PRIDE AND PROGRESS – LGBT BRIGHTON AND HOVE by Janet Cameron

A gay history of our City. Displayed: front-cover photo.

‘Janet Cameron writes with humility and understanding. A good read, a compelling read…’ Ann Perrin, Brighton writer/comedienne.

Product Description
Pride & Progress, LGBT Brighton & Hove is an exploration of the development of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender community from its earliest accessible beginnings. As well as the personal memories and experience of local LGBT people, the book includes accounts from the History Centre’s comprehensive archives while literature is used to inform a representative sample of stories of the area’s prominent LGBT writers, artists, musicians and philanthropists from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to the present day.

There are accounts of prominent court cases, of wartime, and of mid and late twentieth century events, memories and personal experience. The book shows how LGBT people strove to ‘make change happen’ both individually and through forming organisations for mutual support and with specific aims. Later chapters draw on the personal stories of local people, including ‘Coming Out’, ‘Civil Marriages’ and the progress of ‘Brighton Pride’ from its difficult, political beginnings in the early nineties, to the celebration of today, attracting both goodwill and visitors from all over the world. There is still some way to go for LGBT people and the issues that still affect them – even in Brighton and Hove – but Gay Brighton is an encouraging reflection on the change and progress that has already been achieved.


Also:

PARANORMAL BRIGHTON AND HOVE

for those who love to be scared, a strange selection of spooky stories from across the City and its outlying villages!

Ideal Christmas gifts! You can pre-order from Amberley Publishing or Amazon.com

Brighton and Hove - Murders and Misdemeanours

A look at the dark side of life, Victorian-style, when nothing was quite as it seemed and a public execution could be an entertaining family day out. Murderers, poachers, thieves, pickpockets and vagabonds all went about their business with impunity. Crime took place on the streets, on public transport, in homes, pubs, prisons, asylums, workhouses and brothels - it was all part of everyday life in Brighton and Hove in the late 1800s. Read all about the notorious railway murderer, Percy Lefroy, who appeared at his trial in full evening dress and went to the gallows in an old brown suit. Gasp at the audacity of a temptress who fell in love with a doctor and tried to poison his wife with strychnine laced chocolate. Then there's little Emily, a girl who received imprisonment with hard labour for stealing a few tempting pieces of gingerbread while a gaggle of disruptive young women loved causing a riot, flirting with men and smashing windows. It was madness and mayhem in those weird and wonderful times - and it's brought vividly to life by Janet Cameron in Brighton and Hove - Murders and Misdemeanours.

Murder & Crime Series - Medway - by Janet Cameron

Murder in Medway
by Jenna Pudelek from Kent on Sunday w/e 15 June, 2008

Author uncovers tales from the dark underbelly of area's history.

Scheming temptresses, highwaymen, smugglers and the brutal murder of a young mother are just some of the dark deeds from Medway's past, uncovered in a new book.

Janet Cameron's Murder and Crime Series, Medway, explains numerous crimes and wrongdoings that feature in the rich history of the northern Kent around Chatham and Rochester. She said, 'I'm interested in anything dramatic because I'm a fiction writer so I'm fascinated by all human behaviour. I also think you have to look at the dark side rather than just focusing on all the good things. It makes life so much richer somehow.'

As well as regaling the reader with gory tales of murder, the author also reminds us of horrors of early prisons and corporal punishment, with children as young as seven hanged for theft.

Asked what was most striking while researching the book, Ms Cameron, who used to live in Bexleyheath before moving to East Sussex, said, 'I think the way the law has changed. You could get deported or hanged for things that later were not even really a crime. Some of the things people got away with as well, for example, cruelty to their children. It tells us something about ourselves then and now.'

Before 1834, the book states, the bodies of hanged prisoners would often be stripped and dipped in tar - they were then put in an iron cage and hung in a prominent place to act as a warning to people. Ms Cameron said, 'Sometimes the bodies remained until they decomposed or were eaten by birds.'

Another gruesome tale is the murder of Grace Holgate, a pregnant mother-of-one by her husband, Joseph, in 1894. Holgate beat her after a row over household accounts - even after she managed to escape to her stepfather's house he chased her and contued choking her until eventually he was prised away.

Later in the evening the 28-year-old suffered an epileptic fit, gave birth to a stillborn son and died.

Ms Cameron thinks the most interesting story in the book is that of Chatham-born Richard Dadd, a Victorian artist, who is famed for his paintings of faires and other supernatural subjects.

