Sometime during November 1998, at the fast approaching age of forty, I found my first wrinkle. Well, it probably wasn’t my very first one, I had lots of little ‘smiley’ ones that I kidded myself came from being eternally happy, cheerful and upbeat.

No, this was a huge, indented, massive, full-on, real life, old-age, feck off wrinkle, right smack-bang in the middle of my forehead.

I frantically mixed two different types of foundation together and smeared it on, but to no avail, it stubbornly remained. Adding a little bit of plain flour helped enormously to fill in the indentation, the gluey mess dried to perfection bringing back my smooth, unlined forehead…. until I raised an eyebrow in surprise at the price of a tin of beans in Morrisons. Then it all went to hell in a handbag as my cheap version of aesthetic filler started to peel away. By the time I got to the checkout it had dropped down to hang tantalisingly from the tip of my nose. I feigned ignorance and carried on packing my bags whilst the cashiers eyes darted from side to side, watching my accidentally fake booger swing like a metronome.

In sheer desperation and a desire to hold back the years, I then resorted to cutting in a fringe. It wasn’t as crap as the one my mum gave me in 1962 when she plonked my Nan’s ceramic pudding bowl on my head and cut around it, but it came a close second. As more little (and big wrinkles) appeared over the following years, my fringe was pulled, yanked, sprayed and arranged in various combinations to cover each new one. The downside was it now also covered my eyes which in turn caused frequent visits to A&E from falling over the cat or missing the top step on the stairs, catapulting me headfirst into the console table at the bottom.

Another nod to the ageing process was the realisation that gravity can be seriously challenged in the bedroom – and it’s not just the jelly belly or droopy nellies that fall foul of it. Taking down the large mirror from the bedroom wall for a spring clean, I chucked it onto the bed and set about giving it a vigorous polish. Leaning over it, giving it more welly than was really necessary, I sang along to Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. As my eyes focused on my own reflection, I was horrified to see my jowls droop forward and start to swing and wobble in time to Gloria’s dulcet tones.

Oh for crying out loud, my poor hubby! How on earth had he kept a straight face when I’d been erotically flinging myself around on top of him in our bed every weekend whilst my saggy bits had slapped him across the chops or almost poked his eye out….

Mortified, I decided the Missionary position would be the only thing on the menu in future so everything that now hung and draped across the silvered glass could be tucked behind my ears or under the pillow.  Well, it was that or turn the lights off!

I really did try to accept and welcome growing old, even though it was costing me a small fortune buying every new anti-wrinkle cream that came to the market.

Receiving an invitation to a particularly exclusive up-market dinner party, I began my usual routine of agonising over what I should wear, wailing over the extra pounds I’d added to my waistline and horror of horrors, my baggy, wrinkled panda eyes, courtesy of shift work. Desperate to make a good impression for hubby and my fellow guests, I was excitedly first in the queue at the chemists the following morning for the much heralded Bright Eyes that promised to smooth eye bags and wrinkles and which had earned a coveted 5* review in the local Gazette. Maybe the solitary review should have set alarm bells ringing, but hell, I was desperate and past caring.  I parted with my hard earned cash and ran all the way home, paper bag containing my spoils clutched in my hot sweaty hand. I couldn’t wait to look young again.

Utilising a magnifying glass to read the ridiculously tiny print on the instructions, I patted, slapped and smeared my Bright Eyes as directed and then waited, wafting my hands manically trying to speed up the drying process….

….five minutes later – voila!

I wanted to cry with joy.  Err okay, bit of an overreaction there, maybe just holler a little. It had knocked years off me. Bright Eyes! Mine were positively headlamps on an HGV.

I was over the moon as I sashayed out to the taxi, turning my face to the streetlamp for illumination in the hope that Bert the driver would notice the years falling away from me.
Arriving at Thornton Hall, my confidence knew no bounds as I took my seat at the long table set for forty guest. I laughed, giggled, smiled and chatted animatedly, amazed that a 15ml tube of liquid could make such a difference to how I felt about myself.

We had barely finished the main course, me being in full swing regaling everyone with what I thought was a fabulously funny story, when my OH frantically began pointing at me from across the table. I waved back and blew him a kiss, quietly mouthing ‘laters’… before returning to my tale.  Not to be deterred he tried again, but this time he was joined by the rather gorgeous young brunette who was sitting beside him.  She was so young she probably wouldn’t have to resort to drooling over a tube of Bright Eyes for at least another twenty-years.   Her look was one of horror mixed with pity as she pointed at my face.

“You’re eyes..!” she hissed, handing me a small compact mirror.

