Leonard Cohen

Way back when, in 1971 to be precise (yes, you're absolutely right ... I was nothing more than a twinkle in my dad's eye at the time), a friend and I were talking about music. 'I know what you'd enjoy,' she said, and, the following day, she lent me two albums. Because I'm a cantankerous so-and-so and don't like people assuming what I'll enjoy, I was quite put out when, grudgingly, I had to admit that I did like the first album (Kris Kristofferson). The second album, however, was Leonard Cohen's Songs of Leonard Cohen and I had never, ever heard anything like it. I played that album all through the night, over and over again. (And yes, I still feel very guilty when I think back and remember giving her back the album I'd almost worn out and keeping the brand new copy I'd bought for myself.) Since then, and we're talking 38 years (I really was a twinkle in my dad's eye), I've never heard anyone use language in such a way.

In those 38 years, I never really believed I'd actually see him. He didn't tour this country often and, when he did, the shows sold out before most people heard about it. He spent years and years in a monastery. And then, well, let's be honest, he is knocking on a bit.

So last year, when he embarked on his world tour, I couldn't quite believe I had tickets and part of me was convinced that one of us would die before the event. When we were both spared, and I was watching him in July at Edinburgh Castle, the disbelief remained - that I was actually there, that he was such a genius, that he was so adored. Come November, when I saw him in Glasgow, there was still a touch of disbelief there.

But I'd seen him and that was enough. I'd seen him twice and I was satisfied with that. Each performance was note perfect. Nothing could better that.

I'd bought the tickets for last night's concert months ago via Ticketzone and had the confirmation email saying they should be received 7 days before the event. They weren't received. I rang Ticketzone and they told me tickets had been despatched on the 6th July and mine must have been lost in the post. 'Just go to box office and collect duplicates,' I was told. So we arrived at the arena and joined the short queue for the box office. A steward came along and said: 'Anyone collecting tickets ordered through Ticketzone needs to join the queue over there.' Eh? We looked in horror at the queue that almost circled the arena. However, we joined the queue and, to pass time, people started chatting. It seemed that everyone in that queue had been told the same thing - tickets were despatched on the 6th and yours must have been lost in the post. Um, I don't think so. Royal Mail might be crap, but they're not that crap. People were getting irate, convinced that Ticketzone had deliberately not sent out tickets to save on postage. I wasn't irate because I've used Ticketzone dozens of times in the past and never had problems. And hey, we were about to see The Sainted One.

So, I'm walking into the arena, tickets clutched tightly in my hand, when I see a woman with a placard. What? A demonstration at a Leonard Cohen concert? Whatever next? Did she object to his 'peace and love to all men except greedy, power-crazed, war-mongering world leaders' views? I read her placard: Why would a poet play Gaza? She was dishing out leaflets and strode over to me saying 'Tell Leonard Cohen not to go to Israel!' I stared at her in disbelief and growing anger - 'Tell Leonard ... (splutter, splutter) ... No! Mr Cohen is more than capable of making his own decisions.' Pah. I do wish people wouldn't try to force their opinions on me.

Anyway, the concert was amazing. I've seen lots of bands in my time - some big names like The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, etc. - but I've never known anyone get such a long standing ovation just for turning up. The man is adored by his many, many fans, and rightly so. The band members, all nine of them, are on stage and ready to go. Then Leonard Cohen strides on, waits until he can be heard over the applause, and then sings with the energy and passion of a man 50 years younger. He dances, yes dances off stage, takes a fifteen minute break, and then dances back to the stage. Apart from that break, he's on stage for three hours. Just amazing.

He jokes about how, now he's old, people ask him for advice and how the best thing he can tell them is not to look in those illuminated mirrors they put in hotel rooms. While the audience is still smiling, he says 'We're very privileged to be together in this place when so much of the world is in chaos' and goes straight into Anthem:

Ring the bells that still can ring,

Forget your perfect offering,

There is a crack in everything,

That's how the light gets in.

He is 74 years old. 74! He'll be in Norway tomorrow and Friday. Then he has four nights in Dublin, followed by a night in Belfast. This will be followed by concerts in Portugal, Spain, Italy and Turkey. Then it's back to Spain, followed by France, Austria, Slovakia, Czech Republic and Hungary. September takes him to Romania and Spain again. Unbelievable.

