Yoga: Sublime or Ridiculous?

In a way, it had to happen.

As with most things that enter Western popular culture, yoga has entered the domain of the dumbed-down. The two latest trends in yoga practice in America are things called beer-yoga and goat-yoga, which involve asana (yoga postures) while gulping pints of beer or playing with furry farm animals. Poor Patanajli must be rolling in his samadhi!

Part of this trend has to do with the way yoga spread in America: through privately owned yoga studios, who keep searching for new trends to keep their clientele coming. Competition between studios, which seem to have sprung up on almost every street corner, pushes owners to keep expanding their repertoire of services; whether in combining yoga with Pilates (fairly common,) or with Zumba (Brazilian dance) and in many other ways.

Representation of Patanjali, the compiler of the Yoga-sutras

As a way of popularizing yoga, these privately owned studios, often started by brave souls (mostly women) who, in the early days, travelled to India, or studied, at great cost, under well-known masters, were very successful. Playing by the rules of the market, they struggled to find what the public wanted, and by trial-and-error, became successful. Successful business models were built, and the industry flourished.

But the downside of market-based yoga teaching is that it precludes really deep study of the tradition. In my observation, most studios offer classes in hatha yoga, hot yoga, yin-yang or Iyengar. But beyond this, not much else is taught. After all, if the rent has to be paid, the emphasis is going to be on what sells.

Traditionally, yoga is seen as a spiritual discipline, with the ultimate goal being spiritual realization. Yoga was originally practiced in the forests of India, and knowledge was passed, in the teacher’s ashram, from elder to student. The learning would take many, many years.

Ashtanga yoga, or raja-yoga as it is called in the Bhagavad-Gita, is what most in the west understand as yoga, and asana, one part of it, is what is mostly taught in yoga studios. But ashtanga (eight-limbed) yoga, is much more. The eight-limbs include a moral code, contained in the Yamas and Niyamas, Asana (postures), Pranyama (breath control), Pratyahara (sensory transcendence), Dharana (Concentration) Dhyana (Meditation) and finally, the goal of yoga, Samadhi (connection with the Divine.) The Bhagavad-Gita also mentions other yoga systems, such as Bhakti-yoga, a theistic version of yoga based on devotion to the Divine. As can be seen, yoga is a much deeper topic than is mostly understood. Yoga based solely on the body, and not connected to the spirit, is limited.

The yoga market, in America anyways, seems to have reached its saturation. It seems obvious that many studios will disappear. As a yoga practitioner, I hope that those left behind, and the students they attract, will dive deeper into the subject and discover its true essence.

Mohan Ashtakala is the author of "The Yoga Zapper - A Novel" published by Books We Love.

www.yogazapper.com

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Clothes and how to wear them... by Sheila Claydon

In my book The Hollywood Collection, I write about clothes and fashion. I do the same, to some extent, in Golden Girl, another book which will be published early next year. Both these books are vintage romance, however. Books that I wrote in the seventies and eighties when I was into fashion and loved buying new clothes.

Oh how things have changed. Clothes! Do you love them or hate them, and I don't mean that in the 'let's get naked sense.' Me? The older I get, the more I hate them...well hate the ever changing fashion of them, and trying to find what best suits me. No, strike that. I know what suits me, it's just that nowadays I have to plough through a whole lot of 'mutton dressed up as lamb' stuff to find what I want.

Then there's the fit. I'm the same size now that I've always been, so how come pants sag and sweaters often have sleeves whose length is out of all proportion to the body shape. Oh, I know. It's because they are designed to be worn by young girls with pert behinds who like to pull their sleeves down over their fingers, and I have to admit they look cute. What looks cute on a teen or anyone under 40 for that matter, doesn't look cute on a woman of more mature years, however. And it's not going to change because the fashion industry is not interested in the older woman, and doesn't design for changing body shapes.

