I'll give you something to cry about.

Suitcase: £27.99
Earphones for Discman: £7.99
Book: £6.99
Inflatable travel-pillow: £4.99
Bottle of water: 80p
Buying every seat on board so the chances of having a baby cry for nine hours less than six feet away from me are brought to the absolute minimum: Priceless.

There are some things money can't buy. For everything else, there's Mastercard.


You know how shattering the sound of a baby crying is. Imagine not being able to escape from it because you're trapped in a tin-can the size of a mobile home with no exits. For many, many hours.

I understand that there are people out there who, for economical, practical and mental reasons unfathomable to me, prefer children to cats. I understand that they even, for some reason, want to travel with them (personally, I'd be travelling from them). But what I don't understand is why I, child-free and happy to be so, have to suffer the consequences? Why do people with small children inflict them on everyone else, and look so smug when they do it? Why in the name of all that is holy would you want to take a baby on a nine hour flight, anyway (I can't even contemplate the horror of a 22hr flight to Australia)? What sort of cultural goodness is someone who can't even talk yet going to get from travelling the world? Why did I pay six hundred quid to be kept awake by it?

I'm not the first person to suggest this, and judging by all the grumbling I've been reading in the travel sections of the paper, I won't be the last. But isn't it about time someone set up an airline--or even a subdivision of one--for adults only? I'll make the concession that children over ten could travel on it, because by that age they're less likely to cry for nine hours and more likely to respond to me threatening them if they do. they're also able to say things, like, "My ears hurt from the altitude, can I have a painkiller, please?" which a baby expresses through continuous crying. I'm wondering if this is the real reason why we're not allowed to take anything more dangerous than a plastic spoon on board a plane any more.


Child-free airlines--now! Either that, or mandatory tranquillisers for all children. Ahhhh, the bliss!

The internet is really really great...FOR PORN

Avenue Q is now officially the funniest musical I've ever seen. Possibly one of the funniest anythings I've ever seen. For those of you who haven't heard--do you not read the culture pages?--it's sort of like Sesame Street for grown ups. I dunno, I never really watched Sesame Street. But it has muppet-type puppets, and human people, and songs and little animations explaining things. Like how to pronounce Schadenfreude (Shaa-den-froid-a) and how 'purpose' can be rearranged (and pumped up a little) to make 'propose'.

FOR PORN!

Only, I'm pretty sure Sesame Street never had puppet sex. Because, oh my God, there is nothing funnier. Puppet. Sex. Bear in mind they stop at the waist and then turn into someone's arm--and then add in the sound effects of Oh, my God, Kate, no one's ever touched me like this before - you can't put your finger there - OOH! PUT YOUR FINGER THERE!. Trust me. Hilarity prevails.

FOR PORN!

How can you not love a show with song titles like The Internet Is For Porn, and Everyone's A Little Bit Racist? And characters called Mrs Thistletwat and Lucy the Slut. They're puppets. Swearing and having sex. It's funny.

FOR PORN!

Plus, some of those puppeteers? Damn cute.

FOR PORN!

Fangirl say what?

I have a fan! It's, like official. Bona fide. MySpace never lies. Apart from mine, and, you know, everyone else's. But anyway. Look! Ain't it cool?

(look in the Interests box on the left hand side. There ya go).

I'm still getting the MySpace thing sorted. It's kinda confusing, blogging about an imaginary character. I mean, I don't want to just give away large chunks of the plot, right? And there's not much else of interest in Sophie's life. That's, er, sort of the point. And yet, we manage. Partly because Sophie has some fictional MySpace friends to buoy her along. Yeah, I have way too much free time. Just don't tell my editors.

Save the Quiet Kitty

Natural disasters like floods, fires, and disability often hit without warning, leaving chaos in their wake. When a crisis hits our friends, we all want to help. The Save The Quiet Kitty Fund is here to help authors in crisis.

From time to time, many of us have organized a short term pool to help an author in crisis -- short term crises that called for short term solutions. The Save The Quiet Kitty Fund is a designed to be a longer term solution.

