Romantic Novel of The Year Award - ooh and Happy Christmas!

I've just had the best early Christmas present ever - the news that The Way To A Woman's Heart has been long-listed for the prestigious Romantic Novel of The Year Award. Stunned? I'm speechless. The short-list will be announced in February and I'm pretty certain TWTAWH won't be on it (believe me, there are some really big-hitters on that long-list) BUT just to be nominated is absolutely amazing. I've just skimmed back over the blog posts I wrote while - um - crafting TWTAWH and have decided that, with hindsight and a completed book, all that - um - crafting was well worth it in the long run...

We've had a weird few weeks - it's all been a bit Hotel Babylon here with our usual influx of pre-festive visitors - and some lovely but disruptive winter weather. One lot of visitors, due to arrive at Southampton airport at 9 a.m. eventually, after several re-routes, ended up at Gatwick at midnight. The Toyboy Trucker who was collecting them spent a hairy day and night battling through snow, ice and freezing fog as he hopefully toured the UK's airports. The restaurant get-together was eventually cancelled at about 11 p.m and we all had weary fish and chips in the early hours and minus 10 degree temperatures.

And sadly, my lovely brave one-eyed Maddy cat died suddenly. We were devastated. She'd done so well and had such a happy and lively few months since her operation and had loved being a Diva Cat and spoiled rotten. Her death was as peaceful and gentle as her life - she hadn't shown any signs of being ill at all, and had curled up after her supper on her blanket under her favourite radiator and simply went to sleep. We found her the next morning looking as though she was still sleeping. A fantastic end for her - sheer, total, heartbreaking hell for us. RIP my Mad-Mad Maddy - I'll always love and miss you.

So - two days before Christmas, we're still up to our fetlocks in snow here, it looks gorgeously Winter Wonderland outside, The Toyboy Trucker will be home on Christmas Eve, I've packed all the Christmas stockings, and have stopped writing Never Can Say Goodbye until after the festivities. With the other residents of the terrace and Elle and The Doctor we're looking forward to a very happy Christmas and an awful lot of peace on earth.

So, Happy Christmas to all Bucolic Frolickers - thank you so much for all your support and brilliant friendship - and I hope you all have the Christmas you've dreamed of.

See you next year!

Rambling

That's rambling as in dazed and confused mental meandering - not as in a hearty stride-out across the autumnal countryside - just in case you thought I'd suddenly turned into Ramblers' Champion, Janet "I'm a pensioner you know" Street-Porter.

Anyway I'm rambling for two reasons really: one, because I've had a touch of The Thing That's Going Around and still feel a bit muzzy and need to think about something other than my next dose of Lemsip, and two, because I've reached that stage in writing Never Can Say Goodbye where my finger keeps hovering over the "delete the whole damn lot and start again" button and need to be kept away from my 60,000 words plus until the moment has passed...

So - a few things that have amused me recently (and all in the name of research - just in case Broo is reading this)...

Last week, while shuffling across the estate to our local version of Big Sava via one of the rather pretty little lanes overhung with gloriously tinted trees I watched a very tiny and very elderly man tiptoeing beneath said trees, sprinkling something from a small bag. I smiled to myself at this vision of age-old rural tradition. Bless him, dressed in baggy brown cords and an even baggier beige jumper, he was one of those gentle pink and white marshmallowy old chaps, with pale blue eyes and the sort of stand-up fly-away wispy hair that babies have. He beamed as I approached and offered me the bag with a cheery "Do you like licorice, my dear? Would you like some?" Now, I do like licorice - come on, it's sweet, I like it - but I also remembered my mum's warning of not taking sweets from strangers, so I declined. "That'll mean even more for the squirrels then, my dear," he said, pale blue eyes twinkling kindly. "Oh," I said, even more touched at this demonstration of caring-for-nature, "do squirrels like licorice, then?" The rheumy blue eyes hardened as he cackled, "nah. They hates it. And I hates them. Gives 'em the squits big time -nasty little bastards."

And I've been to aqua aerobics. Once. I shan't be going back. Not to mince words here, we - the participants - were lumpen girls, clad in our uniform sturdy M&S black all-in-one-with-tummy-control-panel swimsuits. We stood self-consciously, chest deep, in neat rows in the aquamarine water, trying not to pass out from the heat and chlorine fumes, waiting for Sasha-Marie, the instructor. Beyonce boomed from the sound-system. Several of us cautiously limbered up a bit under water in an attempt to burn more calories or not fall over or both. Then Sasha-Marie, in pink leggings and a vermilion T-shirt, trundled in and stood on the pool edge in front of us. Yes, trundled. Sasha-Marie was h-u-g-e. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm kind of picky about my exercise regime (translate that as I don't have one but if I did I'd want some sort of proof that it worked), and I refuse to be pc here. Sasha-Marie wasn't pleasantly plump or cuddly - she was massive. We looked like collective Kate Mosses by comparison. With no apparent trace of irony, Sasha-Marie clapped her chubby hands and shouted "Right, girls, let's see if we can get rid of some of that porkiness in time for Christmas, shall we?". Five minutes into marching on the spot underwater and clapping our hands above our head at the same time (something I found a little bit tricky because I'm not particularly co-ordinated), we were getting into the swim (see what I did there?) quite nicely, but Sasha-Marie was still fully dressed and on dry land and puffing and panting and turning puce. Another ten minutes and were were slapping our hands together under our knees in time to Cheryl Cole. Sasha-Marie was sitting on a stool and gasping out her instructions in wheezy staccato bursts. By the time the half hour was up, we - looking like the hippo ballerinas in Fantasia - were twirling and kicking and splashing our hands happily on the surface of the pool along with Kylie. Sasha-Marie had been taken outside by the lifeguard. And when I got home I weighed 2lbs more than when I started. Aqua aerobics is not for me...

And note to self: when you're next having your hair coloured by someone who trained at A Big London Salon DO NOT say cheerfully "oh, just slap a few tabby stripes in as usual". Colourists from Big London Salons don't slap or do tabby or stripes. They do nuances and hints, and tones and tints, and shades and shimmers, and slivers and slices, and glints and glimmers, and hi-lights and lo-lights, and can have Very Bad Tempers.

We have an Old People's Day Centre on the other side of the green. The Toyboy Trucker thinks this is very handy as he reckons I'll be needing it before too long and being so close it won't be too tricky to find me if I wander off. For years we've been used to seeing bus-loads of Seniors (as our council insists we call them) being shunted off to watch the traffic congestion on the A34 or the fights in the entrance to Poundland. However, because the council (like councils everywhere) are having to make swingeing budget cuts, the bus has had to go. Now the Seniors are shepherded together in little groups with a minder to participate in activities on the green. The Teddy Bears' Picnic was a great success. Not so the litter-picking. Well, you give a lot of disgruntled pensioners-with-attitude pointy sticks and a plastic bag and you're asking for trouble, in my opinion. By the end they had more paramedics in attendance than there were at our wedding reception (another story for another blog post - maybe). This week they've borrowed someone from our FE college to teach them Tai Chi. On the green. In the wind and rain. I'm sorry, but I laughed. Thirty or so cold and wet Seniors, in a collection of puffa jackets, anoraks, hats, scarves and zip-up bootees striking poses (and each other) was like one of the more surreal episodes of Monty Python. Oh, and another thing - when I walked past the day centre yesterday they were having a sing-song. Merry melodies from their youth. Tunes from the War Years. Roll Out the Barrel and It's a Long Way to Tipperary et al. But surely, most of today's Seniors were yesterday's hippies and rock-children? Shouldn't they be boogieing along to the Stones and Led Zep?

Oh, goody - now it's time for my next Lempsip. And when I've had that, I might just have a look at the "delete the whole damn lot and start again" button...

Rebecca In The Scout Hut

It was much as expected. A full house (we don't get much in the way of entertainment on the estate since Fiery Dave and his souped-up wheel-spinning Subaru moved, thanks to the petition and umpteen Asbos, to East Kilbride), uncomfortable chairs pinched from the Mixed Infants, intermittent lighting, and a biting wind through the window that never got mended after the Brownies had a bit of a fracas during last Easter's performance of Riverdance. Still, we were all there, in the scout hut, more in hope than expectation (as always) and we weren't disappointed.