There are solutions of course. Buy expensive or find a really good dressmaker who does fittings and alterations. This is the advice I saw recently in a fashion column that I can't seem to stop reading even though most of the clothes featured are either beyond my purse or things I wouldn't be seen dead in. The same fashion editor also listed which pants give the best fit. Unfortunately I threw the article away without making a note, so here I am, back to square one.

When I was young I loved fashion. It was mini-skirts and long white boots (with matching lip-stick!) in the sixties, flares and stack heels in the seventies, leg warmers, shell suits and sweaters with garish motives in the eighties, pants-suits in the nineties, and so on and so on. I bought them all, loved bright colours and made some terrible fashion mistakes which I fortunately didn't notice at the time.

Now, however, I am much more comfortable in quieter clothes, mostly pants and tops, and shoes that are easy to walk in. They are available of course. Jeans, trainers, sweatshirts and gilets are fine for shopping, lounging around, dog walking, housework, but fashion wise they don't quite hack it, so I have a plan. From now on I am going to wear a uniform of sorts. I know what I like: slim cut pants, longish tops, scarves, boots, and on the rare occasion I wear a dress, something plain brightened up by accessories. I also hate mixing too many colours, so my future uniform will be a mix and match wardrobe that doesn't stray much beyond navy-blue, black, grey/charcoal, and to brighten it, fuchsia , pale blue, emerald green or turquoise, the colours that I know suit me well. I might also go searching for a seamstress who can take the sag out of those pants, unless I'm lucky enough to find some that fit properly. Of course I'll keep the jeans and sweatshirts because the dog still needs walking.

OK, so it might sound boring, but oh the relief. A uniform that I can put on and forget, knowing that while it might not be up there in high style, it is too conservative to ever really go out of fashion. Oh, and I'm going to buy lots of scarves as well. Bright, bright, cheerful scarves.

Go to Sheila's Books We Love author page to see the rest of her books, which are available on:

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Also visit her on Facebook and have a chat :

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Support of my Writing by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

http://bookswelove.net/authors/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

 

 

My family and friends have been very supportive of me during my writing career. When my first two non-fiction books were published, my parents would look for them in bookstores. If they found them with only their spines showing they rearranged the books on the shelves so that the covers of mine were facing out and could be seen easier.

 

My husband is constantly telling people that I am a writer and where they can find my books. My parents, siblings, children, and grandchildren have come to book launches, sat with me during a book signing, and passed on advertising information about my new books through social media and other means.

When they were younger my grandchildren helped out at some of my launches: acting as doormen by opening doors for customers at bookstores, singing, or playing a saxophone or flute during the interlude before my reading.

I have some friends who buy and read all my books and continually tell me how much they like them.

Thank you to my family and friends for your continued encouragement.

Prepping for Bouchercon

For more information about Susan Calder's books, or to purchase visit her Books We Love Author Page.

I'm gearing up for Bouchercon World Mystery Convention in Toronto. This October the annual mystery writing and reading event will take place in Canada for the first time since 2004. With a new mystery novel in hand, I decided it was time for me to tackle the huge happening, which will bring together 1800 readers, writers, publishers, editors, agents, booksellers, librarians and other lovers of crime fiction.  

Another reason for me to go is the involvement of Toronto-based Crime Writers of Canada, a group I've belonged to for six years. I also served on the CWC board for two years and this winter volunteered for their Bouchercon planning committee to get a foothold on the convention's activities.

Once committed, my next step was to send a query to the Toronto Public Library offering to do presentations to promote my novel Ten Days in Summer. One library branch responded. So Friday evening Oct 13th I'll take a break from Bouchercon to talk to members of the library community about "How Hoarding Inspired My Murder Mystery Novel," a subject I blogged about on the BWL site last spring. 

Grandma's living room

Bouchercon offers attending authors promotional opportunities, although demand is so high that I was lucky to get a panel moderator assignment. The topic, "Urban Noir: city settings, where, despite the light pollution, there is darkness ..." isn't quite my genre. I suspect, I got in because not everyone wants the moderator's role, which is arguably harder than being a panelist. The organizers sent me tips on moderating a great panel, which include researching the five author-panelists and couching their introductions with a question specific to each writer to avoid boring introductory exposition. I've started my research, find all the authors interesting, and agree this is a great approach to moderating.  

