Everyone’s a Critic! My Top 10 Movies For Romantics

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Over the years I’ve seen dozens of top 10 movie lists, very few of which I agree with. So, here is my list of recommendations for the hopeless romantic: I know most of them are black and white and made long before, even I, was alive but I can’t think of any recent love stories that moved me to shed a single tear whereas all these are guaranteed weepies. 

Casablanca

Do I really need to describe the most quoted movie of all time? Rick: I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue;  If she can stand it, I can! Play it!; We’ll always have Paris. Inspector Renault: Round up the usual suspects; I’m shocked… shocked to find that gambling is going on in there;  I was informed that you were the most beautiful woman ever to visit Casablanca. That was a gross understatement. Ilsa: Nobody plays As Time Goes By like Sam; Kiss me, kiss me as if it were for the last time!; Was that cannon fire or is it my heart pounding?

I Know Where I’m Going

The strong-willed heroine, Wendy Hiller, knows exactly where she’s going until she meets a charming naval officer, Roger Livesey, while on her way to marry a millionaire on a tiny Scottish island. This film has a magical, mysterious quality, all grey Highland mists and rugged moors.

Laura

Laura has been murdered and the young detective in charge of the case for whom women are just dolls and dames falls in love with her exquisite memory. He never expects to meet a girl like her alive until one rainy night a girl walks in.

Roman Holiday

Lovely young Audrey Hepburn is a princess, handsome Gregory Peck a hardened newspaper man. She wants a day off from being royal and he sees a chance for the biggest scoop of his career. But she is just too adorable, he has to fall in love.

Now Voyager

Old maid, Bette Davis, has a nervous breakdown brought on by her bullying mother. On the advice of her psychiatrist she takes a cruise and meets handsome, charming, married Paul Henreid. Most famous line: Oh Jerry, don’t ask for the moon, we have the stars!

When Harry Met Sally

The gradual growth of love from friendship. It happens more often than you think. The triumph here is making it romantic, not mundane. New York never looked better and Harry Connick Jr’s music is brilliant.

A Man And A Woman

An almost forgotten French film starring Anouk Aimee and Jean-Louis Trintignant. A young widow meets a handsome widower by chance at their children’s school. They fall in love but can’t let go of their memories. A touching, beautiful film. The DVD seems very expensive but perhaps it’s downloadable or rentable somewhere.

The Captive Heart

Michael Redgrave escapes from a concentration camp. If he is captured by the SS he will be executed. While on the run he finds the body of a British officer and steals his identity so that he is sent to a POW camp where the conditions are harsh but the prisoners are fed and treated reasonably well. In order to keep up the deception he is forced to write to the dead man’s wife as though he were her husband. She, who was on the verge of leaving him, falls in love all over again with the man she thinks is her husband. The love story is beautiful but it’s also a cracking good POW film.

The Scarlet Pimpernel

Sir Percy Blakeney is a fop who cares more for the set of his coat than for his lovely wife. Or so she thinks. But Leslie Howard is so fine an actor that the merest glance from under Sir Percy’s weary lids, reveal to us the passionate love and desire he keeps suppressed so that no one will guess his true identity as the dashing leader of a band of young men snatching French aristocrats  from the guillotine. There have been many versions of The Scarlet Pimpernel but no one comes close to Leslie Howard.

Portrait of Jenny

This one definitely has to be approached on its own terms as, in our cynical times, the story of a man waiting for a magical child to grow up, then falling in love with her, has unfortunate connotations. But it’s obvious that nothing unsavory is meant or thought of. Joseph Cotten is an artist, down on his luck and starving. One night he meets a beautiful child in Central Park. He makes a sketch of her and later it is bought by an art dealer, his first sale. He goes back in hope of meeting her again so he can do a full portrait. He does meet her again several times but each time she is mysteriously older until at last she is an adult and he falls in love. The only DVD I could find was on the UK site but perhaps it’s downloadable.

 

Delia on Vampires

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Delia 6Delia on Vampires was first performed at the Hard Rock Cafe, London, on Halloween. One evening during rehearsals, our director’s husband had been kept late at work and had failed to pick up their two little girls, then 10 and 8 and so she had to bring them with her to the rehearsal room. I didn’t feel very comfortable performing this particular speech in front of two children and so I waited until, I believed, they were out of the room before rehearsing my monologue. We worked on it for about thirty minutes and then she suggested we do a run through without stopping. I had just come to the line Thirdly, remember the vampire’s fangs represent the penis. Well, two penises actually…. and had paused dramatically, after the vampire’s fangs represent the penis. To my absolute horror, two little voices came out from under the director’s table chorusing “Well, two penises actually.”

