Awww!

My baby nephew (no longer to be known as Badger Bulldog) has finally made his grand entrance. It’s been an emotional tsunami - more extreme than anything I anticipated.

I got a text from my sister on Thursday morning telling me she was on her way to the hospital. After five and a half hours of labour, AJ was out, and yesterday I got to meet him for the first time.

Maternity wards are amazing place, each bed occupied by women who each looked slightly shell-shocked, yet glowing with inner joy. The babies either nestled in their arms or lay in hospital-issue basinets; clear plastic rectangles that rock gently every time the babies stir. AJ was fast asleep, exhausted by the effort of entering the world. I held him for two hours, admiring his button nose squished sideways during the birth, stroking his fuzzy head and waiting for him to open his eyes.

After a while the midwife decided it was time for a feed, which meant waking the poor dab up. The best way to do this seemed to be stripping him out of his cosy all-in-one sleep suit, in the hope he would open rise to consciousness for long enough to suckle. The only affect this had was to make him whimper and grimace, still fast asleep.

Then his eyelids flickered open, revealing the deepest, bluest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. He blinked at us curiously, accepted the milk my sis had expressed for him, but refused to make the effort of retrieving any milk himself.

I’ve never been a particularly clucky person, and I’m still not, but I never expected to fall for AJ as fast and as hard as I did. Perhaps it’s an instinctual thing - the desire to protect and care for your own genes.

It was only after my sis gave up and handed AJ back to me that he started making sucky faces, nuzzling into me as though he thought I might be able to help in some way. At least we know he’s part of the family - he’s already showing that typical contrary nature!

Praça do Commercio, Lisbon

With so many people going on off holiday at the moment, I’ve been daydreaming about some of my favourite destinations. When I’m not working on EssentialWriters.com I spend much of my time writing travel features for magazines and websites, and I’ve decided it’s time I shared some of those pieces with you here.

The following feature was originally published by Folio Magazine, issue 165, in October 2008, an issue devoted to weddings and honeymoons, hence the romantic theme.

Often overshadowed by its larger neighbour Spain, Portugal is a country that’s perfectly designed for honeymooners, from its beaches and vineyards to the beauty of its few major cities. The loveliest of these is the capital, while the most beautiful and romantic area of Lisbon is the Belém district.

Located just west of the city centre, this riverside area is home to some wonderful monuments for you to explore together, as well as one of the city’s best boutique hotels, Jerónimos 8.

After checking into this deliciously zen-like hotel, we strolled over the road to the exquisite Jerónimos Monastery. Inside, corridors of limestone are ornately carved with Biblical scenes, flowers and animals, and even on the busiest days it’s possible to find a corner of solitude where you can drink in the sense of peace.

The monastery stands opposite the waterfront, with the Monument to the Discoveries standing at one end and the Torre de Belém at the other. This area is also dotted with restaurants and bars where you can sit and gaze into each others eyes, or admire views of Ponte 25 de Abril, a crimson bridge designed by the same engineer as the San Francisco’s iconic Golden Gate.

We opted for a restaurant called Queijadas de Belém. Set just back from the main tourist strip, it was bustling with local families, and prices were astonishingly low at €6 for a dish of succulent trout and €4.75 for a carafe of vinho verde, Portugal’s crisp young white wine. We turned down the basket of bread and cheeses that appeared as soon as we sat down, knowing that these can as much as double the price of the bill.

We finished our night in the hotel’s bar where illuminated black and white prints of Lisbon made up the area, offset with sleek dark red furnishings. The wine list is extensive, and the cocktails delicious, with the added bonus that we only had to make it as far as the lift afterwards.

The following morning we caught the tram for the twenty-minute journey to the centre, and found ourselves in Praça do Commercio. The square is surrounded by broad arcades that look onto the grand equestrian statue of King Dom José 1, and the Tagus river beyond.

From here we walked beneath the imposing neoclassical St Augusta Triumphal Arch into the major shopping area, the Baixa district, and up steep cobbled streets to St George’s Castle. This immense edifice is the perfect place to while away a few hours, meandering through dappled sunlight and gazing at the panoramic views of the city laid out below us like a painted tableau.

As Lisbon’s summer continues well into October, the breezes perpetually wafting through the castle ruins provide a welcome freshness. At the top of the castle ramparts we found the tower of Ulysses, who reputedly founded Lisbon.

Ulysses’ tower houses the Camera Obscura, a device invented by Leonardo da Vinci that projects scenes of the city onto a large disc, giving you the chance to spy on the locals as they go about their everyday lives.