For other promotion, I missed out on Author Speed Dating, but was given a 20 minute spot to speak to an audience of up to 50 people about the backdrop for Ten Days in Summer, The Calgary Stampede. 

Through Crime Writers of Canada, I'll get two hours in the popular Refreshment Room, to display my novel, talk about my writing and hand out materials. I'll get more chances to promote Ten Days in Summer during my shifts at the CWC information table. 

The second thing I did after registering was enter a short story in the Bouchercon Passport to Murder anthology contest. I wrote the story while on holiday in Mexico and used the holiday settings for this tale of a woman who makes a devil's deal to escape an abusive marriage. To my delight, "Zona Romantica" was one of 22 stories selected for the anthology. It will be on sale at the convention with the proceeds going to the literary charity Frontier College. Saturday evening at Bouchercon will feature a signing for Passport to Murder.  

In between these promotional activities, I'll take in some panels, attend the opening, closing and awards ceremonies and catch interviews with Guest of Honour authors, who include Louise Penny, 2017 recipient of the Order of Canada. 

And there will be time for fun, liking dancing to big-band music on Saturday night, maybe dressed in the flapper-style outfit I wore to this August's When Words Collide Festival for Readers and Writers - but this time without the feather boa. 

Most of all, at Bouchercon I hope to meet a bunch of new mystery writers and readers from across Canada, the United States and the rest of the world. Who knows where these connections and varied experiences will lead me next? It's a mystery.   

    

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow? by Karla Stover

bwlauthors.blogspot.com

I love the feeling of fresh air on my face and the wind blowing through my hair. Evel Knievel

Lady Godiva hid her naked body with flowing locks of hair. Anne (of Green Gables) Shirley died her red hair green. Jo March cut hers off. Since time immemorial, women have been doing things with their hair.

In ancient Greece, (unless you were a slave) the only time women didn't have long hair was when they were in mourning. Most of the time, they let their tresses fall over their shoulders and down their back, sometimes restraining it with a headband or diadem. Over the ensuing years, buns, headbands, scarves, and hair covers came into play.

Meanwhile, Roman women were constantly changing their hair styles. Fashionable, elaborate dos were how they showed "worth and social standing." And in Egypt, while both boys and girls had their hair "cut short  or shaved off, except for a long lock--the lock of youth-- on  the side of the head, women liked a "smooth, close coiffure, a natural wave, and a long curl."

In Europe, the years passed by until the Renaissance came along. Women still preferred long hair, but they also wanted to expose their foreheads. To achieve this, they created coils above their ears through braiding (think Princess Leia). They then covered these coils with hoods and wimples, or with hairnets and snoods decorated these with gold, pearls or semi-precious stones.

When red hair became popular, thanks, in part to Elizabeth I, men and women used borax, saltpeter, saffron, and sulphur to achieve the desired red color. The combination made them sick ,but that's never been a deterrent to beauty. One wonders if Anne Shirley ever knew how popular the color was..


Which brings us back to Jo March. Thanks to the Civil War, and that Monarch  of Melancholy, Queen Victoria, the Victorian era was extremely sentimental. And for some reason, this inspired women to make a variety of ornaments out of human hair. It was used to make bracelets (when your sweetheart is going to war, what says, I love you more than a bracelet made from your hair?) When family members have died, what better way to remember them than earrings made from their hair? Or if you have a  lot of  time and a  lot of deceased relatives, how about a framed hair wreath?

Human hair artifacts were first made by the Norwegians. Then the French perfected the craft. Soon, companies were manufacturing gold mountings for jewelry, and selling the tools needed--bobbins, thread, a stand and counterbalance, and molds--and Godey's Lady's Magazine was printing instructions.