Chuffed that she had noticed, I preened openly, wondering if I should let her – and the other six guests who were now also taking an interest –  into my secret.  I clicked the compact open ready to admire my new found youth.  The seconds felt like hours as I examined my reflection. I sat there, mouth open, frozen to my seat desperately wishing the ground would open up and devour me.

Flakey chunks of ‘Skin’ hung in strips onto my cheeks and a crackle glaze of what looked like dried egg white spread outwards from both eyes.

I couldn’t believe it, over the course of two hours I had morphed into an extra from The Night of the Living Dead.

It slowly dawned on me that if I hadn’t been so crap at French in school, the addendum on the instructions ‘éviter les expressions faciales excessives ou l’effritement se produira’, would have warned me that smiling, laughing, smirking, gurning or any other aspects of facial animation was detrimental to the temporary effect of Bright Eyes, particularly when you’d smeared it on with a trowel.

”You’re sort of falling apart…” Ms Brunette helpfully offered.

“Err – no shit Sherlock..” I mumbled as I staggered off to the ladies loos, to a back drop of sniggers and snorts of barely suppressed laughter.

So now, as I fast approach my 60th birthday, I can look back and laugh at the ridiculous efforts and ordeals I put myself through over the years, I even sometimes wish I was as wrinkly as what I thought I was when I thought I was wrinkly!  I try to forget the period in my life when I actually paid for the pleasure of electrocuting myself with GENIE treatments. Lying in the beauty clinic whilst my facial muscles took on a life of their own, sending my tooth fillings into hyper sensitivity, I would console myself that it was worth it for the 24 hours of lifting and toning I would get before it all dramatically dropped south again, normally whilst I was standing in the queue at the local chippy.

Asking for  “fish…. Oops shit…”  (brief pause whilst I tucked my suddenly dropped jowls and wattle back into my turtle neck sweater)  “…. and chips, please” would go down a storm on a Saturday night.

My eldest granddaughter, Olivia invented the word ‘prinkle’ when she was three years old to describe my facial lines.

I love that word.

I love it because she gave it to me, I love it because I’ve earned my prinkles, I love it because my prinkles mean I am living a life that is often sadly denied to so many who have not been blessed to reach an older age, an age that is long enough for them to earn their wrinkles.

My face prinkles because I laugh, it prinkles because when I talk, I’m very animated, it prinkles because I have the heart to cry, it prinkles because I pull faces to make my granddaughters laugh.

It’s a face that is well lived and to be honest, if all else fails…..

…… there’s always Snapchat filters, I’m sure I’d look a right doozy with a cute rabbit nose, spider eyelashes and dilated pupils!


Have a great weekend everyone, I’m off to practice my pout….

Gina x

Handcuffs, Truncheon and a Polyester Thong ©️ 2017

Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot – The Further Adventures of Constable Mavis Upton ©️ 2018 (publishing date 19 July)



It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To…..


We all have them, they seems to come with a strange sort of regularity – like each year, or 365 days or every 8,760 hours.

At six minutes to midnight on 31st December 1958 my mum was lying prostrate in the local maternity unit desperately trying to delay my birth as best she could. The promise of a years supply of terry nappies, several bottles of Napisan and a dozen horrifically large nappy pins were at stake. A gift from Johnson & Johnson along with an endless supply of baby lotion and powder to the first New Year Baby born in each County, or so the story goes.

Neither panting, grunting, puffing or singing could delay the inevitable urge and I was expelled into the world howling at 11.58 pm.

Much to mum’s dismay her fellow ward mate, Maude Sanders, fared better in the leg crossing game and produced at 12.00.03 am. a bouncing 9lb 6oz boy called Charlie.

Charlie was a ginger.

What on earth that had to do with it I’ll never know, but mum used to emphasise the colour of his hair as though it was a privilege that had won his mother the much coveted nappies. Dad’s theory, however, was the belief that ginger hair was so much coarser than my blonde hair and had conveniently acted as friction, slowing Charlie’s descent and ultimate birth for those vital seconds.

And so the misery of having a birthday on New Years Eve began for me.

At the tender age of 7-years, I objected profusely, by stamping on every tread of the stair in our 1930’s semi, to being sent to bed whilst mum and dad set up the Ercol sideboard in our best room with sandwiches, vol-au-vents and sausage rolls. With my head stuck between the bannister rails, I marvelled at the celery sitting ram-rod straight in Dad’s best pint glass and the hedgehog made from chunks of cheese & pineapple on sticks jammed into a silver ball. The twinkling lights from the Christmas tree reflected in the red polka dot plastic tablecloth and bunched balloons only added to my pique and misery.