As for the irritating woman who thinks everyone should tell him not to go to Israel, perhaps she should bear in mind that, back in 1969, he penned this:

Like a bird on a wire

Like a drunk in a midnight choir,

I have tried in my way to be free.

I think free is the important word there, dear.

Another weekend gone

The weekend just sort of vanished again. They do, don't they? Friday night was Manchester to see Crosby, Stills and Nash and I have to say they were amazing. Given that it's 40 years since they made their debut at Woodstock, and given that there have been drugs, prison sentences, liver transplants and goodness knows what else in the meantime, it's a miracle they're alive at all let alone rocking the MEN Arena and bringing an audience consisting of everyone from teenagers to seventy-year-olds to its feet for standing ovations. The first half was predominantly acoustic and included covers of songs such as Ruby Tuesday (I just love that song) and Reason to Believe. The second half was electric, and boy, did they rock. Stunning guitar playing from Stephen Stills and great vocals from all three, of course. So - am I converted? Well, no, not really. A couple of their songs I like - like Military Madness and Cathedral - but most don't grab me at all. Stuff like Marrakesh Express and Teach Your Children leaves me cold. My advice: write some decent material, boys, and you'll go far.

Saturday was an exciting day in its own way, too. Adam, our lovely, lovely plasterer came and - wait for it - I now have a ceiling. Yay. Hopefully, everything crossed here, the walls will be ready for him to do at the weekend. Phew, I'll soon have a living room again. Luxury. I'll soon be able to sit down, relax and watch TV in the evenings. I can't remember what that feels like.

So as I did nothing productive over the weekend, I'm sending you to the lovely Sue Moorcroft's blog. Sue attended the Romantic Novelists' Association's annual conference and you can read all about it here. I've had some wonderful times at the conferences in the past and just wish I could have been there.

A writer's retreat

This week, I've been on a sort of self-imposed writing retreat. It's been great fun, too. As book number five in the Jill & Max series was going so badly - correction, it wasn't going at all - I decided to take myself off and just write. No internet, no computer, no phone. Bliss. I'm pleased to report the book is now starting to come together. As an expert in procrastination, sometimes I have to take myself off - preferably in the car where I can't be tempted to nip online for a couple of minutes - and just write. That's the advice I always give to aspiring novelists - just write. It doesn't matter if it's complete tosh. Fixing words that are rubbish is a lot easier than fixing nothing.

I've also come to the conclusion that, sometimes, I get so caught up in the mechanics, worrying about publishers, editors, markets, etc., that I lose the whole joy of writing. When that happens, I need to forget everything and everyone and just write the story I want to write. If I'm having fun writing, my readers will (hopefully) have fun reading it.

This evening (can you believe this? I'm not sure I can...) I'm going to see Crosby, Stills and Nash. Hmm. I can't say I'm a fan. Mind you, I can't say I'm not either. I don't know their stuff well enough to pass judgement although, obviously, they're hugely talented. Nick's a fan, so he'll enjoy it. But do I care if I enjoy them or not? No, I don't. Why? Because on Tuesday, I'll be going to Liverpool to see - wait for it - the Sainted One. Yes, I shall spend three hours in the company of a god. For the third time in 12 months, I'll be seeing Leonard Cohen. And I can't wait. In fact, I'm almost incoherent with excitement.

Whatever your plans for the weekend, I hope you have a good one!

Why?

As some of you know, I live in a row of old ex-quarrymen's houses about a hundred yards from a farm where several horses are kept. The farrier keeps his horse there, and he also had a little dog. We don't know the farrier well - just to say hello to and chat about the weather. Sometimes our dogs would play around with his for a couple of minutes when we met. Anyway, his dog was an absolute joy. The first time I saw him, he was chasing a football around the field. The football was about the same size as him. (There was no point giving him tennis balls to play with apparently because he just kept burying them.) So back to the first time I saw him ... I'd had a bad day and was out walking my dogs. And there was this little bundle of energy, chasing his ball around in sheer abandonment. I stood and watched him for a few minutes, marvelled at his sense of fun and his delight in such simple pleasures, and then went, smiling, on my way. I've seen him many times since then, of course, and he always brought a smile to my face. A lovely, happy dog who brought nothing but joy to the world.

