I have a feeling of impending doom, as the first three rejections have fallen like warning drops of rain, before the torrential storm. I have decided that this week I must focus on my submissions before everyone shuts down for Christmas. I have been rethinking my strategy following pep talks from the two eldest children, both Marketing experts, one with a first, the other still an undergraduate. I never realised there was so much to it, but I now have a much clearer idea of what I need to do. My book is a dark family saga, and I am considering changing the title, as I am wondering whether that might be an obstacle. It is currently called The Magpie, but other options are Duplicity, Subterfuge, Seven for a secret, Smoke and mirrors. I would love to get some opinions on this, comments would be much appreciated.
I have had a couple of hours to come up with new titles, as I sat in the dentist's waiting room this morning while Mr C was in the chair.
The location of the surgery was a surprise to me, as I hadn't realised it was in the buildings which used to house my secondary school. It looks much grander now, with lots of gold leaf and curtain dressings, but there were elements which had remained unchanged. The dumb waiter is still in the hallway, the flagstone flooring, the smooth wooden handrail on the staircase, and the brass door and window fittings, and ornate door frames. The view from the rear windows has changed completely. It used to look out onto 'Miss Lightburne's Lawn', and nobody was allowed on there, on pain of death, although I do recall that the last day of the school year might have been an exception, and have a vague recollection of sixth formers, at the pinnacle of mid 80s fashion grinding their pastel stiletto heels into the perfectly manicured grass. And now the beautiful gardens and tennis courts have all been replaced by housing.
The school buildings and grounds were sold off just after I left in 1987 and the school moved to new custom built premises on the outskirts of the town. I was so glad it didn't happen before I left as the new site was in the middle of nowhere and where would we have bought our fags? The only compensation might have been that it was opposite Simpson Barracks.
I loved going to school in the town centre, forging my mum's signature every day to enable me to go and sit with my friends drinking coffee and smoking in a dingy cafe for an hour. I do still have nightmares about the uniform, which was a pale blue blouse, a royal blue jumper and a blue checkered A line skirt, and was teased mercilessly about it by friends who went to other schools. I quickly learnt how to roll the skirt over at the waistband to transform the skirt into a miniskirt, which was not visible below my coat.
This photo of me and friends on the bridge shows the uniform summer dress (modelled by me on the left), and the glorious 'Derngate skirt' worn by my friend next to me. This photo also dispels the long held myth that we all wore navy blue knickers. Burghley House, circa 1983. Miss Lightburne would have been so proud!
The school itself was old and quirky, with lots of hidden staircases (one was called 'oubliette stairs'), and was a little Hogswartish. Some areas of the buildings were unused, and made great hiding places, such as the cleaner's cupboard next to the sixth form common room, which was another favourite smokers' haunt. And the tiny careers' room, accessed via a narrow staircase, which had windows out onto the roof, with great sunbathing opportunities. And the history classrooms were in Mackintosh House, which has now been refurbished and become quite famous as 78 Derngate, designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Many of the original features were still there when it became my Lower Sixth form room, although it just looked scruffy and old-fashioned to us. I loved my school, and although it was a bit different, and sometimes I was teased because I went there, it was always worth it. I know that not everyone had the same great experience, but for me it was perfect, and just what I needed at a time when I could have quite easily turned into a bit of a rebel and left with no O'Levels. My closest school friends are still just as treasured as they ever were, and I hope they always will be. I was very lucky to receive a scholarship to attend, and although I am not in favour of private education for political reasons, I was fortunate that my parents chose to send me to this school in particular. I battled with myself and almost took L to sit the entrance examination a couple of years ago, but she visited the school she now attends and fell in love with it, and she didn't want to look any further. And she has found her version of my school, with her funny friends who do silly things like we used to, organising weddings for their pens and making up their own words - who will ever forget 'superslug' and 'definatus stefidumptus'. When I met her form tutor at the first parents evening, I listened with interest as she said she had never before taught a class where she had to prelude each lesson with 'wands away girls'. Perhaps the perfect school isn't based on buildings or the system, but a great mixture of pupils, teachers, attitudes and opportunities. I hope that L makes the most of those opportunities, and that she enjoys her schooldays as much as I did mine.
Comments