The am-drammers had copped out (in my opinion) on the settings and used the backdrops from last year's panto (Jack and the Beanstalk). Therefore, Manderley (interior and exterior) was the giant's castle, the South of France was the market square minus The Village Children but sadly still plus the painted-on cow, and the Gothic atmosphere (such as it was) was provided by the lights being turned on and off very quickly backstage. Well, until the moment they all fused, then - until they were fixed - it was down to three people with torches aided by several rows of the audience who, remembering that ill-fated coach trip to see Barry Manilow at Blenheim Palace, held their lighters aloft.

Avis from the Co-op was The Second Mrs de Winter. As Avis is 53 and - given her build and incipient moustache - had been the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk, she wasn't that convincing as a frail and nervous child-bride, but her twin-set and tweed skirt were lovely. It was slightly disturbing that Maxim was played by Larry the postman. Now, there's nothing wrong with Larry and he can act his socks off when he puts his mind to it, but Avis is his mum - so you see the problem. We all tried to suspend disbelief and any squeamishness, but it tested even the most ardent theatre-goer at times.

The am-drammers are a small group, therefore there was the usual doubling-up of roles. Mrs Danvers (played with terrifying authenticity by the vicar's wife, leading us to discuss in the intermission - egg sandwiches with concrete crusts and polystyrene beakers of tepid tea - just exactly what home-life was like in the vicarage) was also Bee and, after lots of muttering and rustling and quick-changes of jacket/hat/beard in the wings, Sid Newman from the garden centre became Jack Favell,Frank Crawley, Frith and Giles. Any scenes that involved more than one of these characters were relegated to off-stage conversations aided and abetted by Gorgeous George (a nickname given with full rustic irony) from the garage who was the narrator. A narrator, we all felt, was essential, given the gaping gaps in the script.

Jasper (Avis's elderly Jack Russell was substituted for the springer spaniel of the original) made several impromptu appearances. Usually when he wasn't required. And eventually he went to sleep in the middle of the stage, snoring loudly, and no-one could shift him so everyone just stepped round him. Except Avis during one of her most wither-wringing scenes when she tripped over him and uttered a line of such eye-watering profanity that Dame Daphne must have groaned in her grave.

We were all, it must be said, really waiting for the burning of Manderley. It was well worth the wait. As we held our collective breath in a frenzy of anticipation, noises-off provided, by way of Gorgeous George rustling aluminium foil and blowing-across-the-tops-of-bottles (we could see this operation taking place so it did somewhat dilute the artistic tension), a lot of crackling and roaring, followed by the smoke machine, which was fairly impressive. I say only fairly as unfortunately the copious billows of thick grey vapour were caught in the draught from the Brownies broken window and rolled, like a Victorian pea-souper, away from Manderley/Giant's Castle and the stage generally and wafted across the audience. As the first four rows disappeared in the murk, everyone nostalgically agreed that it was just like being in the snug of the Weasel and Bucket before the smoking ban. Happy days!

Once the fog had cleared and someone had woken Jasper, and the vicar's wife (aka Mrs Danvers at that point) had stopped screaming, the am-drammers took their bows and got three curtain-calls (there weren't any curtains but you get the idea). Then we all tidied our chairs and beakers away, and as we filed outside into night the general consensus was that Rebecca in the Scout Hut had been a resounding success.

Their next production will be the Christmas panto of course (Goldilocks this year - we're all assuming Avis will be taking the title role and stretching the imagination even further and that possibly all three bears will be played by Larry) and then, frighteningly, they're going to be tackling Ben Hur.

I will be reviewing it here. Maybe...

Bugger - I Didn't Win The Booker...

Well, not that I expected to of course, not being short-listed or even long-listed or even in contention at any stage or anything because I'm not even a smidgen literary. However, I was very chuffed when one of those intense and scary-looking telly arts' commentators said that this year's winner - Howard Jacobson's The Finkler Question - was a comic novel and indicated a move away from serious to humorous, from high-brow to middle-brow. Oooh, I thought - one more brow down and there's hope for me and the rest of the Rom-Commers yet. But, sadly, it seems not...

Now, I haven't read The Finkler Question (I've never read anything either long or short listed for the Booker because I'm a pleb), but the little bit I heard being read out last night didn't make me chortle. I actually didn't really understand it... which means, I suppose, that it must be really, really good. And Howard Jacobson showed a great sense of fun (I thought) when he said he'd spend the £50,000 (gulp) prize money on a handbag for his wife with a wry "have you seen the price of handbags?".

However, while I was having a little happy moment about The Man Booker sliding ever so slowly towards people of my limited brain-power, Andrew Motion (chair of judges) sodded it up by describing The Finkler Question as "laugh-out-loud funny but so nearly adjacent to tragedy" and "very sad, melancholic, laughter in the dark..." and then Mr Jacobson himself compounded my deepest fears by saying his novel wasn't "easy-peasy and middle-brow because it's comic. It's much cleverer and more complicated and about much more difficult things..."

Ah, well - many congrats to Howard Jacobson - but I have a feeling that Brian from the kebab van and Maisie the Useless Medium won't be troubling the Booker judges for a while yet...

And - while on the subject of literary fiction - I listened to the first ever Radio 2 Book Club reviews on Monday evening. This time the book chosen was Mr Chartwell - a first-time novel about depression and Winston Churchill and a widowed librarian set over 5 days in the summer of 1964. Mr Chartwell - who has a massive viewpoint role apparently (haven't read this one either because I'm a pleb) - is a giant black dog (black dog equalling depression which is the theme of the novel)... Ooooh, I thought, how many times have I been told that having an animal narrator is a huge no-no - things must be soooo different in Lit Fic Land. The author sounded very young and very happy and has been given a very pleasing advance - which is wonderful for her - but several reviewers said while they loved her descriptions they couldn't understand some of her complex sentences and had to re-read them several times to get the gist... Now, in Commercial Fiction Land that would earn you a sharp editorial rap on the knuckles and a severe editing session...

Oh, well - it's back to the keyboard and baby-easy sentences and Brian from the kebab van and words of one syllable for me...

Oh - and while out yesterday, I saw this notice in the window of The Eight 'til Late:
"Fitzharry's Am Dram Society proudly present Rebbecca by Daphne Du Maurier, unabridged, for three nights, in the Scout Hut".

The burning of Manderley???? The scenes in the south of France??? The costume ball??? Rebecca's boat on stormy seas???? In the Scout Hut?????

I've bought tickets.

Champagne at 38,000 Feet

Last Sunday it was my birthday (I'm now VERY old) - and thank you so much to everyone who sent greetings and then obviously thought I was a mardy mare for not replying - but I was celebrating it with champagne and The Toyboy Trucker and 300+ other people somewhere dizzily high in the sky above the Alps en route to Cyprus. How decadent was that??? Actually, it was just wonderful. Perfect. I cried with happiness (I cry VERY easily) when I found out about it. Cyprus was my surprise birthday present from TTT, Elle and The Doctor and I LOVED it. Had never been before and will go back as soon as poss. We left the UK early on my birthday morning with temperatures in single figures and a cutting northerly wind howling across a bleak sky - and landed 4 hours later in 35+ degrees of non-stop sunshine. It was one of the most blissful weeks of my life...

But now I'm back, feet firmly on the ground, shivering and WORKING. Well, I'm trying. The new book (Never Can Say Goodbye) is still going okay. It seems to be like Going the Distance and Hubble Bubble in the way it's kind of unfolding itself easily as I go along. Strangely (because I still have absolutely no idea how my books ever come into being, or how I write them, or why it seems natural to me to have this entire cast of REAL people living inside my head) my books don't follow the same pattern. Some like this one (so far) sort of write themselves, others need a lot more concentration and - er - work.

