Does image matter when you’re a writer, even an unpublished one? According to a blog I read recently it sure does. These days, if you approach an agent or publisher, be aware that they’ll usually check you out online and take into account your virtual image as well as your real one when deciding whether to take your advances further. Thankfully, I’m too old for my youthful indiscretions to have found their way on to YouTube, but I’ve always been aware that my website will, as much as my choice of clothes and way of speaking, contribute to how others view me. I admit that because of working at home, I no longer own a business suit and I keep my appointments logged on a Cats Protection League kitten calendar. Not a contemporary look, I fear.

Trouble is, it’s almost impossible to, as Robert Burns put it, see ourselves as others see us. You’d think one of the advantages of growing older is that one’s grasp on this tricky skill would increase, but no. Look at Sylvio Berlusconi’s dyed hair and plastic face if you don’t believe me. Wouldn’t you expect him to realise that he’s fooling no one into thinking he’s on the right side of fifty (or even sixty)?

It’s easy to claim not to care what others think, but far less easy to live up (or should that be down?) to this assertion. On a mundane level, when the washing-machine delivery man arrived before I had a chance to wash my hair, he hardly looked at me anyway, so did it matter? It didn’t affect the service he provided. But the spiky, unkempt look I sported would certainly have prevented me from succeeding at a job interview, and I wouldn’t even have gone to the Co-op looking like it, in case I bumped into someone I know.

I’m the same age as Madonna, Marg Helgenburger (Catherine Willows in CSI) and Stephen Fry. And while I’m not prepared to adopt the dieting, exercise and surgery that at least two of those three must surely rely on to stay looking youthful, they’ve set the bar pretty high for the rest of us. Thank goodness for opaque tights and lycra.

But while most of us are stuck with the face and body we were destined to have, there’s one way to kid ourselves we’re keeping up with the younger generation, even if we’re no longer part of it. Step forward: Technology.

When I last saw her, my goddaughter Leah (25) laughed at my tiny clamshell mobile, which I only carried ‘for emergencies’. Her exact words were ‘Oh Janet, that’s so sad’. It hurt, I can tell you. She then proceeded to demonstrate what her iPhone can do. So on Saturday I visited the o2 shop on Prince’s Street, Edinburgh, and am now the proud owner of a Samsung smart phone. I’ve yet to discover many of its capabilities, but already my husband tells me he looks forward to his daily text.

Serendipitously, the Sunday Times is currently running a supplement of the top 500 phone apps. Some of them look very useful.  I particularly fancy the one that allows you to take a picture whilst on holiday and send it away to have an actual (as opposed to virtual) postcard mailed to envious friends and family. Others I can’t imagine ever needing or wanting.

But I feel there’s a gap in the app market. What’s needed is one specifically for the middle-aged to turn to when their spouse isn’t there to help their failing memory. You know the sort of thing:  type in ‘fluffy green vegetable’ and it comes up with ‘broccoli’ or ‘American actor married to that Welsh girl with the dark hair’ and it suggests, er, his name slips my mind at the moment, but his Dad was a famous actor too. See what I mean?

I may like pretty clothes and wear make-up, but my taste in films is much less girly than that of many of my female friends. You can keep your romcoms and weepies. I enjoy a good thriller.

The main drawback with the genre is that, unlike comedies, familiarity with a thriller’s plot often means that repeat viewings aren’t nearly as enjoyable as seeing it the first time round. This isn’t true of them all, of course. There are what I’d call ‘daft’ thrillers like Con Air and Cliffhanger that I’ll never tire of watching, and then there are the classics like North by Northwest. As a rule, though, however much I enjoy a thriller I would rarely want to repeat the experience almost immediately. This wasn’t the case with Harry Brown.

Michael Caine is coming up for seventy-eight but would pass for, well, seventy-four. It’s not until you see his sort of face that you realise how unusual it is to find wrinkles and jowls on our screens these days. From the get-go he’s convincing as the eponymous Harry, a long-retired marine living out his days on a bleak housing estate, scared to use a nearby underpass because of the youths who hang around in it.

Harry’s wife dies, and the victimisation of Len, his only remaining friend, by a gang culminates in Len’s murder. Cue Harry’s decision to avenge this death, and so he goes out to buy a gun from a local drug dealer to blow the kids away.

So far so Deathwish, and at times you do get the feeling that this is too farfetched, that there’s no way some old codger would behave like this. But aside from Caine’s stalwart performance, the film is made immensely watchable by the supporting cast and its striking visual qualities.