Below the castle lies the Alfama district, one of the most atmospheric areas. While much of the city had to be rebuilt following the catastrophic earthquake of 1755, this part of Lisbon has barely changed since the 12th century. We took our time meandering through the steep streets, watching people carrying immense, colourful baskets of washing to the communal bathrooms or socialising on rickety-looking balconies that hung from the elegant, ancient houses.

Returning to Praça do Commercio, we dipped into Viniportugal, an association dedicated to promoting Portuguese wines. The organisation promotes three regions at a time, giving you the opportunity to sample typical wines from Portuguese vineyards, many of whom are little known outside the country.

There’s no charge for the tastings, and no pressure to buy the wines, only the invitation to enjoy them, give our opinions and spread the word. As we sipped deliciously meaty reds and fruity whites we completed forms describing the aroma; appearance and taste of each wine, giving us the opportunity to feel like proper aficionados until we wobbled back out into the sunshine.

Before arriving in Lisbon, I had no idea that the city was renowned for its pastry-makers. As it turned out, Belém is home to the most legendary of these, so the following day, we headed for Antiga Confeitaria de Belém.

As much a museum as a café, the confectioners is worth visiting just to admire the tiles covering every surface of the rooms and corridors. However, we were keen to taste the original Patéis de Belém for ourselves.

The custard tarts have been attracting foodies to Lisbon since 1837, and though you’ll find imitations of them throughout Portugal, these are the best. A bit of mystique adds to their appeal: only a handful of master confectioners is entrusted with the secret recipe at any one time.

Having eaten our fill, we had just enough time to visit the Torre de Belém, which turned out to be free on Sunday mornings. Decorated with sculptures of fantastical beasts, including a rather comical rhino, this is the point from which adventuring mariners such as Vasco de Gama set sail after praying for safe voyage at the monastery.

Climbing the endless winding steps to the top of the tower, we admired views of the river and surrounding area and wondered how soon we would be able to find an excuse to return.

For more information on Lisbon, please visit www.visitlisboa.com

© Zsuzsanna Kilián

My sister, as you might recall, is due to give birth soon. Like me, she is diabetic, one of the affects of which is that the baby is prone to growing really big during the final trimester - no one knows why, but it’s really not helpful! Recently the babe, who I’ve nicknamed Badger Bulldog, achieved seven weeks worth of growth in just three weeks, which was pretty impressive, not to mention terrifying.

Thankfully he’s since slowed down, and a few days ago he reached what the docs refer to as full-term. In other words, though it was still three weeks before his due date, he’d developed enough to handle life outside the womb. Well, physically, anyway. I know a few adults who might still be better off in there emotionally, space permitting.

This all means that diabetic mums-to-be usually end up having their babies medically induced, and this is the case with my sister. So, Badger Bulldog is scheduled to make his debut in less than a week’s time.

My sis is making the most of her last few days of freedom. As far as I can tell, that has less to do with putting her swollen feet up ad resting than buzzing around town seeing as many f her friends as possible.

I can understand why. It must be like standing at the border to a country you’ve never visited before, and not knowing when, or if, the border guards are going to let you come back home again. She’s about to start a brand new adventure that will change her life more than I, or she, can comprehend.

It made sense to take the opportunity to spend some time together before BB arrives, so I suggested meeting for a coffee. In turn, she suggested an afternoon of indulgence at Hotel Chocolat. How could I disagree?

The first time I heard about Hotel Chocolat, I imagined a calorie-laden version of the ice hotel in the James Bond movie Day Another Day - just as likely to melt in the sunshine, but with far messier, stickier consequences.

Actually, it’s more like an upmarket Thorntons crossed with a teashop, which may not seem like the most obvious choice for a pair of diabetics, but contrary to popular myth diabetics can eat whatever they like, providing they take the insulin to counteract it.

We did our blood tests, decided how many units to inject, and got stuck in. The walk into town had made my levels drop right down anyway, so the chocolate was almost a medical necessity - well, that’s my excuse!

The choc shop oozes a sense of decadence. The glorious aroma of the wares fills the air, while shelves display goodies as exquisite as jewels. Chairs and tables dot the room at discreet intervals, but we opted for the sofas for full-on comfort, and nestled there supping do thick, intensely rich chocolate milkshakes.