My early Orion books seemed to gush out with no problems (but then I was still all starry-eyed about being published and everything was all lovely and shiny and new), then the HarperCollins ones were much bigger and more complex and layered and therefore took longer and I had to make sure that all the ends tied up and all the sub-plots reached a conclusion as well as the main story thread. And since then, the Piatkus/Little,Brown ones have been a mix of the two. Love Potions gave me all sorts of headaches (mainly because when the title was changed from Flower Power {considered too hippie} I realised I hadn't actually got any love potions in it and had to go back and slot them in); Heaven Sent was far too short but I'd told the story and anything else would have been padding; Happy Birthday was too long (in my opinion) and probably should have been two books...

And The Way To A Woman's Heart....??? Well, once I'd stopped being a diva-bitch-from-hell author and got over it no longer being called Midnight Feast, and accepted that Sunny (heroine) was now called Ella, and that it had to be a longer, meatier story (sorry, bit of a pun as it's about cookery) with a bigger cast of characters, less obvious practical magic and more grounded reality but still series-linked to the previous books - oh, and amusing, I finally knuckled down and just did it.

I suppose, as a writer, that's what it's all about really - just doing it. No-one else is going to. Sadly, it's taken me years to realise that! Much as there were many, many mornings when I'd switch on the computer and hope that the Tailor of Gloucester's mice had written several thousand words of The Way To A Woman's Heart overnight, eventually I accepted that if I didn't do it then it would never be finished. Weird though how the changing of the title and the heroine's name made it the most difficult book I've ever written. Still, it's done, I'm happy with it - and hopefully the slog/sweat/angst/difficult-author-tantrums won't show...

Never Can Say Goodbye (and that is going to be the title - they've had the discussion about maybe changing it to something else and happily decided to stick with my "let's get away from the cutesy magicky titles" title - so that's one hurdle - um - hurdled) is developing into a completely different book. The magic is slightly more - um - spooky. The characters are more eccentric (as in Brian from the kebab van and Maisie the Useless Medium). The situations more down-to-earth - well, in a sort of off-the-wall way. And much as I thought that after actually having to "work" on The Way To A Woman's Heart (I really hate work!) I'd never find my mo-jo or my writing joi-de-vivre again, so far I'm having fun with it. Which is just as well as it has to be finished by Christmas. Erk!

Blimey! This post is almost writerly. Still, the next one won't be as I've got to blog about total rubbish. Even more total rubbish than usual because our local council has just ventured into the multi-wheely-bin-refuse-disposal-system and you wouldn't believe the uproar this has caused in the terrace... FIVE wheely bins, all different colours, all for different things, all collected on different days... It's causing anarchy here, I can tell you. Anarchy.

Oh, and tonight I'm going to the theatre again with The Toyboy Trucker - but this time to see Frankie Boyle - so probably this is not going to be a repeat of the erudite cerebral Stephen Fry experience... Can't wait!

Why Can't I Be Stephen Fry???????

We went to see Stephen Fry on Saturday. That is we went to see him at the theatre - we didn't pop round to his for tea or anything. I like Stephen Fry: I love him on QI, he's a great actor, a clever mimic, and I am in awe of his brain, his wealth of knowledge and his wonderful use of words. This theatre performance was to promo part two of his autobiography - so it was Stephen talking about the early and middle chunk of his life. Did I enjoy it? Yes, most of it - although being honest, some of it was way too elitist for me - but then I'm definitely a pleb. Stephen was warm and garrulous and rambling and told several lengthy and intricate tales about how he was a lost cause in his youth and sort of stumbled into stardom. Sadly, because I'm the aforementioned pleb, some of it was just a touch too luvvie for me. However, the man is without doubt a genius.

But the whole thing was ruined because I got the nutter sitting next to me...

You know how you always get them on a bus or a train? It isn't just me, is it? Oh, right... Well, anyway, on Saturday night I got the theatre equivalent. There was one empty seat next to me in a sell-out full house. And, just before curtain up, in he came. Bustling along the row, treading on toes, all multi-patterned jumper, cagoule, and haversack. As the lights dimmed, he dumped the haversack and rushed down to the front of the stalls, stood on tiptoe and peered on to the stage. Then he cantered back, threw himself down beside me and said excitedly "I can see him in the wings! He's ready to come on!"

I smiled weakly and edged further away - difficult in theatre seats. He leaned towards me. "I saw him in Cambridge last night and Norwich the night before and tomorrow I'll see him in London!"

Oh, great. I'd got a Stephen Fry groupie...

Fortunately, Stephen made his entrance then, and Mr Groupie was on his feet whooping and hollering. I shrank down in my seat as everyone turned to stare at us. The Toyboy Trucker, safely out of the spotlight on the other side of me, laughed. A lot. Anyway, once Stephen got going, Mr Groupie, who clearly hadn't wasted his time on the tour, loudly spoke every line along with him, albeit slightly out of sync. It was like having a slightly bizarre echo. Mercifully this came to an end when Mr Groupie burrowed into his haversack and brought out his sandwiches and flask of coffee. Generously he offered me a sardine and tomato. I declined. And by this time The Toyboy Trucker was, naturally, doubled up...

Maybe it was the stench of the sardine sandwiches, but I was getting pretty tetchy. So, when Stephen said that as a writer he was arrogant because all writers are arrogant I wanted to yell WRONG! I was absolutely itching to leap up and say WRONG, WRONG, WRONG - but, given that thanks to Mr Groupie our row was already the centre of attention and The Toyboy Trucker was giving me One Of Those Looks, I didn't. I just sat and simmered and tried to ignore the pungency of the sardines.

Then, just to add to my irritation, Stephen announced that the entire tour had been organised by his publishers (Penguin) to promote his latest book - and that after his hour and a half on stage he'd be doing a book selling-and-signing session in the theatre.

Well! Fancy that! Stephen Fry gets a publisher-paid tour of theatres - a sell-out nationwide tour of theatres seating thousands - and I get the local book shop if I'm lucky. Stephen Fry has queues and queues of hundreds of people winding for miles round our major cities, I get a few friends and people sheltering from the rain or waiting for the next bus to Kingston Dapple. Now I wonder why that is? And why, oh why, can't I be Stephen Fry?

Sadly, my book-signings always remind me of the days when I travelled with my Dad, the fairground organ and traction engine to do shows in remote rural locations. I've lost count of the times that Dad used to peer out on a bleak field with the rain falling horizontally in a force ten gale and say (in pre-PC days) - "good crowd tonight - three paraplegics and a daft bloke with a dog"... because it seemed that at every country fayre we attended, all the minders used to dump their charges in front of the organ with a cheerful "Never mind a bit of rain...let's park you here! Oooh, look at the pretty lights! Listen to the pretty music!" before sodding off to the beer tent...

And then I'd trundle on and dance the can-can in a monsoon to a less-than-impressed audience. Actually, it's funny with hindsight, just how much of my early life could have been lifted straight out of Cher's Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves...

Anyway, those less-than-packed performance days are EXACTLY like my book signings - except of course that I don't dance the can-can any more - maybe I should....

So - the picture at the top of the post is Stephen's very crowded book-signing and this one is mine.... Spot the difference???????????????

Sweet Dreams

This is my dream bedroom. Sadly, it isn't how my real bedroom looks. It isn't how my real bedroom has ever (or will ever) look because The Toyboy Trucker would leave me. It is, however, exactly how my new heroine's bedroom looks and I'm dead jealous. New heroine (Francesca, known as Frankie) in Never Can Say Goodbye, is a girl after my own heart who loves colour and clutter and all things retro - which is why she's running a vintage frock shop and dresses like a bag-lady and has a tart's boudoir bedroom... I can only claim one of these...

Anyway, because I've been obsessed by bedrooms lately, I thought I'd mention Frankie's and blog about mine. It's still not finished. It's been well over a month now and it still looks like a shed... Why, in the name of all that's holy, we ever got into this mess, I still can't quite understand.