Delia on Vampires

Hello again romance fans. My name is Delia Darling and I’m delighted to welcome you to my blog How to Write a Romance Novel.

As we have seen the Romance novel can be subdivided into various romantic genres. We have the Regency, the Hospital, the Shopping. But nowadays these are not enough. Publishers expect blood, violence, sadistic sex and not just at the office. The novelist is under pressure as never before. How to quench this thirst for blood? The answer is, of course, the Vampire!  

Your vampire hero must be of aristocratic lineage and European descent. I’m afraid American vampire heroes are rarely successful despite recent attempts. On the other hand Americans make excellent werewolves, perhaps because they require so little transformation.

Now, how do we convince women who swoon at the prospect of a flu shot that the fangs of the vampyre represent the culmination of all their sensual longings?

Well first of all of course he must be beautiful. Ugly vampires, one cannot help feeling, would be staked pretty sharpish! Just my little joke. Do remember however, that you are describing the living dead. “In the glimmering moonlight, his chiselled cheekbones slashed across his face like blades, and above them his eyes gleamed with a savage hunger, belied by the sensitive curve of his full, pale lips.”

Secondly the setting must be sumptuously romantic. Your cowboy hero may get away with making love in the back of a rusty pick-up but the vampire lover requires ambience. “A nightingale hymned the stars as she sped lightly down the steps to the moonlit rose-garden where her dark master awaited her.”

Thirdly, remember the vampire’s fangs represent the penis. Well, two penises actually, and the heroine’s ladyparts are, of course, in her neck. Your language must reflect this. “As his fangs slid like silk into her tumescent, quivering flesh she was carried on a wave of desire to the very pinnacle of rapture.”

Now there may be some of you who, for religious or spiritual reasons, have difficulty with the concept of the vampire as hero. If so I strongly recommend that you purchase my new book entitled Religion and Romance: what is the Missionary’s Position?

Happy 80th Birthday Auntie Hazel

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Actually she asked me to call her Hazel years ago, as she said being called auntie by a middle-aged woman made her feel old. So, Hazel is 80 today. She is not, I’m sorry to say, in good health. In fact making it to 80 has been an achievement. I love her, bluntest of blunt, no-nonsense Northerner that she is, although I still smart from some of her, perfectly justified, comments over the years. And this day has set me remembering not just Hazel but my grandparents and my own full-of-nonsense Mum, her elder sister.

What a good looking pair they were. How smart was Mum in her ration-book suits and perky little hats; how sophisticated with her Hollywood glamour make-up and Vogue model poses. How did she manage this soignée appearance dressing every morning for work  in the tiny, shared bedroom of a dingy little mill cottage? Hazel, nine years younger, had long golden ringlets then, Grandma used to wind her hair in rags every night. She had big eyes and rosy, pinchable cheeks.  She was the naughty one, the spoiled child, although they had precious little to spoil her with.

At the beginning of the War there was a plan to evacuate them both to the United States. Their passage was booked, they may even have been packed, but then a ship carrying evacuated children was torpedoed in the Atlantic and Grandma decided they were just as safe at home.

Mum was doing essential war work, as secretary in a firm that made motor parts. She would have liked to join the Wrens but Grandma said no. Grandma was a strong willed lady and what she said was law. Fortunately, she was also kind, sensible and humorous so her decisions were probably for the best.

Mum joined the Civil Defense Messenger Service instead, and as the only girl in a group of twenty young men, all either in essential war work, unfit or waiting for their call-up, she had a very good war. She said she became a champion table tennis player as that was how they put in the long hours of boredom between bouts of frantic activity when the bombers came over. Grandad was a Fire Warden. Mum remembered him throwing sandbags on the fire bombs and jumping on them to put the fire out. One night he called them all out into the street which was on a rise overlooking the greater part of central Manchester. ‘You’ll never see a sight like this again’ he told them. They looked out and saw the whole city ablaze.

But this should be Hazel’s story. She was a part of the first generation of women who always worked despite marriage and children and she had a long and honourable career while bringing up my cousin, the apple of her eye. She married Bill, a man the song ‘Just My Bill’ could have been written for. You might indeed meet ‘him in the street and never notice him.’ But I will always remember Hazel’s words ‘He’s made my life wonderful, that man.’ Sadly Uncle Bill has gone on before her; I have no doubt he is waiting with all his customary patience for Hazel to join him, but not just yet.

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Hazel’s wedding (me with my fingers in my mouth)

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My Mum

Merry Masquerade is on Sale!

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Merry Masquarade 5.5x8.5inch2Most books sell well in the first few weeks and then there’s a drop off. In the world of traditional publishing, these books are remaindered, pulped and never seen again except in charity shops. But, the wonderful thing about e-books is that they hang around for, as far as we know, all eternity. So it’s possible to give them a new lease of life.

