DAYDREAMER? PERHAPS YOU’RE A NOVELIST

‘A dreamer in broad daylight’ – that’s what Freud called the novelist. He went on to suggest that creative writing is wish fulfilment, and er… oh lordy, read Creative Writing and Daydreaming and see the rest for yourself. But the connection is undeniable, and I was reminded of this during a recent interview. If you spend half your life with your head elsewhere, consider whether you’ve got a novel in you!  

INTERVIEW FOR THE MOANING TIMES (http://themoaningnews.moonfruit.com)

Can you firstly tell us about your childhood, and when was the first time that you knew that writing was for you?

I was a wilful, daydreamy child for whom school was a torment; I was twice expelled - at six for a John Wayne clouting of a girl who’d been chasing my best friend with a worm, and at seventeen for generally floating around the place disengaged.  We had a bungalow in Cobham (Surrey) on a leafy cul de sac since plundered to make way for Chelsea-footballer mansions. My adorable half-Spanish mother took the family off to Spain for a month every year and is responsible for my hispanophilia.

I always wanted to write; I was making little sellotaped books at five years old. But in senior school I became self-conscious about it, took up the piano and started writing music instead.

How would you answer the question ‘Who is Cherry Radford?’

A novelist inspired by music, dance and all things Hispanic; a loving but neglectful partner and mother.

You have worked in music and in the medical field but compared to writing how much do they mean to you and if you could do one for the rest of your life which one would you do and why?

Writing is my life; I think about it every moment I can, and also when I shouldn’t be. Music is my buzz and my cure - and always an inspiration for my stories.  My scientific research background was invaluable for MEN DANCING, but I could never go back to it; I’m piloted by the other side of my brain these days.

Can you tell me about Men Dancing and why should people read it?

MEN DANCING is the story of a married, mother-of-two scientist whose world tilts after a chance meeting with a charismatic male Royal Ballet dancer. It’s a darkly humorous romance that seems to entertain people, but it also takes an often painfully honest look at the nature of marriage, desire, parenting and the search for fulfilment.

I hear there is a second novel in the pipeline so can you tell us what that’s about and when can we expect to see it?

FLAMENCO BABY follows a musician with a ticking body-clock who asks her gay best friend to be a sperm donor. He declines but treats her to a flamenco course instead - throwing them into a world of secret passions that test their friendship and make them wonder if there’s more than one way to have a happy-ever-after.

It should be out in early 2013, hopefully coinciding with the Sadler’s Wells Theatre (London) Flamenco Festival in February.

What made you want to start writing books?

If you spend half your life daydreaming, it’s nice to have something to show for it.

Do you have special routines or processes you go through to write a book and if so what are they?

I spend several months researching – for example, I took a flamenco course in Granada for FLAMENCO BABY – and generally mulling.  Then at some point I just start writing, wherever and whenever I can. I mostly use little soft-feel elasticated notebooks – I find it’s easier to let ideas flow with a pen in hand – and then sift / transfer to the laptop.

What things do you do when you are away from writing and what TV, music etc. are you into at the moment?

I’m not often really away from writing! I think up dialogue when I’m gardening, imagine scenes while listening to music (mostly flamenco fusion these days), enjoy other authors. I practise Spanish with my teacher and on Twitter, and have continued with the flamenco dance classes. Playing the piano relaxes me, and I have three lovely pupils. I watch films rather than TV, but I do like Strictly Come Dancing - and was thrilled to go to the show as a guest of Sir Bruce Forsyth last season. 

For anyone reading this who would like to get into writing what advice would you give them?

After skim reading about five books on novel making, ask yourself what you really need to write about. Mull over a plot for a few months, but don’t get too bogged down with the details – and particularly the ending – as once your characters come to life they’ll do what the hell they like with it. Then just start; there’ll never be a perfect time, so why put it off?

What things make you happy and what things annoy you?

I’m happy when someone tells me that they’ve got something out of my book, when they see what I was trying to do - or even things I wasn’t aware of myself.

I can’t stand it when people ask who my characters ‘are’, or assume that my female protagonist is doing something I’ve done or want to do. Listen once and for all, people: it’s MADE UP! Obviously I write about things I need to explore, but it’s like dreaming — you shouldn’t take it literally.