Last night, Nick took our dogs out, met the farrier and heard the awful news. The little dog had followed some children (something he'd never done before) to the crossing where he was knocked down and killed.

What a horrid, mean, awful thing to happen. There's just no sense or reason to it.

I dread to think how the poor farrier feels this morning to wake without his cheerful little friend. I do know that the rest of us woke feeling much sadder this morning.

Rest in peace you lovely little scrap of joy.

Is it me?

Did I mention it was hot? Did I mention I couldn't sleep in the heat? Well, it's either frying my brain or my computer/internet/Blogger is going on strike. However, fortunately, help is at hand because the Met Office has upped the heatwave level warning to three. Wow. This spell of hot weather we're experiencing is, apparently, the hottest since - wait for it - July 2006. That's a whole 3 years. Anyway, according to the Met Office, the heatwave plan alert has four stages to it and our current level of three is red for 'heatwave action'. Not sure what action is taken - perhaps the government will send out leaflets telling us to drink plenty of water. Leaflets will, of course, be available in large print, braille, audio CD and every language known to man.

What is wrong with this country? (No, don't answer that.) We have a rare spell of warm weather and we need a 'heatwave plan alert'. We get a couple of inches of snow and the entire country grinds to a halt. There's a swine flu pandemic and we get showered with leaflets telling us to wash our hands.

Or is it me?

We did actually wake to a lovely blue sky this morning - instead of the usual overcast, humid yuk - and clever pilots did us a jolly nice St Andrew's Flag
Anyway, work? Precious little is the answer to that. I had a good time talking to members of Norden WI last night, but I don't suppose I can class that as work. This morning I nipped over to see my accountant and I can't really class that as work, either. His office is about 6 miles away and driving with the air conditioning on was the most pleasant part of the day. I've done a bit of admin and that's about it for today. Number of words written? Zero. Shirley must try harder...

Post of the Day

Isn't the internet a weird and wonderful thing? Regular readers among you will know that the ramblings appearing here are just that. Ramblings. Instead of doing what I should be doing, i.e. writing a bestseller, I ramble. Yesterday's post - and how crazy is this? - was awarded a mention on the Post of the Day at Authorblog. (I can only imagine that everyone else in the UK was suffering from heat exhaustion and couldn't post.) Anyway, what a great site it is. I love it. I shall be able to waste hours on it!

So it's hot here in the UK. In fact, it's bloody hot. When I went to live in Cyprus, friends who knew what I thought of the heat, asked how I'd cope. Easily was the answer. In Cyprus, you have a wonderful dry heat with a clear blue sky. Here, we have humid. We've had very little sunshine, just overcast days and oppressive heat. It's too hot to sleep. Certainly too hot to write. Too hot to do anything. Even the dogs have no energy.

And what's happening at Chez Wells today? Yup, it's excruciatingly hot and we're having a wood burning stove installed. I hope no one suggests we try it out...

While that's being put in, I'll be preparing for a talk I'm giving in Rochdale this evening. I shall be rambling on in my usual fashion about my books and my writing life ... or just melting.

The more hours you have...

...the more you waste. When I first started writing, many, many years ago, I had quite a busy life. I had a toddler demanding my time and I only wrote in the evenings, when she was asleep, or sometimes for a couple of hours at the weekend. Yet I'm sure my output was higher than it is now when I have all day every day to write. Why's that? I suppose some of the blame can go to the internet. If I need to find out what time the sun sets in Thailand on the 24th November, it takes thirty seconds. Brilliant. But that thirty seconds turns into a couple of hours during which time I've bought a load of books and checked out holidays in Iceland.

I'm a writer. Therefore, I should write. I shouldn't spend hours on the internet. I shouldn't spend ages playing games. I wouldn't dream of getting out a 'real' pack of cards so why do I spend hours playing Spider Solitaire on the computer?

My books are in a cabinet in my study and, sometimes, I look at them and marvel that they ever got written at all.

Maybe I'll lock myself away in a room that has no internet connection, or computer even, and just write using a pen and paper. How long would I last before having to check emails or sunset times?