Merry Masquerade will, therefore, be on sale for a month, 99cents in the US, 77p in the UK and a corresponding reduction on all other Amazon sites.

Merry Masquerade is as frothy as a glass of champagne, as frivolous as a pink parasol and as sexy as Victoria’s Secret underwear. My heroine, Clarissa,  is feisty, funny and knows exactly what she wants. And what she wants is Robin, handsome, wicked, down-on-his luck and madly in lust.

Masquerading as maidservant, Rose, to escape an odious suitor, she allows Robin and his eccentric aunt to teach her to speak, eat, dress and dance like a lady, all things she knows as well, if not better, than they do.  She drinks from finger bowls, trips up her partner in the waltz and drives her poor mentors insane with her sudden and always inconvenient lapses into a broad Devonshire accent.

But the odious suitor is in pursuit and things become a little darker and a little more dangerous for the lovers. Should Clarissa trust Robin to keep her safe?

Amazon.co.uk Merry Masquerade (A Regency Masquerade)

Amazon.com Merry Masquerade (A Regency Masquerade)

 

Coping with Tube Strikes? Try a Little Georgette Heyer

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Oh the bliss of being retired from the business world and in particular from commuting. A couple of years ago I would be among the heaving masses attempting to enter overflowing trains and buses, feeling the blood pressure rise, the temper flare, the hatred of all humanity – well you get my drift. I commuted for three hours a day in and out of the City for nearly twenty years. Before that I commuted on the Los Angeles freeway for ten years. I paid for it with the aforesaid high blood pressure. But one strategy kept me sane. I read and as soon as the technology was available I listened to audio books.

I have a fairly large library of audio books, many of them Georgette Heyers. Nothing wafts you away from a hot, sticky train journey like a dip into the Regency. There are some I won’t buy, however, either because the narrator just doesn’t have the right voice for me or because the works are abridged. How can you abridge Heyer when every word is golden? 

I enjoy Cornelius Garrett’s Reluctant Widow and Clifford Norgate’s Frederica but I really feel that, for Heyer, the narrator’s voice ought to be a woman. And of all the narrators the best by a huge distance is Phyllida Nash. For me, she is perfect. Every nuance, every sentence is just as I have heard it in my head for years. Her comic characters are wonderful, for example Lord Dolphington and Lady Legerwood  in Cotillion and Sir Bonomy Ripple in False Colours are skillfully and effortlessly brought to life. She even makes A Civil Contract, my least favourite Heyer, enjoyable.

Other much loved audio books, with brilliant narrators are: Middlemarch narrated by Maureen O’Brien; Jane Eyre narrated by Juliet Stevenson, King Solomen’s Mines narrated by Toby Stephens and anything at all narrated by velvet voiced Michael Jayston.

So don’t let the strikes get you down, just close your eyes, plug into another world and feel the stress drain away. It works.


 
Amazon.co.uk Cotillion audio 

Amazon.com Cotillion by Georgette Heyer Unabridged CD Audiobook

 

More on the Mermaids

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 I’m getting on with the sequel quite rapidly, 35,000 words as of today. I’ve been writing more Merfolk love songs;  this for example, which is supposed to be the work of their new bard:

My soul is thine as thine is mine 
Thy love is mine as mine is thine
Our hearts as one inside each breast
Our lips to touch, our heads to rest
Together, in the night we lie
I and my love, my soul and I

Maybe someday I might publish a slim, very slim, volume of mer-poetry. I’ve got quite a selection already.

The Lovely Couple

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This is a monologue I wrote for myself but never actually performed. I was going to be a nice woman who ran a posh restaurant and told stories about her favourite (or least favourite) guests. I wonder if it’s worth turning into a short story?

The Lovely Couple

 Restaurant

They first came into my restaurant about six months ago, this lovely couple.  She was tiny and delicate with big, brown eyes and he was just the opposite, big and blonde and athletic.  It was easy to see it was their first date.  They talked in eager little spurts with long silences in between.  Then they both started talking at once and laughed and said “go on”, “no please you go on”.  The young man spent ages discussing the wine with Jean-Claude and when Jean-Claude poured some for him to taste he swirled it around the glass, sniffed it, sipped it and rolled it on his tongue.  I could see the girl was very impressed.  Well it was good wine, my sommelier knows his business, but I honestly don’t think that young man would have had a clue if it had been Plonk du Village avec antifreeze.  Jean-Claude and I had a little bit of a laugh about it but we liked him for it really.  The girl didn’t even taste it!   They both ordered the Salade Tournaisienne to start and then he had the Paillardes de Poulet à la Créole and she had the vegetarian.  When I offered them the dessert menu I could tell she was dying to have one but she turned it down.  Girls always do on a first date.  They don’t want the man to think they might put on weight. 