Can you tell me one thing about yourself that people might not already know?

I love watching international football games – such skill, such drama! And of course I adore the almost balletic Spanish team.

What are you up to at the moment and what’s next for you?

I’m researching for a madly ambitious third novel. It’s taking a long time but I’m really enjoying the ride.

http://www.cherryradford.co.uk/

RESEARCH - HOW FAR WOULD I GO?

Researching for my books: HOW FAR WOULD I GO? I’d never cause anyone any harm or embarrassment – anyone, that is, other than myself. I’ve had painful feet on an intensive Granada flamenco course, a shoulder problem with salsa, and spent hours plodding around Islington and the Brighton seafront in all weathers. But the worst thing I’ve had to do in the name of research was… stalking. I spent a scary, demeaning but ultimately worthwhile forty minutes waiting for a famous ballet dancer to come out of his house. How else could I have written this scene from Men Dancing?  

It was nearly nine o’clock; according to the day-in-the-life interview, Alejandro should have just finished his breakfast – porridge, eggs, toast and coffee – and be getting ready to leave for his 10.30 class at the Royal Opera House.

Clutching my map, I walked the route I’d already committed to memory, slowing as I neared the road and feeling rather queasy. I walked down the odd-number side until I was opposite 214: a Victorian terrace with a red painted door – his favourite colour. In films there’s always a large-windowed cafe opposite the building that’s being watched, but only a post box was on offer here. Or houses are observed from a slouched-down position in a car, but it would have been very hard to explain to Jez why I was driving to work for the first time in seventeen years.

Nine twenty. My heart was beginning to race; what if Alejandro came out and recognised me? Or worse, spotted me through his net curtains and worried for my sanity? I cursed myself for forgetting my sunglasses, but then they would have looked a bit silly with the spitting rain and darkening sky. I let my hair flop over my face and pretended to be consulting my map, while trying to keep watch out of the corner of my eye.

‘Lost? Where you looking for?’ said a voice next to me.

My heart felt like it had jumped right out of my chest. My only chance was to keep looking down, as if mesmerised by the intricate lacework of yellow and white roads.

‘Oh. It’s okay, I think I’ve got it.’

‘O-kay,’ he said with a chuckle, and crossed the road. A tall, dark pony-tailed man, I now saw, in a paint-splattered t-shirt and track suit bottoms. He disappeared into the propped open door of number 212.

I wanted to just keep walking, but my new working hours meant that if I didn’t see this out I’d probably have it hanging over me until the following week. It was a mission that had to be accomplished; a fact-finding one, like finding references in the hospital library, but rather more scary – and as the dark clouds started to give up their wares, a lot more uncomfortable.

Nine thirty. Surely he had to leave before too much longer. I imagined him coming out of the shower, vigorously rubbing himself dry, putting on his dance belt, asking Jessie if his favourite practice clothes were dry. The wave of misery washed over me, followed by the usual irritation; I was becoming familiar with my symptoms. What was the point of this? I had the method, and possibly the participants, but no objectives.

Nine thirty-five. Perhaps he ran on Cuban time. Perhaps he’d leave at the last minute in a contracted cab, the day-in-the-life bit about the bus travel being put in just to make him sound more grounded. In which case he could probably leave at about ten and still make it. I put the map book in my pocket and leaned against a gate post, periodically looking at my watch, taking out my phone and texting, as if the person I was visiting was unexpectedly out. I was getting very wet, my hair slicking down on my head. Come on Alejandro, I thought, I’ve had enough of this.

And then the red door opened. Out came a woman wrestling with an umbrella, followed by another in a hooded mac. They exchanged a few words and went off in different directions. Either could have been Jessie. Seeing the mac I suddenly remembered that my jacket had a hood, but you had to unzip the collar and unfurl it, and later reverse the procedure, so I’d never bothered. But then I hadn’t stood for ages in the rain since I used to watch an 11-year-old Seb in school football matches. I felt for the zip and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. So I yanked the sodden jacket half off my shoulder and craned my neck to see the damn thing, which had stuck its mouth into some of the lining. I wiggled it about to free it, opened the collar and let the flimsy hood fall over my head and face. Cursing  myself for my inattention, I glanced back at number 214.