The Christmas Competition

Elizabeth Pozzie (2nd) Janet Cameron (3rd) Jean Morris (1st) Patricia Pound (HC)
Photo: Ann Hamilton



Frog Heaven, (Clemence Dane, First Prize) has been added to the 'Writing Tips for a Princess' post.





Mother’s Little Helper
by Janet Cameron

My mother’s planning an American Lunch. How sad is that?

'It’s a way of integrating into the community’ says Mum. ‘Getting to know the neighbours. As it’s school holidays, you can be a real help to me.’

I know what that means; yours truly in the kitchen clearing up while a lotta weirdos out-natter each other in their plummy, Little Ripple voices. We moved here to Little Ripple by the Sea six months ago. It’s called Little Ripple by the Sea because of a stream running through the marshes. I hate it. Nothing happens here – nothing. Most places have an Ann Summers shop in their High Street but here we have - wait for it - Langton’s Underwear. You never saw such gigantic knickers in your life.

'Let me explain,’ says Mum. ‘You see, Kellie, a few people get together, plan a lunch and one does the starter, another the main meal, another dessert. Then there’s the cheese plate. I’m organising a meeting on Monday to plan it.’

‘Just supposing ten or more turn up! No one can scoff ten courses! That’s gross.’ I imagine an eating marathon, everyone being polite, gobbling their ninth or tenth dish to avoid offending the cook. Panic burns inside me as I imagine all that clearing-up.

‘Then we’ll have people sharing courses,’ says Mum. ‘One can do the meat dish, others veggies.’ Her voice wavers. ‘What if only one or two people turn up?’

‘You’ll never live it down. You’ll be a social pariah,’ I assure her. That doesn’t faze her because she starts composing little notes on lilac paper with purple flowery borders. Then she makes me go out and put them through doors.

Both Mum and I are on tenterhooks that weekend. Dad has to paint the walls in the lounge a nice pale lemon so it’s ‘fresh and welcoming.’ Filter coffee is bought from Tesco’s although we only ever have instant, and special shortcake biscuits and a farmhouse cake are baked.

‘I’ll die of shame if no one comes,’ she groans.

‘Don’t be defeatist. It’s so not like you!’ says Dad giving Mum a saucy slap on the bum. It’s so embarrassing, at their age. Mum drops the cake tin into some dirty washing up water, saying, ‘See to that, love, will you? Dad’s just running me to Tesco’s.’

‘You’ve already been!’

'I forgot the blue and lemon napkins.’

Then they’re gone. I stare into the brown, mucky water. Mum tends to be thrifty about using washing up water, till it seems the dishes would be cleaner unwashed. She prefers to focus on the doorknocker and net curtains which show. Great globules of grease float about from the cooking and the smell makes me feel sick. I consider tipping it and starting again, then hit on a better idea. A glance in the cupboard confirms there’s a stack of cake tins so I slide on a Marigold, tip out the water and grip the side of the tin between thumb and forefinger. It’s easy, straight in the bin with the tin. She’ll never miss it. We’ve plenty of cups and cutlery, so I bin those too, emptying the tea-bag caddy on top for camouflage. Problem solved.

Monday morning, Dad leaves for work. ‘Don’t worry,’ he tells Mum. ‘You’re being pro-active and that’s important. (Dad started talking funny like that when his firm got into male-bonding courses.)

‘Out of that bed, Kellie,’ yells Mum.

I hoover and dust and pick summer daisies from the garden. Everything’s ready by one-thirty and we have to wait for three o’clock. I’m bored out of my head, while Mum paces, biting her nails. It wouldn’t be so bad except she’s spent twenty-five quid having them manicured at Nails-R-Us, and what’s more, she’s had nasty little transfers on the cuticles. ‘You’re wearing out the carpet,’ I say.

‘No one’s coming,’ she groans.

Five past three, no arrivals, so I pour Mum some wine to relax her. Seven minutes past and she’s dusting. ‘I already did that,’ I complain. Ten past - ring on the doorbell. Mum draws an agonised breath and I follow her to the door.

She’s been practising her greeting inside her head, so she flings the door wide open, grinning like an insecure comedian. ‘I’m Harriet,’ she blurts. ‘Do come in. Thanks so much for coming!’

It’s the window cleaner collecting his money.

‘Three pounds fifty, love,’ he says. As she’s rummaging in her purse, he directs an insinuating wink at me. As he’s tasty, I run my tongue over my upper lip behind Mum’s back and I’m rewarded with a thumbs-up. Little Ripple has possibilities after all.