And if women weren't doing arts and crafts with hair, they were "carefully pulling the broken and spent strands from their hair brushes, and storing them away in a pretty hair receiver." When they had enough hair they "either put it in a hairnet or rolled it into a sausage-like shape" and use it to help create those "fabulous victory rolls that we see in old photos." These clumps of hair were called rats, and the practice continued until "well into the 20th century" As a very young girl, I saw my grandmother's rat and thought it was a bit creepy.

Through out history, women have used henna, indigo, senna, turmeric, black walnut hulls, red ochre, leeks, and whatever else nature provided to dye their hair black, gold, green, red, yellow, and white. Though why white is a puzzle since most women were trying to hide white hair. According to The Art of Hair Work, both extreme fright and excessive grief can turn hair white. When my neighbor's mother died, her (the neighbor, not the deceased mother) dark hair turned white over night.

And both sexes have worn so many wigs for so long. that's a blog of its own.

Cocoa Chanel once said, "A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life." There are a few celebrities who I wish would do something with their hair. Angie Dickinson has the same style she wore in her Police Woman days, and Marie Osmond could add five pounds to her weight loss ad if she cut hers.

With age, a woman 's face begins to sag. Hair hanging down the side of the face accents this.  From what I see on Nexflix, British woman are smarter about this than American  women are.






Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow? by Karla Stover

bwlauthorsblogspot.karlastover


I love the feeling of the fresh air on my face and the wind blowing through my air. Evel Knievel


                                                                
Lady Godiva hid her nakedness with hers. Little Women's Jo March cut hers off. Anne (of Green Gables) Shirley died hers green. Evel Knievel aside, Coco Chanel said "A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life." The thing is--these days, it's hard to find a woman with short hair. And we're not very original. Our contemporary hairstyles go way back--as far back as 4th century B.C., when women "used combs and hairpins in their tresses . . . believed thick hair was best and used hair extensions and wigs made of real hair or sheep's wool. They even dyed their hair and wigs a variety of colors, with blues, greens, blondes and golds being their favored choices." In ancient Greece, women pulled their hair into chignons, which they sometimes dyed red, and, if they could afford it, then sprinkled with  gold powder. Roman women often made wigs and ringlets from the hair of their slaves.

From the 16th to the 19th century, European women began wearing smaller hair coverings, or ornaments such as jewels, feathers, ribbons and flowers, or "small crafted objects such as replicas of ships and windmills." Bound hair was pious, and who hasn't seen or read the sexually-symbolic gesture of pulling of a woman pulling out her hair pins and letting her locks fall with abandon?



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During the Renaissance, women often lightened their hair and then French braided it with jewels and ribbons. In the time  of Elizabeth I, red hair was popular. And all over Europe, Women were wearing snoods or balzos or decorated cauls made from a variety of things.


In a style called the hurluberlu coiffure women actually cut their hair and styled it "in a mop of downward-pointing curls which were arranged thickly at the back of the head and neck." However, short hairstyles didn't last. Updos and buns, curls and swirls came back and apparently are here to stay. Stylebistro.com has "Haute Hairstyles for Women over 50" and there it is, all that hair hanging down, accentuating what nature is already doing to the mature face.





But, getting back to Jo March, the Victorian era, thanks to the American Civil War and Queen Victoria (called the Monarch of Mourning by Nationalgeographic.com) was a period of extreme sentimentality, and one result of that was the idea of making watch fobs, jewelry, corsages, and wreaths from human hair. What could be more romantic than sending your sweetheart off to war with a bracelet made from your hair, or to weave locks from deceased family members into earrings, necklaces, or wreaths to hang on the wall?


According to the book, The Art of Hair Work, the Norwegians were among the first to come up with the idea of jewelry made from human hair, and then the French perfected it. Between  1859 and 1860, the United States imported somewhere between 150,000 and 200,000 pounds. The same source also mentions people whose hair turned white overnight from grief. (It happened to a neighbor of mine.) Or changed color from fright.