Petulantly I stuck my tongue out. It was MY birthday so why on earth was I being sent to bed whilst the grown-ups enjoyed MY party. I was even more hurt that Mum and Dad hadn’t even had the decency to put out jelly cases with smarties on top.

Looking back, this was the first indication I had that I was going to be the child whose birthday wasn’t really important as I shared it with another, more special occasion that everyone else preferred to celebrate and attend.


Over the years I got used to coming second best to good Auld Lang Syne. My 21st birthday party was actually held on the 9th February 1980 as this was the only date available that would cater to everyone else’s New Year commitments, lengthy hangovers, post-christmas man flu/the shits/gout, and the needs of the majority who were apparently ‘heartily sick to the back teeth with Christmas, alcohol, parties and celebrations’

At the age of thirty, confidence having replaced my wall-flower existence I tried a new tack. Giggling after an excess consumption of Gin, I donned my fancy dress outfit for the New Years Eve party being held at our local Social Club. I would arrive fashionably late and by the time I’d finished with my little show, EVERYONE would know it was my birthday too.

Bursting in through the double doors, bottle of Prosecco in hand, dressed like a female Bob Marley in a vibrantly striped kaftan, guitar slung over my shoulder and a woolly hat, I began shouting ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEEEEEEEE’ at the top of my voice.

Swinging my colourful dreadlocks around for full effect, I gave a somewhat surprised gasp as they inadvertently hooked themselves on the ornate light fitting on the wall. Desperately trying to extricate the long hairy extensions I swung round, only to come face to face with the buffet table heavily laden with party food.

Curly pasta in tomato sauce, penne pasta in a creamy sauce, pasta pizza, pasta bake, pasta tuna, spicy pasta, curried pasta, beefy pasta, chicken pasta  ….

I took in the surprised faces on the throng of elegantly dressed party goers, the glitter, the sparkle, the velour, satin and Lycra as it slowly dawned on me that this was not the Rasta Party I’d thought it was.

Staggering out, suitably humiliated by the sniggering which had then given way to raucous laughter, I vowed then that this would be the very last New Year were I would attempt to make it my day rather than anyone else’s.

I gave up.

That was until my rapidly approaching fiftieth birthday. I mean, come on, you can’t let your 50th pass by without some form of celebration can you?  This time, as Fred Pontin so succinctly put it, I’d bookearly so I could have a party that was all about me for a change, so after perusing the calendar, Saturday 29th December 2007 was to be the exciting evening.  As I began phoning around, booking the venue, catering, entertainment and picking the design for the invites, it struck me as to how much my childhood birthday disappointments had affected me over the years, this party, my ‘Please come to my 50th Party’ was going to be so cathartic. It would lay my ghosts to rest.

I was going to have a birthday party and it was on a day that was as close to New Years Eve as I could possibly get.

Two weeks later, tongue hanging out, I sat with my guest list. Using a special gold pen I’d bought from the Cheap shop, I wrote out my 150 invitations, stacked them in a pile and sat back on my comfy sofa to nostalgically look back over my 50 years on this planet. Hard to believe time had gone by so quickly.

I thought of the ginger-haired Charlie, wondered where he would be now. Would his hair still be ginger, or like mine, would it have touches of grey here and there.  Would he still have his own eyebrows or would he have to pencil them in like I did so I could show surprise, horror or amusement?  I doodled the decades on the back of a spare envelope, writing little memories for each one, each turn of the year. Where I was, what stage of my life I was at.

1958 my birth year

1968 ready to leave primary school

1978 preparing for my wedding

1988 starting life as a single mum with Emma

1998 a fabulous holiday in Crete

2007……2007!  Hold on, that didn’t sound right.

…. Shit!

If it wasn’t bad enough to have been born on a crap day, to have missed all the parties with jelly cases and smarties and to have bounced around as Bob Marley’s grandmother at what turned out to be a Pasta Party, I’d actually gone one better and excelled myself by inviting everyone to my 50th when in truth I would only be forty-nine.

The magic of a birthday party just for me had eluded me once again.

Fast forward ten years to New Years Eve 2017.

This year was destined to be a quiet one with family, a lovely meal and playing games with my granddaughters. Unfortunately the good old D&V bug has put paid to that. Poor Olivia, my eldest granddaughter, has been producing technicolour yawns with startling ferocity and regularity throughout the night, this in turn has everyone else in the family crossing themselves in fear whilst searching the house to ensure there are ample buckets, towels, disinfectant and Dioralyte at hand just in case of an epidemic.