This time the door was closing, as if someone had arrived, or gone back in because they’d forgotten something. Then a large blue and white CarpetClean van parked in front of me, disgorging two matching blue and white men, and I couldn’t see a thing. I stepped out of the way of a couple of miserable women with buggies and a plump girl posting a bundle of letters. I repeated my act – looking at my watch, pretending to make a call and then a text on my mobile, peering along the street. I was going to have to move down a bit to get a view of 214, but not in the direction I was facing because there was another white van manoeuvring into the space next to CarpetClean. So I turned on my heel to walk the other way – and whacked my shoulder into an elbow.

‘Ay – perdón,’ I heard him say as he strode on, mobile pressed to his ear and a holdall hanging from his shoulder. And I watched him go down the rest of the road, heard him laughing, chatting in Spanish, even his walk looking like it was set to music, and wondered at how all these people in the street could be so unaware of him, who he was, how he was. I put my hand to my shoulder and smiled. He was worth the wait.

A CHANCE MEETING...

In April I celebrate the month I started writing Men Dancing, a novel born from the moment I realised that ballet dancer Carlos Acosta must get my train every time he goes to Gatwick…

 April is also the month in which the Men Dancing story begins, so it’s a good time to start reading it! My publisher is happy to help some of you do that – by giving away five signed copies. All you have to do is write a few lines telling us which performer you’d like to meet on a train and how you think it would go! Send them to my website www.cherryradford.co.uk or Facebook Cherry Radford Author Page. It doesn’t matter where you are in the world, and multiple entries are permitted. The winners will be announced on Sunday 15^th April.  

Meanwhile, here’s what happened in Men Dancing:

I shouldn’t have been on that train. And I don’t like aisle seats, but the train was full of whooping, rucksacked teenage boys; I had to sit down next to one of those annoying men with their legs wide open to accommodate their wares. He was engrossed in a book, and apparently happy to let me perch half-bottomed on my seat to minimise contact with his admittedly well-sculpted thighs.

 I took out my research papers but thought, sod it, let’s speed up this train, and switched them for the Margot Fonteyn biography. And then I peeled the lid off my coffee and groaned. ‘Want a black coffee anyone? They gave me the wrong one.’

The boys opposite were lolling against each other, guffawing at images on a mobile phone. So I swivelled and held it out to thigh-man, who thanked me with a nod and a flash of curly-lashed black eyes before grabbing the cup. It was enough: my heart thudded, my cheeks boiled. He seemed smaller and slighter. Instead of the famously broad grin there was a closed, weary smile. But it was definitely him. I’d seen him twice that season alone from the front row of the Royal Opera House; his raw masculinity the cause of much prurient speculation in the after-show dinners with Emma.

‘Sugar?’

‘No, no,’ he said into the cup. Of course not; a cruel review had commented on his increasing heaviness, although, glancing down his tightly shirted and jeaned form, there was no evidence of it.

I considered pretending I didn’t know who he was, but my pink cheeks and Fonteyn book were going to make that somewhat unlikely. I wished I’d brushed my hair properly and put black tights on my April legs, tried to think of something to say.

But then, exhaling loudly with the pleasure of the coffee, he prodded Margot’s face.

‘Is good?’

‘Fascinating.’

A lopsided grin. ‘And she has... you know, what happen with her and Nureyev?’

‘Er... It’s not clear. She denied it. And, according to his biography, so did he... but not always... he claims she miscarried his baby.’ I was loosening up, proud to share my research. I took a breath and forged on: ‘But frankly, she slept with most of her other partners, so why on earth wouldn’t she?’

‘Exactamente. Why not?’ He laughed, clearly comfortable in this territory. ‘Worked hard, she deserve it.’ He tilted his head back on his long, powerful neck and gulped down more coffee.

The boy opposite was arranging his hands in a heart shape and pointing at Alejandro and then me, prompting a loud snort and rocking from his mate.

Then I thought that was probably it, so I put my bag on the floor and opened my book to read. Or pretend to. But his book was closed. I sneaked a look at him and found myself meeting his gaze.