‘What a nice young man,’ says Mum, leaning out, peering up and down the road, hopefully. A face appears from next door, then two more opposite. ‘Are you ready?’ someone calls. ‘Hang on, just a mo,’ comes the reply and Mum looks as though her heart’s thumping like the washing machine when it goes wrong. I shoot inside, leaving Mum with her welcome routine. The loud, excited babble tells me I’m done for.

‘Hello, I’m Harriet. Come in. This is Kellie, my daughter. She’s fifteen. Kellie, make tea and put these flowers in water.’ I choke because the flowers are lilies and I’m allergic, not that Mum cares, that’s for sure. Shall I make tea first, or put the flowers in water? Somehow I manage both without spilling either, while Mum cavorts like a demented rabbit and cackles like an egg-bound hen. Sorry to mix metaphors, but honestly!

‘This is Jennie, this is Susan and Monica. Say hello, Kellie.’

‘Hello, Kellie,’ I say, wanting to be awkward. I’m so busy stretching my lips over my teeth, pouring tea, cutting cake, offering biscuits. Answering dumb questions. ‘Do you like school, dear?’ ‘What’s your favourite book, dear?’

‘Kellie, we’re running out of cups. Can you wash up?’ hisses Mum.

I collect the cups, tip them into the inevitable waiting brown suds and stare at them. I want to run down to the Ripple and drown myself. Then I peek in the cupboard where we keep the picnic things and find some styrofoam mugs. Brilliant! McDonald’s do very well with synthetic mugs and you get plenty of tea in them.

Somehow, in spite of all the cheerful chatter, they plan the menu, writing chosen dishes onto pieces of paper which are screwed up and tossed in Dad’s gardening hat. Each woman draws for a dish. The woman called Liz gets the steak and ale pie. That was going to be a foul tin to wash up! Glad Mum didn’t get it.

‘You should taste Liz’s pastry. Out of this world,’ comments a lady in a purple mini-dress, making a circle of her thumb and forefinger and kissing it.

Mum gets dessert. That pleases her as she has lots of dessert recipes that always turn out mushy and make mountains of washing-up. Actually, I think I have a genuine allergy to washing up. I mean, it makes me ill, but Mum’s not the progressive, new-age type. Then something terrible happens.

‘Usually,’ Mum tells her new friends, ‘with an American Lunch you go from house to house for each separate course. But as there are so many of us, perhaps you should bring your dishes to eat here, in my home.’

‘That’s good of you, Harriet,’ they chime.

Oh my God! I’ll be expected to wash up dishes for the entire meal! Perhaps I can fake a total collapse and spend the American Lunch day safe in bed instead of clearing up after this lot. If this is what it’s like planning an American Lunch it’ll be twenty times worse on the day.

As they leave, the ladies pat my arm, say I’m a hoot and they think the styrofoam mugs are cute, while Mum sends me daggers of such sheer evil I start to worry for her. I agree not to be a stranger and some old bird promises me a pot of home-made jam. I’m so not impressed. Then we’re alone. 'I’m not speaking to you, Kellie,’ says Mum. ‘And don’t bother with the washing-up, I’ll do it myself.’ I make myself scarce like I always do when Mum’s in martyr-mode.

Next day, I have a brilliant idea. (Sometimes my own genius amazes me.) I start with the purple mini-dress, who lives next door.

‘I’ve come for the ten pounds.’ She raises her arched brows, looking even more surprised than before.

‘What ten pounds?’

‘Overheads. As we’re doing the entire hostess thing, there are overheads. You see, my Mum’s not that well-off and it’s only fair. There’s napkins, hot water, kitchen roll, sundries, er... washing up liquid.’

She’s sceptical but coughs up when I tell her everyone else has. It’s easy. It takes an hour and I have one hundred and ten pounds. Ten minutes researching the Internet and one quick phone call. Sorted. Cash on delivery.

The dishwasher will arrive on Saturday in good time for the American Lunch.

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Writing Tips for a Princess!

The Clemence Dane Cup for a Monologue 2007

CAMERON MONOLOGUE WINS CLEMENCE DANE

Regular Writers' Forum contributor, Janet Cameron, has won the prestigious Clemence Dane Cup from the Society of Women Writers and Journalists. The prize for the best monologue submitted by an SWWJ member is awarded in memory of the novelist and playwright Clemence Dane who presided over the Society in the 1930s. This year the Cup was presented by Princess Michael of Kent at a lunch at the National Liberal Club in London

Janet's winning entry, Frog Heaven, was chosen by judge Simon Brett. SWWJ Chairman, Valerie Dunmore said, 'It is a slick, moving, yet amusing example in a difficult genre. Clemence Dane's friend, Joyce Grenfell, also once President of our Society, is revered as queen of the monologue but Janet Cameron's winning entry is proof that she has the imagination and literary discipline to produce a script equal to anything in Joyce Grenfell's repertoire.'

