To volunteer for next year’s event, visit www.worldbooknight.org.

  After that, I’ll be moving on to a much less bookish project: rounding up runners for the next HU5K Run. This takes place on Saturday 14 June on a mostly flat stretch of the Cotswold Way, starting and finishing at Hawkesbury Upton. If you’re interested in taking part, you’ll find full details on the website: www.hu5k.org. Funnily enough, I’ve got quite a few books about running...

  WI Fidelity – Why I’ve Joined the WI

  June 2014

  As we approach the middle of 2014, I’ve been taking stock of my New Year’s Resolutions, one of which was to join the WI (Women’s Institute). I’d been mulling it over for years. I know a lot of ladies who belong, but few are in my immediate social group.

  Until this year, the closest I’d got to joining was to buy an old WI brooch. I collect vintage enamel badges, and this one was a beauty – green, red and gold, bearing the organisation’s original motto: “For Home and Country”. This motto dates back to the year in which the WI was founded, 1915. In wartime conditions, and before women gained the right to vote, any British woman would surely have worn this badge with pride.

  Nearly 100 years on, the WI has switched focus. Its current motto “Inspiring Women” is a great line, implying that its membership includes inspiring women, as well as working to inspire women.

  Until I joined, I didn’t realise just how active and pro-active the WI has become. It’s too easy to dismiss its worth with the jokey shorthand of “Jam and Jerusalem”, as my own experience demonstrates.

  A few Christmases ago, I was all set to add “join WI” to my resolution list when through the letterbox came a little folded card, efficiently announcing the dates for the new year’s meetings. Neatly printed on the back were the words for the hymn ‘Jerusalem’. Much as I love the hymn, which we sung with gusto at every hymn practice in my primary school days, I allowed that resolution to fall off my list, unfulfilled.

  But this year, I set aside my prejudice and joined. I knew that my author friend Sandy Osborne was coming from her home city of Bath to talk to our local group about her Bath-based novel Girl Cop (enjoyable for both men and women, I hasten to add). While visitors are allowed to attend any WI meeting without being obliged to join, I welcomed this prompt to make me sign on the dotted line.

  I’m so glad I did. Joining the WI has been an eye-opener. I encountered a feisty, intelligent crowd with wide-ranging interests, energies and passions, and a refreshing curiosity. Not only is there a new topic for discussion each meeting, often with an engaging speaker from beyond the community, but there are also heaps of other activities throughout the month, from book groups to film clubs to walking parties. If I belonged to no other social group, I could easily fill my diary with stimulating activities purely from the WI. What a great way to make like-minded friends in your neighbourhood.

  There are also opportunities to join other WIs for activities and to contribute to national campaigns. Last meeting included a lively discussion about organ donor policy.

  I’m proud to be a member of the modern WI, which is definitely a force to be reckoned with – and if you don’t believe me, just ask Tony Blair.

  PS We’ve only sung ‘Jerusalem’ once, and nobody’s yet mentioned jam.

  School’s Nearly Out for Summer

  July 2014/August 2014

  It’s nearly time for school to be out for the summer, so why am I downhearted? Because the last day of term will mark the end of an era for me: my little girl will be leaving primary school for ever.

  Really I should be celebrating. Laura has not only had the good fortune to attend an outstanding primary school, and I mean that in the OFSTED* sense, she’s also gained a place at an excellent secondary school. I’ve enjoyed playing an active part in the life of her primary school, serving on the PTA for six years – I got time off for good behaviour this last year. But every parent I know who has children at senior school assures me that life will never be quite the same again.

  With an aversion to change that is typical of her age, Laura is nervous of moving up, though less so with every step she takes towards it – completing SATS, visiting Open Days, planning her new school uniform. I’m sure that, by September, she’ll be eager to embrace the new opportunities that will come her way.

