The last week has found me dissolving in tears more often than I like to admit but that goes with the territory, as the saying goes. Bad enough when I’m home but it happened in the building society last week.
I’d gone in to sort out a number of problems and the woman behind the counter got a little short with me. It doesn’t take much to set me off and there I was, in tears, with a long queue of people behind me. But the woman burst into action, ushered me through a door into an office, got me a cuppa and sorted everything out. Her manner changed and she was so very kind to me.
Before I headed home, I went into the bookshop and treated myself to and Agatha Christie’s The Moving Finger, Trudi Canavan’s The Ambassador’s Mission (Book 1 of the Traitor Spy Trilogy), and Eric Newby’s On the Shores of the Mediterranean. The latter is autobiographical, written in the 80’s. Newby was something of an explorer and his Short Walk in the Hindu Kush is amazing, as is The Last Grain Race.
So, I’ve started with Eric Newby’s book. He was in Italy during the second world war and was captured by the Germans but escaped to the Apennines. A Slovenian woman there hid him and later they married and she accompanied him on some of his travels.
In the book so far, they have turned up at their house in north Tuscany, in Italy, and head off for Naples where they start their travels round the Mediterranean in a clockwise direction (his wife’s practical suggestion when Newby couldn’t decide where to start).
It’s one of his later books, and so far not as dramatic as the two I mentioned above. Early days yet because I’m only on page 23!
Still no writing other than business letters but thanks to Kirsten over on A Scenic Route I went looking for the word ‘Look’ in chapter 1 of A Mystery in Morocco.
For those of you who may not have seen this before, here is the paragraph:
Juliana Davenport’s dark eyes were brimming with laughter, mischief and adoration in equal measure as she looked up at her partner. Her youthful face was becomingly tinged with pink from the exertion of waltzing round the ballroom, and from the realisation that Lord Eversleigh’s right hand, placed lightly but firmly in the small of her back, was holding her closer than was likely to be thought proper by some of the older guests.
It made me remember how much I love this story, how it has such a promising beginning, and how this changes as the story goes from London to France to Morocco. I love my characters and have apologised to them profusely for what I did to them, but they rose to the occasion each time (with one exception!) and did things I’d never dreamed of 🙂