Tales of the Quiet Kitty is a Changeling Press series by Camille Anthony about a smuggler's space ship and its crew. The Quiet Kitty books were some of the first I ever bought from Changeling: they're funny, inventive, and very sexy. Please help Camille, so I can read more menagey goodness. Thank you.

RWA Nationals--Strike II

Okay, mes petites, I slept about twenty-four hours when I came home so I'm more coherent now. Note: more coherent. Ready to make my RWA Nationals report.

We'll start, as Maria von Trapp put it, at a very good place to start (it was Maria, right? Not someone else? I can't be expected to remember all that). The beginning. Well, not the very beginning, because that involves a nine hour flight with a baby who just wouldn't bloody shut up (this is the real reason they do not allow sharp items on planes, I fear) and an airport the size of Canada. Honestly, how they fit that into the state of Georgia is amazing. Timelord technology, I expect. I landed at 3.30pm, and got into a taxi at 5.20. Yep.

Anyway. While I'm milling endlessly around the Seventh Circle of Hell, otherwise known as Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International (even the name is too big), Amy texts me to say SK wants to take us out to dinner, and will I be ready by 6.30? You bet your Southern ass I will.

Me, Amy and Sheri. Like how I'm just callin' her Sheri there? Yeah. We're bestest friends now, 4eva and all that.

(something I kind of love about the South: how everyone's best friends with everyone by the time they've sold you a coffee. Over here we say 'hi' and 'thanks' and that's about it. Over there, you start with, 'Hi, how are you?' and end up being godmother to someone's child. Crazy.)

Anyway. My roommate Kim, better known as Kendra Clark, is a mate of Sherrilyn Kenyon's. They're in a local chapter together, roomed together at Moonight & Magnolias, and drove to Atlanta together. Sheri and Dianna Love Snell, and a bunch of assorted miscreants--I mean, writing professionals--took us out to dinner at an Italian place around the corner. Conversation flows freely, and then Kim mentions that she showed the Purple Prose Parody Amy and I wrote to Sheri.

Kim and I, before I smacked her upside the head for telling SK about the parody. Do I not look awesome in this pic? I look like someone else, that's why.

Just for those of you who don't know, our parody was entitled Widget Bones's Diary and was a crossover between Sheri's Dark Hunters and Bridget Jones. Poor Widget, the most incapable DH there ever was, is trapped in an eternity of powder-blue sweats and high heels. Don't ask.

So we were mildly mortified that Sheri was aware of it. Let alone read it. But then she said, "Did you tell them I wanted to put it in the Companion?"

The what, says we? I'm thinking it's a section of the labrynthine Hunter website. How cool is that?

"It's like the Dark Hunter bible," she says. "With bios and everything. Can I put Widget in there?"

After they'd picked me up off the floor, I of course said yes. Widget's gonna be in the bible!

Okay, enough of that. Other, conferencey stuff also occurred. I popped off to one of Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayers' workshops. By God, they're funny. The best double act I've seen in a long time. I was really miffed I had to leave the workshop early, but I had a luncheon to go to. My chapter, Passionate Ink, was celebrating its first anniversary with a luncheon (too posh to be called a lunch) at the Georgia Aquarium. The ballroom had a viewing window with these gorgeous beluga whales dancing and posing for us. They were adorable.

Beluga whale--and also some fishy things in a tank.

The lunch was fantastic--well, the veggie option consisted of a slice or two of vegetables and a piece of tofu, but then Americans seem to take a dim view of those freaks who don't eat red meat--the speeches were hilarious. Unintentionally so, I think, because when the speaker from Joyfully Reviewed said, "We love male/male erotica because we get two pairs of gorgeous pecs, two sets of gorgeous abs, and two delicious cocks," the waiter nearly poured coffee all over the table.

The Golden Heart awards ceremony was a blast. Last year's received heavy criticism, and rightly so, I think, because it went on too long, the venue was too small to hold all the attendees, and the video footage shown before each award was rather tactless. This year, there were only a few segments of video footage, all from films and TV, all depicting writers and publishing (does anyone know what that Australian film with Hugh Jackman is? Because, hoo mama). Nora Roberts emcee'd, Sheri and Jenny Crusie presented awards (okay, a lot of people did, but I love SK and JC) and the nice lady I sat next to at lunch on Thursday won her third Rita, which opens the doors of the RWA Hall of Fame to her.

