Sun, 12 Apr 2020 03:58:24 -0700WeeblyThu, 04 Jul 2013 11:39:25 GMThttp://madocleonard.com/blog/leaving-the-room-with-dignity-and-catching-ones-foot-on-the-matThe George Grossmith quote "I left the room with silent dignity but caught my foot on the mat" could end up being my epitaph (I speak metaphorically as I intend to be cremated and have my ashes scattered).
I've had so many Norman Wisdom Moments in my life that I should perhaps have joined the circus and made some money out of my talent.
The first one I remember clearly, although there were doubtless others beforehand, was when demonstrating a dramatic exit (from the house prefects' room at school) and sliding on the Victorian tiles in the hall, landing flat on my back. The housemistress's expression spoke volumes.
There was the occasion when a bus on which I was travelling along the Amalfi coast braked suddenly and I almost shot through the front window; thanks only my fellow passengers, I escaped that fate. That time I was hurrying for a train at Euston and my suitcase got caught at the bottom of the escalator, causing me to demonstrate (involuntarily) a rather splendid move seen at my Pilates studio, of which I didn't think I was capable. My flexibility astonished both myself and sundry passers-by.
Anyway, you get the picture. I haven't yet invested in an ill-fitting trouser suit and peaked cap as worn by the late Sir Norman* and I doubt that I shall ever be revered in Albania (or, indeed, anywhere else) but life does seem to have placed in my way a fair share of banana skins.
As someone so supremely unathletic that Toulouse Lautrec would be likely to best me in a hurdles event, I've suffered all kinds of bruises and sprains, plus concussion and a dislocated knee (the latter is not be recommended to anyone). Call me a physical coward but I've never seen the point of hanging upside down from wall bars, climbing ropes or standing in freezing cold, going blue at the knees and hoping that the hockey/lacrosse ball would not come my way. These things have never been useful to me in life. All I gained was poor circulation and a terror of being upside down.
Primary school sports day wasn't so bad; I was pretty nifty in the three-legged race, the wheelbarrow race and the sack race. In the egg-and-spoon event, I carried "a beautiful egg" as Jeeves might put it. But the NW Moments have not always been physical in any case.
At one time, I began to believe that if anything good did happen to me, then it was only a matter of time before something bad came to cancel it out. Many years ago, one of my Premium Bonds won £50 (back in my younger days, this was a substantial amount and probably would have bought me cocktails and dinner at the Savoy with enough change for a private jet home) but,  just the next day, I went out to my car and discovered that someone had smashed a window; so that £50 was forfeited. That is just one example. The bluebird of happiness (or even average contentment) failed me more times than I can recall, not least in ensuring that when I finally met my soulmate he had only just married for the second time. That one was a doozy.
Maybe it's just a knack - being in the wrong place at the wrong time. On the bright side, one could say that I've made a success out of being a failure.

*Sir Norman Wisdom, 1915-2010, British actor/entertainer, Tony Award nominee, revered in Albania

]]>Mon, 01 Jul 2013 14:25:50 GMThttp://madocleonard.com/blog/where-does-the-time-goAlready we are in July and almost a year has passed since the excitement (to some of us) of the Golden Jubilee and the Olympic Games.

During those months I've published a book, been almost crippled by my weakened knee and subsequent problems with an ankle, had an almost constant bout of flu/cold virus for about 12 weeks and still haven't managed to do anything about refurbishing my flat. Apart from the book, it seems like a complete waste of time (some may say "including the book"!).

Somehow, I have managed to find an artist to do the cover for the final book in The Carmarthen Underground series and write some song lyrics for a video to go with the publication later this year. A very kind man by the name of Iain has composed a theme to go with the lyrics and we have permission from the artist to use some of his other work in the video. The problem is that I have not anywhere near finished the book!

At the moment, I seem to be doing anything other than writing this novel, even though I have several chapters under my belt and a good idea of the ending. Rather than write fiction, I've gone back to my Ancestry site with a vengeance.

I started the site some years ago as I knew nothing about my paternal grandfather who, by all accounts, was a very nice man.
As he died in 1932, when my father was only a small boy, and my grandmother never spoke of him, I felt a great need to find out more. Now, when it's too late, I really wish that I'd discussed him with those few people who knew him and who have died only in the past 15 years or so.

He was born in poverty in Leeds, Yorkshire, in 1890, to a Scottish father and Irish mother. My paternal ancestors came, respectively, from the Scottish borders and from southern County Cork. How my grandfather ended up in Wales, first as a farm labourer, later as a stoker in a gas works then, finally, as a pitworker, is something I wish I could have found out. The census helps a lot but doesn't tell us what happened in the intervening decades.

