcome Juliet and thank you for joining us today on the publication of Leighton's The Ways of Evil Men - I like to think he's looking down and winking. Back at you, L xo—Cara

The week I started at Soho in 2010, the office had just received Advance Reader Copies of Every Bitter Thing, the fourth book in the Chief Inspector Mario Silva series. A then-employee handed me a copy and said, “This guy is one of the best writers I’ve ever read. Get familiar.”

So that was the book I read my first week on the job—Every Bitter Thing. I don’t want to write anything that would spoil the exquisite story, but I was deeply impressed by it—“impressed” in the original meaning of the word; it left a mark on my reading habits. Yes, the story was energetic and satisfying entertainment. But I closed the book with goose bumps. In 282 pages, Leighton Gage had tricked me into asking myself what justice actually was. I’d thought I was just getting myself into a nicely written find-the-serial-killer procedural. Instead, I was shaken to my core. I wish I could give you more specifics, but I absolutely refuse to spoil this book for anyone who hasn’t read it. (If you haven’t read Every Bitter Thing, though, seriously, go read it now; it’s still one of my favorite crime novels, even though now that I’m more widely read I realize several of Leighton’s make that cut.)

The thing is, as it turned out, each of Leighton’s books had that quality—that surprise nugget of je ne sais quoi you had never encountered before. The thing that made you stop at the end of the book and think, wow, my brain has never been down that path before. Or, wow, these weren’t feelings I had been planning on having today. I think it’s the feeling we’re all looking for when we’re reading—the feeling of having the rug yanked out from under our expectations and of finding something totally new. But I know it’s not a feeling I have very often, although I read voraciously seeking it.

And each of Leighton’s books offered a different je ne sais quoi.

I had the privilege of working with Leighton editorially on three novels: A Vine in the Blood, Perfect Hatred, and his last novel, which publishes today, The Ways of Evil Men.

About a year ago right now, Leighton and I were exchanging ideas for how we would promote The Ways of Evil Men. His earlier books had received plenty of critical acclaim, but I thought Wayswas going to be a real crowd pleaser, as well. I thought the new character of Jade Calmon was terrifically likable, the perfect access-point for introducing readers to the series. Furthermore, Leighton’s presentation the all-too-real issue at the center of the book—the covert genocides of micro-tribes—was eye-opening and would be sure to stir up conversation.

Leighton and I made plans for a dynamic pre-publication tour. It’s not something undertaken very often, but we all agreed this book was the right one to go all-out for. We made plans for Leighton to come to Chicago in the summer for the American Library Association annual convention, and brainstormed the other stops we would make along the way. It was all shaping up to be very exciting.

Weeks before the conference, Leighton wrote to tell me it didn’t look like he was going to be able to make it to Chicago. I knew how much he had been looking forward to ALA in Chicago. I have to admit this was another one of those times Leighton gave me goose bumps.

ALA was still a grand success for The Ways of Evil Men, although we booth-staffers were trying to hide how subdued we felt that Leighton was not there with us. Leighton’s friend Timothy Hallinan stood at the Soho Booth for seven hours and introduced more than 800 librarians to Mario Silva. But I can’t tell you how much I wish we could go back to those collection managers next year and say, “Remember that great writer you discovered in Chicago last year? Here’s his next book, which you’ll like even better, because he’s only getting better with every book.”

It isn’t really fair to be greedy. Leighton left us with seven darkly sparkling gems of je ne sais quoi, when many authors are happy to produce just one in their whole career. And I was lucky enough to work on three of them with him. I can’t help but be greedy, though, and wish that there might have been eight, nine, ten . . .

I hope I told Leighton often enough how special I thought his work was. I mean, there is no enough, is there? I wish I had told him more often.

I hope he knew that we at Soho felt honored to have him on our list.

I hope he knew about the goose bumps.

And I wish he could see how many other people—besides his editor, who might be considered biased—are saying those same kinds of things now.

Here's post I did for MIE last week... hope you like it!

                                               

It’s a well known phenomenon that if America sneezes Britain catches cold. Some things that have infected us from the other side of the water are very welcome; Brad Pitt, ‘Castle’ and Robin Williams. Some not so welcome; spray on cheese, lack of the correct number of vowels in words, MacDonalds.  And the phrase ‘Trick or treat.’

It’s guising!

                                                          Why is this cat so grumpy?

After wandering round a supermarket being bombarded with pumpkins, apples, peanuts all blazing with a  ‘trick or treat’ logo, I felt very nostalgic for dressing up in a sheet, making two holes for the eyes and scaring people.

