Dog Days of Summer

Well, I did the marathon. And yes, it did hurt! So I am glad Kenna didn't come for that run with me. And since then, I've slowed down a bit, due to a knee injury. But as my family are always telling me, "That's boring, we don't want to know!" So, I won't bore YOU with the details.

In any case, Kenna couldn't care less how far we run, especially at this time of year when it's warm. Being black, she overheats very quickly, so her idea of a perfect day is to run along the river so that she can dip in and out to refresh herself. She'll have a swim and a quick slurp, and then she's back on the towpath and ready to run again. Her favourite place to swim is in the sea, where she likes to have a bit of company . . .

But although, sadly, we don't live by the sea, we do have fresh water on our doorstep, so yesterday morning so we ran from our house to the nearest town with the canal and river beside us all the way. Complete heaven for dogs. And humans, as it turns out. We got to the bridge where the water is very shallow and crystal clear, and Kenna plunged in right away, her tail spinning like a helicopter blade.

There is something infectious about Kenna's happiness when she is in the water; it was certainly too much for me to simply stand there and watch. In seconds, my smelly trainers and socks were off, and my hot sweaty feet were splashing through the pebbles and river weed and tiny fish darted over my wriggling toes. So there we were, my pooch and I, dabbling and paddling, kicking in the shallows, enjoying the sun on our backs and the cool water on our feet: the rest of the world had faded into the background.

Not for long.

"Hello," said a voice. I looked up sharply, blood rushing to my already red and sweaty cheeks. It was a neighbour out running with her husband. "Having fun?" she called cheerily. I nodded sheepishly and looked at myself and Kenna through my neighbour's eyes: a strange woman, wading into the river with her dog. I did feel like a prize loony.

My only consolation was that at least I had not given into my original idea of jumping right in and having a proper swim when I had thought no one was looking.



Run, Dog, Run!

3-year-old-bandits-half-marathon.html

The incredible story in the above link from Runner's World magazine made me think of my own experience of running with gorgeous pooch, Kenna.

Everyone knows the positive effects dogs can have on a person's life: companionship and a reason to get out in the fresh air everyday are just two of the many reasons I love my dog. But the biggest impact Kenna has had on my life is in helping me to get fit. Before I had Kenna I would force myself to go to the gym three times a week. It was deathly dull and quite a lonely experience, as no one wants to chat to you while they are sweating it out in the gym. On a beautiful day I used to look out of the window at the blue sky and scudding white clouds and think, "Why am I indoors running on a treadmill when I could be out enjoying the fresh air?" Even on a bad day I would look out at the rain and think it looked more appealing than being stuck in an airless room with fifteen television screens glaring at me.
So why didn't I jack in the expensive gym membership and run out into the streets instead? Well, firstly, I lived in London and the streets weren't that much more appealing than the gym, and secondly I told myself I couldn't run, I looked stupid, I didn't want anyone to see me wobbling about and of course it wasn't safe.
Even when we moved to the country I gave myself the same excuses.
Until we got Kenna. Suddenly I was going for walks every day - and then going to the gym as well! How stupid: wasting money and wasting time. Luckily I saw the error of my ways one day when I realised I was passing many people every day who were running with their dogs. Of course! The ultimate solution: exercise the dog and exercise me at the same time.
With the cancelled gym membership I was able to treat myself to some comfy, attractive running kit in which I did not look stupid or feel scratchy or wobbly.
Four years on, Kenna and I have clocked up quite a few miles together. I've entered a number of 10K races, run two half marathons - and this weekend I'm running a full marathon in Edinburgh to raise money for Help For Heroes (another story in itself - see https://www.justgiving.com/account/your-pages/Anna-Wilson2 for details on how to sponsor me!)

Sadly, Kenna will not be running with me on the day. She is not allowed on the plane for a start, but even if she was, I don't think she would enjoy the full 26.2 miles.
But then, I'm not sure if I'm going to either . . .

Peaceful countryside?

The warm weather last week had me migrating to the garden to work. I told myself it was so peaceful round here that I would have no problem concentrating. But it was a bit like those days when your teacher relaxes and says, "Let's have lessons outside today." In other words, not a huge amount got done while I gazed at the blossom and daydreamed to the sound of the rooks making it known to all the neighbourhood that they rule the roost . . . Peaceful? Hardly, what with the smaller garden birds competing with the rooks with their own birdsong; a buzzard mewing as it was mobbed by a couple more rooks, and our chickens also clamouring to be heard, just in case I had forgotten they existed.