It all started when The Toyboy Trucker decided he'd like a telly in the bedroom. I'm anti telly-in-the-bedroom for all sorts of reasons - main one being The Toyboy Trucker falling asleep with something loud and violent blaring out and me having to stuff my ears from the explosions and screams and avert my eyes from the blood and gore and eventually having to stumble from the cosiness of the bed to switch the damn thing off. The Toyboy Trucker convinced me that we've moved on technologically since 1987 and he'd have a remote control and headphones and I'd never notice it...

So, I gave in, and said okay - we'll have a telly in the bedroom... The Toyboy Trucker excitedly bought one - all flat-screen and DVD-playing-and-recording etc etc - and that's honestly where it all started. Because we quickly discovered we actually hadn't got anywhere to put a telly. We had one socket and a bedroom full of old brown furniture - lots of dressing tables and chests - that had belonged to my Nan. And none of them were in the right place for a telly, and they were all crumbly and rickety and decrepit to boot. And the walls wouldn't support a bracket because they were covered in pictures and lots of disintegrating 1970s wardrobes... So, it was decided - all for the sake of a damn telly - that we'd have a bedroom make-over. We'd ditch the mis-matched clutter and, despite my private yearning for a purple and pink girly glory-hole, have something pale and plain and pristine.

It all sounded so easy. We measured the room. Men from the furniture shop measured the room. All the measurements tallied. We chose an entire range of pale beech furniture, hand-built, and made-to-measure. In Germany. We were going to have a bank of wardrobes at one end of the room, including a walk-in, and lots of new matching chests, and one of those over-the-bed-and down-the-sides contraptions incorporating masses of cupboards and shelves and little twinkly hidden lights. Men-in-shorts were brought in to remove all the old stuff and decorate the room in a nice tasteful cream and rewire the bedroom to enable us to have a telly.

The new furniture arrived. Thirty boxes of it. The delivery men chuckled as they hefted it upstairs. As soon as they'd left I understood why. Most of it was self-assembly, very little of it was labelled, and the instructions were in German...

I'll gloss over the August Bank Holiday weekend. Tempers, it must be said, were frayed... By the Monday night we were no longer speaking but we'd got two-and-half wardrobes built; the walk-in wasn't built or even slightly walk-in because we had two left sides and no right one (it's going to take another 6 weeks to get a replacement); the drawers didn't fit the chests - and funniest of all (okay, not at the time - but with hindsight....) was the fact that the over-the-bed contraption didn't fit bloody anywhere... The measurements had been taken across the middle of the room. No-one had taken into account that a) there were big chunky skirting boards at the bottom and b) this house is 70 years old and the walls aren't exactly even...

Men-in-shorts were recalled to do what they could. Suffice it to say they had to remove part of a wall. It took three days to burrow through plaster and bricks and breeze blocks. The upstairs looked like Beirut, we were all coughing and spluttering and sort of permanently grey, and the lovely fresh cream decor was covered in dust and rubble... Oh, and we'd got a kind of knock-through effect into the spare room. Still, the over-the-bed thing eventually fitted - even if we're now sleeping at a rather odd angle, the bookshelves slope like they're starring in the final throes of the Titanic, and the little twinkly lights are somewhat intermittent.

Of course, because the wardrobe cluster (that's how it was described - honest) isn't finished owing to the lack of right-side-of-walk-in, most of our clothes are in bin liners and suitcases. I'm still picking brick rubble out of the cats and from between my toes. The bedroom looks like a bomb site - albeit a nice cream one.

And the thing that started all this? The telly? Still in its box until such time as the bedroom is finished, which, as far as I can tell, *might* just be before the start of the 2012 Olympics...

Unaccustomed As I Am....

Just back from staying at Swanwick Summer Writing School where I was an after-dinner speaker! That was a first for me - well, two firsts really. I've never been to Swanwick before and I've certainly never been an after-dinner speaker. Think they were VERY brave to ask me...

Swanwick is amazing! What a fabulous place! What elegant surroundings! What incredible food and hospitality! And such fantastic, enthusiastic and completely crazy people... THANK YOU to everyone - especially Xanthe and Joyce and Fiona and Ann and Roy who invited me and looked after me brilliantly and made me laugh all the time, and to Fliss and Jan for suggesting I'd be a good speaker (are you insane???), and to Della for everything, and to everyone else who made me feel as though I belonged from the moment I arrived and who will now always be good friends.

Mind you, if I'd known that the after-dinner speaking involved being in a theatre, on stage, with a microphone and an audience of hundreds I'd have turned tail and fled back down the motorway - but as it was, like the proverbial lamb, I trotted happily into it without having a clue what I was doing. Par for the course, I know.

I'd written a speech. I'd practised it over and over again to the Toyboy Trucker and the cats who were all fairly unimpressed. It lasted 30 minutes. I had an hour - a whole HOUR - on stage... And, I'd torn my speech up because it was rubbish and just had a few scribbled notes... Still, I thought as I gazed nervously at my cheerfully expectant audience, I'll never have to see any of them again...

In my new-from-the-market long frock and B-I-G ear-rings I took a deep breath and trying not to meet anyone's eyes in case I spotted boredom, sleep or even death, I just launched myself into the story of how I started writing, the ups and downs, the ins and outs, the good times and the bad. Oh, and I told everyone about my life, and about the neighbours and about the cats and just anything else I could trawl from the depths of what was left of my brain.

Mercifully, they were a brilliant audience and they laughed at the first sentence and carried on laughing, and the more they laughed the more indiscreet I became until they were chuckling all the time and I'd convinced myself that a career as a stand-up beckoned. The hour simply flew by. I answered all sorts of questions and told more tall tales (actually true stories, but even to me some parts of my life sound pretty impossible) and incredibly got a standing ovation.

Now, I'm ashamed to say, this all went to my head a bit. Afterwards, having signed and sold loads and loads of books and been congratulated on being funny a lot, I practically preened and flounced. I was an inch away from snapping my fingers and throwing back my hair and demanding roast swan and the finest champagne. Happily, because I'm a vegetarian and only drink beer, it didn't quite come to that. But almost. As I clutched my pint and my cigarette and skipped round Swanwick's glorious grounds in the moonlight, I was very nearly getting above myself.

Thankfully The Toyboy Trucker brought me down to earth with a "your bra straps are showing, you've got lipstick on your teeth, your hair looks all funny and you've lost an ear-ring - you look like you've been in a brawl".

Now I'm home again, all diva-ness forgotten, and as is the way of my life, the TWTAWH proofs have arrived in Pdf format and have to be done online and returned by Thursday and we're having the bedroom renovated (posh way of saying the 1970s built-in crap wardrobes are being pulled out and the one measly electric socket is being - er - extended and the funny little wash-basin thing in the corner is being turned into something altogether more swish) which means intermittent electricity so I really ought to get on with them... Have to say that even after severe editing, TWTAWH is still standing at 455 pages!!! 455!!! That's almost War and Peace! I've got to proof-read War and Peace!!!! Aaargh!!!!

A Month Of Madness

Having got wildly excited over finishing this - THE WAY TO A WOMAN'S HEART (note my huge self control in not even mentioning Midnight Feast...) - I have unashamedly skived for the last month. Well, sort of...









I've actually been here for a few days and given a talk or two at the Lit Fest and had a truly brilliant time - what an amazingly friendly city Middlesbrough is! Thank you to everyone who came along and was so lovely....








And here for the weekend... (I do so love a gut-quivering jet engine roar or twenty...)



And here... where I also gave a talk (and giggled a lot) and met up with my lovely, glamorous and really good friend Jane and had a wonderful evening even if the local paper managed to get ALL the facts wrong!


And here with The Toyboy Trucker for some much needed R&R - not to mention alcohol and food and far, far too much ice-cream...






Oh, and here because my recurring conjunctivitis isn't - it's blepharitis which is totally different and has a completely different treatment and I'm really happy now because I can see!!!




And most excitingly of all - here....
And this was like walking on to a film set! Having seen the pictures and heard all about Debs' fabulous shed for so long, to actually be there was almost overwhelming. It's amazing! And gorgeous! And pretty! And I WANT ONE!!!! Thanks so much Debs (and Grumpy, for allowing me over the portals) - it was simply brilliant.