  I know I was when I was her age. Gaining all the trappings of secondary school status was an exciting process, even if it was accompanied by my parents tutting at the expense. The smart new uniform and blazer, shiny leather satchel, a mysterious-looking geometry set in a tin, my own little hardback Oxford dictionary – all these heralded the start of a new adventure.

  Although I don’t remember my final day at primary school, I do recall sobbing as I got on the last school bus from my secondary school. I was living abroad, attending Frankfurt International School in Germany. The school was run on American lines, making much drama of our departure with a university-style graduation ceremony, complete with gowns and mortarboards.

  I was voted “valedictorian”, or class speaker, responsible for making a final address to the assembled parents and staff on behalf of the graduating students. I still have the typescript of my speech, which I’d bashed out on my red portable typewriter (no home computers in those days) and sellotaped onto orange sugar paper. I spoke about how attending an international school fit us better to play our part in the wider world.

  The speech went down well. I remembered to speak slowly and clearly, as per the instructions I’d written to myself in big red letters around the edge; everyone laughed in the right places; and afterwards other people’s parents asked for signed copies, assuring me that I’d be a famous writer before long. Well, we were all saying what each other wanted to hear that day.

  Now, more years later than I care to confess, I’ve just published my very first fiction collection as an Amazon eBook called Quick Change. It contains twenty terse flash fiction pieces, arranged in chronological order by the age of each story’s key characters, from cradle to grave. Pre-publication feedback is encouraging: “Very subtle, very English, very clever”; “Sly, witty, surprising, with genuine twists”; “[the stories] make domesticity look edgy, sometimes dangerous, but they are also life-affirming”. So rather like the Tetbury Advertiser, don’t you think?

  I just hope Laura fulfils her ambitions a little faster than I did upon leaving school.

  A Summer of Two Extremes

  September 2014

  I shall remember this summer break as the holiday of two extremes – scorching, dry sunshine and chill, torrential rain as I flitted from Ithaca to Inverness.

  Our trip to Ithaca was a busman’s holiday for me. I was helping run the Homeric Writers’ Workshop and Retreat, so called because the island was the start and finishing point of perhaps the most famous journey of all: that of Odysseus, as chronicled by the ancient Greek master storyteller, Homer.

  Our Scottish trip was occasioned by my husband’s own odyssey – to climb all 282 Munros, the Scottish mountains of 3,000 feet or more, named after the man who first mapped them.

  On Ithaca, the weather was idyllic: constant sunshine, cornflower-blue skies, refreshing sea breezes, all day, every day. The locals apologised that there were clouds in the sky – tiny Persil-white puffballs, apparently not usually seen between June and September.

  A few days later, when we flew into Inverness to meet my husband (already there in our camper van, with 20 more Munros crossed off his list), steady rain was falling from steely skies. As we headed west for Ullapool, the clouds became more leaden. Linen sundresses, so comfortable on Ithaca, were supplemented with leggings, t-shirts, cardigans, shawls – all at once.

  On Ithaca there are constant reminders to conserve water, always in short supply on this tiny island. In Scotland, there is evidence everywhere of the abundance of local water: high and raging rivers, waterfalls and landslips beside the roads. New flood defences are under construction wherever we go, and not a moment too soon. If there’s ever a global shortage of water, Scotland’s a dead cert for world domination.

  Yet as we retreated southwards, I realised that my two holiday destinations weren’t so different after all, and not just because they both prompted us to haemorrhage money on dubious souvenirs.

  Both have a vast diaspora, thanks to economic migrants driven to North America, Australia, and South Africa by the Highland Clearances in Scotland and by the1953 earthquake in Ithaca.

  Both landscapes are scarred by the ruins of abandoned simple stone houses, surprisingly similar in structure and appearance.

  Both populations departed with a deep love of their homeland imprinted on their hearts. Whenever they can, they return. Australian, American and South African accents abound on Ithaca. In Scotland, 2014 has been declared Homecoming Year to mark the 700th anniversary of the Battle of Bannockburn, at which the Scots trounced the English. (By chance, my husband hails from Bannockburn.)