‘Are you going to Gatwick? Going back home?’ This was probably alright: the documentary had dwelt on his homesickness for Cuba.

There was a beat where he seemed to hesitate, registering that I knew who he was. ‘Yes. Rehearse, performance, then little holiday before return for Giselle. You go to Opera House?’

‘Yes, but more often to Sadler’s Wells – just down the road from work. Easier to persuade friends to come with me. But I went to Manon a couple of weeks ago – can never tire of that ballet.’

‘Mine?’ he asked, a slight grin playing around his lips.

‘No. But I saw you in it last year.’

‘So why not this time? You don’t like my Des Grieux?’

This was weird: why on earth should he care what some woman on a train thought about one of his roles, when all his performances sold out months ahead?

‘No... I mean, yes, I did... But I saw you in Mayerling, I really liked you in that.’ Liked you: rather inappropriate for such a violent, passionate role.

We were coming into East Croydon. Half way to Gatwick. I wondered how I was going to feel when he got out: certainly not in a fit state for reading the research papers.

‘Why you not like my Des Grieux?’ he persisted.

‘I didn’t say that!’ I said, forcing a laugh, but he didn’t return my smile. The critics might like an occasional carp, but maybe it’d been a long time since anyone had been less than ecstatic about his performance to his face. Des Grieux: the lovesick, gullible theology student. I’d said to Emma, ‘He just doesn’t do humility, does he? Nice costume though.’

‘I dunno. He’s a passive, soppy character. Not really you.’ I was relieved to see him nodding. ‘But what do I know?’

‘I think you’re right.’ He looked down at my bag. ‘So where you work?’

‘At a hospital in the City. I do research... on contact lens-related infections.’

‘You are doctor?’

‘A vision scientist.’

‘Contact lenses are dangerous?’

‘Not very often. But a lot of people wear them, so we have to find out how to make them safer.’

‘And after a day of that, you eye people go to Sadler’s Wells. I like that. I like the audience there – all different, and young, not like at Opera House – lots of crazy ladies.’

‘Don’t say that, I’m one of those and proud of it!’

‘No, no!’ he said, laughing, his large warm hand shaking my shoulder rather more powerfully than intended, my book falling between my legs to the floor with a loud clap.

‘Ay – perdón.’ He swiftly bent down to pick it up, the hairs on his arm brushing against my knee with pinprick intensity, and the back of his curly dark head so near, and so neat and boyish, that I wanted to touch him there. And then he was up again, putting the book into my hand with an unexpectedly embarrassed smile that left me giddy.

‘So... you must find all this difficult to cope with,’ I said, waving my hand at the windowful of blasted trees and slanting rain. The climate: couldn’t I do better than that? He followed my hand obediently and looked outside, then back at me with a furrowed brow. ‘The weather. Not what you’re used to.’

‘Oh,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘Yes. Is very difficult. Easy to be sad. And I miss the sea too.’ He was reaching into his pocket; in my stupefied state I thought he was going to take out a photo of home. ‘We have to show ticket,’ he said, his hot breath on my ear as he yanked the ticket out, along with a shower of coins that clattered and twirled on the floor. I bent down to help him pick them up. They were all over the place, but somehow we both went for the same coin and collided.

‘Ow!’ We clutched our heads.

‘Aren’t you dancers supposed to have spatial awareness or something?’ I asked, laughing with the pain. ‘How’s yours?’

‘Is bad. Maybe piece of your brain go in my head. I will know if now I can do matemáticas.’

‘Or maybe a bit of yours has gone in mine.’

‘Well...’ started Alejandro, his hand to his mouth, but the ticket inspector was suddenly in front of us.

I opened my bag and dug around, lifting out a cardigan and a bag of Maltesers before finding my pass and letting the man move on.

‘Ah! Is big bag.’ My turn to look puzzled. ‘I like these very much,’ he said, pointing to the Maltesers. ‘Please, we share now, together?’

I looked at his face: the broad grin, the eyebrows crinkled in mock despair. And I thought, what I want to share now, together, is a kiss. Nothing major, just a firm brief one, with my hands either side of your cheeky face. Or maybe in your soft curly hair.