I have felt a mixture of emotions today. No longer am I disappointed or sad not to have a birthday party, instead I am happy, counting my blessings that are my family and my friends. I am so grateful for the cards and lovely wishes you have all sent, they truly do mean the world to me.

I have felt a sadness that my mum and dad aren’t here to see another birthday and another year, and for the first year ever, my heart has been heavy because my step-dad’s Dementia is worsening, so it is the first year in my life that I didn’t get a card that said HappyBirthdayDaughter from him. He has no idea that it is my birthday anymore.

It’s as though the title of Daughter has finally been taken from me. My lovely hubby, seeing my wobbly lip, rushed out and bought one for me but as daft as I can be at times, I did recognise that it was his handwriting. Nice try Johnny!

Regardless, there will still be laughter and happiness tonight, probably caused by me being incapable of pouring a small Gin, which in turn will no doubt have me skidding on my bum down two flights of stairs in my rabbit Onesie and fluffy slippers….. without spilling a drop. I won’t have jelly and smarties or a cheese & pineapple hedgehog but I will have wonderful memories of a year that has given me so much more than my 2016 wishes asked for.

Thank you for being there for me, thank you for all your laughter, support and encouragement too. I would not have enjoyed the success I have been blessed with without it, nor would I have enjoyed it if you had not been there to share it with me.

Wishing you all much love and laughter in 2018
Gina x

Handcuffs, Truncheon and A Polyester Thong © 2017

Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot – The Further Adventures of Constable Mavis Upton © 2018  (summer 2018 Urbane Publications)


I Smile Because If I didn’t, You’d Ask Me Why….

Norman Wisdom.  The Fool.  The sad, funny fool.  Norman Wisdom, my comedy hero.

I vividly remember crying big heaving sobs of wet tears at the age of eight watching Trouble In Store one Sunday afternoon on our big old lumbering black & white television as he sang Don’t Laugh at Me ‘Cause I’m a fool.

I suddenly had an affinity, I wanted Norman to be my friend.  I knew I would be able to look after him, to make him feel loved and happy, just like I loved my battered old teddy bear.  I couldn’t understand how anyone could hold such sadness in their heart, but be so incredibly funny at the same time.


At the age of fifty, I sadly found out the how and the why.

In the space of a few short years, I lost both my mum and dad to cancer and whilst still coming to terms with being an overgrown, ditzy orphan, I was diagnosed with a painful, life changing disease that eventually took away the career I loved.

Suddenly I had two options:

a) Walk around with the cares of the world on my shoulders, weeping and wailing with my now ever developing jowls, courtesy of the menopause and old age, knocking my knees and tripping me up in Morrisons Fruit & Veg aisle


b) Smile, laugh and be the fool whilst designating the melancholy and hurt to a little box, carefully tied with a mental bow, and pushing it to the back of my mind as in truth, nobody loves a misery-guts.

‘A‘ wasn’t much of an option as I actually shop in Sainsbury’s and vanity made me horrified at the thought of anyone seeing my jowls swinging from side to side knocking the organic carrots from the carefully stacked display.

So ‘B‘ it was….. and that’s how I live my life.  Everyday I count the blessings I have rather than notching up the negatives.  I’m happy, fulfilled and nutty as a fruitcake!

I manage my condition with powerful medication that prohibits alcohol. Yep, no Gin, vodka, wine.  My saviour for so many social outings was banned, and in doing so, my false confidence went with it but on the plus side, no hangovers or photo’s of me I’d rather my granddaughters didn’t see.

I have this nasty habit of proving my hypermobility after a couple of vodka’s by throwing my legs behind my head.  All good fun until I realised I’d left my stiletto’s on and the heels had jammed behind my neck  making it impossible to extricate myself. There were many occasions I was left rocking backwards and forwards like my nan’s old mahogany chair whilst everyone howled with laughter….

….and that’s where the how came into being.  Their laughter lifted my spirits.  It made me feel happy too, and I suddenly realised how he did it.  His character Norman Pitkin’s heart was filled with this special fluttery feeling because of the laughter and I wanted to feel like that too.

This past eighteen months have been amazing for me, to have my book Handcuffs taken up and published, was my dream come true.

But it has also been a difficult time too.  Sadly, my step-dad, who has been a father to me for over 40 years, was diagnosed with Alzheimers. It is a dreadful illness that destroys a little of him every single day and at the same time my health has deteriorated, giving me constant excruciating, unmanageable pain.  I could be sad, downhearted, miserable but that’s not me.  I have to see the positives.