  I feel privileged to have been able to holiday in places that so many people, all over the world, will always regard as home. Yet I’m also glad to return to the Cotswolds, which, as a small child on holiday there, I resolved I would one day make my home.

  Because as Homer himself once said: “Nothing is sweeter than home”. At least, that’s what it says on my Ithacan souvenir fridge magnet.

  A Month on the Wagon with Go Sober for October

  October 2014

  Earlier this year I reached that magical age when the NHS summons you for a personal MOT, to be repeated every five years, presumably until you’re no longer roadworthy.

  I’m always grateful to the NHS for the wonderful care that my family receives. But any self-respecting woman of – ahem – a certain age will understand my trepidation at the thought of a battery of questions and blood tests, an official weigh-in and a height check. The height test was not a problem: I was confident that I hadn’t gained height. My weight, on the other hand, is precisely 20% more than it was when I was 20.

  A week after the tests, I was called in to review the results with a nurse. My husband despatched me to the surgery with a knowing look, as if expecting me to be sent home with a diet sheet and a registration form for Alcoholics Anonymous. To his surprise, the nurse had only good news to report. I apparently have only a 3.5% risk in the next ten years of a cardiovascular event, a euphemism that makes a heart attack sound like an agreeable trip to the seaside.

  “What about my nightly two glasses of wine?” I enquired. “Isn’t that something I ought to change?”

  “No, you’re borderline, no problem,” the nurse reassured me.

  “And my BMI? I thought it was meant to be less than 25.”

  “No, we only really worry if it’s over 30.”

  Well, that news certainly lowered my blood pressure. (It’s a calm 100/60, if you’re wondering.)

  Her prescription for my future wellbeing: “Go home and treat yourself to a cream cake!”

  Actually, I’m not keen on cream cakes, which is probably just as well, but I don’t want my current state of health to make me complacent. Therefore shortly after my return from my appointment, I searched online for more information about a sponsored health-related campaign to which a friend of mine had alerted me earlier in the week. Raising funds for Macmillan Cancer Support, it’s succinctly called “Go Sober for October”. This isn’t the first time it’s been run, but in previous years I’ve clearly missed the boat – or rather, wagon.

  Just as I was about to sign the pledge, into my email inbox dropped a message from the esteemed editor of this magazine:

  “This month we’ll be celebrating the fortieth anniversary of the Tetbury Advertiser!”

  I’m hoping it won’t go amiss if the glass I raise in its honour will be filled with nothing more than elderflower fizz? Here’s to the good health of the Tetbury Advertiser!

  Why I’m an Embarrassing Parent

  November 2014

  “Mummy, I never gave you my permission to put my picture on the cover of a book!”

  So said my daughter Laura when I showed her the proof copy of my latest book, Coming To Terms With Type 1 Diabetes, to be launched in paperback this month to mark World Diabetes Day (14 November).

  It’s a lovely photo that captured her unawares, looking characteristically dreamy, described by her doting grandpa as “St Laura”.

  Now that Laura’s at secondary school, I’m probably on borrowed time for posting her photos online or for writing about her exploits in public. I’d hate to become an embarrassing parent – to which her retort would probably be “Too late!”

  In this case, however, the serious purpose behind the book justifies the use of her photo, with or without her permission: it’s raising awareness of Type 1 Diabetes and funds for the search for a cure.

  This serious incurable disease affects both Laura and my husband Gordon. Laura was diagnosed at the age of just three. Her diagnosis hit me like a bereavement, and I went through the classic stages of grief, from initial shock and denial to acceptance.

  Determined not to let our family life be dictated by a medical condition, we have learned to move on in positive spirits and live life to the full. I hope that sharing our experience in this book will offer moral support to those in the same situation. It should also help others understand what it’s like to live with Type 1 Diabetes without having to ask potentially embarrassing questions of those who have it.