And then there's Kenna wanting to play ball, and the cats coming to sit on the table next to my laptop because apparently that's the best place to sunbathe.

As if that weren't enough wildlife to deal with, we have had quite a number of toads come to visit. Admittedly they don't come out in the day very much. They prefer to lurk in damp spots after dusk. But they have had a habit of chosing our path to sit on and Kenna and I have nearly trodden on them more than once. I am very fond of frogs and toads and would like to encourage them into the garden, so I don't want to hurt them. I now go out with a torch when I take Kenna out for her last walk around the garden before bed, just in case we come across any more amphibious guests underfoot.

My son is always keen on welcoming more wildlife into the garden, and went to great lengths to get frogspawn for a pond which he dug himself earlier in the year. He spotted some lovely large lumps of it floating in jellified blobs on the surface of a pond when we went out for a walk a couple of weeks ago and insisted on my buying a bucket for him to carry it home. We could only find a tiny bucket in a gift shop nearby, so took a very small amount. Here it is just after the miniscule tadpoles hatched last week:

We very much hope we'll get some little frogs from this lot, but what with those rooks and the odd passing heron, they will have to be a feisty bunch to survive around here.

Lovely Authors

Possibly the best thing about writing for children is that I get to meet such a range of lovely, interesting people. The children I meet on school visits are great to talk to, of course, because they always have loads of questions and funny stories to tell me, and they always seem excited and happy to meet a "real, live author", which is flattering, to say the least.

But, even though I am one myself, I am just as excited and happy to meet real, live authors too. Being a writer can be a lonely old business, and if you're not careful you spend a lot of your day talking to yourself (or in my case, talking to my dog, cats and chickens - and, from the looks on their faces, they quite plainly think I'm bonkers when I do this), so it's a wonderful treat to get out and about and meet people like me who have the same ups and downs as I do in this strange, solitary job.



Nick Butterworth and me

 The Green Room at Aye Write was the perfect place to meet some wonderful authors, and when I came home and told my own children whom I had met, they were extremely jealous. My daughter is a huge fan of Chris D'Lacey's The Fire Within, so she was furious that I had been able to sit and chat to him. And my son's first favourite read-alone books had been Percy the Park Keeper, so he was pretty cheesed off that I had had dinner with Nick Butterworth one night. "Why can't we come with you?" they wanted to know.




Caryl Hart and me



I also enjoyed meeting Sue Mongredien, Cathy MacPhail, Debi Gliori and the lovely Caryl Hart whose picture book, Whiffy Wilson, had me roaring with laughter. Whiffy Wilson is a loveable wolf cub who does not like having baths. Needless to say, he reminded me of a certain male member of our family - or possibly more than one . . . Another of her books, Don't Put Your Pants On Your Head, Fred, (out later this year) is also a winner. I'll be buying it for my nephew, Fred. I think his mum will love it. She'll definitely recognise her son in many of the scenarios in the book - well, who said picture books were just for kids?

But now I'm back home. No more fellow writers to chat to, only a computer screen winking accusingly at me and a list of jobs to do. Maybe I'll pop downstairs and have a cup of tea with the dog . . .

Sign in the loos in the Mitchell Library!

Aye Write!

It must be spring if it's Aye Write! Another wonderful, exhausting, exhilarating trip to Glasgow to meet up with the marvellous Moira Munro, illustrator of my PUPPY and KITTEN books, and MONKEY BUSINESS. Moira is a whirlwind of creative talent, writing and illustrating her own picture books about the lovable teddy bear, Hamish, as well as illustrating my books for Macmillan and other titles for educational publishers.

The children we met were blown away by Moira's Rolf-Harris-style superfast sketches which she produced on a large flip chart to choruses of "Oooooh!" and "Wow!" We had a lot of fun getting our audiences to suggest silly scenarios for animals getting stuck in weird and wonderful places, and Moira sketched the lot. Then it was the children's turn to pick up pencil and paper and scribble away. From there we moved on to inventing short stories about how the animals might have found their way into those strange places.

Uncle Zed, from MONKEY BUSINESS had an outing too. Not only did Moira produce a perfect picture of him (she can read my mind, that girl), but I also had to act him out so that the children could ask him questions. One question was "You have a secret habit you don't like to talk about: what is it?" Thinking fast, Zed replied: "It's a bit gross, man, but I have to say I just lurrrrve to chew my toenails."