Sheri, me and Kim at the GH ceremony--in the VIP section, if you please.

Dianna Love Snell also won a Rita, for her first book no less. I swear she was floating six inches off the ground all evening. I think her husband was floating, too. You never saw anyone so proud. It was quite adorable.

Dianna Love Snell and Sheri. Note the shiny Rita? I'm gonna get me one of those.

At the dessert reception afterwards, we found out what it's like to be a famous author. Crossing the lobby from the awards ceremony to the reception should have taken less than a minute. Actually, it took nearly twenty, because every five paces someone stopped Sheri to tell her how much they idolised her. Kim and I decided she's better at handling it than either of us would be. Note to all fans: when I'm a multi-million-dollar bestseller, just email me, 'k? All this gushing in person is just embarrassing.

Well, okay. Maybe a little gushing.

RWA Nationals

I left the hotel 9am yesterday, and got home 11.30 today. Therefore, sleepy. Therefore, report will have to wait.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............

Leaving on a jet plane

Be back Monday.

RWA conference in Atlanta, which is apparently going to be cooler than it is here. Yep, world gone mad. My suitcase weighs more than me, I've still got a million things to pack and I haven't quite finished editing something I should have sent to my editor days ago. So, SNAFU, then.

Later!

UK Motorshow

Sophie has already blogged about this, but there were too many pictures to put on one post (else it would have been a million miles long).

So. New venue, Excel in London, much easier to get to. Park-and-ride seemed like a bit of an afterthought, bad sign for a motorshow, I thought, down a rutted track and ferried on Routemaster buses that saw service in WWII. It was about 32C in London yesterday, and neither buses nor convention centre were air conditioned (if Excel was, it needed turning up). However, it's a much better space, and being this time of year they could of course take several things outside. So there were car assault courses you could drive on, and a food court where your ice creams could melt. The BMW 'plaza' was outside too--BMs and Rolls under cover, Minis out in the open sunshine.

Inside, I was impressed with: the new Aston Martine Rapide (4-door); the Honda Civic (yes, I know, but it is damn good-looking); the Saab concept thingy; the Alfa Romeo Brera; the Alfa girls' outfits; and the Carte d'Or ice cream I had. Less than impressive were the Vauxhall stand (trying too hard with their 'trendy' 'street' promo outfits, and where the hell was the VX220? Don't tell me they've stopped making it?); the air conditioning, as mentioned; the herocally ugly Peugeot 207 (why, when the 206 was so pretty?); the lack of Fiats or VWs (come on, I wanted to see the Veyron); and the blisters on the soles of my feet when I was pruposefully wearing comfortable sandals to get air to my feet.

Anyway, here are some photos. No, not of my feet. Ew.


Clarkson's ToyBoatA. Heh.


Saab concept. Apparently it runs on biofuel, which means you save the planet but smell like a chip alley.


Pug 207. Yeah, and the colour doesn't help either.


New Corsa. Spot the difference! Baby-poo green paintwork? Check. Hamster-recieving-enema headlights? Check. Big launch fuss? No, that's just the Corsa. Phew.


One of these is not a Mini.


And this isn't a Ferrari, either. It's knitted.


Yes, it really is a Honda!


Angel in the detail.


Space-age technology in the Defender. Long may it reign!


You know how American waitstaff are so obsequiously cheerful all the time? Doesn't this car look like one of them?


Citroen C1, with matching small child.


Rich pretending it's his Brera.


...but can you blame him?


New Aston. Yep. I want one too.


God, they're so pretty. I want to marry an Aston. I want to have its babies. I don't want to drive one, however: because then, you can't see how pretty it is from the outside.

Your right to party

Okay, Beatrice (can I call you Bea?). You're about to turn eighteen. When your mum and dad ask you what you fancy doing for your birthday, you think about it and say, "I'd like a costume party." Any particular theme? "1888, I think." It's a little specific, but at least it ensures a degree of accuracy. Besides, all your friends and family are richer than creosote, so they can afford it. Because you're Princess Beatrice. Your mum is Fergie. Your dad is the Duke of York. Your grandma is the Queen.