Visits to Leeds have been more frustrating than enlightening. The place where my grandfather was born has vanished under new roads and buildings, as has the street where my grandfather died (although I'm fortunate to have a picture of his house courtesy of a Leeds history society). My Irish great grandmother, who died at the age of 36 when my grandfather was only 2 years old, was buried at Beckett Street cemetery in a pauper's grave and there's no commemorative stone although I have found the burial location. I know nothing of what my great grandparents looked like and have only one picture of my grandfather.

These days, it seems difficult to stay out of touch with others yet even now so many people slip under the radar, just as they did before the era of mass-communication. History isn't just about the great and good, or about world-changing events; it's about small people, small lives and how they were lived. I would urge everyone to record details of their parents' and grandparents' lives and keep them for the future.

I'm a great believer that it's never too late to start doing something you enjoy, yet I feel great regret that I spent so much time in jobs that I disliked (sometimes hated) and which eventually affected my health. Yes, because I did that, I have a home of my own and I have friends who have made a difference to my life, but there is a lingering belief that I should have been doing something else. Now I'm in a position to write and publish, whether or not anyone cares to read the results, and there is some satisfaction in that, but why do I feel that I've wasted so many years and why does time fly?




]]>Fri, 20 Jan 2012 18:59:02 GMThttp://madocleonard.com/blog/post-title-click-and-type-to-editThe Pram in the Hall (and other distractions)
As someone still at the start of a writing career and struggling to find my feet in what can be as thankless a milieu as the acting profession, I can sympathise with Cyril Connolly's assertion about the pram in the hall although my "sombre enemies" take a different form, not least because I've never had, or wanted, a pram in the hall or anywhere else.
I've no doubt all writers have distractions. While I'm clear that mankind will not be robbed of anything great if I am visited by the equivalent of the man from Porlock (in my case, it's more likely to be the man from UPS wanting to leave a parcel for a neighbour), I sometimes wish that I could relax on a chaise longue, like Barbara Cartland (with her sales too), a secretary at my feet taking down my deathless prose and some invisible person dealing with cleaning out the fridge and getting up at 6am to put out the recyclable elements of my rubbish. I fantasise about being a writer-in-residence but, with my luck, it's less likely to be at The Savoy than at Mrs Miggins Doss House on the Old Kent Road. No, I must face reality, leave aside the Cartland false eyelashes and pink chiffon and just deal with the jumble of irritations that life delivers to us all.

The past twenty eight months have been particularly difficult with both my parents spending time in hospital and both of them becoming frailer in the aftermath of their respective illnesses; in addition, building renovations in Wales have caused a great deal of stress, friction and expense. I've also become increasingly aware of the need for major renovations at my own home but I've been daunted by the scale of the work to be done and the fact that I would have to move out of my home for an extended period. Each time I've thought the worst was over and I could think calmly about practicalities, some new ogre has reared its head and I've found myself in yet another battle.
The short story competition at the West Coast Eisteddfod last year was something new for me; I had never written a proper short story before and my entry "The Last Cottage" was delivered late in the day. I had no hope of winning anything so I was astonished to be awarded first prize. So now everyone can blame the judges at the Eisteddfod for my forthcoming book of short stories - it's all their fault, folks!
Given all the distractions of the past two and a half years or so, I suppose I could be forgiven for having forgotten that I'd started to write a short story just over two years ago. I came across it on my PC while I was looking for something else and struggled to remember even starting it. At last, I recalled that I'd spent a night in Shrewbury on my way home from Wales to London after that Christmas holiday and I'd been struck by the appearance of a woman on the train from Shrewsbury to London. I'd written only a few paragraphs before ordinary life intervened and it became hidden in my documents folder. Now it will be part of the book "Other Stories". I don't know if other writers are so careless as to forget what stories they've written - it would be nice to believe I'm not alone!
Writers have the advantage over actors in this computer age in that they can publish their own works at low cost and publicise them over the internet. For the most part, actors remain at the mercy of directors/producers/casting agents/moneymen; writers can at least get their work into the public domain, even if no one chooses to read it. In between my monthly visits to Wales, where I do my best to be of practical use to my parents, I have managed to organise a cover for the second book in The Carmarthen Underground series, submit the book itself for editing and do any necessary re-writing. I've also been re-writing and polishing the book of short stories, for which I've provided my own cover, and I've started this new website. By no means the output of Alexander McCall Smith (in either quantity or quality), for example, but I don't suppose he does any housework. When would he have the time? If he's not in Edinburgh, he's in the Caymans, Botswana or Australia - I'd feel lucky to get to Pontrhydfendigaid.



]]>Fri, 20 Jan 2012 18:32:46 GMThttp://madocleonard.com/blog/first-post