When I first saw my GP he called it ‘non specific back pain’ and told me to live with it.  I completely forgot where I was and promptly replied “Well it’s feckin’ specific to me mate!”  I don’t think he appreciated my life observation or the slamming of his door as I left.  I was actually gutted as my display of pique and the impact I had wanted in hearing the wooden door hit the frame with force was lost in the slow squeak of the pneumatic safety door closer which completely ruined my dramatic exit.

Six months down the line I have now found myself walking around like a geriatric wearing extra-large, thigh chaffing incontinence pants.  Each time the pain travels down my legs I either howl, groan, ooof or uuuugghh, which makes me sound like I’ve got Tourette’s.  Not to disappoint, I’m currently researching swear words to make a greater impact in Sainsbury’s on a Saturday amongst the Derby & Joan brigade.

This week, after the results of an MRI scan, I am finally being referred to a Neuro specialist.  This has led me to two great emotions.

Elation that finally something might be done so I can live a normal, pain free life.  I want to be able to care for my Dad without feeling a failure due to my limitations, I want to run and play with my beautiful granddaughters, I want to have a proper nights sleep and I want to have lovely, romantic walks with my hubby, and it would be amazing to wear a pair of stiletto’s again without looking like Dick Emery in drag as I totter along the path.

And then there was the sheer panic.  Knickers, or thongs or G-strings or strips of nothing.  I would have barely a gusset between me, a backless surgical gown and some poor unsuspecting specialist with what was currently stuffed in my underwear drawer.

I would just have to go shopping.

Leaving the GP’s surgery with a prescription for some miracle drug called Gabapentin clutched in my hot, sweaty hand, I planned a trip to Primark to see if they had any knickers that actually had a bum in them.  It was also to be my first day of Gabapentin ingestion.

Oh dearie me, that definitely wasn’t one of my better ideas.

High as kite, completely bombed out of my brain, I took my dilated pupils into Primark for a wander.  Finding the Underwear department I suddenly and involuntarily, let out a very loud squeal of utter delight.  I was a child in a toy store.  As much as I wanted to stop the ridiculous display of elation I was currently experiencing, I couldn’t, Gabapentin had me in its grip, I was possessed.  Hubby, who had taken to hiding behind the  Onesies and PJ’s on a nearby stand, cringed with embarrassment as I went on a verbal rampage trying knickers on over my jeans and throwing a rainbow of colours and lace into the air.

Twenty minutes later I stood in the queue at the cash desk, several pairs of mahooosive knickers in my basket and one pair hanging from my head.  This had occurred purely due to the sudden desire to dance to the piped music with a cerise pink firkler draped over my pony-tail which had then become wedged under a hair clip.

In my floaty state I didn’t care.  I shoved the basket towards the cashier, my heart jumping with joy with each bleep of the scanned panties.  Suddenly remembering the pair on my head, I thought, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound.  What’s an extra pair between friends.

Much to the horror of Cashier No. 4, I promptly slammed my head down on the counter, proffering the knickers and their price tag for scanning whilst my left ear got jammed in the security tag removal hole.

Two hours later, Gabapentin fading from my system, I was suitably chastised by hubby, who was currently making a meal of untangling the laced edged frillies from my hair.   I began to ponder my disgraceful behaviour.  I wanted to be embarrassed and cross, I wanted to feel horrified, and I suppose deep down I did, but there was also an overwhelming desire to giggle.

It couldn’t happen to anyone, because it would always happen to me.  I was the proverbial fool, the idiot, the dipstick, the dork….

….but do you know what.  I actually didn’t care.  Whilst I was laughing and being a fool, I was hoping others would giggle too, and in turn any pain, hurt or sadness I felt would be forgotten because their laughter made me happy.  In truth, a smile disguises everything.

Some days it is easy, on other days I do struggle a little, but I will always find time to find something funny in life.  I wouldn’t survive without that hope, that glimmer of humour in every day situations, it’s my safe place, my hiding place for my heart.

I truly do smile because if I didn’t, you’d ask me why….

Gina x





Less than three years ago I had the most amazing dream that consisted of three wishes, well, four really if you count my desperate desire to fit into the size 8 jeans I last wore in 1986.  My wonderful jeans have sat in the third drawer down in the spare bedroom, forlornly waiting for the day my waist would measure the same as my left ankle, thus rendering them useful once again.

Sadly, both me and my anorexic jeans are still waiting for our moment of glory whilst I play Homer Simpson faces with the excess rolls of tummy flab that have slowly crept up on me since I hit my fifties.

So, back to wishes 1, 2 and 3.

