Answers on a postcard please.
Of course, I found out what tits were for the moment my first baby latched on. I was an instant devotee. Breastfeeding was like Wow. It was bonding time of trance and love and peace man.
I’m naughty to add the ‘man’ there. It spoils the reverence. The thing is, I know there are times when reverence is where it’s at. We must be mindful, we must speak our truth in careful, beautifully cadenced prose. But my real love is irreverence. I probably have a case of arrested development as far as sense of humour goes. For example I always have found ‘Viz’ really entertaining. The Fat Slags and Mr Logic do crack me up. I am the only person I know who really loved episodes of Bottom. I have read the Blackadder scripts many times. Bawdy farce is my favourite thing.
I got in trouble for this a few times in my life. I went through a phase of grimacing ‘AAAAAH BLEEEEEEEESSSSSS!’ for example at the slightest pity-inducing sight. My poor friend Janet,who had just moved to England, started thinking this was a proper and normal way to respond to people’s sad stories. She remembers a party where her exceedingly inappropriate ‘AAAHHH BLEEEEESSSS!’ caused everyone to turn and look at her in horror.
During the breastfeeding years you develop a lingo, so you find yourself saying things like ‘Titty time!’ or ‘I’ll just whack the ol boobs out’ or even (with a husky chortle) ‘tits oot for the lads’. The babies pick up on it. One of mine used to scrunch her face up and say very firmly, ‘ding-ding’. Another one called one breast ‘Mamatit’ and the other one ‘Uvverone.’ (Poor Uvverone is the one with the cancer, go figure!)
I was breast-obsessed for ten years, feeding each baby til two and a half. When my last baby was born, I had the idea of writing a book about a human milk factory. A comedy. A book which would be about breasts, which would not be afraid of saying ‘TITS‘ and which would blow taboos sky high. I wrote it at night while my four kiddies slept.
The only publisher who showed any interest was called Bastard Books! Even they couldn’t handle it, so I self-published in 2007.
You probably should not read it. The book is the self-indulgent, addled ramblings of a sleep-deprived breastfeeding milk-worlder. My only real die-hard fans are, if not certifiably insane, at least fruitcakes of the first order. However, I still think it’ll make a corker of a film. In my factory the women are divided into groups. The Jugs, the Fleshy Bagpipes, the Knockers, the Hooters etc. They are put on different organic diets, anti-cancer, anti-inflammatory, pro-brain development etc. Their milks are sold in smoothie form and used to make medicines to cure different illnesses. The milk is also delivered to the village school. A few months later the local children astound the country by scoring unheard-of results in their SATS tests. The private school mothers get well miffed. It trundles along in this vein.
I have a funny story about the perils of setting your book in a real place. I set the book in a village called Nebden. This was of course the village Debden, near Saffron Walden. I knew Debden well, having lived in the village next door for five years with young children. (Incidentally, Debden school really had done the best in the country in its SATS tests, the catalyst for the whole idea.) A friend of mine who lived in Debden reviewed the book for the village Pump magazine. (! You couldn’t make it up.) He wrote that he laughed so much that he forgot to get off his train. He pointed out the similarities of Nebden to Debden, right down to ‘the aged volunteers in the village shop.’ Oops. The next edition of The Pump bristled with angry letters. My friend has not been able to go in the shop since.
Also, one day I was picking up poo in the ponies’ field out in Albury, and Gitty, who owns the farm, came up to me and said, ‘You are famous!’
‘Am I?’ I said.
She had been to an upholstery class in Debden and had heard my name, whispered about as a profanity. The book only has the first name Hester on it. My mum had not wanted me to put my second name, so people would not know who I was. Of course this does mean I can join the ranks of Cher, Madonna, Adele.
A year ago, I was excited to hear that The Icecreamists, an ice cream shop in Covent Garden, was selling breast milk ice cream. I visited the shop. The ‘Baby Gaga’ tray was empty by then, having been seized by the council. I was served a cuppa by a lovely girl dressed as Lady Gaga, bought a T-shirt and left them a copy of my book. Just so they would know that their idea had a precedent! And that they only really had the tip of the iceberg.
( My local paper ran a little article on this here)
Hi Hester! 🙂 howzabout putting the book online so we can enjoy your wonderful humour ??? Or at least the first chapter or 2? The Trafford website promises a preview but it ain’t up.
http://goo.gl/wtEuz
meanwhile, any help you need with your musical commitments – just holler
hugs, pete
funnily enough, trafford phoned up the other day, and said they were converting the book into an e-book, free of charge. So that’s rather marvellous. and even though it is not at all exactly as i would like, i have got over that now, and decided that it is a historical document, and no way would I be able to write it now, so it should continue to exist as it is.
as for musical commitments, we still have to play the Martinu! on the agenda, for sure. let’s not forget this time.
this time, hester, if you can’t find the -ing sheet music, I’ll just order a new copy! owzat???
hugs, pete
i bought it the other day pete! owzat?
replying to your message april 4th re Martinu,: awesome!
pete
Fruitcake here. Indeed put it online for a fee. Tessa just bought a kindle…
Roly
fred and bash and tabs have kindles too now. they are rather the in thing. am a bit scared that books are dying. but maybe this has been on the cards for a long time.
Hi,
It has taken a while to articulate, but here’ smy suggestion:
…evolutionarily speaking: “strategic fat with heightened neuro sensitivity, most likely attained upon transitioning to upright means of locomotion…one of God’s better inventions…much better than tornadoes, though impact on males can be quite similar”…grin
Stu