I've also written five short stories - and sent them...



And I've started The New Book - which I've called NEVER CAN SAY GOODBYE in an attempt to find my own "let's get away from the cutesy magicky titles" title.


And today is Jonah's 15th birthday. He's celebrated well with chicken breast and steamed fish. As we were told he would be lucky if he survived to his 3rd birthday we're really proud of him. But not half as proud as he is of himself! Showing-off, swaggering and preening all seem to come very naturally to him.


Other less pictorial catch-up stuff from previous posts - one-eyed Maddy is absolutely fantastic now, although she has turned into a bit of a prima-donna with all the earlier attention, but is managing to live with her restricted vision with no problems at all. Elle and The Doctor's ill-fated Carlton Epsom handmade bed eventually arrived - damaged and in the wrong colour... back to the drawing board for that one, then. Sigh.... It is now fifteen months since we spoke to the outlaws after the no-show wedding fiasco. Feel that it is too long to even try for a reconciliation. Shame...

Sooo, now I'm back with bum-on-seat and fingers-on-keyboard and after my month of skiving madness will try really, really hard to be A Good Blogger in future. I think...

Ta-ra Tramuntana

Sorry blog - I've been ignoring you - AGAIN. But there's been a really, really good reason - honest. I mean, as well as doing the TWTAWH edits - I've also skived off and been here. That's the place in the picture, blog, in case you're not following my drift...

The Toyboy Trucker and I have been to the Tramuntana Mountains and it was BLISS. Yes, I left unfinished edits behind which makes me a Bad Writer, but we'd planned to have the hol at the end of May/beginning of June ages ago in those halcyon days when I was convinced TWTAWH would have been delivered/edited/all over and be nothing but a blurred memory and I'd be well into The Next One by April. Of course, this was a mistake - but the hol was booked and paid for - so, off we went.


Did I fret about the un-done edits? Did I hell! Sorry - Bad Writer moment again. No, we joyously embraced the non-stop Mediterranean sunshine and the crystal-clear turquoise sea and the wall-to-wall tapas and the sheer gorgeousness of the laid-back way of life. We whizzed up and down the mountains (amazing hairpin roads - felt like something off Top Gear!) in little wooden trains and through citrus groves in rattling wooden trams and stayed in an old-fashioned hotel that was exactly like something out of a lavish Agatha Christie adaptation. Oh, the absolute decadence of eating late, strolling beneath the palms and pines at the foot of the mountains in the moonlight, and then returning to the hotel to sit in cushioned wicker chairs on the vast tiled and candlelit-terrace with a jug of sangria and people-watch...


And now we're back, and The Toyboy Trucker is embroiled with lorries and parcels again, and TWTAWH is FINISHED!!!! I ignored everything else (except the cats, of course) when I returned and spent about 16 hours a day, every day, on the edits and rewrites and sent it yesterday! It's DONE! Phew!!!!


Sooo - it's ta-ra to TWTAWH and to the Tramuntana. I hope the former will never need to be revisited - but the latter, oh, yes - we (in the words of Arnie) will be back...

For The Love Of Maddy

This is Maddy. To the rest of the world she's a very ordinary little black cat. To me, for fifteen years, she's been my close friend, a source of constant amusement, and the inspiration for the name of my very first heroine in my very first novel. Two weeks ago Maddy had to have her left eye removed after developing an ulcerated optic abscess. The operation went well (I spent all day pacing up and down with my stomach in knots, as you do), she came home two days later and, the vet said, was on track to make a full recovery.

Maddy looked awful. Half her face was shaved away, she had six huge stitches in a sort of gash shape from the top of her head down to the tip of her nose, and she was very wobbly. However, after a couple of days of TLC she started to make progress. She'd eat a little and venture outside occasionally and the other cats stopped giving her a wide berth because she reeked of VET. Then she changed. With no warning she started clawing at her face, shaking her head violently and falling over. She couldn't eat, drink, walk or even stand up. Every time I put food down for her, she'd lower her head to it and then jerk it frantically away almost as if she'd just smacked her face into an invisible glass wall. She hid behind the sofa, hunched up, looking terrified.

I rushed her back to the vet who checked her over and said he'd never seen such violent and distressing reactions, that the eye socket was clean and clear, there was no indication of an infection, and that unless she'd had a post-op cerebral bleed he had no idea what was going on, but that he was very worried. He wasn't the only one...

Two days later, with Maddy's violent shakes and panics getting worse, and still having not eaten or drunk anything, I took her back. The vet removed her stitches, checked her over again, said she wasn't in pain but was very weak and he had no idea what was going on, and said he didn't hold out much hope for her survival, and that it might be kindest to have her put to sleep...

Now, at that point there was no way I was going to let her go. Not until I knew there was no alternative. If she'd been in pain then yes, of course, I'd have agreed. But as she wasn't... I took her home. She crawled behind the sofa. And I crawled with her. And for an entire week that's where she stayed and - for most of it - so did I, just talking to her and stroking her and reassuring her. I reckoned that it was vital for her to have fluids more than anything, so spent ages syringing water into the side of her mouth. We both got soaked but at least she got some of it. Then, still talking to her all the time, and stroking her, I smeared pate round her mouth and on her paws and the side of her face. At first she just panicked, but I persevered to the expense of everything else. For seven days I did nothing - certainly no writing or housework - but sat with her in the darkness, smearing food on to her and talking to her until she gradually, very gradually, started to lick it off.

After another two days she crawled from behind the sofa and, keeping her away from the other cats, I put the food on a saucer in front of her. She went through the violent shying away/head shaking thing again, but then - amazingly - started to hook the food off her plate with her paw and eat it with her "fingers". Not much, admittedly, but some. I was so encouraged by this breakthrough (yes, I cried) that I started teaching her to stand and walk too. Just supporting her underneath her tummy and moving her forward inch by inch, and putting her into a litter tray and holding her steady. And after another day she could do this on her own too.

Then she started eating normally from her dish, admittedly very, very slowly with her head all skewed round at an odd angle, but she was eating and drinking and walking unaided...

By the end of last week, Maddy was back to normal. Yes, she's finding it a bit odd only having restricted vision - but this hasn't stopped her resuming her tree-climbing and bird-watching activities. As I'm typing this she's chasing butterflies in the garden. She's the first in for food, the first one with a clean plate, the first one on the bed at night seeking out the snuggliest spot.

Now I'm miles behind with the TWTAH edits, the house is a tip and The Toyboy Trucker is beginning to look like beans on toast - but I'm making no apologies. Maddy's back, I'm ecstatic - and I'm thinking, should the writing take a nose-dive, of setting up in business as a cat-whisperer.....

Short Story and Poetry Competition

A proper writerly blog post - and possibly one that should be on Womag's blog really...

Anyway, if anyone out there in blogland fancies having a go at writing a winning short-story or poem with the chance of some GREAT prize money - the following might be of interest....

Poetry and Short Story Writing Competition with £4000 worth of Prizes!

The Writers Bureau – Britain’s leading Creative Writing home study college – has launched its annual Poetry and Short Story Competition for 2010.

Now in its 16th year, the competition will, once again, be judged by Iain Pattison and Alison Chisholm. Alison commented on last year’s winners saying, “The wide-ranging subject matter and a host of individual voices made this a fascinating competition to judge. Many of the entries reached out and captivated the reader, who was drawn into another world and invited to become a part of it. The winners were spectacular.”

Last year’s winners can be viewed at www.wbcompetition.com.

Total prize money is £4000: First prize in each category is £1000, second prize £400 third prize £200, fourth prize £100, plus six runners-ups prizes of £50 each.

The theme is open so entrants can choose to write about any subject.

Poems should not exceed 40 lines and short stories should not exceed 2000 words.

The winners will be featured in Freelance Market News and on The Writers Bureau competition website giving the winners a chance to showcase their work and boost their profile.

The entry fee for each poem or short story is £5.00 and the closing date for entries is 30th June 2010. Entry can be either online or through the post.