My heartfelt pleas go to many mature women who are still in the limelight: Kathy Lee Gifford, for example, and Angie Dickinson (who hasn't changed her hairstyle since her days on Police Woman )and especially Marie Osmond ( she could loose another five pounds if she chopped off that mop).

                                         Please cut your hair.

 

                                                                           
 

Getting to Know Me

Heather Greenis' author page at Books We Love

​Canadian, born and raised in Ontario, I'm a humanitarian, and an environmentalist. Refuse! Reduce! Re-use! I'm proud of the fact we have solar panels on our home. We aren't off the grid, but we are putting clean energy into the grid.
​We have a 20 pound fluff-ball who runs the house. The humans simply pay the bills and ensure she gets fed at least twice a day. She is rather insistent upon the treats as well. My sister calls her the 'princess'. Our dog isn't spoiled at all.
 
My husband is an avid reader who gets the first read on my manuscripts. If he likes the plot, he does some editing and gives me advice and suggestions. I'm always open for those, even when I grumble and argue about it. If he doesn't like my latest attempt, I sulk in the corner like a kid. Not really, just in my mind.  But that manuscript gets placed on the back-burner until I decide what to do with it. Delete is aways an option.

My goal as an author is to entertain, but I develop plots with the hope of making my readers think. And maybe, just maybe, together, we can make this world a better place.

Blurb

The Natasha Saga  -  a four part continuing family saga

Empowerment shatters traditions and lives. Greed and pride have devastating consequences. Sacrifices must be made. Written on multiple levels, the saga deals with hope, relationships, and giving, set against a background of conflicting values. 

Through a series of dreams, modern day couple Keeghan and William follow the triumphs and tragedies of multiple generations of the Donovan family. A chance encounter changes Natasha’s life, forever. In her diary, Natasha writes of her dream, and her hope to escape a horrid dictated future.

Will Natasha's legacy survive an uncertain future?

Natasha's Dream, Natasha's Diary, Natasha's Hope, and the conclusion, Natasha's Legacy

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Glacier fed Waterfalls and Lakes

If you've been following my blog, you'll know we celebrated Canada's 150th birthday in the scenic mountains of Alberta. Canmore is a stone's throw from the provincial boundary so we packed another picnic lunch and headed for B.C. 

During our travels in Alberta, we had seen a number of wildlife overpasses. Months ago, hubby and I watched a documentary on these structures being built in Alberta. I know, I know, you're thinking, seriously? But these bridges/overpasses have a special purpose. Wire fences line the highway and lead to lush grass and tree covered bridges. 

This allows an enticing and safe crossing over the busy highways for wildlife. What a fantastic idea. A safe haven for the animals, and prevents automobiles from swerving to avoid a collision. We did not see a single fatality by the side of the road. Nor did we experience a road closure for an accident. That's a win win. 

Road construction slowed our progress shortly after we crossed into the province. As we got closer to the road crew we realized B.C. had an animal overpass in process. Congrats. Hint hint, we need more of them, Canada. Protect our wildlife.

Our journey west continued toward Kicking Horse Pass National Historic Site. We parked at the spiral tunnel lookout. An engineer had designed a route for a drop in elevation that zigged and zagged railway tracks through the mountains and around a thick forest of trees. A train had just passed when we arrived.

Continuing along, into Yoho National Park, we began steering the car up along a sometimes steep, narrow road through the mountains into the heavens. At least I thought we were heading towards heaven. The view of snow capped mountains had my jaw hanging. Spectacular doesn't begin to describe the scenery. Hubby steered up and up and up, pulling to the side when able and giving way to the odd oncoming vehicle. "There it is." I pointed. My voice rose with the excitement of a three year old, getting my first glimpse of the narrow but high falls. 

We parked our car in one of the three almost filled to capacity lots. 

A young med student from the southern USA joined us for lunch and a great conversation. With our full bellies, we hiked toward the cascade.  