Hmmm. I think I'll be having words with Zed.

Don't be chicken, chicken

Poor little Storm. She arrived in our household last Saturday and has not emerged from the hen house since our other chickens, Cheeky and Little Brown, backed her into a corner and pecked her to within an inch of her fluffiness. She is the cutest hen I have ever come across: very shy (she had to be tempted with a handful of corn to have her photo taken as she prefers to have her back to us) and so soft and cuddly. She is still very young so she can't fly yet - simply flaps her wings and clings on to my finger for dear life - so it's easy to hold her and stroke her. We are trying to get the other two bossy boot hens to accept her and to stop bullying her, but presumably Nature will have to take its course.

(Storm was a birthday gift for my son from his best friend who is possibly just a tiny bit more animal-obsessed than he is. My son's friend has quite a few chickens of his own, not to mention quail and a Harris hawk! He is planning on getting an owl for HIS birthday, but I don't think his parents know this yet . . .)

It is quite alarming to see how vicious hens can be. Most of the time our hens are amiable creatures who enjoy being handled, and very tamely trot around our garden oblivious to the cats and dog who sit and watch them with the word "LUNCH" hanging hopefully above their heads. But Cheeky and Storm are demonstrating just how nasty the "pecking order" can be. They are behaving like the worst kind of playground bully who herds their victim into a corner out of sight of the teacher before laying into them. And it's not just the physical violence that has been upsetting: they harangue Storm with verbal abuse as well! The clucking and crowing that has gone on since Storm's arrival has to be be heard to be believed.

But we are already very much in love with Storm, so there is no question of her leaving us. The two madams she has to share a coop with will just have to get used to their new room mate!

Who's Going to Walk the Dog?

I am very excited to have had a poem published for the first time! This gorgeous collection of Puppy Poems contains writing by some fantastic children's poets whom I have admired for a long time, so I feel very honoured to have my poem selected to appear alongside theirs.

My poem is called "Who's Going to Walk the Dog?" and, as with so much of my writing, it was inspired by real life. I had been asked to have a go at writing a puppy poem, and had been struggling for a week or so with an idea I had which revolved around a child begging for a puppy. But the poem was not coming together at all. Then one very wet weekend, I had the conversation many parents have with their children: "Who's going to walk the dog?" and I received the stock answers I have come to expect: "Not me!" "I'm busy - loads of homework to do . . ." and so on.

I pulled on my hat and coat and stomped off in a very bad mood, dragging poor Kenna behind me, her head down and tail drooping. (She has a very guilty conscience, you see, so if I'm grumpy she is sure it is her fault.) And I am ashamed to say that I was muttering under my breath about my ungrateful family and how it was always me walking Kenna and feeding Kenna and taking Kenna to the vet, even though I had not even wanted a dog in the first place.

By this time, Kenna and I had reached the end of the little lane which connects our village with the neighbouring one, and my dog had very sensibly run ahead of me to escape my grumblings. We walked out of the village, past the cricket pitch and stopped by the field which looks out across the valley and down to the canal. And, as always happens when I take in that view, I realised what a silly old bag I was being, and how lucky I was to live in such a beautiful place with such breathtaking views - and how, if I had not become a dog-owner I would probably not take advantage of my surroundings as often as I do.

I looked down at my loveable pooch, snuffling through the wet leaves, her tail up again and wagging itself into a frenzy, her pink tongue lolling and her mouth stretched wide in a blissful doggy smile, and I thought: "Why on earth did I want anyone else to walk the dog?" And then the poem popped into my mind, so I raced down the hill back to the house and wrote it down!

I was reminded of this scene at 6.45 this morning when I took Kenna out in the pitch black, freezing foggy garden for her morning loo visit. My eyes were hardly open, my head was clogged with sleep, and I had no desire to be up that early, let alone out in the cold. But then I heard an owl calling from the garden opposite ours, and another owl answer it, and I looked up and saw the dawn winking over the village roofs and I thought again how lucky I am that my dog forces me outside so that I can appreciate these things which I would miss altogether if I did not have a dog.

So, the next time I feel myself thinking crossly, "Who's going to walk the dog?" maybe I'll stop and answer the question myself: "I will!"