By the time we’d made our way through the moorish gloop, Badger Bulldog was having a thorough squirm, sending ripples across my sister’s taut belly. The next time I see him, he’ll be a small person rather than a bump, and I can’t wait to meet him.

Getting lost in the cemetery

One thing about working from home is that I sometimes feel I don’t get out enough. My friends who work in offices lament the fact that they’re stuck inside all day, then turn to me enviously and say “You’re so lucky, you can go out whenever you want.”

I can see why people think that, but, sadly, it’s not actually true. The hardest thing about being you’re own boss is knowing when it’s time to close the laptop and go home, because, well, you’re already home.

That blurring of home and work life is seriously detrimental some days. If I’m in the house and on my own, it can be difficult to slob out in front of the TV when I can see my laptop from the sofa - there always seems to be another feature that needs tweaking, another pitch to send out, another bit of work to chase…

I can’t even take a sickie, because if I do I just don’t get paid.

In fact, working from home means I don’t even get the walk to work, unless you count trekking upstairs from the bedroom to the living room (I did explain that my flat’s upside down, didn’t I?). I actually have to make a conscious decision to put on a pair of shoes and head outside.

I’ve started going to a fruit shop 30-minute’s walk from my place just to have an excuse to get some exercise. To get there I stroll past three other shops selling passable fruit and veg, then meander across a rather glorious, extremely hilly park into one of the city’s least salubrious shopping districts, which gives me the bonus of fabulous nectarines and plums at rock bottom prices.

It’s actually a great traditional green grocer’s shop, complete with a traditional green grocer who stands outside shouting the prices of apricots, changing the price by the hour. One day I arrived in time to buy five peaches for a pound, but ever since they’ve only offered four for that price. There’s no particular reason for it that I can tell, which is all part of the charm.

Then I haul my bag of delicious fruitiness home, making sure I take the route that passes some of the loveliest gardens in my area, and I’m back home, feeling energised, awake and ready to carry on working.

Of course, it’s easier to tempt yourself out of the house when the sun’s beaming down, but yesterday I decided to head out into the rain, armed only with a temperamental brolly. The kitchen was already crammed with Braeburns, bananas and berries, so I decided to forgo the fruit shop and visit the cemetery instead.

That may seem like a bit of an odd place for a peaceful wander, but this is no boring, tame little churchyard. It’s a vast Victorian cemetery with half-hidden paths leading to secret copses, overgrown with brambles, wild garlic and enough trees to make you think you’re in the countryside. The sound of the rain splashing off leaves was hypnotic, and I emerged smiling if slightly sodden.

I think I may make it a rule to get out and walk for at least an hour every day. The work can wait for that long, surely.

© Sandi Hanna

I’m beginning to realise how widely responses to pitches can vary according to the publication or website you’ve contacted.

This week I received one from a US publication that caught me by surprise, as they thanked me for sending them my feature idea, then said that due to the high number of articles they receive they don’t make commissions.

Instead they suggested I write up the feature ‘on spec’. Oh, and then they mentioned that it could take up to six months for them to let me know whether they liked it enough to publish it in the magazine.

Is this a normal way for magazines in America to treat freelance writers? I was just a little bit appalled. I’ve written my fair share of gratis features to gain experience or exposure, but now, as a professional, full-time, published journalist I thought the least I could expect was confirmation of whether a feature would be published before I devote my time and energy to writing it.

Would you expect a chef in a restaurant to cook you a steak on the off-chance you might want to eat it? Would you invite a plumber to fix your shower on the off-chance you might decide their handiwork was good enough to pay out for?

Rant over, I suppose some industries do work a bit like that. For example, novelists graft away for years over a manuscript that may or may not find its place on the bookstores shelf.

And receiving an email like this is at least recognition of the fact I got in touch. More often than not my emails slide out into hyperspace and disappear without trace.

I’ve never been the kind of girl who waits by the phone for a boy to call, but somehow that behaviour has become part of my professional life without me even registering the fact.

Sometimes I don’t even think about what I’m doing as I endlessly check my inbox, hoping for a reply to a glorious pitch only to find a mass of spam and irrelevant press releases instead.

Of course, it’s all worthwhile when the perfect pitch meets the perfect commission and we all live happily ever after.

© www.sxc.hu

I recently visited a friend’s house for the first time and it completely matched up to my expectations, especially the garden with its layers of lawn, flowerbeds studded with seashells, pond full of duckweed and vegetable plot heaving with potatoes, cabbages and tomatoes. Poppies glowed and figwort hummed with bees. It was like a corner of heaven on earth.