Even from a distance, the heavenly mist damped my face and body. A welcome relief on a warm day. As we trekked closer, the overwhelming force of the waterfall created a powerful wind as it plunged to the river below. A small person alert. The wind caught the tip of my baseball hat, sending it airborne. Thankfully, my husband caught it.

Check out this picture. The climbers. The mountain rock is sandstone. Sand cemented into rock. It can crumble. Not the best for this sport. 

Leaving B.C, we gave Lake Louise one last chance. I wanted to cheer with delight when we were guided to a parking spot. Following the signs, we strolled through a small forest and saw the hotel. Not as grand or stately as the Banff Springs Hotel, we veered to the left and spotted the lake, nestled discretely behind. 





We stepped onto the boardwalk and stood in awe at yet another glacier fed turquoise lake. Seeing the sunlight glisten on the glassy surface, time stood still as we took it in. 

Out came the cameras. My bucket list received another tick mark. 

Next month, our vacation continues as we headed east. 






Heather Greenis

NOTES ON MY LIFE AND SOME OF THE PEOPLE WHO TOUCHED ME – FOR GOOD OR FOR BAD - JUNE GADSBY

 

June Gadsby's Book Page

When I hear people complain how boring their lives are, I realise just how lucky I have been. My life, trials and tribulations all, has been at worst interesting – at best, fascinating – never dull.

Recently, I went on a nostalgic trip while downsizing the junk that was taking up far too much space in my office. With a few treasures, there emerged memories galore; some writers who had been personal friends or acquaintances; some non-writing people who had had a great impact in my life. The experiences I had with these people made me what I am. Without them I could have grown up to be the shy little mouse that I was, with her nose always in a book or a pencil in her hand. Some of them made such an impression on me that they later turned up in my novels. My grandparents – Granddad in particular; my three maiden aunts, sisters in their nineties – perfect material for secondary characters in my historic books – one of them was mortified to be fined at the age of 85 for driving too slowly. Then there was the nightmare marriage to my first husband who…well, you’ll find out all about him in my memoirs, if and when I write them.

Now, here are a few anecdotes about some of the other people who touched my life and who I feel honoured to have known:

ARTHUR APPLETON, sports journalist who wrote The Story of Sunderland - Centenary 1879-1979 but the book he was better known for was the story of the murderess, Mary Ann Cotton. I got to know Arthur when he was President of the Newcastle Writers’ Circle [N.E. England]. Over the years I attended his tutorials at Beamish Hall in Durham where he used to organise writers’ weekends. White-haired, softly spoken – he was the ultimate ‘gentleman’ and everybody who knew him, loved him. His experiences while researching for the Mary Ann Cotton book were not always pleasant as her descendants were reluctant to cooperate. The research took three years to complete, but he kept at it and succeeded in the end. Being a journalist and a writer wasn’t enough in this case. Arthur had to be a detective too, but writing this amazing story left its mark.

ROBERT HUGILL.

Another lovely old gentleman whom I met through the Newcastle Writers’ Circle. Historian and writer of books on pele towers and castles and a stand-alone book: “I Travelled Through Spain.” When I met him he was already 89

and had just published his first crime novel, “Said The Spider to the Fly”, which I enjoyed reading and was surprised to find some sexual content in the prose. Bob was hoping to have his second novel published, but unfortunately died before this could be achieved. He had a mind as sharp and clear as a thirty-year-old, but I remember him shaking his head and saying: “You know, June, old age isn’t so great. It’s the legs that go first.” How right he was, and this is especially true with writers.  I speak from experience.

GORDON PARKER is a British novelist and playwright. He has been a literary critic for Tyne Tees Television and BBC Radio Newcastle.

I met Gordon at a writers’ weekend at Beamish Hall, though I doubt he will remember going for a walk with me through knee-deep snow, talking about the difficulties of being a writer. Gordon was already published then. I was still a ‘wannabe’. He wrote somewhat controversial books about local politicians. His books, apparently, sold well in Russia at the time, but he could only spend his royalties there in Russia. It’s good to see that he is still writing and being published after all these years.