‘Why not,’ I said, and started trying to open the bag. I usually did it with my teeth, but that didn’t seem hygienic for sharing. So I quickly ripped along the dotted line, even though I’d made that mistake before... ‘Oh for f…!’ Chocolate balls sprayed into the air, pattered on to the floor and started running madly all over the place.

‘Sorry,’ I said to the smart elderly ladies the other side of the carriage, and watched as they carefully levered themselves up and crunched their way out of the area. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, turning to Alejandro, but he had his head down, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Then he looked up and mock-punched me. ‘Why you do this? I’m hungry.’

‘I don’t know, I’m always dropping everything.’

‘Yes, I am the same. Not ballerinas of course, or I don’t have job, but all other things.’ He took the ripped bag from me. ‘Is there more? Ah yes... siete, ocho, nueve... four and half each.’

He turned to me, took my wrist as I cupped my hand. We ate two at a time and murmured our pleasure.

‘Why you think we drop everything?’ he asked.

‘I think... well, for me... it’s because I’m always thinking of something else. Either I’m too excited about something, or I’m in a daydream.’ I blushed as it occurred to me that I was talking to the likely new star of my daydreams.

But he was looking down, pensive. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think this is for me too.’ I tried to imagine what he might daydream about: surely he already had everything he wanted? He took the last ball out of the bag. ‘So... you want first or second half?’ He was looking back up at me with a broad grin.

‘What?’

‘Is skill I have, I go first.’ He put the Malteser to his mouth and bit it, then proudly held up a perfect semi-sphere between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Abre. Open.’

‘It’s okay, you—’

‘No. I do this for you. Open.’ I felt his steadying hand on my arm, his fingers on my lips as he put it in my mouth. We smiled at each other, looked down at our laps. He put his head on one side and seemed to be about to say something.

But then I noticed the blue Gatwick signs, saw him follow my gaze, heard the train’s rhythm slowing. I sat in a daze and watched him stand up and reach for his bag on the luggage rack – revealing a taut band of golden tummy and the black band of his boxers – and lift it down, pillow-light, onto the opposite seat. I was mumbling something like ‘Here you are then’ when he grabbed my hand and kissed it firmly, saying ‘Encantado’. And then, with the fluency of a cat, he was out of the train and striding swiftly away down the platform.

It was over. He hadn’t asked for my name; he hadn’t looked back. Why would he? It didn’t matter: it had been special, something I would always remember. But it was suddenly very cold in the train. I moved over to his seat and felt his warmth on my thighs, smiled at the Maltesers still comically rolling around the floor, put a finger to my lips. His scent stayed with me. So did his grin and laughter. Somehow he wasn’t going away. It couldn’t be over.

MOTHERS’ DAY – DO I DESERVE IT?

Mother’s Day. Do I deserve it? Let’s see. The baby stage – hopeless with the paraphernalia (once trapped my finger in the pram for a full fifteen minutes). The toddler stage – Jesus. Only survived by spending every possible moment within the sticky but reassuring walls of soft-play gyms. Primary school age – conversation, books, music, football… at last, the motherhood I’d dreamed about. But by then I had a second child, who – although now delightful at 13 – has Asperger’s Syndrome and Attention Deficit; we had a chequered and often painful first ten years. The adolescent stage – I never discuss work-in-progress! But if you read Men Dancing you’ll form an opinion as to my success there. I’m hoping to redeem myself with the young adult period.  

Meanwhile I’ll leave you with this not completely fictional excerpt in which Rosie takes her Aspie son to his second dance class:

His shoulders were going up: not a good sign.

‘That’s Charles,’ he said loudly. Oh dear. The same height as Kenny, meaning he’d be two years older and therefore about four years ahead in social skills. Charles walked past with a gracious nod and sat down to change into his dancing shoes.

‘I want those,’ Kenny said.

‘Please may I have. Of course we’ll buy you some, once we know you’re...’ Once we know you’re not going to get kicked out. Because otherwise they’ll hurt me every time I open your wardrobe – just like the taekwondo outfit, Arties overall and Dolphins swimming cap do.