I love seeing inside people’s homes and gardens. In a way it’s like being introduced to a facet of their personality. The books on their shelves, pictures on their walls, odd knick knacks balanced on window sills are all clues to their hidden selves.

My home is a two-storey flat, a maisonette that the estate agent described as have two bedrooms, though one is little more than a large cupboard, with just enough space for a narrow single bed, providing you don’t want to be able to walk around it. My husband has claimed that room for his Blu-rays and DVDs, band posters and tattoo artwork, figurines of aliens, dragons and other gruesome beings. Everyone needs somewhere to remember themselves - somewhere to unfurl.

Fortunately for me, I get the rest of the flat - the saffron-tiled bathroom with its tiny square window gazing out over Bristol is where I lie and think and dream.

The kitchen, with its blue-painted walls, excessive cupboard space and window taking in miles of city views which we both love, is where I wash and slice and chop vegetables, stir bubbling pans, play with spices and herbs, and do some more dreaming.

The living room, with its view of rooftops and sky, bookshelves, paintings and struggling magazine racks, is where I work most days, perched in the corner with my lap top, covering the floor with scraps of paper - note, inspiration, ideas and more dreams. When I glance up from the screen I can watch clouds shift across the sky, birds swooping and, occasionally, hot air balloons drifting by.

But this room is also home to my husband’s towering speakers, his DVD player and Blu-ray machine, his immense flat-screen TV. This is where he unwinds, and I unwind with him, making this our space.

The maisonette is oddly upside down. When we first moved in I would get lost, coming out of the living room and expecting to go upstairs to the bathroom, when the kitchen, bathroom and living room are on the top floor, hence the amazing views, while the bedroom, the husband-room, and the shower room are on the floor below.

But the bedroom level is still a storey above street level, which I enjoy. I like being above the world, above the people passing by. Our bedroom has French doors that open onto a small balcony above a shop sign, and sometimes we sit out there watching the traffic and pedestrians, and no one knows we’re there.

The balcony offers some of the best views of all. On clear days we can see two of my favourite feats of engineering - Cabot Tower, a tall, red-brick homage to John Cabot, and the Clifton Suspension Bridge, spun across the Avon Gorge like the work of some extraordinary spider. In the sunshine it gleams white against the city’s buildings and I feel like I could walk there in a matter of moments, which is, of course, an illusion.

Inside, the bedroom is my favourite place in the house, the other room my husband and I truly share. It exudes peace and a delicious sense of sleepiness. Lilac and white walls, deep green furnishings, pieces from my childhood home and my husband’s… The bed is vast and comfortable, the bedside table is laden with books, and sometimes I think that’s all that I need - somewhere to dream.

© www.stavridisgroup.com.au

One of the nicest parts of my job is when people send books to review. This week a package arrived containing the three collections currently shortlisted for the Wales Book of the Year award. In other words, my bedside tables is now groaning under the weight of the work of the three best English-writing creative works Wales has produced this year.

Last night I started to read the book on the top of the pile, Deborah Kay Davies’ Grace, Tamar and Laszlo the Beautiful. It’s a short story collection about two sisters, their relationships with each other, their parents and the world. Apparently this fiction was inspired by Deborah’s own experiences, which leads me to wonder one thing, is Deborah a younger or an older sister?

The ranking in a pair of siblings influences everything in your life. The older brother or sister experiences a period of absolute power that the younger never tastes. They experienced the joy of being the sole beneficiary of their parents love, and then experienced that benefaction being reduced, shared inexplicably with a newcomer. Some older siblings never quite manage to forgive that early betrayal, the usurpation of their position in the family as the youngest, smallest, most irresistibly cute.

The younger sister never experiences being the only child. They are born having to share. Everything they wear, every toy they play with, every stage of development they achieve has been worn by someone else first, played with by someone else first, achieved by someone else first…

Some younger siblings never quite escape their older sibling’s shadow. They live life quietly following in their brother or sister’s footsteps, never quite managing to lead the way.

In case you were wondering, I am the younger sister in my family. In my early years, I’m told, my sister treated me as a doll, dressing me up and tying my hair into tight, fluffy top knots. She tried to make me play whatever role she assigned me to in her games. But, my mum says, as soon as I could walk I learned to wander away from these games, much to my sister’s infuriation.

Perhaps this was my survival technique, my way of learning to be my own person rather than a weak imitation of my sister. Rather than staying in her shadow, I simply walked out from under it, and looked for my own route to follow.