 

BENITA BROWN, best-selling novelist whose sagas were, and still are, loved by many. I met Benita through my husband, Brian, who had known her and her husband for some years. Their children and Brian’s son attended the same school. Norman Brown was a photographer and had photographed my husband [manager of Sir Peter Scott’s wildfowl park in Washington, North-East England] on many occasions. They became personal friends and Benita, encouraged me in my writing. She was the person who kept on insisting that I should join the Romantic Novelists Association, but I stubbornly refused as I never considered myself to be a writer of ‘love stories’. However, I finally gave in, joined the association and, with all the help and support of the many members, ended up writing my first romance and getting it published – though I sneaked in a bit of suspense. Benita was a great loss to the Association and to all her friends when she died a few years ago, but I see that her books still go on. Thank you, Benita, for giving me that very necessary push that led me to my own success.

T. DAN SMITH:

T. Dan Smith aka ‘Mister Newcastle’ was a notorious councillor with a questionable past, but an admirable passion for his fellow Geordies and his town, Newcastle upon Tyne [N.E. England]. He had great charisma and was an undeniable enigma of a man, adored by some, hated by many. How I became his personal secretary at the age of 23 is a long and intricate story. He was a workaholic, totally dynamic, and I was expected to be ‘on-call’ 24/24 as part of a team headed by a man who later became Lord Mayor of Newcastle. He was famous, rich and powerful and Newcastle was a better place for him. He dealt with a variety of businesses, and fought for the ordinary people. He would  stop to shake hands with a lowly tramp in the street as well as have meetings with the then Prime Minister, Harold Wilson. He was a great orator and politician, but to me he was just a man who could sit and talk to me for hours about painting and poetry. I had already moved on when Dan was charged with bribery and corruption and, eight years later I found myself giving evidence for the prosecution at his trial. This was a pretty scary moment standing in the witness box looking at a grim-faced judge, a tiny man smothered in a long white wig and scarlet robe, who stared at me accusingly over his bifocals and ordered me to speak up because my terrified voice was so weak it was no more than a whisper.Microphones in court didn’t exist then. “You have nothing to fear,” he told me, then added: “Or do you?” Dan Smith pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 6 years in an open prison. The pleasant experience was how well I was treated by detectives of Scotland Yard. And when I was reported in the local newspaper as being the winner of the annual Catherine Cookson Award, Dan sent me a letter of congratulations.

The above biography was written by Chris Foote Wood, who came all the way to the Hautes Pyrenees in France in 2010 to interview me about my time, short though it was, as Dan’s secretary. I had plenty of anecdotes to relate, but after so many years some of my memories were a bit blurred around the edges. Still keeping to writing, I discovered that Chris Foote Wood was the brother of the lovely comedienne, writer and actor, Victoria Wood. I had already thought that if ever my book, When Tomorrow Comes, became a film, she would be perfect as my favourite heroine, Hildie Thompson. I sent her agent a copy of the book and was graciously thanked and she said she would enjoy reading it. But, of course, that can never be as she has recently died.

JONATHAN EDWARDS

Jonathan David Edwards, CBE is a British former triple jumper. He is an Olympic, World, Commonwealth and European champion, and has held the world record in the event since 1995. No-one, yet, has beaten this record.

Before he became known as an athlete, Jonathan, at the age of 19 came to work in the Human Genetics Department where I was P.A. to the world famous human geneticist Professor Sir John Burn. He was a laboratory technician, shy and retiring – and I was given the job of being something of a ‘mother hen’ to him during his first weeks. I’m so proud to have played just a very small role in this lovely young man’s life.