For entry forms or further information contact:

The Competition Secretary, Dept Comppr, The Writers Bureau,Sevendale House, 7 Dale Street, Manchester, M1 1JB Tel: 00 44 161 228 2362

Or Visit www.wbcompetition.com

Contact: Diana Nadin Email: dianan@writersbureau.com Tel: 0161 228 2362 (day)

Carlton Epsom and Me

Carlton Epsom may well become a mean and nasty character in a future book, but right at the moment I never want to hear the name again... It's been one of those weekends that honestly could only happen to me.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin...

We, The Toyboy Trucker and I (re-united again!), had planned a weekend with Elle and The Doctor. We were going to forget all about me editing TWTAWH and him starting yet another newly-elevated job on Monday morning. We were going out shopping with them on Saturday to buy them a new bed for their new house as our house-warming present, then on Sunday we were all off to London for lunch with The Doctor's parents. A lovely, family weekend...

Sooo - on Saturday, we trailed round every furniture shop in four counties. Elle wasn't taken with any of the 23 million beds we looked at... She then announced that she remembered she'd seen "just the one they wanted" on a certain well-known furniture shop's website. Off we trotted (another cross-country trek) to the aforementioned store - and yes, the bed (the Carlton Epsom) was one they stocked, but not in-store - on t'internet only as it was hand-built to order...

With The Toyboy Trucker muttering that only Elle could find a hand-built must-have bed and it had always been the same with her, she could never settle for anything off-the-shelf even as a child, and then started on about the designer wedding dress that cost more than our first house and things were getting a bit fraught, we changed the subject back to volcanic ash (again) and politics (again) as these were much safer topics - and hurried back to Elle and The Doctor's house and t'internet.

And - yes! - there it was! The Carlton Epsom! As Elle provided refreshments, and The Toyboy Trucker and The Doctor discussed football and F1 and volcanic ash and politics, I snuggled-up to their laptop and tapped in all the complex details, mine as payee and Elle's as recipient, on several lengthy online forms and pressed the "buy now" button. Nothing happened for ages then I got a "sorry - page not loading - invalid order" message.

So, I tried again and again and again and again.... Each attempt took ages. Still nothing. The page wouldn't load and the whole thing was rejected over and over and over... However, there was a phone number to place orders verbally. So I tried. Sadly, there wouldn't be anyone there until Monday morning... As we'd then spent longer trying to order the Carlton Epsom online than we had trailing round the bloody bed shops, I was beginning to wish Elle and The Doctor would settle for a futon or a sleeping bag or even the damn bed they've already got...

As soon as The Toyboy Trucker and I got home I thought I'd just try one more online order attempt in case the problem was with Elle and The Doctor's computer - but no, the site still wouldn't accept my order. So, deciding to leave it until Monday morning when I could speak to a Real Person and place my order, I forgot all about Carlton Epsom.

Sunday dawned gloriously warm and sunny, and knowing the sort of fabulous hospitality we'd receive at The Doctor's parents' house, I made an early-morning sortie to the shops for visitor-gifts of posh flowers, chocs and wine... I got to the check out, realised I didn't have enough cash, so used my debit card - which was immediately humiliatingly rejected in front of a queue of people loaded with barbecue goodies and knowing grins... As this was clearly turning into "one of those weekends" I negotiated (slowly) with the check-out-boy and raked up enough cash for the flowers and chocs and had to abandon the wine and everyone behind me was getting pretty unpleasant...

Once home again, I rang my bank, demanding to know why my card had been refused. A very perky lady told me it was due to "insufficient funds". Well - I got pretty uppity I can tell you. The Toyboy Trucker has just been paid, I've just had more German royalties (yay!) and for once I knew the bank was wrong. And I said so in my most-exasperated voice. The perky lady asked if I'd like her to check my recent activities. After a moment's hesitation while I completely misinterpreted the question, I said yes, of course, but I knew down to the very last penny what we'd spent in the past week or so...

'Well' she said, still perkily, 'there's a payment pending of XXXX thousand pounds to XYZ furniture store for 6 online orders...."

I screamed... A lot. Noooo! SIX orders! I'd ordered SIX Carlton Epsom beds! Each time I'd tried to order online and the page had assured me it had been rejected, it hadn't!!!! Each order had gone through... And somehow, our bank account was about to relieved of all the money we'd just been paid plus far more money than we actually possessed and Elle and The Doctor were going to get enough beds to start a small hotel...

Sucking desperately on my electronic cigarette (really effective by-the-way), and hoping to God that The Toyboy Trucker was still immersed in Jensen's progress in the Chinese Grand Prix and not listening, I whimpered and asked the perky lady what I could do... She perkily informed me that I'd entered into a legally binding agreement the minute I'd pressed the buy button. My only recourse was to contact the furniture store and explain the situation and hope they were sympathetic... And of course, the furniture store was closed to telephone calls until first thing on Monday morning...

So, off we went to London and had a fabulous day with The Doctor's family eating an al fresco Indian banquet while I hoped we wouldn't need to use the debit card and panicked and wondered if there was ever going to be a right moment to mention to The Toyboy Trucker that I'd just spent all our hard-earned money and then some on SIX Carlton Epsoms, or to Elle that she better start clearing out several more rooms and setting up a B&B sign...

And this morning, after a sleepless night, I nervously rang the furniture store. And, oh joy! They were brilliant! Not only did they see the funny side (something I'd failed to do for 48 hours) but they assured me that all six Carlton Epsoms were firmly cancelled, my money was safe, and starting afresh we ordered one Carlton Epsom - just the one - to be hand-crafted and delivered to Elle and The Doctor in 30 days time...

And now I've told the bank, and they laughed (oh yeah - very funny...) and reinstated my money and I'm never, never, never going to order anything online EVER again... Oh, and if anyone mentions the words Carlton Epsom anytime soon I'll definitely spit.

Memories and Madness

First the memories - oooh - it was one year ago today, the loveliest day of my life -big, big soppy sigh... So, here's wishing a very, very Happy First Wedding Anniversary to Elle and The Doctor - oh, and a very happy birthday to The Doctor today as well. They're away for the weekend - somewhere secluded and romantic... I'm not.

And the madness? The edits and rewrites for TWTAWH are back! Already! Aaargh! Mind you, I actually enjoy being edited, so once I get to grips with the "yes, of course I'll change that - it's so much better" and "no way, over my dead body!" bits I'll be fine - I think... It's always a good thing to have someone else's perspective (a professional person, I mean - it's no good relying on your best mate or your mum who will always tell you it's the best thing you've ever written) on your writing - and I must say I agree with about 90% of Emma Editor's points. Sooo - I'll be bum-on-seat and fingers-on-keyboard for the next week hopefully honing TWTAWH into A Good Book.

The madness has also involved loads of stuff going on while I was trying to finish TWTAWH - mainly because I couldn't see for most of it having developed viral conjunctivitis after the shingles episode, so while I looked like Quasimodo and had to wear Matrix-type sunglasses INDOORS (and wouldn't go out because I couldn't wear eye-make and I haven't been outside with bare eyes since I was 14!) neither could I see the screen. I was typing in a massive font and The Toyboy Trucker said I looked like the least attractive half of Peters & Lee... I'm better now, thanks.

And Elle and The Doctor have been buying a house with all the angst that brings, and finally move at the end of April. They already had a house each, sold his, lived in hers after the wedding - now they've sold that too and bought what they're referring to as "a proper family home" in the country... Am getting very overexcited at the thought of the patter of tiny grandchildren... Elle tells me this is NOT on the agenda anytime soon - but then she said that about getting married so I remain "broody-by-proxy"...

And I've been writing a couple of commissioned things: a feature for Prima on "the way we holiday'd" which was great fun (but tricky again as I couldn't see the screen) and includes lots of black and white holiday snaps and made me very nostalgic (but NOT weepy as "weepy" still hurts!), and a short story for a Your Cat magazine competition - which was lovely as the readers had to send in details of their cat and I had to choose the winner and write a story round him/her... I wanted to use ALL of them - they were amazing!