Janet says that if she were to offer advice to beginners, it is: 'Never be rigid. Allow anything to work... and soon something will! And there is nothing to match the joy of your first published work - save for having SWWJ Competition Coordinator, Fiona Kendall, phone and say, 'Hi Winner.' (Writers' Forum, November, 2007)

The Writing Tip Story

After the event, Princess Michael approached me to say she thought my story was lovely. Then she asked me if I had any writing tips. I was stunned and could hardly reply; she's an experienced author in her own right and it was hard to think there was anything I could tell her. But it seemed she was interested in trying out monologue-writing for herself. So we talked about ways of writing monologues, where as a writer you have only the limited viewpoint of the narrator, but can allow your reader to 'read between the lines' and surmise what is going on behind the scenes.

Everyone found the Princess delightful. When she arrived, on seeing some of the ladies wearing their headgear, she exclaimed, 'Oh, should I have worn a hat?'

I wonder if it would be okay if I had 'By Royal Appointment' at the top of my working stationery.

The Story:

FROG HEAVEN

Jeremy’s in the garden, wearing red wellies and the cute mini dungarees I got him because they looked like Steve’s. He’s digging a hole and dashed in five moments ago to tell me he’s making a grave. I dropped a plate.

It’s not in the childcare-books, that sort of stuff. No hint of what to do when your kid’s digging a grave and there’s no dead hamster, guinea pig, even a small bird to bury. I let Jeremy get on with it, hoping this acting-out of an impossible concept is healthier than repression. Carefully, he removes another muddy spadeful, his body a small, plump question mark. Still bent, he discards his spade to inspect a worm.

I’m glad it’s starting to rain. From the window, I call Jeremy who swivels his short neck to look at me, half-cocked. ‘I haven’t finished my grave,’ he says. I say he can finish later, but resist asking what it’s for. Perhaps it’s enough just to have dug it. He understands burial because we interred his rabbit under the holly tree last Christmas with a cross of lollipop sticks.

Crashes of thunder overhead. Lightning streaks through an outcrop of trees fringing the field’s edge, a bright stage in a huge theatre. The horses go berserk, heads elongated, manes wild as irritable snakes, tails stretched full length. Distant hooves hammer my brain. Unfazed, flushed and damp, Jeremy struts to the back door, wispy fringe plastered to his forehead. I step out and gather him up, wiping the icy wetness from his skin. Needles of rain sting the back of my neck. Jeremy’s face, streaked with dirt, resembles a crumpled, gravy-streaked dumpling. I remark it’s raining cats and dogs, and Jeremy says no, it’s raining frogs.

I rub a towel over his head; he locks chubby arms around my neck. ‘Lots of frogs, no cats, no dogs,’ he chants. He says he likes dogs, but frogs are nice. As I glance out the window, anxious for the horses, my eyes never reach middle-distance.

He’s right, it is frogs. The lawn is covered with the dead, the almost dead, the merely stunned and those who’ve managed to survive intact. They keep coming. Great swathes of murkiness morph into seething masses of wet bodies flopping onto the grass. Crawling over their dead to escape living burial.

Instinctively, I shield Jeremy’s eyes but he whimpers, smacking my hand. ‘Mummy, can’t see.’ Quickly, I explain it was a strong wind which captured all the frogs from the swamp and carried them across the sky to us.

He asks what a swamp is and why the wind did that. My sister would say the wind is naughty. I don’t. I trawl my brain for scientific information to simplify. He asks if frogs go to heaven. Jeremy likes the idea of heaven so I nod, hugging him. Screwing his mouth, he says, ‘I’ll make my hole bigger for the dead frogs.’

I stare out at the skyline. Behind the meadow, the hills lift high till they crest, falling sharply the other side to the river estuary. Perhaps its mudflats were the provenance of the unhappy frogs. Some have already hopped off in a confused, lolloping gait.

How I miss Steve’s reassurance. That’s selfish I know. Sometimes I forget him, but the human spirit can’t grieve at the same intensity continuously. You’d go mad. I remember my guilt the first time someone told me a dirty joke – and I laughed. Yes, I laughed, and Steve hardly cold in his grave! I exist on this guilt-laden cycle of forgetting and remembering. What kind of woman am I to need Steve most desperately simply because I don’t want to deal with the frogs? How pathetic!