SIR PETER SCOTT:

Sir Peter Scott was the son of Captain Scott of the Antarctic. As a young man he was an expert skater, sailor and hunter, until he lost his taste for killing wildlife and became one of the most famous naturalists in the world, setting up the charity, Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust – and he was my husband, Brian’s, boss. Brian was the manager of the Washington [UK] branch of the trust where there was a hundred acres of wetlands, woods and lakes. We lived on site in an old farmhouse with 1200 endangered wildfowl for company.

His wealthy background allowed him to follow his interests in art, wildlife and many sports, including wildfowling, sailing and ice skating. He represented Great Britain and Northern Ireland at sailing in the 1936 Berlin Olympic Games, winning a bronze medal in the O-Jolle dinghy class.

Steam Gun Boat, MGB S309, under the command of Lieutenant Commander Peter Scott, underway at sea

During the Second World War, Peter served in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve. As a Sub-Lieutenant, during the failed evacuation of the 51st Highland Division he was the British Naval officer sent ashore at Saint-Valery-en-Caux in the early hours of 11 June 1940 to evacuate some of the wounded. This was the last evacuation of British troops from the port area of St Valery that was not disrupted by enemy fire. Then he served in destroyers in the North Atlantic but later moved to commanding the First (and only) Squadron of Steam Gun Boats against German E-boats in the English Channel.[7] He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for bravery.

Peter and his wife Philippa [who took the photograph for this book cover] often came up to Washington for meetings. I remember the first time I met them. I had rushed home from work [I was then a medical secretary for Newcastle University] and was changing my clothes – standing in my underwear – when I heard an almighty crash from the kitchen. A wall cabinet full of my precious collectable crockery had fallen to the floor, knocking over the kettle, which in turn knocked over a tea caddy and there was an unholy mess. We were still mopping the floor when the Scott’s arrived, but they were very sweet about it and Peter even found time to congratulate me on the painting of a bird I had done. Peter was quite a character, loved wearing bright red socks and often played practical jokes on people.

HRH PRINCE CHARLES:

Which brings me nicely to the end of my name-dropping blog. I met HRH Prince Charles, President of the Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust, on two occasions. One meeting on the coldest January day in the north-east of England when he came to open a new wing of the Washington branch. We were all frozen to the bone, waiting 45 minutes while the official photographers assembled us into the correct positions. I was first to be introduced [husband Brian is standing next to me in this photo] after Charles had signed the register. He muttered an aside in my direction, saying that he was having bother joining up his letters that day and announcing to me that he had caught baby William’s cold. I gripped his hand a little tighter than I perhaps should have, but I was perched on the top of a flight of stairs and my heels were hanging over the edge. All I could think of was “Please don’t let me fall and pull HRH on top of me!”

Our other meeting was at the AGM of the Trust in Slimbridge. We were last in the queue, waiting to be introduced, but were then told that there wasn’t time as lunch was about to be served. We were disappointed, but by some quirky act of fate we found ourselves alone with Prince Charles as the two men he had been in discussion with both left him standing there – unheard of! We put on a brave face, not knowing what to do and walked towards the prince, who spun around on his heel, smiled broadly and came to us, hand outstretched. Brian introduced himself and [we weren’t married at the time] simply introduced me as “This is June”. Prince Charles grasped my hand – he has a very firm handshake – and said: “Hello, June.” He had a few words with Brian, then turned to me and asked me what should be done about the north-east of England. “There’s a great lack of culture,” I told him. “They need more.” He looked thoughtful, smiled and nodded. I’d like to think that my remark had a little bit to do with the wonderful cultural place that the north-east of England has now become.

The three of us walked slowly towards the dining room, I by the prince’s side and Brian bringing up the rear. I had no idea of protocol and Charles knew that without being told. He placed his hand at my back, bent towards me and whispered: “You go first and I’ll follow.’ Any protocol I might have recalled went right out of the window as I simply whispered back to him: “Thank you!” The minute we reached the dining room all eyes were on me and my cheeks were burning as the ladies in their Ascot and Wedding hats crowded around, desperate to know what HRH had said to me. It was one of the most memorable moments of my life – a few personal moments with the future king of England.