And The Toyboy Trucker has been promoted AGAIN (I knew no good would come of suddenly deciding to get himself an education!) but this time to here - well, almost - but reasonably locally which means he'll be living at home again from April 19th. Can't wait... Not sure about him - think he's probably really enjoyed being young, free and single for all these months... But it has meant a lot of disruption as we've had to move his whole life from the wilds of "the other side of London" back here again...

Oh, and I've also been child-minding for a friend while she had surgery - they (the children - not sure how many of them there were but it seemed like a lot) were quite good (if a little blurry) and most days I just chained them to the Wii while I wrote TWTAWH and fed them on pizza every now and then...

Sooo, somehow amongst that lot, TWTAWH got written and now it's going to be rewritten and I'll be back again as soon as it's DONE!

TWTAWH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's finished!!!! I've done it!!!! And "almost" on time too... So, I'm back in the land of the bloggers, and will now start to answer emails and - er - try to reclaim my life... Finishing TWTAWH kind of took over everything for the last month - and came out at a stonking 470 pages so will clearly need a severe editing - but it's DONE!!!!

Oh, and I absolutely love, love, love the cover...

Loads of stuff to say - but first must go and try to dig my way through the housework/washing (amazing how it all seems to accumulate...) that's piled up during my love-affair with TWTAWH and The Toyboy Trucker's continued absence. Funny how one woman and several cats can make so much mess....

Just really, really happy to be a TWTAWH free zone at the mo - now just the edits/rewrites to look forward to...

Oh, and a quick PS - having just proudly announced that TWTAWH is already on Amazon can I now also proudly announce that the blurb accompanying it bears no resemblance at all to my story... which is a relief as I've only just finished it and that would have been really spooky if they knew more than I did. And the heroine isn't called Sally and the cookery prog isn't called Midnight Feast (not any more) and - ah well, you get the drift...

Better Late Than Never

No, not the title of my next book (although after TWTAWH it may well be), or even an indication that the aforementioned TWTAWH is finished (although it's getting there), or even a must-needed apology for non-blogging for a MONTH (see above deadline mention), or even the fact that I have stuck to my diet and am halfway back to my proper weight (okay, a more reasonable size after the horror of the Express thing) - but a better-late-than-never sighting of me in the M-O-T-B frock!!!

I know it's been nearly a year since Elle and The Doctor's wedding (and where did that year go???), but these pics have just come to light and at least they prove I was there, and did wear a scarlet silk frock and a black beaded jacket - even if you can't see much of it - or me - which, on reflection, can only be A Good Thing.

These are pre-ceremony (obviously) and show me lacing Elle into her dress while muttering through gritted teeth "you wanted a size 12 frock that cost more than my first house and you will damn well fit into it even if it kills me and you in the process". You can see Elle holding herself in bravely as I cut off her circulation much to the amusement of bridesmaid Kat - but clearly not that of the hairdresser...

So, yes, still deep in deadline hell - two weeks to go - and then I'll be back with all sorts of general rubbish again.

Must take time to say a big thank you here to my friend Spikey (the pilot who taught me all I needed to know while writing Walking on Air) who phoned me to tell me that while he was passing through Manchester Airport (doesn't that sound glamorous?) he spotted loads of Moonshines on the bookshop shelves! Thanks, Spikey! You've made my day! See you in the summer...

In the month of non-blogging and deadline hell I've also done my local book launch (coldest day of the year, not a Terry Wogan turn-out sadly but still sold about 30 books, took HOURS to thaw out), and appeared on BBC Radio Berkshire - I had a lovely hour long programme with the fabulous effervescent Rory who asked all the right questions and laughed in all the right places and played my emotionally-charged "Desert Island Discs" selection and made me cry on air - great... Have also been booked for three more library talks, one after-dinner speaking engagement, one writing workshop, and had fan mail from Germany... All this has helped no end to make me realise that maybe I am A Real Writer. I am, I am - I think...

Now back to TWTAWH... B-I-G sigh...

On Being Gok'd

Yesterday I was "made over". Sadly, despite the post heading, I wasn't made over by the wonderful Gok - my stylist was a beautiful, elfin child called Simona. However, the experience was - um - well, an experience...

I was made-over for the Daily Express. My made-over-image is to illustrate a feature I've written, which in turn is to promo Moonshine. I was chuffed to bits that the Express liked the feature, and assumed (always bad to assume) that when they asked for a pic, it would be the publicity photo I've used everywhere for the last couple of years, and I'd just have to email it. But, no - they wanted to take their own. Gulp...

So, yesterday, Elle and I trekked to London(a journey not without its disasters but we got there - eventually) and found ourselves in the amazingly space-age Northern & Shell Building's (honestly - it's like a set from Star Wars!) photographic studio.

Simona had phoned me and said I'd be wearing a frock (erk!) but it would be a long one and were there any parts of my body I didn't want to show. That was an easy one - all of them.

Sadly, Simona's idea of a long frock was obviously one that didn't show your knickers. I stared at the rail of thigh-high, jewel-bright, tiny, shift dresses with mounting horror. They looked like they'd been nicked from the wardrobe department of Mad Men. Gorgeous, stylish, and definitely not for someone built like me...

Before I had time to panic too much, I was whisked off by the lovely Debbie who dealt manfully with my hair and make-up. I'd arrived with my usual smudgy eyes and pale lips and curly hair. I emerged with minimal eyes and huge red glossy lips. And my hair had sort of gone BIG and had a side-parting... It was a fabulous glam job but it wasn't me... I thought I looked a touch like Margaret Thatcher: the early years. Elle thought it looked lovely. And said so. A lot. Treacherous child.

Then it was back to wardrobe to be shoe-horned into the frocks. Simona said they'd be doing two shoots in two different outfits and which ones did I prefer. I clutched the purple one first because I liked the colour and it was the only one with sleeves... Off, it looked sensational. On, it looked like a sack tied up with string... I'm a lumpen girl and the purple clung to every one of them. I didn't just have VPL - I had V Damn Everything.

Simona manfully gummed me together with double-sided tape, then produced a pair of flesh-coloured tights (aaargh!) and some DDG purple shoes with 5" heels. I staggered (my feet were already numb) out into the studio. Elle laughed. Shara, the photographer, kindly didn't and asked me to pose "in a sort of cute and kooky way". Fine, if you were Twiggy in the 60s - but cute and kooky I'm not. But I tried. Dear God, I tried.

Half an hour and three million photographs later, it was time for the second outfit. After failing to get either the electric blue or scarlet frocks to meet anywhere round me, Simona and I settled on the lime green. I've never been a lime green person, but it sort of went on (eventually) over my bulgy bits and the colour was the least of my problems. It did involve Simona getting up close and personal to make it fit, but if I held my breath it stayed done up. Sadly, being sleeveless, it displayed my bingo wings to their very best advantage. This time the beautiful shoes were pearlised beige with 6" heels. I had to be carried out to the studio.

Shara was very, very brave and kept a straight face. Elle didn't. She had to go outside. Again, I was cute and kooky and laughed a lot because I felt the whole thing was mad. Completely mad. But Simona, Debbie and Shara were wonderfully professional and another twenty million photographs later, it was all over.

I staggered back to the changing rooms, struggled out of the lime green and the tights and the killer heels, and threw on my black jeans and big grey sweater and black and purple boots with total delight.

The delight was short-lived. Shara then let me see the pics. Now, she'd done a stonking job - she's brilliant, and they were Proper Photographs. But they were of someone else. I know I'm currently a good 2 stone overweight and have lots of lumps and jowly bits - but I suddenly realised I looked like my mother... Elle said it was a good look. Well, maybe it was - for my mum about fifty years ago...

Debbie, Shara and Simona seemed to agree that the Express will use one of the lime green frock pics - because they were "lovely and funny and colourful" - oh joy! And luckily, as I don't know when any of this will be published, that's the way it will stay. DO NOT expect to see any excited announcements about my Express appearance on this blog. Not until that particular edition - lime green frock, dead-slug sausage legs, Jagger lips, and more rolls of fat than a Crufts champion pug - has become a wrapper for fish and chips...