Being a princess, Bea, you're well aware that news of this will reach the papers. You have official pictures taken with your parents and your sister, all decked out in your glory. Your dress cost £10,000 and you're pretty chuffed with it, even if your hair might have needed a little assistance. You wait for the photos to appear in the papers: won't it be nice to see a happy family snapshot after all the mad headlines and unflattering pictures, especially of your mum?

And then all this happens. There are headlines and editorials screaming that it's a disgrace. Why, Bea? Did you get really drunk, fall over and show your 1888 split bloomers? Did you eat a bad prawn and throw up all over Wills? Did you scream abuse at a paparazzo? No, you didn't. It's all right, Bea. All you did was have a nice party with your friends, all dressed up in those pretty pretty dresses. Why is everyone so mad? Because you had a party?

Well, yes. You see, you're not allowed to. I'm sorry, Bea. I know it's your big day, able to vote, able to drink, able to get married without your parents' consent, able to get into all those thrilling nightclubs Wills and Harry have been telling you about--but a party? A themed one? No, no. It's a round of lager in the pub, my sweet. That's all you're allowed. It's because you're so rich, Bea. £10,000 on a frock? All that mindless extravagance? On a party? Who do you think you are, Victoria Beckham?

Didn't you read in the papers the other day, that someone's worked out how much us loyal subjects pay in taxes each year to support your grandma? 62p a year. Sixty-two whole pence. For every tax payer! I know, it's extortionate! That's more than a pint of milk! You could buy a big bag of Monster Munch for that! 62p! I don't know how you sleep at night, Bea, I really don't. All that money being extorted from us. For someone on minimum wage, that amounts to about seven minutes of working time. Seven minutes a year! All for those gilt-encrusted carriages, those pastel suits, those hats.

I hope you're ashamed of yourself, Bea. Next time you want to have a nice party, won't you please think of us proles, and how upsetting it is to see you splashing your money about like that, enjoying yourself. Enjoying! I hope you're proud of yourself, and how much you've hurt us all.

A themed party for your eighteenth. Disgraceful.

Naked Eyes--the meme

Borrowed this from Elizabeth Chadwick's blog. Also, at some point, I intend to write a similar post to hers on soundtracking: since I don't have enough music for the Naked series, I'll ask: what do we want to see? Sundown, Inc. the album? Sophie Green, the album? Almost Human? Speak up, my lovelies.

This is answered from the point of view of Laura, the heroine of Naked Eyes.

I am: Laura Kincaid, cabin crew with Zephyr Airlines.
I want: To get my newly acquired Second Sight under control. These visions are damaging my calm.

I wish: I could control the Sight and look into the future when I want, not when it wants.
I hate: Ghosts turning up and scaring the crap out of me.
I miss: The old ignorance I used to live in.

I fear: I'm going crazy.

I hear: Voices.

I wonder: How the hell I ended up being able to see ghosts and visions.
I regret: I'm not sure I do.
I am not: Psychic. I'm just...intuitive.
I dance: Only when no one can see me.
I sing: In the shower, or else people's ears bleed.
I cry: When things are sad. When I think about pets who've died. When I'm tired and frustrated. When my heart is broken.

I am not always: Particularly coherent, especially when a vision has shaken me about like a dog's bone.

I made: a mess of things with Jack.
I write: Postcards, and that's about it.

I confuse: Passengers, especially when I know what they're going to say before they say it.

I need: Some time off.

I should: Go and see a doctor. Or a psychiatrist. Or a priest.

I start: Trying to explain this new power to myself, and then run out of ideas.
I finish: Every chocolate bar I'm given.
I tag: the Great Escape Artists.

Update

Tinker died last night. From how cold and stiff he is, I'd say it wasn't long after we went to bed. See, he's a good lad, saving us the trauma (not to mention expense) of a vet trip. I didn't really want to take this pathetic bundle up there and sit in the waiting room surrounded by healthy fluffy cats who just need their claws clipping.