                                   

As a youngster we would dress up in something we had made – not bought. We liked to think we were unrecognizable.  We would go round the doors of neighbours ( with a 'u') and ‘do a turn.’ -  sing a song, tell a joke, do a dance. Wickedpedia says “In Scotland, youths went house-to-house on 31 October with masked, painted or blackened faces, often threatening to do mischief if they were not welcomed.”

This is sounding more like it!

                                    

There were some strange goings on. Treacle scones would be dangled from the ceiling on a rope and then covered in lashings of dripping sticky treacle. Some poor sod would then have their hands tied behind their back and then attempt to eat the aforesaid scone, now swinging happily on its rope. And happily smacking them in the face.  If it didn’t- if it  hung still enough to let the poor sod have a nibble, a ‘friend’ would give it a good shove…right in the face of the nibbler, rendering them a treacle face and therefore unrecognisable.

                                        

                                              These are sophisticates, using a newspaper as a bib. 

Small children would have to kneel on a chair, backwards (hope you are following this). Under them was a basin of water full with bobbing apples. The child would hold a fork in their teeth and drop it, trying to spear an apple. This is precision forking.

                                      

 I believe that bobbing is world wide but we call it 'dookin'.  Kneel down and stick their head in the basin, trapping apple between teeth and basin bottom… dead easy you say. So far so good, they get an apple and might even get the treacle washed off their face.

Not so easy to do while your pals are resting one foot on the back of your head.

                                           

I don’t recall ever having a pumpkin. We used to hollow out a turnip… and use the middle for soup. If skint we’d use a big potato. We carried the turnips and their enclosed candle through the streets keeping the ghosts away…. As the candle cast fearful shadows through the holes in the turnip, the scariest thing was the turnip itself. I wonder if there is a word for turnip phobia.

                                                       

                                                        This is a mangel wurzel. Seemingly.

Wickedpedia says….blah blah by turnips or mangel wurzels, hollowed out to act as lanterns and often carved with grotesque faces to represent spirits or goblins". These were common in parts of Ireland and the Scottish Highlands in 19th century, known as jack – o’- lanterns.

It also says "particularly appropriate to a night upon which supernatural beings were said to be abroad and could be imitated or warded off by human wanderers". As early as the 18th century, "imitating malignant spirits" led to playing pranks in the Scottish Highlands. Halloween lanterns didn’t spread to England until the 20th century, maybe due to a lack of turnips.

The term Halloween comes of course from the Scots term for All Hallows' Eve, i.e. the evening before All Hallow’s Day. Although the phrase "All Hallows'" is Old English for the mass day of all saints.  Wickedpedia again; ‘It initiates the tridiuum  Hallowmas the time in the  liturgical  year dedicated to remembering the dead, including saints (hallows), martyrs and all the faithful departed believers.”

Or in Glasgow, just dress up in case the ghouls get you.

Wickedpedia goes on to say that it is a Christian festival influenced by the Celtic harvest festivals and their pagan roots. Pagans would mark the end of the harvest season and beginning of the 'darker half' of the year. Spirits could more easily come into our world and were particularly active. They had to ensure that the people and their livestock survived the winter. Offerings of food and drink, or portions of the crops, were left for the souls of the dead who were also said to revisit their homes. Places were set at the dinner table or by the fire to welcome them.

It made sense, looking into a long dark winter, the good spirits had to be with you to survive. The nuts, the fruit, the fire, all that they needed to see them through and if the odd dead relative popped in that night for a wee dook of an apple,   even better.

                                     

                                                           pagans having fun.

The lighting of bonfires by the ancient Celts was a tradition carried on into Halloween to frighten away witches but we now do that on 5^th November to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night.

I didn’t know the connection between Halloween and the Danse Macabre in continental Europe, France in particular. The danse is the dead of the churchyards rising for one wild, hideous carnival at Hallowe'en.

                                  

                                  

                                                  Bernt Notke: Surmatants (Totentanz) in St. Nicholas' Church, Tallinn.

Then I read this;-

 “North American almanacs of the late 18th and early 19th century give no indication that Halloween was celebrated there. The Puritans of New England, for example, maintained strong opposition to Halloween, and it was not until the mass Irish and Scottish immigration during the 19th century that it was brought to North America in earnest. Confined to the immigrant communities during the mid-19th century, it was gradually assimilated into mainstream society and by the first decade of the 20th century it was being celebrated coast to coast by people of all social, racial and religious backgrounds.”