Wish number 1.  Write a book and get it published.  Simples really if you say it really quickly.  Being an ex-secretary I could type, I could spell and I knew some fabulous big words, although where I was going to fit supercalifragilisticexpialidocious into a chapter I had no idea.

Wish number 2.  Well that sort of followed on from Wish number 1.  If I managed to write a book AND get it published, I wanted to tread in the hallowed footsteps of Luca Veste, David Jackson and Jonathan Harvey by having my launch at the fantastic Waterstones in Liverpool One.

Sorry, just as a little diversion and to brag a bit, Luca Veste is my incredible nephew, David Jackson is my lovely neighbour and I spoke two words to Jonathan Harvey once AND I got a book signed by him.  I think the two words were ‘Eee Rita’ but nevertheless, I was beside myself with joy and hero worship for weeks afterwards and I still sigh in awe when I see his name on the credits for Coronation Street.

And finally…..

Wish number 3.  The potential for a ‘selfie moment’ in Liverpool John Lennon Airport with my book in the W H Smith Holiday shop.  Not a pouty, duck-faced one, as old age has given me lips like the arse end of a cat, so unfortunately lipstick and gloss bleed into the wrinkles and then come to a grinding halt at my carefully tended moustache.   The downside of my upper lip hair is my granddaughters now kiss the top of my head rather than suffer near fatal electric shocks from my bristles and nose hair.

Anyway, somewhere along the way, my Guardian Angel, who has been avidly following me around, ducking the occasional disaster or dilemma that had been flung my way, came up trumps.

After many months of frantic typing, coupled with copious amounts of biscuits, crisps and chocolate as I worked (ensuring those size 8’s would never, ever see the light of day or my chunky thighs again), Handcuffs, Truncheon and a Polyester Thong was born, followed by that email from Matthew Smith at Urbane Publications.

And the rest, as they say, is history!

This was the start of my amazing journey, a journey that has been made all the more special and magical by the lovely people I have met along the way.

I truly had no idea how fantastic the book world and Social Media could be to a novice writer.  From authors, readers, bloggers and reviewers to Facebookers and Twitterati, they all excitedly encouraged and supported me.  It’s a genuine support too, they love nothing more than seeing you succeed and helping to be part of that success.


I did worry what they would make of Mavis and her Humongously Large Thongs, I fretted over my own ‘likeability’ factor, I panicked about tweets/emojis/not tweeting/forgetting to tweet/saying thank you the right way/not saying thank you/retweeting/ballsing things up  and finally the horrors of predictive text that could turn a simple name like Georgina into a dose of the clap.

I wasn’t sassy and self-assured and I certainly hadn’t written a literary masterpiece that would be hailed alongside the works of Jane Austen and Mary Shelley.  I was also pretty sure that neither Jane or Mary had the added pleasure of packing 120 pairs of size 18-20 knickers from Primark that had their respective protagonists face emblazoned on the front as a PR exercise!  In the end, I plumped for being just me, accompanied by all of the above feck-ups.

To be honest, I don’t think Gonorrhoea Kirkham would be the same if she were sensible, full of her own self-importance and lost the ability to laugh at herself, do you?

It’s been a whirlwind of excitement, laughter, achievements and discovering new things about myself.  I have realised that you never stop growing (there’s those damn jeans again), never stop learning, never stop finding the fun in life.

I also discovered that even though I’m fast approaching sixty, with arthritic knees and a bad hip, I could, in a moment of unbridled excitement, almost do a cartwheel or some other physically impossible action.  

The cause of this geriatric excitement?

A completely unexpected nomination for The Guardian Not The Booker Prize 2017 from the lovely Mark Mayes, a fellow Urbanite.  If the nomination on its own wasn’t enough to send me into raptures, the fact it had come from Mark was the icing on the cake.  Can you imagine how it feels to have someone you greatly admire and respect as a writer to believe in you.  Forget the cartwheels, I cavorted like a retired lap dancer at a bus stop!

Two weeks later, once my hip had set itself back into the socket and I’d extricated my Thong from where the sun don’t shine, I had cause for another bout of elation.  I had made the Long, Long LongList.

Now when The Guardian says ‘long’… it means long.  If you hit the link below and keep scrolling, by tomorrow you might have found me, but to honest I couldn’t care less if I have to scroll off the end of the iPad…. I was there, Mavis Upton had made it to the List, and public voting had begun with earnest.

I’m under no illusions, there are so many wonderful and literary greats amongst those titles, and Mavis may be a little out of her depth, but I’d love to think she’s holding her own.   The chances of her winning with Handcuffs, Truncheon and a Polyester Thong is roughly the same as Cilla Black getting a straight answer on what it’s really all about from her mate Alfie but to have even the remotest possibility of reaching the shortlist is like having Wishes 5 through to 10 all at the same time.