We didn’t see them again for about two weeks.  I could see straight away that things had changed.  They were really in love now.  They spoke less but their eyes said more.  He held her hand across the table for most of the evening and didn’t even bother to taste the wine.   He ordered the blanquette de veau aux pamplemousses and she had the veggie again.  But she ordered the Torte de truffes au chocolat avec mousse de champagne for dessert and fed little tastes of it to him from her spoon.  At one point he leaned across the table and kissed a little bit of chocolate off her lips.   They left very soon after that. 

The next time they came in was to celebrate their engagement.  She was glowing with happiness and kept holding her hand out so the diamond on her finger sparkled.   I thought about sending them a complimentary bottle of Moet & Chandon but then I remembered she didn’t drink alcohol.   They started with my risotto de truffes blanc, then he had the lapin aux poireaux and she had the veggie, for a change!  They both ordered the soufflé au citron which takes ages so I sent over some coffees while they were waiting.  She thanked me very nicely.  

We were very busy over Christmas so I’m not sure if they were in at all over the holidays.  But I do remember one Friday in early spring.  They came in with a much older couple.  I should think they were his mum and dad because the man was big and blonde like our young man.  No one spoke much and when they did they were very frosty.  I saw our girl wipe her eyes with a tissue when she thought no one was looking.  They ordered the set menu but no one ate anything much.  After dinner the young man gulped down a 1952 Armagnac in one go and asked for another.  Our girl just sat quietly kneading a bit of candle wax over and over in her fingers. 

So I wasn’t really surprised when, a few weeks later, the girl came in with another man.  She looked embarrassed and I think she tried to persuade him to take her somewhere else because they had a bit of an argument outside on the pavement.    When she came in she said hello to me and I noticed at once that there was no ring on her finger anymore.  I gave her a hug and Jean-Claude kissed her on both cheeks.  Her new man looked surprised and angry.  I suppose he wanted to impress her and it was a bit annoying that we all knew her so well and made such a fuss of her.   Well, I can’t say I took to him.  He was rude to my waiters and argued over the bill.  Honestly, everyone adds an optional service charge these days!    He doesn’t have to pay it if he doesn’t want to.  That’s why it’s called optional!  Anyway, just as they were starting their entrées I noticed our young man walking past the window and he stopped and stared through the glass at her like he’d seen a ghost.   I will never forget the look in that poor young man’s eyes as long as I live.  Well she looked up and saw him and went as white as a sheet.  I thought she was going to faint.  But the man she was with just went on gobbling down his steak and pomme frites and didn’t notice a thing.

I had to be away from the restaurant for a few weeks soon after that.  My mum wasn’t very well.   It was her heart.  In the end they couldn’t save her.   And then there was only me to make the funeral arrangements because really it had been just the two of us for so long.  Yes it was very difficult to let her go but you don’t want them to linger when they’re suffering do you? 

Last night our young man came in by himself.  I was so upset.  It all happened while my mum was so ill and I hadn’t been reading the papers or watching the news or anything so it was a complete shock to me.  You see, our young man had been on a bus when a bomb went off.  He was a real hero.  He was helping some other injured passengers to escape when the second bomb went off.   Oh he looked a mess.  His lovely face was all scarred and one of his legs was gone.  The empty trouser leg was pinned up with a safety pin like they do. 

I didn’t know what to say.  Well you don’t do you?  Anyway I gave him his usual table and he and Jean-Claude had a good long talk about the wine. I was just taking his food order when suddenly the door just flew open and she came running in.   He looked up, shocked, and she just stood looking at him for a moment with the tears pouring down her face.  Then she ran to him, knelt down by the side of his wheelchair and laid her cheek on his one knee.   His hand was shaking when he reached down and softly touched the hijab that covered her long black hair.  He said “Don’t cry Jamila, I’m all right.”  And then I started to cry and Jean-Claude got teary and the other guests were on their feet applauding and cheering. 

I don’t think anyone ordered anything else to eat all night but we did a roaring trade in champagne.  The whole restaurant rejoiced with them because, if there is one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that you have to grab what joy you can in this life and they really are such a lovely couple.

 

 

 

 

Delia’s Thoughts on the Importance of Hair Colour

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Delia 6More helpful advice from Delia Darling on how to write a romance novel:

Hello romance fans.  Our topic for today will be the importance of hair colour in characterization.  Now I know what you are thinking.  I really do.  You are thinking what a silly old bat I am.  But believe me, if you ignore the vital importance of hair colour you are simply making a rod for your own back! 