The teacher arrived with her register and cash box. She was vast; do these ballroom dancing teachers so miss competing, when they get older, that they eat themselves into elegant battleships? But fat and jolly she was not. She took my four pounds without a word and left me wondering whether I was supposed to watch the class, in case Kenny became difficult, or wait in the cramped reception area – where pictures of her and her protégées encouraged you to question whether you were wasting her time.

I took a seat just outside the door. Kenny was talking at the black-girl-with-wet-hands, who smiled briefly and moved away. Battleship was demonstrating the steps, her thickly muscular legs improbably supported by dainty high-heeled feet. They were asked to pair up. In my salsa class the out-numbered men are immediately grabbed like musical chairs, but for these pre-teen girls this potential new partner, a real boy for heaven’s sake, seemed to be surrounded by a negative force field.

There was music now – a passionate Latin number that could have been a tango. A couple of older girls arrived early for the next class and pushed the door open wider.

‘A new boy – look.’

The other girl nudged her out of the way. ‘Oh yes.’ She watched for a while. ‘Charles doesn’t look too happy.’

So I wondered whether Kenny had latched on to Charles and bored him to bits. Or taken offence at a misread facial expression and stuck his leg out. Either way, distraction of the class star would be a heinous and probably unforgivable crime.

The girls sat down to share a bag of crisps so I took up their position. But I couldn’t see Kenny; either he was on the far side of the room or he’d been told to sit down.

So I went back to my chair and texted one of the most talented male dancers in the country. Then sat daydreaming about him teaching my oddball son to dance salsa... with one of his sister’s sunny-natured daughters. That’s it; she and her children would be over from Cuba and staying with him in his flat, in the spare room. He’d move the sofa over to make space and put on a Cuban CD, show Kenny how to lead his niece put his shoulders down and look like a man...

‘Kenny’s Mum?’ She turned on her heel before I could answer.

Shit. I was tempted to say no, we’re leaving, fuck-you. After all, it wasn’t school; I didn’t have to listen to her. But I followed her into the studio, where other parents, I now noticed, had been sitting on chairs watching.

‘I just need to catch Charles’ mother,’ she said, sailing over to her.

‘Did you have a good time?’ I asked a spinning Kenny.

‘A good time? It’s good time, good timing, time to be good...’ I nodded and looked away. He was on overdrive; there was no chance of getting anything sensible out of him.

She’d floated back.

‘Have you ever done any of this kind of dancing yourself?’

‘No, I er…’ 

‘You’re going to have to learn.’

Ah. Here we go. Like Taekwondo. I’m going to have to be here at every lesson, a sort of Dance Learning Support Assistant, and if I can’t she won’t have Kenny in the class.

‘Or Kenny could come for one-to-one.’

Aha. Like the swimming teacher. At a monstrous price but that’s what Disability Living Allowance is for. But Kenny would want to dance with a little girl, not a battleship.

‘Or maybe both, because it’s early days I know... but I’m looking at Blackpool.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The Junior Dance Festival. Probably with Keisha.’

And I thought, male dancers: a rarity. Musical chairs. Probably any boy that can be sow’s-eared into it will do. ‘He’s only had two lessons. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon to tell? And... my husband did tell you, about Kenny...?’

‘Yes, but if he wants to do it... Show Mummy your waltz Kenny.’ She patted his shoulders firmly. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do on these,’ she said. I nodded.

She pressed the button of the music player and counted him in. He took hold of her and waltzed her round the room as if she were Cinderella.

    

HOW I TURNED FLAMENCO…

It’s been a slow seduction. Starting with a bit of flamenco ‘fusion’ (Ketama) and ‘chill’ (Chambao) bands in the car in Spain. Followed by my partner’s playing of these and some guitarist albums (Vicente Amigo, Tomatito) at home – for years, he says, with no comment from me. That doesn’t mean I didn’t like them, I protest, but they were just warm Spanish background music; I was into musical theatre at the time.

But maybe there was some subliminal education going on there, because when I went to my first Flamenco Festival at London’s Sadler’s Wells I was so inspired that I decided to use flamenco as a resonant element in my new novel. Research was needed, so I started flamenco dance classes (read August 2011 post!) and had to take a course in Granada – where I… well, started to turn flamenco.

