Dear Gentle Reader...

... for Knots in the String.

Dear Gentle Reader,

This writer has been wondering what could conceivably be written to you that you may find interesting. There are times when days can be bland, and one might be scraping the barrel to even give you a word or two. For these days, the political news is tarnished orange rather than a glittering gold and one feels a certain malaise when one even thinks to open one’s newspaper.

As a writer, one always reads information about the craft of writing, about the marketplace and so forth. So if there are any writers who may read this small note – this nugget below may be of interest, especially for those over the age of 60.

Someone of standing within the literary world apparently dared say that novels about the older generation are a completely non-commercial proposition. In other words, old people are boring.

Really!

One’s hackles rose, my friend, as one has almost completed writing a further novel about people ‘of a certain age’. But more particularly, as a septuagenarian reader, one takes great offence at such odd words. You must forgive one for not being able to supply a link for this titbit but it was rather like leaves on the wind, flying past at great speed. You must know what it is like. One hears the edge of something, and it catches one’s interest and then floats swiftly away beyond one’s reach. So it was with this statement.

Is it true that such books don’t sell? Are there facts and figures to substantiate such a claim? But then is it not true that there are a mass of fashion influencers catering to a certain age, blogs, Substacks, medicines, electric lightbox shows, moving pictures and even foods? So why does this so-called expert not look at the wider market? Perhaps he/she is not such an expert after all. Ha!

Dear reader, one is very fond of books about older folk. One pays money regularly for such books. The all-time favourite is Winter Solstice, written by Rosamunde Pilcher.

But in case one is peering at the world through rose coloured pince-nez, one ventured to ask a close neighbour, a man called Mr. A.I Google (do you know him?) if the genre was well supplied and he replied swiftly with a highly informative and colourful list (which goes on and on but which has been shortened for our expediency).

Further, 0ne looks forward to a series on the electric lightbox that features dashing and handsome Pierce Brosnan, fiery Celia Imrie, glorious Helen Mirren, exotic Ben Kingsley and so forth, all about people of a certain age?

They are the glittering stars of our society, are they not, and serve us well in directing our attention away from our world’s woes. One swears one would rather watch The Thursday Murder Club than observe global politicians greasing the wheels of disaster. Friends, there is no comparison!

To conclude, this writer wishes there were more saucy titbits to share and mull over, but this week is not one of those weeks, although she did note that Lady Whistledown said: ‘It has been said of all b-tches, a scribbling woman is the most canine.’

One is aghast at her language but all one shall reply is ‘Woof…’

As this correspondent sits, quill in hand, she looks out the window upon a spring day and is quietly thrilled that soon it will be time for sprigged muslin, Regency stripes and exceptional Egyptian linens. Are you in agreeance, dear friend?

May your day be a pleasant one,

Lady Knot.

Escapes?

Clearly, my friend Lady Knot was one such escape. She strikes me as being quite a mettlesome woman and we may hear from her again. Who knows? I’ve heard that she’s a bit of a battleaxe when she wants to be and I’m sure that she’ll not suffer fools gladly.

I also suspect that Lady Knot may be immured in a townhouse and venturing out only by invitation whereas my life is a lot less rigid.

I visited my most longstanding friend to tour her enviable garden and to allow the Womble to play with the love of his life – Vita Violet Crumble. Suffice to say, he has hit his hormonal heights, and it’s perhaps as well that Vita is spayed, or we’d have little Labjacks everywhere.

(I asked Bing AI to generate a free image of Roughcoat JRTxLabrador pups - see above)

I brought home an exhausted Jack Russell and a rare snowdrop which I can’t wait to plant out (the snowdrop, not the dog).

*

In further escapes, I travelled to the Huon Valley (a usually green and lush scene at this time of year). The pasture is so short as to remind one of green baize (what we call a green drought) and there’s evidence everywhere of livestock being hand-fed after a seriously dry winter. I collected plants to add to the cottage’s garden and thought how lucky we are at our farm to have irrigation so that there is reasonable feed to fall back on. I hope we’ll be okay if the season remains dry.

We’re currently lambing and whilst we have had a couple of weeks of lambs birthing in mild sunny weather, we’re expecting a ghastly weekend, with temperatures dropping; a polar blast with rain, and with snow potentially down to 300 metres. Let’s hope the forecast is wrong. But even so, we suspect the worst in the paddocks. This is when I wish for my huge plane hangar…

*

Australian writer Joanne Tracey was in Hobart for the Romance Writers of Australia 2025 Conference at which she was speaking, and we had two wonderful hours in a cafe, discussing our craft and our lives. We had booked this months ago as fellow Substackians (and Australians to boot) so it was wonderful to finally meet in person.

Jo is a prolific and dedicated writer. I’ve just finished reading two of the Philly books and I urge anyone interested in antiques, British life and Christie-crime to read the series.

I did wonder if I should have paid up and attended the conference. But I’m not sure I fitted the brief because my books fall into fantasy, hist fict and contemporary genres. There’s a romantic vein running through all my narratives (isn’t there in many novels?) but it isn’t the central core of each novel, so perhaps I was best to stay on the sidelines.

*

Despite stitches on the top of my left foot thanks to a skin-cancer biopsy (results next week), I trotted to ballet, waved my arms around and did things on one leg. At least I felt less like a couch potato, and I love seeing everyone weekly as we’re a close bunch. I was so delighted to find a diagram online this week which confirms why ballet (or dance, more broadly) is so good for everyone, let alone anyone over 60.

And whilst we are talking about stitches, I have to say the little Womble is officially a thug this week. The stealth warrior very quietly crept into the bedroom the other morning whilst my husband and I prepared breakfast. Said dog chewed the top off my newly transcribed journal. Thoroughly, as is evidenced by the image.

Because I love the mellow pink of the journal and because I didn’t want to transcribe everything again, I decided to fudge the top with an embroidered felt slip cover. It needed to be softest spring tones and whimsical with it, so I returned to my habitual long-stemmed flowers, with a tiny hive, bees and a few dragonflies.

(Yet to be glued to the body of the journal - that’s tomorrow’s job.)

It’s actually been lovely to stitch and has allowed me displacement from the series we have been watching on Netflix. It's called Hostage, about a terrorist-fractured relationship between the English and French governments. Like Spooks, our favourite-ever spy thriller, it’s quite within the realms of possibility to see such events occurring. With that in mind, my needle and thread were perfect escapes from lifelike situations.

*

On things French, remember how much I adored reading Antoine Laurain’s backlist? French writing has an ineffable elegance and thus I’m currently reading another French novel, this time by Nicolas Barreau. It’s called Love Letters from Paris – very poignant without being depressing, a gentle read and a clever premise.

Lately there have been no audiobooks, instead playing old CD’s whilst in the car. I sing (too loudly and not well) and have a million memories, invariably arriving at a destination with a smile, so I’m guessing that in their own way, the CD’s are a form of escape as well.

Music this week?

A retro melody, inspired by the CD’s and by my current French reading. Come on my escape with me…