Let’s talk about our red-headed heroine first.  She can be flame haired, auburn, or strawberry blonde, all perfectly acceptable.  Temperamentally she is feisty, argumentative and stubborn.  She may suspect the hero of seducing her sister or bankrupting her father. Heroines often suspect heroes of this kind of thing on the flimsiest evidence, or indeed no evidence at all. Heroines, of course, are frequently blonde but they are not BLONDES.  Blondes in romance novels are not dumb.  On the contrary, your blonde heroine is cool, intelligent and professional.  She looks good in business suits.  She is ice over fire and only the hero can melt her with his smooth, deep, velvety voice and flexible, skilful fingers (sorry, got lost in the moment there.) And last but not least the brunette heroine.  Always remember, brunettes are good girls.  They may be vivacious, they may be spirited, but when it gets right down to it they’d rather be baking an apple pie than having sex. 

To turn to our hero. As a beginner, you really can’t go wrong with the classic, tall, dark and handsome hero.   He is just so versatile.  He can be an Italian Count, a Russian Prince, an American billionaire or a concert pianist.  He rarely wears anything but perfectly cut suits or riding clothes.  His eyes are dark and gleam sardonically under their heavy lids, or blaze with passion when he takes the heroine in his strong arms and tenderly smoothes the flimsy fabric from her quivering thighs. Now don’t for goodness sake be tempted to make your hero ginger.  I’m sure we all personally know red headed men who are sexy as hell and charming to boot but the fatal flaw of the ginger haired man is …?  That’s right, no tan. You could just about get away with it if he were a Laird in the Highlands where it pours down constantly anyway, especially if he wore a green kilt, but on the whole you simply shouldn’t go there.   Blonde men must be tanned, and, of course, muscular.  They are ideal for surfer types, cowboys, or at a pinch, archaeologists.  Whatever he does for a living he spends most of his time in nothing but a pair of skintight blue jeans, which leave our heroine in no doubt whatsoever that, he is very, very pleased to see her.   He is honest, open and has a boyish grin.  He breathes the air of the wide-open spaces and sweat gleams on his smooth, brown, muscular chest. This type is extremely popular in Europe, where we have very few blonde, tanned muscular men with perfect teeth.   Except in Sweden, but strangely, I’ve never read a romance novel with a Swedish hero, I can’t think why.

This is all very well, you are saying, but how does this help me create drama, conflict, romance?  Oh ye of little faith!  How could you have more drama than by pairing your dark sardonic hero with a feisty red-headed heroine?  Or by taming your blonde, outdoorsy, charmer with a sprightly little brunette.  It really couldn’t be easier could it? 

I’m now going to set a little homework.  Re-write the first chapter of Gone with the Wind with Scarlett as a red-head, Rhett as a blonde and Ashley as a brunette.  Let’s see what happens shall we?

Back with the Mermaids

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Oh joy! I am finally treating myself to a vacation from the Regency and hanging out with the Clanfolk under the ocean.  I’m 22,000 words into Swept Away, the sequel to Tides of Fire, the Rebellion, and at the moment my merfolk are engaged in the mer equivalent of the Olympic Games.  At the same time they are holding a kind of Eisteddfod to find a new poet. This is where it gets interesting. The Clanfolk are very into poetry. But they’ve lost their best poet. So I have to come up with poetry that is supposed to be good i.e. written by their great bard, and also poetry that is supposed to be bad, written by their wannabes.  My problem is – what if my readers don’t see any difference between my good poetry and my bad poetry?

striped-grunt-fish_392_600x450I hate sequels that put the characters you’ve grown to love in the background to bring on new heroes and heroines so I am continuing all the main characters’ storylines. But I have introduced a lovely new male lead, the bastard son of the old Kiakhu king by a Leahtu slave. He has suffered all his life, accepted by neither clan, used by his evil father as a – well I don’t want to spoil the plot. He is beautiful (obviously), but cold and passionless until he meets – nope not going to spoil that one either!

I’ve broken up one established couple (with tears in my eyes), and I’m thinking who to kill off next without annoying too many readers. You just know whoever (whomever?) I kill will be somebody’s favourite character. There’s going to be lots of leaping, lots of fighting, and a whole new tribe of Clanfolk.

See you under the sea, sometime this summer.

 

Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge

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Remember in Gone with the Wind there is a scene where a group of men hide out from the Yankees in Belle Watling’s brothel? Dear old Dr Meade is shocked that Mrs Meade wants to hear every naughty detail. That a respectable woman should be interested or even know what a brothel was! In discussions over the years with many of my friends, I conclude that ‘respectable’ women are fascinated by their fallen sisters and secretly believe that if they should ever take that path they would definitely be in the $10,000 a night class and Charlie Sheen, poor, dear boy, wouldn’t know what hit him!