One more thing. When I carefully laid him down on the floor, he was mostly on one side with his paws tucked under him. This morning, he's spreadeagled, like a tiger rug. Quite apart from the fact that he'll never fit into a neat box to be buried, he looks really ridiculous. But that's my Tinkerbell, always making me laugh.

Tinker, ma belle

Or Tinker Mabel as my mother calls him. He's still with us, just. Looks like he's going to hang on. If he's still here tomorrow morning, we're taking him to the vet. Not fair to let him be like that.

Just an update.

End of an era

When I was five, our old dog Jenny died. I cried for ten broken-hearted minutes, then realised that without the cat-hating terrier, my parents would finally have to make good on their promise to get me a kitten. I don't know where this obsession with cats came from, but it's been there since I was old enough to speak coherent one-syllable words. It's still there. Every birthday, at least half of my cards and presents are cat-themed.

Anyway. After a suitable greiving period, we picked up two adorable little black and white kittens, a pair of girls called Tinkerbell and Willow (come on, I was six. My brother wanted to call her Princess Willow). After the first trip to the vets, however, we discovered that Tinkerbell was actually a boy...biologically, anyway. He was never large with the butch. Officially shortened to Tinker, he remained a sweet, affectionate, delicate and entirely cowardly little cat. And a definite fairy. Most of the time, I call him Tinkerbell anyway.

Four years later we adopted a new baby, a manic ginger furball called Meu, who was adored by everybody. Clearly, 1992 was a good year for animals, since we also acquired Honey, the most gorgeous, flirtatious, adoring dog there ever was. A year later, we added tiny, terrified Candy to the family, an abused tabby kitten so highly strung that even after years of affection she still ran like crazy if one of us made a sudden movement.

But all good things come to an end. I used to count off the years on my hands and think that in the far-off days when I would be in my twenties, it would be time to start saying goodbye to these animals. It started three years ago when my beautiful, queen-like Meu suddenly had to be put down after thrombosis got the better of her. A shock, not least because she was only eleven, which is mid-sixties in human terms.

I prepared myself for Tinker and Willow to go next. But it was Honey who had a heart attack last summer and scared us all to death. So engrossed were we with her that it was with some shock that we realised our odd duck Willow, the Amazing Quacking Cat, had deteriorated badly over the course of the summer. She died of cancer in September, aged seventeen, in my arms on the way to the vet to be put down.

When, five months later, Candy stopped running away from every loud noise or quick movement, my heart sank. I wanted the vet to tell me it was something else, something requiring expensive medication and frequent trips to the surgery for astronomical blood tests, but of course it wasn't. It was cancer too, and in an almost identical fashion to Willow, my tiny tabby died shortly after, at home. She was less than thirteen.

From five down to two, and both Honey and Tinker showed signs of slowing down. Since his litter-mate died, he'd been confused, but it was after Candy stopped following him everywhere, slavishly adoring, that poor Tinker really started to look hurt and confused. And old. Like Gus the Theatre Cat, his coat became shabby, he was thin as a rake. The vet took a blood sample and told us that his overactive thyroid was now very underactive, so he ought to be piling on weight. He wasn't. Tumours in his stomach were taking care of that.

While Tinker staggered around like the old man he was, Honey got slower, and slower. She stopped eating. She stopped barking. She just lay around, looking apologetic. For a dog who lived to please her family, she was causing too much trouble to be happy with herself. We eventually called the vet to put her to sleep in the back garden, two days after her fourteenth birthday.

And then there was one. And not for much longer: Tinker woke me this morning lying on my chest, breathing badly and hardly able to lift his head. He's made it downstairs, out into the garden and now back to the kitchen where he's just lying there, looking sad. I don't think he'll see Monday. I'd be surprised if he sees Sunday.

So. Sugar and Spike are tearing around, fluffily beautiful, four and a half months old and the start of a new era. But I'll miss the old one. Four cats and a dog, which I learned to say in Italian and French at school, a phrase I still say now without quite realising, an unchanging situation for ten years. An important ten years. I'm really not a kid any more, because if I was I'd still have my fab five.

Those kittens are going to suffer far more cuddles than they can bear in the next few days.