Jeremy’s plastic cup hangs on a hook beside Steve’s mug. WORLD’S BEST DAD. I catch my breath. Steve had his cocoa in it, while I had my Ovaltine in a china beaker. Once, my sister hid Steve’s WORLD’S BEST DAD mug but I went mad. ‘I need to feel awful when I see it,’ I screamed. ‘You silly cow, don’t you understand? It has to be there and it has to make me feel awful.’ I don’t think she understood, not really. Usually, it’s the bereaved who must make allowances for other people.
Handing Jeremy his juice, I perch him on the drainer, ease off the muddy boots, rinsing them under the tap. ‘Frogs, frogs, go away, come again another day,’ pipes Jeremy in his high-pitched twang.

What to do about upward of a hundred frogs expiring on my lawn? Phone the RSPCA? The exodus from the garden continues as they sneak through hedges into adjoining fields. I remember there’s a sewer ditch nearby. The thunder has moved away and is only a distant rumble but the horses are still twitchy.

I get out Steve’s WORLD’S BEST DAD mug and make cocoa. I need to drink Steve’s cocoa for him. Stirring four teaspoons into milk, I top up the cocoa with boiling water. Orange juice gurgling down his throat from the upended baby-cup, Jeremy trails after me into the lounge.

He plonks onto the floor, enraptured at the Tweenies while I sip my – Steve’s – cocoa. I’m shaking all over and splashing my skirt. When a tractor clunks down the lane past the cottage, I stifle the urge to rush outside and importune the driver for a listening ear.

I take Steve’s watch from the mantelpiece. Its leather strap dwarfs my small wrist. Then I plop the blue baseball cap from the door-hook onto my head.
Jeremy’s shaking pudgy arms at the Tweenies; he leans against my knee, fingering the watch. Accuses me of wearing Daddy’s things, threatens to tell on me. How quickly kids learn to play one parent off against another. How reassuring I can see Steve's mischief in our son's eyes. People say let the dead go, but that has to happen when it happens.

Perhaps the rain will level off Jeremy's little grave and he won't remember it tomorrow. Perhaps if the sun comes out later, we'll go and feed apples to the horses.

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Brentwood Writers Circle - 3 Clemence Dane Winners

From the Weekly News (Essex) Thursday October 11, 2007

WRITERS GET THEIR GONGS

Brentwood Writers' Circle is going from strength to strength and is now the foremost writing club in the South-East.

It celebrated its 66th birthday in May and over the years, its members have enjoyed many successes in the publishing world.

The circle meets monthly in the Fairview Drama room at the Ursuline Convent, Queens Road, Brentwood. The new chairman is Ena Love.

Recently, three members - Janet Cameron, Sylvia Kent and Dorothy Organ - were placed first, third and fifth in the International Monologue Writing Competition sponsored by the Society of Women Writers and Journalists. The magnificent David Lloyd George Room at the National Liberal Club in Westminster was the venue for a superb lunch on thursday, where the writers were awarded their prizes by the competition judge, Simon Brett.

Princess Michael of Kent was the guest speaker and at least a dozen Brentwood Writers' Circle members were there to meet the pair and their fellow society members.

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Kiddiwalks in Kent

KIDDIWALKS IN KENT by Janet Cameron

Published in Paperback by Countryside Books
Price: £7.99
ISBN 9781846740275
Reviewed by Brenda Holbrow

Kiddiwalks in Kent - I had the feeling this book was going to be 'just the ticket.' Enthusiasm abounds on every page. It is clearly illustrated by words, pictures and maps. Children will love walking and exploring the woods and trails explained so well.

The historical outline for each area adds a touch of mystery and magic. Nothing like the walk to school - you will hear them say so! It is certainly a book to get us back on our feet, whether we are children, mums, dads or grandparents. The walks are not too daunting for old legs as well as younger ones.

Each walk includes a heading: 'Fun Things to See and Do'. Kiddiwalks in Kent gives everyone an excellent opportunity to watch for birds, discover hiding places in the undergrowth where pheasants and hares linger. See a lighthouse, a working windmill, a Viking ship, a chance to paddle in shallow streams, to throw bread to chuckling ducks on Goudhurst's lovely pond, to gather interesting pebbles and shells, listen for the marsh frog, maybe a ride on the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch railway. Such exciting adventures with plenty of information regarding food and comfort stops. Even buggies can be accommodated on some of the walks. What more can one ask? These walks are very suitable for children and accompanying adults.

Well done, Janet Cameron, for putting such a comprehensive and sensible guide within our reach.

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