Sounds like a Halloween hoolie to me!

Hope you had a good one and the ghouls didn't get you.

Caro  

Grantown on Spey dark deeds!!

Here's a post about my recent trip to the Grantown Crime fest that appeared in MIE this week. The wondrous Bill at the museum  has sent me some great stuff in response to this so he will have his reply next week and reveal all about the gorilla!  You have to read on now don't you...

 Just below Inverness two feet to the right of the middle of nowhere is a place called Grantown on Spey.  I was invited to appear at a inaugural book festival called Dark Deeds, Dark Nights. As Grantown sits in the Cairngorm National Park the drive up was pretty spectacular. The drive down was in the middle of a gale so we only saw the tail lights of the car in front.

Thanks to David Ross for picture

Here is Grantown on Spey in the rush hour....

                                 
  

It’s a marvellous wee place with a great sense of community. The residents know that if they don’t make things happen nothing ever would. Last year I did an event there “at the bookshop” one of the few bookshops mentioned on Tripadvisor.  I seriously thought the audience would consist of me, a dog and some old bloke who had popped in out the rain as the Aviemore bus was late.  I remember walking into the bookshop, which is slightly smaller than my linen cupboard and thinking that with me and the dog in the shop, there would be no room for the guy waiting for the Aviemore bus.
Here is the mighty atom (or Marjory as she was christened)
                                  
                                                        What a treasure trove.....


                                    

                                                  Look what we found.....

The event however took place in the local hotel where they have a special meet and greet room with comfy chairs, wine and Pringles. That room opens into a small informal lecture theatre with all kinds of fancy gizmos (laptops, laser pointers...stuff !!!). It functions to lecture coach parties of walkers/drinkers/ twitchers about the fantastic wildlife of the area and the local whisky trade… boy does this hotel specialise in whiskies. On the wall is a white board where the hotel residents mark what they have seen that day; wild cats, red squirrel, pine martens, the smaller crested goobly whatsit, the greater crested goobly whatsit.  It is quite amusing to read, a bit like a foot ball result table. Red deer 2 - otters 0. Roe deer 4 -  ospreys 2.
The roe deer /red deer play off could go either way.
There is a stuffed gorilla in the high street- that gets a few mentions on the sightings board as well.
That event was very well attended, sold a load of books and the dog in attendance was a guide dog called Bounty who sighed and broke wind all the way through my reading.
                                   
                                         The Grant Arms Hotel. Whiskies galore.

This year the mighty atom, all four feet eight of her, decided to run her small crime festival. Dark Nights.  No wonder she has been nominated for Book Shop Manager Of The Year. Two of the main authors called off at the last minute and one of the stand-ins did a fantastic talk on the highland whisky wars and just listening to that gave me plots for the next three books! And next week's blog! He did his talk in a top hat with a walking cane.

At my big event the blind lady turned up again and told me that Bounty had retired and here is a picture of her replacement.

                               

                    He spent much of our talk lying on his back, wriggling with his legs in the air. 

The mighty atom did well organising a big dinner on the Friday night where the authors had to swap tables.
                                   
                                        Micheal, Alex and I, all clean and shiny.
                                   


                                   
                                                   There was an awful lot of wine....

A workshop with Michael Malone on the Saturday morning, where Aline Templeton and I went along to give moral support in case nobody turned up.  Of course it was crowded and we caused a seating problem. 
                                    
                                               Michael preparing for his workshop

In the afternoon, I was on with Alex Gray and Aline again with lots of readings while trying not to be distracted by aforesaid paw pedalling.

                                  

In the evening the mighty atom had tried to have all the writers on stage at the same time but physical injury and an oncoming storm reduced us to five. The audience were well oiled by this time, most of them having been to every single event.  I did start off that event by saying that we were happy to be 'buzzed for repetition'. 

The hotel we stayed in was a fairly typical highland hotel trying to do its best in the economic downturn. Fabulous open fires, stag antlers, etc. I always like hotels where you get the sensation of either walking up or down hill  as the floors are so uneven. The breakfast menu was magnificent, just reading it took about an hour and everything liberally dressed with smoked salmon.

                             
                                          The Grant Hotel

I did have an interesting chat with a gentleman who had something to do with the displays in the local museum.  They had tried to mock up a crime scene.  But because everybody was elsewhere there was nobody to open up the museum for the Friday or Saturday of the festival but I believe the four persons at the crime scene were as follows.