Having read Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge I suspect that they are right. Eleanor Herman’s book is packed with tasty titbits and centuries-old gossip. For instance, according to Ms Herman, Madame de Pompadour, surely the most famous courtesan in history, absolutely hated sex. In fact sex with Louis was so distasteful that she encouraged him to patronise a private little brothel stocked with handpicked, disease-free, young prostitutes. Can you imagine the conversation? ‘No really darling I don’t mind a bit, not a bit. You just go and have a nice time and then when you’re quite finished, come to my room and we’ll have a cup of chocolate and discuss whether we should go to war with those nasty Prussians again.’

Like many royal mistresses, La Pompadour acted as an unofficial Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer. Whether she was worth the estimated $200,000,000 in today’s money that Louis lavished on her we cannot judge, but she didn’t live long to enjoy it. She died, worn out apparently, at 42.

There are so many funny, tragic, tender anecdotes in this book that a historical romance novelist could pick a plot from any one of its pages. I highly recommend it as a funny and ultimately useful reference for your bookshelves.

Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge

Why must a hero be the Duke of Whatsit?

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Why must the hero of a Regency Romance be the Duke of This, or Lord That? If he is plain Mr Something it has to be made clear that he is fabulously wealthy and related to all manner of nobility. Are we to conclude that all Regency heroines are mercenary social-climbers?

Lyme HallAbout 20 years ago when I was working, briefly, at a boarding school for girls, I entered into a discussion with a very intelligent sophomore regarding just when Elizabeth Bennet falls in love with Darcy. I answered that I thought Elizabeth was speaking the literal truth when she says ‘I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.’ ‘Oh Mrs Lester how can you!’ responded my romantic little friend, inconsolable.

My point is not that Elizabeth does not sincerely love Darcy, but that she fell in love with him when she saw him in his correct setting. When she first met him he was just a handsome but disagreeable young man. He was out-of-context. But at Pemberley she sees the whole package. He is a landowner, a man with responsibilities which he honours. He is an adored master, a loving brother, a just employer. Pemberley is what makes Darcy – Mr Darcy.

I have no doubt that if Mr Darcy lost all his money on ‘Change, Elizabeth would loyally and lovingly go to live with him in Debtors’ Prison, but I’d bet my bottom dollar that it was Pemberley that sealed the deal.

 

 

A Weekend Away

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We spent a lovely weekend in Nurnberg to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Can it be 35 years ago that I sat beside my father on the way to church in a golden Rolls Royce and listened to his technical discussion with the driver about the damn thing’s engine? You would have thought that for one day he could have forgotten about his beloved cars and concentrated on me! Well, it was the only time he ever rode in a Rolls, bless him, so I forgive him.

Ipad photos 122We stayed at the Grand Hotel in Nurnberg, which really is grand. They gave us a bottle of champagne when they found out it was our anniversary, which I thought was pretty classy. Then we had dinner at Aumers le Vie, a restaurant new to us and a real find (for us, I mean. I think it’s quite famous). I’m not a food snob. If there were Michelin stars for greasy spoons I’d give Dave’s Diner in Battersea, London, 3 stars with enthusiasm. But if I’m dining, as opposed to eating, I want a chef who is an artist and who surprises me. We opted for a la carte because the set menu was rather fish heavy and I can’t eat fish. There were a couple of surprises from the kitchen to start which were delicious as well as a generous basket of different breads served with butter, olive oil and sea salt.

Vegetarians, look away now! We had quail breast to start, a few tiny but delicious bites with crisp little vegetables. Then came the soup. Wow! this was soup on a whole different level. On the menu it was simply described as rabbit broth with ground almonds. What we got was a delicate glass globe on a driftwood stand. Flaked, not ground, almonds had been swirled inside. Then the waiter poured about a cup of intense, steaming bouillon into the globe at the table. This could have been the highpoint but then we had a medley of suckling pig, perfectly roasted with crackling, and rib meat rolled into a kind of sausage with a delicate barbeque sauce. For dessert my other half chose cheese. He always does but I think it’s a boring option. Cheese is cheese and although in a restaurant of this quality you know it will be the best of its kind, it is still just cheese! Now I had a tiny roasted apple on a sourdough base with a froth of something white and creamy, but it wasn’t cream and….drumroll….fennel ice cream. Yup, fennel. No, I wouldn’t have thought it either but it was amazing.

Breakfast at the Grand was included with the room, as was parking and internet access. The breakfast was very good with the usual cheese, meat and fruit as well as various pastries, hot, freshly prepared, egg dishes and pancakes with maple syrup. Complementary champagne also, but frankly, we couldn’t face any more.

We arrived home to sunshine and lunched at our favourite beer keller on top of a mountain. 

I have a theory that life is a necklace of beads on which you occasionally have to string a pearl. This weekend was a ‘pearl of great price.’