The music took over my iPod and car, the classes intensified; I became entranced by the complex rhythms, the excruciating beauty of those exotic chords, the discordance, the sensuality of it all. Nowadays, even some of the wailing cante (singing) – that used to have me giggling and fast-forwarding – hits me in the gut with its raw emotion.

It isn’t just the music. I also seem to have been taken over by flamenco’s live-in-the-moment ways, where the only things to worry about are being fuera de compás (out of time) or being told ‘no me dice nada’ (you’re not saying anything). I write flamenco: I have ideas as to where the story will go, but let the characters come in and do what they will with it – as long as they keep to pace. Strangely, this creates more truthful and intricate plots than I could devise with my brain. I’ve even started to think flamenco, with less fretting over the future…

Is all this a good thing? Probably – thanks to my tolerant and equally crazy loved ones – but there are drawbacks. Such as an increase in dust, clutter and unopened letters round the house. And I’m more easily distracted than ever; there are powerful tracks in my car – like ‘Dos Punales’ (Two Daggers?) on Josemi Carmona’s ‘Las Pequenas Cosas’ CD – that often have me ending up in the wrong town.

But one thing’s for certain: my flamenco seduction will have the happy outcome of the birth of my new novel, FLAMENCO BABY. Olé!

THOSE BALLET PRINCES...

Balletomane ladies, don’t tell me you’ve never fallen for one of those ballet princes. Come on, I’ve just seen a 14-page forum comparing their charms, and look at all the tweets about the in every way gorgeous Marcelo Gomes. (And my friends’ reactions on hearing that he ‘Follows’ me on Twitter – don’t worry girls, the sweetie probably just mistook my MEN DANCING novel for a technique book).  

Perhaps I’ll start the ball rolling by admitting to having checked into Acostaholics Anonymous. Well, the next best thing: I wrote a novel about a woman’s obsession with a ballet dancer – a guy who’s probably a mixture between Carlos Acosta, Rudolf Nureyev and my charismatic salsa teacher. It helped. I got over it. But then I’ve also been busy with research on flamenco artists for my second novel…

Anyway, here’s an excerpt from MEN DANCING, when my (sorry, ‘the’) character is very much at the beginning of her journey to recovery…  

He made his entrance to the usual burst of applause: all handsome Russian prince and swirling overcoat, looking mightily pleased with himself. And then he came towards us with that male ballet dancer walk that’s always both courtly elegance and potent, crotch-displaying swagger. He took his seat: legs politely arranged – unlike in the train – but at an angle that drew my eye up from the gracefully arched feet to the shapely calves, to those sculpted thighs, to the irresistibly slim, belted waist and then, uncontrollably, back down to the mystery of that bulge, where on occasion – and this was one of them – one could pick out a provocative bit of outline behind the padding.

There was a nudge from Emma, pulling a box of Maltesers from her bag; cruel, but then it was my fault for not telling her about what had happened. 

The prince’s mother arrived and was doing ring-on-finger mime about how he had to choose a bride. But he wasn’t ready to marry, and nor was the spoilt ballet prince inside of course – but at least his mother had managed to instil a sense of family. He didn’t want to miss playing baseball with his kids while flying around the world performing, he’d said in an interview, so he’d wait until he retired and then go back to Cuba and have them. Around the time I’d be contemplating the menopause.

Then the prince beamed as he prepared for his solo, defying the mothers’ plans, living for the moment, the party guests dispersing to give him centre stage. There was the pure joy of his elegant side steps to the sweeping music of the waltz, the effortless jumps and turns, the ecstatic extension of his legs in flight… then a moment where his powerful but seemingly weightless limbs lifted into a statue – perfection right to the twist of his wrist and sensitive hands. A ravishing fusion of athleticism and art, of virility and gentleness.   

http://www.cherryradford.co.uk/

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Men-Dancing-Cherry-Radford/dp/1780032021/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1326725854&sr=1-1

http://www.amazon.com/Men-Dancing-Cherry-Radford/dp/1780033079/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1326725913&sr=1-1