All posts by francesthomas

I was born during the War in South Wales, where my mother had gone to escape the bombs. My mother’s family was Irish and English, my father’s Welsh. Later we moved back to South London where I grew up. Since I was an only child, I read lots of books and when the books ran out, I made up stories, a habit I’ve never lost. Later I went to a convent school, where I was bad at needlework and netball. The headmistress didn’t like me because my hair was untidy – still is, I’m afraid. I read English at London University and took a teaching course. I married a historian, Richard Rathbone, and I have two daughters and two grandchildren. My most interesting work, apart from writing, was working with young dyslexic people. Contrary to what many believe, dyslexics can become passionate readers and imaginative writers – I look forward to seeing several of my ex-pupils featuring in the Booker Prize shortlist one day. My first children’s book, The Blindfold Track, was published in 1980. I’ve published many since, for children and adults, but I especially enjoy writing for children. My children’s books have been translated into ten languages. We lived for many years in North London, and I still think London is one of the most exciting cities in the world. But a few years ago, we decided to make a complete break, and came to live in this beautiful part of mid-Wales where we used to spend our family holidays. I now live here very happily, trying to learn Welsh (ond mae’n mor anodd!) going for walks on the hills, writing and painting.

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

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Well, there are many reasons to regard this as the best of times. I’m lucky enough to be living with Richard, my lifelong partner, in a most gorgeous part of Wales. Every morning there’s something new and lovely to see from our window, changing light on the hills, the network of trees, shadows etched into soft green slopes, red kites circling in the sky, fast moving clouds during the day and a dazzle of stars at night.
I’m lucky to have two daughters who still speak to me, after what – looking back now – seems a somewhat haphazard and muddled, though well –intentioned, sort of mothering. I have two beautiful grandchildren, whose own mum and dad are making a great job of their parenting.
We were lucky to have spent our sixties catching up with our travelling, four visits to India, trips to Egypt, Greece, Sicily, Spain, Pompeii, all the places we meant to go to when we were younger and busier, and never did.
I’m lucky too, in that since all I ever wanted to do in life was be a writer, I can look at a shelf of books, properly published, with my name on them. Some have even won prizes. I’ve written all sorts of books, baby books, adult novels, a biography, I’ve contributed to a book of children’s poetry and some short story collections. My ideal level, though, seems to be stories for girls of about 12-14 – the age when I was a most avid and involved reader. I’ve got plans in this direction, which are some of the things I want to talk about in this blog, and I’ve also made a tentative start on a longer term plan, which is to be the biography of a well-known woman writer, and I shall be talking about that too. I want to write about poetry, too, and how reading it can inform and inspire your life.
So that’s the good stuff. The bad stuff sidles up sneakily alongside now. Two bad things to be precise. Last March, Richard was suddenly taken ill with what might very well have been a fatal heart attack, but was fortunate enough to be rushed to hospital in time, and patched up. He’s doing well now, but his condition is something he has to manage carefully and will always have to do so. Then about two months later I had a diagnosis of cancer – myeloma, a nasty one. Well, what do you say about cancer? This isn’t intended to be one of those Brave and Heartwarming narratives about My Cancer Journey. Cancer’s a bugger. It elbows its way rudely into your life without a by-your-leave, won’t take no for an answer, and doesn’t budge. You all know the dinner guest who refuses to take the hint when everyone has long gone home, and continues to sit there, a complacent grin on his face (it’s usually a him, I’m afraid) telling tedious stories without noticing that you’re not joining in the conversation, your eyelids are drooping, and all you want to do is load up the dishwasher and get to bed. Well, that’s cancer for you. It stops you doing things like going on holidays, walking in the hills, spending precious days with your grandchildren, and instead mucks up your bodily functions and generally screws you up by making you attend to its dreary monologue. I’m lucky so far in that I have a good medical team and a reasonably pleasant centre to go to, but it’s still a hospital, and now Richard and I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time discussing our various conditions, something I vowed when I was younger that I’d never end up doing. I don’t really feel scared, distressed or depressed by my state.  I’m just saddened that I’ve stopped being quite the person I used to be, and annoyed by the Unwelcome Guest.
I don’t intend to write too much about the Unwelcome Guest, and since this is early days for me, I don’t really yet know how our relationship will work out, only I know his plans for me aren’t good. But I intend to ignore him as much as I can and get on with the interesting things that still remain. He can’t stop me looking, or imagining, or thinking, or writing. There are still lots of things I want to be doing – plans I want to complete. And I mean to do so. So I do hope you’ll drop by from time to time and share some of the good stuff with me. You don’t have to commiserate with me about the Unwelcome Guest – if you’re nice people I shall take that for read, (and if you’re not – if you’re going to be abusive – then I shall delete your comments.) So, welcome to my blog. I hope we’ll be friends.