Baking in My Genes (or Jeans)

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My mother always made her own bread and my grandmother supported the family throughout the depression, when my darling granddad couldn’t get a job, by baking bread for the neighbours. She was famous too for her pastry which was, so my mother said, light as a feather. Mine always came out tough and leathery until I started cheating and making the dough in the food processor. Mum said it was because my hands were too warm. Good pastry requires icy hands.

Since I gave up the day job and moved to Bavaria I have begun to experiment with baking my own bread. In a region famous for its amazing range of delicious breads this might appear to be a superfluous activity but I find it very soothing and the smell of baking bread gives me a sense of continuity with my mother, my grandmother and all the great, great grandmothers who baked their bread and raised their families in their two-up-two-down mill-cottages amidst the grime and smoke of Manchester in the Industrial Revolution.

Ipad photos 121

I use a basic bread recipe that I found on realbreadcampaign, just strong bread flour, fresh yeast, salt and water. As an enthusiastic advocate of the less sugar, more fat regime I was pleased that the bakers on this site recommend you omit the sugar saying “the yeast will convert starch in the flour to sugars to feed on.”

As with all recipes, careful weighing and use of the best ingredients seems to be the key to success. The only adjustment I have to make is to baking times as my oven is unreliable.

The bread is done when you knock it on the bottom with your knuckle and it sounds hollow. A most satisfying sound.

Delia’s Thoughts on Heroines

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Delia 6Delia Darling was born one evening in rehearsal for Over Here Theater Company’s new sketch show Channel 53. I was entertaining the company with stories about the very specific guidelines issued by Harliquin, Mills & Boon etc. for their various lines, and our director said “Do it! Make it into a sketch.” I did, several times, and Delia’s little lectures soon became popular with our audiences.
 
 
Although this is meant to raise a smile, it is also quite good advice for anyone who wants to write romance (as opposed to 50 Shades of Bondage). Notice how often the vertical/horizontal rule is followed in films and TV. Even in raunchy, violent Strikeback (love , love, love Philip Winchester as Sgt. Stonebridge!) bad girls get a quickie against a wall, a potential love interest is always on a bed.
 
Here is Delia on heroines:
 
Hello romance fans.  My name is Delia Darling and I am delighted to welcome you to my blog, How to Write a Romance Novel. Over the past few weeks we have spent a good deal of time discussing our hero. His past; his status; his hair colour. But tonight I want you to turn your attention to the other half of the romantic equation – the heroine.
 
When I first started writing romances the heroine was, of course, a virgin and remained so throughout the story. Now I’m afraid publishers just demand sex, sex and more sex…how they expect one to have the time to write I really don’t know. Well anyway, the heroine is no longer expected to be a virgin but she is still and will always be A GOOD GIRL. So how do we engage our good girl in exciting and ravishing sex without her turning into a BAD GIRL.
 
Well there are a number of rules of which you should be aware. Firstly, position. Your heroine only ever has sex in one position – horizontal. Sex against a wall, in a shower, anywhere vertical is completely out of bounds as this is bad girl territory. Secondly, oral sex. The hero may, as a man of the world, introduce the heroine to these delights but under no circumstances whatsoever may she return the favour.
 
Thirdly we have location. Now here you may exercise your imagination. As long as she is on her back on some kind of bed the heroine can have sex pretty much anywhere. For example “she lay back on the tasselled satin cushions in the silken pavilion, her breast heaving with desire as the sheik disrobed to reveal his splendid manhood and swooped down upon her like an eagle stooping to his prey.”
 
Sex out of doors is permissible as long as it is at night, in the middle of nowhere and if there is absolutely no chance of their being spotted. “He lifted her in his strong arms, carried her effortlessly to the topmost crag and laid her tenderly on a bed of sweet smelling heather he had covered with his tartan cloak. She gazed in rapture at the stars until they were blotted out by the fiery passion glowing in his fierce eyes as he led her through a labyrinth of pleasure.”
 
Now, shall we have a little test. I will give you a location and you decide whether it is GOOD GIRL or BAD GIRL.
 
Very well, let’s try sex in a horsebox, good or bad? BAD!  A horsebox is clearly out of bounds because the sex must remain vertical for obvious reasons. Let’s try another one, how about sex in a punt. GOOD! The heroine is horizontal in a punt and as long as darkness has fallen and the hero is careful in his choice of anchorage, shielded by the sweet scented fall of a willow for example, privacy may be assured. So punting is good. Let’s have one more try. How about in a sportscar? BAD, BAD, BAD! Let’s face it, there is only one form of sex that can be entirely successful in an automobile and in this I have expressly stated that the heroine may not engage.
 
