Friday, 9 December 2016


Available now - click to view on Amazon

'Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl' is set in the thriving market town of Bridgnorth and is anecdotal.  The author recounts memories of her early life and the time she spent as a student at Bridgnorth Grammar School (now Bridgnorth Endowed School).

Funny, unsentimental and totally immersed in the sixties and seventies - this memoir will take you back to lard-based products, Motown discos and the world of grammar school education.

Here's an excerpt during which Bev discovers that, despite her puppy fat and poor fashion choices, she has the power to attract BOYS:

...Whether these private musings had made me sway my hips more appealingly, and perhaps, who knows, appear on the verge of physical as well as intellectual ecstasy, I couldn’t say, but what happened next was confusing in the extreme and, at first, barely pleasant, despite its undeniable potency: I had attracted the attentions of a group of boys who had apparently camped out in the park and were gathering for a stroll around the town.  My radar told me they were not local.  They were of various heights, ages and beauty, but all equally terrifying to a girl who had been warned of the dangers of flesh-and-blood members of the opposite sex, who were to be viewed as predators, rapists and generally dirty buggers.  I had inadvertently strayed into their environment and set off a flurry of uncontrollable desire amongst them. Lordy!  What was a girl to do?
I walked on by, nonchalant and sweating, my eyes working overtime to gather essential detail.  Could it be that one of them looked like Davy Jones, afore-mentioned singer and Daydream Believer, with The Monkees?  I was prepared to believe.  Indeed, I needed to believe. 
Having circled away, I then cut back to return along the same path I had come. After all, I didn’t want to give them the slip too easily. They called out, whistling and complimenting me.  I flicked my hair, like the Sunsilk girl, and pretended to look the other way.  To my delighted horror, they followed.  What would my father say?  There was bound to be someone who knew him watching me from the bushes.  My tennis skirt seemed to shrink and my tiny bosom inflate.  My vest wasn’t thick enough. 
The boys followed at a distance. I was flattered beyond measure and yet inordinately unready.  In the absence of experience, I determined to remain aloof.  Quickening my step, I made it to the bridge, where, had I not looked back, I believe they would not have continued their pursuit.  As it was, one of them called out for me to wait and they showed no signs of giving up their romantic quest for my attention.  This was serious.  And amazing.  It involved real boys, who didn’t seem to be worried by my bulk.  What was more, one or two of them weren’t bad-looking!

Mandy was inside the house when I burst in, all blushes and giggles.  Instantly keen to collaborate, she joined me in a jumping dance, punctuated by girly squeals.  Soon we put a hastily conceived plan into action: we hid behind net curtains, watching as, to our stomach-twisting joy, five boys seated themselves more or less sexily on the garden wall at the front of our house.   Never had I taken in so many breaths without exhaling.  Mandy (my nine-year-old prettier sister) was impressed at my ability to lure such an impressive crowd to our lair.  Luckily, there was no imminent danger of my father arriving home to demand what on earth was going on, so we gasped and stared, and failed to take any kind of action.
“Who are they?” Mandy asked.  “I like the one with short dark hair best.  What’s his name?  Are they gypsies?”
I gaped.  I couldn't answer a single question.  Were they gypsies?  Did it matter?