The Guardian Not The Booker Prize 2017

After gratefully accepting wishes number 1 and 2 as granted by my harassed, borderline-alcoholic Guardian Angel, the Not The Booker nomination and the added news this week that W H Smith holiday shops are to stock Handcuffs, Truncheon and a Polyester Thong from August, I am feeling untold joy and eternal gratitude to everyone who has done so much for me along the way.

I truly wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

 So, as I wish you a fabulous Sunday, I’m sitting here with my tongue hanging out in concentration using my trusty dried up Sharpie pen to cross Wish Number 3 from my list, whilst happily having visions of me grinnning inanely holding my book in Liverpool Airport.  The WH Smith sign is behind me as Loretta LoveHoney the blow-up doll on the front cover, bares her ginger ‘Dorrito’ to weary travellers and fellow holiday makers as I dance like there is no tomorrow hoping for a mention in the Liverpool Echo.

Gina x


©Gina Kirkham 2017





Opening one eye as light sneaked its way through the gap between my budget B&Q blind and the window frame, I stretched lazily out in eager anticipation of the summer day ahead.

Slipping out of bed, my knees popping and crackling like a bowl of Rice Krispies, I simultaneously chided myself for getting old and patted myself on the back for having managed to negotiate my way to the bathroom without falling over the cat.

This was to be my first day of no shirts to iron, no SWAT boots to polish, no shifts, no pub fights, no 999 response runs and no paperwork. This was my first day of retirement as a Police Officer.

I was a civilian again.

To be honest, my visions of slipping into Gin & Tonic induced ‘Nana Naps’ in the garden, shaded from the afternoon sun by dappled shadows from the trees, whilst the busy world I had been part of carried on without me, had seemed rather exciting.

Sadly, as romantic as this vision had appeared, it was doomed to failure. The reality was that the first three months offered only perpetual rain, high winds, which are the downside of living by the beach (along with globs of sand sticking to your lip gloss when you step out of the front door) and a huge price increase on the gin!

So, logs on the fire, a pot of tea on the go, half a packet of Ginger Nuts and three sheets of paper later, I had drafted out a plot, a character and a story and I was off on a most exciting adventure.

I was going to write a book.

It would chart my career in the Police, not as a Super-Detective or a muscle-ripped fighter of crime, but as an ordinary woman, a single parent, who looked towards humour as a coping mechanism in a demanding career. This book was not to be for public consumption, after all, I had never written before and I certainly wouldn’t dare to think that anyone would be interested in reading my ramblings. It was to be cathartic. A way of storing my memories of a fabulous career, honour those I had worked with…..

…. actually no, scrub that! It was to fill in the hours whilst the rain systematically destroyed any hope I had previously held of staggering around my back garden like a manic Miss Hannigan after a litre of homemade sloe gin once boredom had set in.

Within eighteen months I had completed my first manuscript, all 142,000 words, and had avidly scoured the pages of The Writers & Artists Yearbook 2014 for the do’s and don’ts of submitting and the etiquette of querying. By page 639 I was frantically editing down my offering to 78,000 words whilst wailing in despair into my coffee. For someone who suffers from verbal diarrhoea at the best of times, particularly when nervous, a reduction in words can be deemed to be complete and utter torture. I then had the added trauma of producing a work of art called a ‘Synopsis’.

I mean, come on….what’s that all about? Eighteen months of my life, a final 78,000 words, 1,478 mugs of tea, 23 packets of Aldi Digestive biscuits, 19 packets of Polo mints and a rather alarming increase in the size of my derrière, only to be told it all had to be reduced down – my writing, not my derrière, I hasten to add. Not to be downhearted I ploughed on, carefully creating ‘My Book of Submissions’.

This masterpiece was crafted with the best four-ring binder I could find, that sported a rather fetching picture of Joyce Grenfell on the front. Various coloured felt-pens were used to rigidly mark-up columns and headings with the assistance of a freebie Kellogg’s Cornflakes coaster in the absence of a ruler.

I was on a roll.

Each submission would have its own page so that I could meticulously keep track of who I had submitted to and who had replied. In the very real fear of forwarding spelling bloopers, poor grammar and dreadful predictive howlers, I read and re-read my first submission e-mail over and over again before my index finger hovered over that one button on a keyboard that could suddenly make even Donald Trump become super-indecisive.  The SEND key.