To recapitulate: romantic heroines are good girls and therefore can only indulge in sex suitable for future wives and mothers. Now some of you may find this too restricting and would prefer a heroine with more eclectic tastes. If so I would strongly recommend my new book on romance writing entitled Soft Core – How Far Can You Go Before It Gets Hard?

Great Resource for Historical Romance Writers

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What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew by Daniel Pool is an utterly delightful book and a mine of information on everyday life in 19th century England. Are you unsure if your hero Viscount X goes into dinner before or after the Duke of Y? The answer is here. Does he lose a fortune at Faro but you don’t know what the heck Faro was? Mr. Pool can tell you. From the recipe for White Soup at the Netherfield ball to the etiquette of preceding a lady upstairs (but following her downstairs) there is a wealth of period detail for your novel.

For quick reference the book is divided into sections such as: The Public World which covers How to Address Your Betters, Society and “The Season”, Basic Etiquette, The Rules of Whist and Other Card Games, etc.; The Private World covers Sex, Furniture, The Governess (cross referenced with Sex perhaps?), Servants, Tea etc.; The Grim World is all about The Orphan, Apprentices, The Workhouse and Disease.

For further research Mr. Pool obligingly provides a bibliography which is almost as useful as the book itself.

His points are all illustrated with excerpts from Austen, George Eliot, The Brontes, Dickens, Thackeray and other Victorian authors.

This is not a new book and it may be that many of my fellow writers already know and use it. Even so, it cannot hurt to recommend this invaluable resource to new writers and readers.

What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew: From Fox Hunting to Whist-the Facts of Daily Life in Nineteenth-Century England

Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be

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There’s a charming little article in the news today the headline of which is ‘Steer clear of Manchester to avoid an early grave.’ It goes on to say that the city has the highest rates of premature death in England. Cue lots of jokey comments about people in Manchester being glad to die, and lots of indignant rebuttals from Mancunians.

When I was a little girl, Piccadilly Gardens in the centre of Manchester was a place of jewel tinted flower beds, sparkling fountains, smooth green lawns and, if memory serves, a bandstand. Nice elderly couples would sit on the benches and eat fish paste sandwiches and drink tea out of flasks. The last time I was there, a year ago; it looked like somewhere junkies go to shoot up. Maybe that’s what it is. It certainly wasn’t a place to linger.

I was born (literally as in ‘Call the Midwife’) in a prefab in Wythenshawe. Now the ASBO capital of Britain, it was then a pleasant place to grow up, with immaculate grass verges, flower beds, well-kept council houses full of upwardly mobile people. The men had mostly been recently demobbed, and a lot of the women too. They had horizons, aspirations, and a good education. Now it’s the setting for ‘Shameless’.

I used to love visiting my grandparents in Harpurhey, then a place of two–up-two-down mill workers’ cottages, cobbled streets and outside toilets. The kids all played out in the street, the little parlour windows were hung with crisp white lace curtains and the front steps were donkey-stoned to a lovely cream colour.  The tiny pub had a bowling green in the back, probably the only bit of grass for miles. My dear granddad, who loved the sun, used to climb on the outhouse roof to sunbathe. He always looked like he’d just come back from the Riviera. They didn’t have much but they had a community. What happened? In the Sixties crooked developers knocked down whole neighbourhoods and built hideous, cheap, rattraps for people to move into. Now it’s been called the most deprived area of the UK.

When my eldest son was five years old and we were living in Los Angeles, we visited my parents and I took him for a ride on the top of the bus from Didsbury, where they lived, into central Manchester. In a loud and very American voice he demanded to know where all the palm trees were. Unfortunately, a lack of palm trees seems to be the least of Manchester’s problems.

Marten Attack

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When we first moved to Franconia we bought a new car and very fortunately found the lovely Patrick, an insurance agent in Bamberg who speaks perfect English. He took us through the various car insurance options and then asked us the wholly incomprehensible question ‘Do you want marten insurance?’ Huh? Patiently he explained that martens are ferret like creatures and the penny dropped. ‘Oh you mean Pine-martens! But why would we need to be insured against them?’ ‘Well, because they eat your car.’ We thought this was hilarious but we went along with it and got the Marten insurance.  Just as well we did. It isn’t so funny when the little devils have eaten away €200 worth of your wiring. And now every time we get in the car we see little muddy paw prints on the windscreen. They run over the bonnet, across the windscreen, over the top of the car and then, because it’s a Mercedes A class and has no rear end, they slide down to the ground, bashing the rear windscreen wiper as they go.

We used to complain like mad about the foxes in leafy Hampton. They poohed in the garden, spread refuse all over the pavement and woke us up at three in the morning with their piecing shrieks but at least they didn’t eat the damn car!

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