1.       A mannequin slapper in a black dress with long blonde hair. He told me this as I stood in front of him looking like a slapper! She had a noose round her neck, an empty bottle of whisky in her hand and an invisible stab wound somewhere.  I said I would move her head to see if she had been strangled or if her neck had been broken.  'Oh,' he said, 'definitely broken. It's not actually her head.' It turns out she had no left arm either.

2.       The scene of crime officer was a child’s dummy in an over large CSI protection suit which gave her the appearance of a crew member of Apollo 13.

3.       Chief investigating officer was a police officer dressed circa (I’m guessing now 1920s, 30s when it was fashion to have long hair and a beard) although I understand that the police officer mannequin doubles as Santa during the Christmas period. Police Scotland had been less than helpful with updating a uniform for him.
4.     The other gentleman present had borrowed the dead person’s left arm to hold his rifle dressed as a gamekeeper circa turn of the century … by that I mean early 1900s as I don’t think Grantown Museum has yet wandered into the 00s!

                                    
                                                       Aline, Myself and Michael

But the greatest things about the place are the clean air, the friendly locals and the total lack of mobile phone signal!!  And quiet places like this to read....

                              
                                     

Oh, in the end we decided that the lifesize statue of the gorilla in the High Street had something to do with the murder of the slapper in the museum.  After a few drams anything is possible....

Caro   Scotland 01/11/13 

Greyfriars Bobby

I really enjoyed writing this for the MIE blog spot, so thought you might like to share it.. especially Figbane the wonderdog....

A heinous crime was committed in Edinburgh in the first week of October this year, an assault on one of the world’s most courageous canines. The vile atrocity happened sometime between 1pm on Tuesday and 5pm on Wednesday. The police have appealed for witnesses. The area round the scene of the crime is well covered by CCTV and the police have examined hours of footage in a bid to track down the culprits.

The crime?

Somebody made a dog’s nose shiny. With an abrasive scourer.

Yip, that was on the news on the TV.

The ‘dog’ of course is the most photographed sculpture in Edinburgh, that of Greyfriars Bobby. The ‘nose’ had just been refurbed after being worn down to its underlying shiny brass by tourists rubbing it for good luck. The restoration work was carried out after a campaign on Facebook entitled “Stop People Rubbing Greyfriars Bobby’s Nose, it is not a Tradition”. The facebook campaign caught the ears, eyes and noses of those in high places and a repair was commissioned.

The monument is Edinburgh's smallest listed building. It was originally built as a drinking fountain with an upper bit for humans and a lower fountain for dogs. This had the water supply cut off (as did all Edinburgh's drinking fountains) around 1975 amidst health scares and both basins were filled with concrete.

The statue has a colourful history. It was daubed with yellow paint on General Election night in 1979. It/he was hit by a car in 1984 and then some restoration became critical. It/he is always joining in with the cultural events of the day. 

                                                    

                                    

A plaque on the base reads "A tribute to the affectionate fidelity of Greyfriars Bobby". In 1858, this faithful dog followed the remains of his master to Greyfriars Churchyard and lingered near the spot until his own death in 1872.

                                              

A red granite stone was erected on Bobby's grave by The Dog Aid Society of Scotland, and unveiled by the Duke of Gloucester on 13 May 1981. Since around 2000 this has been utilised in a shrine-like manner, with sticks for Bobby to fetch, dog toys, flowers etc.  The monument itself reads: Greyfriars Bobby – Died 14th January 1872 – Aged 16 years – Let his loyalty and devotion be a lesson to us all.

                                                    

But how much of that is true? Do we care, the sentiment itself is enough.

Bobby was a Skye Terrier who spent (allegedly) 14 years guarding the grave of his owner, John Gray.  Gray was a night watchman for the city police and died in February 1858.

                                          

                                               I think this is what a Skye Terrier should look like.

14 years?  (My dog is 16 years old and a fine and faithful hound. She’d not lie outside on a cold wintery night for anybody. I am kidding myself...she’d be off as soon as anybody offered her a sausage.)

There must be some truth in it though as in 1867, nine years after the owner passed away, the Lord Provost William Chambers paid for Bobby to have a licence as required by law and bought him a new collar, now in the Museum of Edinburgh. A year after the death of the dog, Lady Burdett-Coutts had the statue and fountain erected at the south end of George 4^th Bridge.

                                         

The wee dog appears in many films and books, often changing breed like some mutant canine, sometimes to a Cairn Terrier, like this

                                                        

 a Westie.....