  Profits from sales of the book will be donated to JDRF, the leading charitable funder of Type 1 Diabetes research. The more funds raised, the closer we are to a cure – which is nowhere near as close as was misreported in the national press last month. Sigh.

  If you’d like to come to the launch event, join me at Foyles Bookshop, Cabot Circus in Bristol, on 13 November from 6–7.30pm for an entertaining evening. Special guests include Paul Coker, who has just climbed Mount Kilimanjaro for JDRF to prove that having Type 1 doesn’t stop you doing anything, and research scientist Dr Kathleen Gillespie, who will be telling us why good cooks make good lab researchers, and vice versa. That could add a whole new twist to the Great British Bake Off.

  Christmas Surprises

  December 2014/January 2015

  Although we put so much effort into planning our festive celebrations, I often find the highlights of my Christmas are the moments that take me by surprise.

  One such occasion occurred when I was a child, growing up in an outer suburb of London. When I was about 11, the age my daughter is now, I was for the first time considered old enough to go to the midnight church service on Christmas Eve. We weren’t a particularly religious family, but the small, plain church in our garden suburb had special significance for us. My parents had married there, we children had been christened there, my grandfather was its choirmaster, and the small, rotund, gentle-mannered vicar, Mr Daniels, was a family friend.

  The night was grey and drizzly as we entered the church, which seemed bright, warm and welcoming after our chilly walk from home. Though battling to stay awake, I enjoyed the service. I was especially impressed by the colourful model crib, but the most memorable moment was yet to come. When Mr Daniels threw open the heavy porch door for the congregation to leave, the churchyard before us lay covered in a perfect blanket of snow. Illuminated by the orange glow of street lamps, big flakes fell steadily as we gazed in wonder, never having guessed that the weather could change so much during the church service.

  Yes, I know it didn’t really snow in Bethlehem, but that snowfall felt like a special Christmas blessing: deep and crisp and even, snow on snow. You have to admire God’s timing.

  After serendipitous delights like this, I’m happy to leave much of my Christmas preparation to chance. An incurable last-minute merchant in any case, I know that nothing I could plan would ever surpass the wonder of the snowy walk home from church all those years ago.

  My love of festive surprises influenced my latest book Stocking Fillers, a collection of twelve humorous short stories about the festive season. Each tale follows a different character as they prepare for Christmas, from a small boy who tries to give Santa time management lessons to an old lady celebrating what’s likely to be her last Christmas. Though not all the characters are loveable, I hope you’ll find them entertaining and memorable.

  But you don’t have to take my word for it. Just before writing this column, I received a lovely surprise – the first official review of the book, which describes it as follows:

  “A delightful celebration of all things Christmas, Stocking Fillers features 12 funny, thoughtful, surprising and heart-warming tales that will get you in the festive spirit. Debbie Young’s writing is thoroughly engaging. If you’re looking to put some of the magic back into Christmas, and rediscover the reason for the season, start by treating yourself to this lovely read.”

  Well, that surprise has made my Christmas already.

  I wish you a very Merry Christmas, and may it be filled with wonder and surprises of your own.

  Putting the Up in Sidcup

  February 2015

  When I first visited the Cotswolds decades ago, I would have been one of ‘those tourists’. Now that I’ve lived here for nearly a quarter of a century, a refugee from London suburbia, I realise the area is not as static as it looks. Edge-of-town superstores have effected a sea-change, while high streets evolve less perceptibly but just as unstoppably. I can’t even remember now what preceded Tetbury’s Tardis-like Yellow-Lighted Bookshop (was it the bike shop?), which feels and looks, in the nicest possible way, as if it’s been there forever, and I’m glad that it is there. The same goes for Hobbs House Bakery.

  While some changes will always be more welcome than others, it’s natural to be sceptical and even fearful if too much changes too fast, even though change often brings fresh blood, new ideas and younger populations to keep cherished traditions and old institutions alive.

 

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