I pressed and clicked…

… and no sooner had the ‘swooooosh’ sound informed me that it had gone, did my keen eye catch my sign-off at the bottom. I felt sick. Hands trembling, a trickle of perspiration meandering its way down my back, I re-read my email to the poor, unsuspecting Literary Agent, again.

‘… thank you for allowing me the opportunity to query and submit my novel, Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Polyester Thong.

Kindest regards
Gonorrhea Kirkham’

Jeez, I bet my Mum hadn’t seen that coming when she’d christened me Georgina in the 1950’s pre-predictive text era.

If announcing the rather off-the-wall title of my book wasn’t bad enough, I had also fan-fared a name that would never, ever grace the cover of a book on the shelves of Waterstones.

I also knew, with another bout of absolute gut-wrenching certainty, that after making a first impression of that calibre, I had about as much chance of getting a reply and an offer of a publishing deal as Elvis would for a comeback concert.

I’m just hoping the shortened version I now use won’t get me into trouble, although if you get rid of the ‘a’ and add Tonic…. I’m actually back where I started!


©2017 Gina Kirkham

First published as a guest post for the lovely Sonya on http://www.aloverofbooks.wordpress.com



‘It is what we leave as a legacy that is the measure of our existence’

On Thursday, 27th May 1937 a little girl was born to Harold and Florence (Flo) Marriott in a small fishing village in Hoylake, Cheshire.

They named her Sheila Jane, or ‘Blondie’.

The reference to the colour of her hair was frequently shouted by her mum, as with ten children, it was easier to go by the hair colour of her offspring than remember their names individually in the heat of the moment. More often than not, by the time Flo had shouted each one in turn, and finally found the right name, the moment had passed and she had forgotten why she wanted to chastise that particular child in the first place.

They all shared a small terraced house that had the added luxury of an outside brick-built loo with complimentary newspaper squares for toilet paper and a howling breeze under the wooden door which acted as an early prototype for our modern day Vent Axia to dissipate any unwanted odours.

Sheila wore knickers made from black-out material, had her shoes mended with the leather from her Dad’s old belts, shared a tin bath in front of the coal fire with as many sisters that could squeeze into the tub in one go and slept six in a bed. The war years were harsh; curfews, rationing, hand-me-downs and fear.

She left school at 14 with a limited education, but she never once let this deter her later in life. She never gave up, never admitted defeat. She worked hard to reach the dreams that she couldn’t touch in her youth. She won prizes for poetry, painted vibrant, exciting and passionate studies, she crafted pottery and created beautiful hand-knitted designer clothing and she began to write a book.

She loved life, loved to dance in her bare feet, swinging her shoes over her shoulder as she skipped, slightly worse for wear, from pavement to gutter to puddles on her way home from the pub. She wore silly woollen hats in bad weather, hunched under pasting-board tables with her granddaughter, trying to sell tat to passing neighbours to raise money for the Blue Peter Appeal. She played the penny arcade and Roll-a-ball Horse Derby, cheated relentlessly at Trivial Pursuit and gave the most amazing family Christmases full of fun, laughter, love, Bing Crosby’s White Christmas and the famous upside down turkey that looked like it had been run over by the No.23 bus.

She could drink her weight in Brandy, fall asleep on the sofa, snore for twenty minutes and wake up sober. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t cough and fart at the same time. The fart was always on a hilarious three second delay.

She was always there for others, with her love, kindness, compassion and acceptance. She was the welcome ear to listen, the security of a warm hug and the wise words of experience.

How do I know all these things about Sheila?

I know because she was my mum. My fabulous, wonderful, beautiful mum.

And today would have been her 80th birthday.

I’m sitting here sadly wondering how she would have been at Eighty. My loss as raw today as it was when she left to jump puddles, barefoot into the afterlife without finishing her book…..

……and then as the tears fell, I remembered.

I remembered her vibrancy, her laughter, her joy at living and her legacy in me, my daughter and my granddaughters.

It was how she had lived not how she had died that became my abiding memory, and with it came a perfect picture of mum at Eighty.

She has remained untouched by the passing of time, still blonde, still smiling, a Brandy in hand as she smokes her cigarette with her pretty bare feet dancing in time to the music whilst her party guests enjoy her home-made ‘Mary Roses’ eggs …. and she is still coughing fit to burst to try and cover up her turkey induced, three-second-delay farts!

So, Happy 80th Birthday Mum. Wherever you are, keep dancing, keep laughing and hopefully you will have mastered the art of good timing by now…but if you haven’t, I think it’s highly unlikely your guardian angel will be standing behind you when you cough!

My love today and always,
Gina x