                                                          

 and sometimes in huge disguise as Lassie.

                                           

There is a Scottish joke here. When walking with a dog of uncertain pedigree it is often said… ‘Its father was a Cairn and its mother wisnae caring.’

Jan Bondeson wrote a book exploring the theory that the facts are wrong. In 19th-century Europe it was not uncommon to have 'graveyard dogs', or 'cemetery dogs'. These were stray dogs which were fed by visitors and curators to the point the dogs made the graveyards their home. This led to  people coming to believe that the dogs were waiting by a grave, and the result being that the dog was looked after. This is another great example of dogs conditioning human behaviour to their own wily ends – usually a sausage. 

                                               

                                 I wonder how many doors could really have this plaque!

                                             I bet that dog was fed everywhere!

Bondeson claims that after an article about Bobby appeared in The Scotsman, visitation rates to the graveyard increased and that was financially lucrative for the local community. I don’t know about then, but the wee dog makes the city a fortune now. Bondeson also believes that in 1867 the original Bobby died and was replaced with a younger dog, and that this explains the longevity of Bobby. They pulled the same trick on Blue Peter with Petra.

                                      

The story becomes more believable with reports that folk fed Bobby, a few claimed ownership of him and no doubt he got sausages at more than one door by being wet, bedraggled and generally far too cute. This is now sounding more like dogs I know.

                                        

                            This is believed to be 'Bobby'. Who could resist giving him a sausage?

To confuse matters further, there is also more than one John Gray buried in the kirkyard.  Social history has the dog belonging to both of them..

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                                                wrong type of dog? wrong grave?

As I have said, the dog and the story just captures the essence of what dogs are in our society. Bastions of faith and loyalty when the rest of the world is chasing a pound or celebrity or a twenty inch waist. Dogs just are.  Bobby appears in many films but my favourite is the oblique reference to Bobby in the 1945 film, The Body Snatcher, where Boris Karloff has a wee wander through an Edinburgh graveyard looking for a tasty corpse to dig up, as you do in a quiet evening. He encounters a brave little dog defending a grave.

Karloff kills it.

Nice.

By the way, the hunt for the culprits of the shiny nose incident goes on. They’ll be onto Interpol next.

Suppose they could get the dog branch to have a sniff around.....

Caro 25th Oct 2013

A full moon or something

Yesterday I had a nice little event in Bearsden library. Lovely audience, good questions, great turnout. The preceding few hours were a bit fraught, starting off with the faithful PA who decided for some reason best known to herself to have excruciating toothache and had to be off work so the dentist  could drill her root canal.  She did say that work was preferable to that. But only just.

It must have been a full moon or something, lots of people just doing and saying things that made me think I live in a parallel universe.

Great place to have an event

“Oh I wish my hair was as long as yours.”

“So why not grow it then?”

“It won’t grow that long.”

 “Why not?”

 “I keep getting it cut.”

                                          

                                                   Trust me, I'm a doctor...

OK then…. She must have been a friend of Mr “These exercises you gave me don’t work.”

“Did you do them?”

“No. And the painkillers the doc gave me are useless.”

“Are you taking them?”

 “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t work.”

“So have you tried them before?”

“No.”

“So how do you know they don’t work?”

 “Because my leg still hurts.”

 “But you are not taking them….”

 “Exactly!”

                                                           

 The last lady was telling me a story of her outrage when she went into a cafe at five past four to be told that they close at four… as it says on the sign.   She was outraged and staged a sit in, so they gave her a coffee and then proceeded to mop the floor around her and put chairs up on the tables. She stayed there. Feeling uncomfortable but glad that she had made her point. Whatever that point was.

Then I was on the train to Glasgow central… just jumped on in time but the train was going nowhere as the ticket man was telling a blonde that the fare was four pounds twenty.

“But I don’t have it.”

 “So why are you on the train then?”

“Because I need to go to Glasgow”

 “But you need to pay to use the train so you need to give me the money.”

“I’ll pay double next time.”

 “Do you know how often I hear that?”

 “Gonnae give me the money?” she asked the man sitting opposite.

“Have a wee bit of faith,” he said to the ticket man.

“I have plenty of faith, it’s a wee bit of cash I am after!”

                                   

                                          I have a dirty hand, I need my handwashing scene now. It's in the contract.

 But then I got home to watch Whitechapel, all flesh eating zombies and cops working in a station where health and safety have never, ever looked at the lecky. And the world suddenly made sense again.

                                          Handsome dude wondering when he last paid the electricity bill

Caro