By far the most affecting (and disturbing) scene is when Harry goes to get his gun. It’s as though he travels through down through several layers of hell to reach the dealer’s inner sanctum, where he’s told to sit down next to a girl who’s overdosed and ignore her. Harry being Michael Caine, he just can’t. Single-handedly he saves the girl and kills the bad guys, and goes on to dispatch several more.

Roger Ebert got it right when he wrote, ‘This movie plays better than perhaps it should’. As I’m typing this it sounds preposterous. But what a treat to see a new, British thriller (it was part-funded by the now-defunct UK Film Council) that shuns attractive locations and beautiful people. I can’t wait to watch Harry Brown again, if only to see if I was mistaken the first time around.

Not a lot of blogging, or any sort of creative writing going on here at present. The reason? I’ve got a paid job, organising a community event that’s to take place on March 5^th. I’ve been issuing invitations, booking the venue, writing press releases, recruiting guest speakers – nothing onerous, but gosh how this temporary foray back into the business world has made me appreciate my writing life.

I realise that once you become a published writer, fiction writing is no longer a solo effort but the writer becomes a member of a team, involving her agent, editor, publisher and all sorts of other folk. At the moment, though, writing and editing my novel is down to just one person: me. There’s no chasing replies to emails and phone messages, no communication breakdowns, no relying on others to do their bit before I can do mine.

This morning I took the decision that unless someone called me, I would suspend my event organisation for a few hours to get back to editing Chapter 36. I didn’t even go to the gym, so after walking the dogs I was at my computer for 8.30 and haven’t stopped til now. It felt fantastic, and I actually believe that the break has done me – and my writing – a lot of good. Better still, it's reminded me why I write.

An article on the front page of my local newspaper, The Berwickshire News, this week tells the story of a car which was taken to a garage because it wasn’t going well. The mechanic opened the bonnet and discovered hundreds of peanuts crammed inside. The headline reads:

Squirrel hides 6lbs of nuts . . . then bolts

The dictionary definition of the word pun is ‘the use of words or phrases to exploit ambiguities and innuendo in meaning, usually for humorous effect’. It’s a time-honoured writing technique that goes back to Shakespeare and many before him. Yet puns are more often met with groans than laughs. Was that your reaction to the headline I’ve quoted? Why do we react to puns like that?

Being a lover of words, I’m a great admirer of puns and word play. Although I rarely use them in my fiction writing, when I’m writing for business clients, especially in press releases, I like to use puns to grab the attention of an editor, to help ensure publication, as well as readers. I was especially proud of one I coined when announcing that a local ice-cream maker had won two awards for his produce: ‘Peter’s double scoop of awards’. The paper did publish the piece, but replaced my headline with their own.

Wikipedia has an interesting exploration of the nature and history of puns, and led me to the Puncut website which celebrates what it describes as 'the highest form of wit'. There's even a section of Scottish puns.  Read ‘em and weep!

One of effects of global warming is, apparently, that the seasons are causing nature to get out of sync. For example, animals which hibernate are waking up too early for their food sources to be available. Here in the Scottish Borders we are having a mildish spell after the snow and ice came earlier than expected. As a result, my chickens think it’s already spring. I know this because the cockerels have started their annual ritual of fighting each other to grab the attention of the best hens (though don’t ask me what constitutes ‘best’).

There’s an awful lot of strutting about, crowing and what could only be called ‘willy waving’ going on, although that’s an inaccurate description, as cockerels don’t actually have penises, not even tiny ones. Which leads me to wonder why the word ‘cock’ is used as slang for said male organ. But I digress.

Fights have broken out between several of my boys in the last week, and while it’s impressive to watch – their feathery ‘manes’ stand proud, they get each other by the comb, they drag at their opponent's wattles (the red, dangly bits at their necks) – it’s such vicious behaviour by normally docile creatures that it can be shocking. They don't kill each other (one usually ends up sloping off to hide in the woodstore), but their combs bleed profusely and the seniors Christie, Bobby and Clyde have each had one of their wattles ripped off.

Here’s a head-to-head between Christie and Solo (on the right) who thinks because he’s the most handsome he’s also top cock.

Not all our pets are as ferocious. As a contrast, here’s Doris the Editor. She’s nearly 19, totally deaf and has only a couple of teeth left. But she’s in charge – you’ll never see any of the dogs challenging her position in the pecking order.