Skip to main content

Fact or Fiction...Phyl and George.





I was 26 when I wrote my first autobiography. I didn't market it as an autobiography, of course. Who's going to believe that by the age of 26 anyone would have enough material to fill a book? 

The m/s kept coming back unread  because novice authors are not considered skilled enough to write in the first person - so said all the agents in South Africa at the time.

On opening up the 5th refusal citing this as the reason, I kinda lost it, strode to my computer and wrote back that I didn't give a damn what some people could or could not do - only in what I could do. And I bloody well COULD write in the first person. 

Thus began a wonderful relationship with Frances Bond who became my agent, and remained so until her untimely death.

 But, we didn't see eye to eye on her perception of two of the characters - Phil and George.  She kept telling me to tone them down, and insisted that they were OTT as characters and the kinds of things that happened to them were so bizarre they weren't credible.

It was only after I'd 'fessed up and admitted I hadn't written a novel but a true tale; AND after she had met both Phyl and George, that she admitted that I'd got them to a tee.

So the bit about George being declared pregnant by the RAF doctor in Egypt was perfectly true. As was that of Phyl being introduced to Princess Diana, on her way home from Tesco.

Both m/s and all the photos which proved my point having gone up in smoke it struck me that there are very few people left now to tell Phyl & George stories - so I'm going to do so, here and there. If anyone comes across them they can view them as fiction, or accept them as fact.

George is the Dad who, at a party, persuaded one of the guests to help me with a homework project over the phone; and even called in for some re-enforcement on certain points. The guest was an old friend. His name was John Lennon. The friends were George Harrison and Ringo Starr. (I was given Detention for telling porkies when the teacher asked who'd helped me and I told her.)

Phyl is the Mum who on board a ship once, when a dodgy meal struck the Cabaret suddenly and devastatingly one evening, nonchalantly donned the Captain's jacket and cap and entertained the entire crowd for the allotted hour and a half.

Really?

 Well, I've exhausted my cache of pictures which randomly escaped the fire. Got nothing else, from herein in, to prove they even existed. Let alone had all the jolly japes and admirable adventures that was their life story as well as mine. 

Am writing up The Tale of Flying Fernando now, so watch out for it. OTT or not - it's a ripping yarn!









Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Don't Quote Me.......Failing our Children: Doesn't it Enrage You?

I subtitled a post "Don't quote me" a while back because I wanted to make it clear that what I was expressing was my own - vehement - opinion/idea which was not representative of any group or affiliation. Feel the need to to add this to the same category.     One afternoon, in 2016, I saw on my Youtube page that there was a televised debate between two American contenders for the presidency. Needing a break from the piece I was writing, and with the realisation that my outlook was becoming rather insular as I struggled to understand the Homeland I'd recently settled in, I poised my mouse and clicked. I can still remember the shock of that introduction to contemporary America; in fact I was in a state of shock for the rest of the afternoon. The spectacle of two grown - in fact elderly - people shouting, yelling, talking over each other, using personal abuse (and, dear gods, one actually stalking the other around the podium!) horrified me.  I was involved in a form of ...

Victorian Women. Period.

  The first time I ever acted in an historical play we were coached in the ways of walking as women of yesteryear did. Which didn’t seem at all strange to me at the time: at convent boarding schools we had been taught to walk the nunly walk: which turned out to be exactly the same method. But sanctified. I didn’t really understand why women used to walk differently then, and neither did my mother; who told me that her mother had also instructed her that a woman’s footprints should always be in a straight line: — one foot directly in front the other, as we’d been taught on both stage and in convents.  Yet it was only about 6 months ago that I suddenly had a lightbulb moment: women walked in that way because they menstruated! This thought didn’t arrive out of the blue; I had, by then, been researching the history of menstruation for months. With the help of the Brighton Museum I’d been able to start my research back in the Palaeolithic. Since then, I had become aware that apart ...

Our house was a very, very, very nice house.....

It started out as a late Victorian – or perhaps early Edwardian – family home. It steadily declined until such time as, with much fanfare, it had been stripped inside and turned into flats. The 'fanfare' was not not a figure of speech: there really was a fuss made – with coverage in the media which shows the lovely old place being officiated over by  local MP. Caroline Lucas. Our building was presented as part of an initiative to assimilate those on Benefits into the local community. The stigma of being banished to the further reaches of town to live in seething communities  in brick blocks would not attach to the lucky occupants of this building.  Its sympathetic conversion ( one or two original ceiling roses and some restrained ceiling mouldings have been left in place), while incorporating modern interior architecture, blends well to showcase apartments that would be the envy of many of those chasing accommodation in the private sector all over Brighton and Hov...