MOONSHINE Publication Day!!!!

Ooooh - at last! MOONSHINE is "out there" today. I'm so excited. No excuses - I'm filled to the brim with publication day euphoria!!! And having just flipped back through this blog, I've read the posts I wrote last year about the struggles (me and the computer being - er - out of action at the same time and the panic about meeting the deadline) I had with actually getting Moonshine written at all, I think it's nothing short of miraculous that it all turned out so well.

Heartfelt thanks are due to Emma and Donna, my editors, who must have wondered if they'd ever see the finished manuscript, and to Broo, my agent, who was wonderfully kind and supportive throughout the whole racketty business.

Today I'm celebrating solo - but the lovely Debs is very generously running a publication day competition for me over at her fab blog:
http://debcarrs-daydreams.blogspot.com

Debs has a signed copy of MOONSHINE to give away. If you want a chance to win a freebie copy, you have until Sunday to post a "pick me" message on her blog. I hope you'll all rush over to Deb's "shed blog" (vbg) and have a go.

Thanks so much to everyone who has reported MOONSHINE sightings already. Very cheering. It's so lovely to know it really is, well, REAL - at last. I shall spend today lurking round WHS (again) just in case... Our great local indie bookshop - The Bookstore - is arranging a shop-front display today, but keeping it low-key as I'm doing my official launch party/signing session there on Feb 13th to tie in with Valentine's Day.

Ooooh, sorry - I'm so excited - think I might have to go and lie down now...

MOONSHINE Publication Week Countdown Day 1

Today's MOONSHINE promo picture is "falling in love"... I Love it and think it's Lovely... Not much else to say about it really, except there's an awful lot of "falling in love" in MOONSHINE because it is a romantic comedy after all... Cleo falls in love with Dylan, Dylan falls in love with every female with a pulse, Elvi falls in love with Zeb, Zeb falls in love with Elvi - but there are major family objections, Mimi has fallen in love with Ron in their distant past but Ron is now in love with Amy and Mimi is now in love with Mortimer who is in love with.... Well, you get the picture (hah! a neat circle back to the beginning of the paragraph. My editor would be SO proud!)...

Amazon have changed their "out of stock" to "delivery in 5 - 9 days" which has cheered me up immensely. It doesn't take a lot to cheer me up...

No MOONSHINE sightings anywhere else yesterday but I'm nothing if not dogged in my mission and will set off again today - snow permitting.... Yep, SNOW. Last night, the man on the weather forecast said it "might fall but wouldn't stick" - er, sorry love - it's stuck... Two inches of it in the last hour and it's still tumbling down.

Anyway, until I pull on the snow boots and get out the huskies (joke - I think it's Katie Fforde who does husky-racing - it wouldn't go down well here on the estate) I'm off to write some more of TWTAWH which takes place in a very hot summer and I'm finding it very difficult to remember what hot summers feel/look like...

MOONSHINE Publication Week Countdown Day 2

Well, I've already made a huge mistake in this MOONSHINE promo plan. Already! Dear heavens, there's no hope is there? Look, I've got a three-day countdown - the clue being in the title. CountDOWN - and I started yesterday on Day ONE which would be a CountUP, wouldn't it? Oh dearie, dearie me... I've now correctly re-numbered yesterday's post 3, and today's - because it's a countDOWN - is 2, which means tomorrow's will be 1... I know it's no excuse, but I failed my maths O level 3 times.

Anyway, MOONSHINE Day 2 promo pic is a waterfall. I love waterfalls. This picture is EXACTLY as I'd imagined the waterfall in MOONSHINE, which is called Lovers Cascade. It plays a very important part in the plot. I also made it the grazing place of unicorns and orcs - but sadly that got edited out.

No early sightings of MOONSHINE in WH Smith yesterday. Lots and lots of celeb novels out there in the Big Splash Slots, and some pretty heavy literary titles in the charts, but no MOONSHINE. Yet. Sigh... The lad-in-charge-of-books gave me some very funny looks as I lurked, clearly thinking I was about to tuck several copies of the Twilights saga under my cagoule and do a runner.

So, ever hopeful, I dared to look at Amazon (akin to sticking pins in your eyes for an author) and aaarghh - it's "out of stock"!!!! Just when I've started telling people it's available out there - it isn't. The Toyboy Trucker helpfully said it was because they'd sold out on pre-orders. Hmmm.... The more cynical side of me thinks this is very kind of him but unlikely...

Off to WHS - again - just in case...

MOONSHINE Publication Week Countdown Day 3

I'm doing a bit of a belt and braces job here and posting my MOONSHINE countdown all over the place... Nope, you're right, I have no shame! Sooo - with three days to go until it escapes, I'm slapping pics of "things you'll find in the book" all over t'internet. Today it's wine because there's an awful lot of magical wine in MOONSHINE. I like this picture. I like it a lot... In fact it's probably far too early in the day to like it as much as I do, to be honest... I'll have to stop staring at it...

Wine is off my list of Things I Can Have. Actually most stuff is off my list of Things I Can Have. I've just weighed myself. Oh, lordy.... How did that happen???? Okay, so the festivities were a bit sloth-like and involved a lot of sofa-slumping and eating/drinking anything and everything that came to hand/mouth, and the cold weather meant I HAD to eat more (yes it did - it's the law) - but - blimey!!! Weight Watchers here I come - again...

We've thawed! The Toyboy Trucker is cruising (in the nicest possible sense) in the Home Counties, the cats are stalking Fieldfares in the garden (Fieldfares are very pretty and apparently, according to the RSPB, Specially Protected - I also think they must be Specially Stupid to fly all the way from Scandinavia and set up home in a garden with NINE cats...), Elle and The Doctor are planning their next holiday, and I'm STILL writing The Way To A Woman's Heart - hey! I said it without thinking Midnight Feast - I'm getting there!!!!

Now off to hang casually round our local WH Smith and see if I can get an early sighting of MOONSHINE...

14 inches minus 18 degrees = 2010

Well that's the last time I'll wish for snow... Beautiful, yes, stunningly so - but this is my third day of being snowed in (can't open the back door due to 18" frozen heaps {pictured} - can't get out of the terrace owing to 18" frozen drifts - can't use the little single track road because it has disappeared under a foot of frozen snow - can't walk on the pavements because they're solid ice...) and I'm BORED. Oh yes, this is be very careful what you wish for with knobs on!!!

On Tuesday and Wednesday we had 14" of snow (we measured it!) and on Thursday we were officially the coldest place in Britain at -18... Today the sky is blue and the snow is sparkling and glittering under the sun but showing no signs of melting. More snow is forecast for the weekend. This no longer fills me with gleeful anticipation. The cats have got cabin fever. The Toyboy Trucker is axle-deep somewhere in the wilds of Hertfordshire. And I'm b-o-r-e-d...

Of course this is the ideal opportunity to write The Way To A Woman's Heart like billy-o. And I am. Well, sort of. When I'm not searching for something to eat, or staring at the snow, or hugging a radiator. And I look like a bag-lady. Not that it matters as the cats don't care as long as I feed them regularly, and there's no-one else to see me... So, today's outfit is 1980s leggings, thermal socks, pretend-Uggs, The Toyboy Trucker's biggest sweater and a purple sequinned beanie. Nice.

Anyway, on a brighter note, 2010 has started well (weather apart) as my PLR statement - out this week and paid in Feb - was fabulous and well up on last year. PLR (info for non-writers only) stands for Public Lending Right and is money paid for the library borrowings of your books. They take a random selection of libraries each year and authors are paid a little over 6p for each time one of their titles is borrowed. My most-popular title last year was Heaven Sent with over 12,000 borrowings, but even my really early books are still being borrowed regularly and earning me money. Thank you to everyone who has borrowed and read them!!! I'm a huge supporter of libraries and am very grateful to everyone who worked so hard to bring in PLR for authors - it's a lifeline for so many of us.

I'm also featured in the Feb edition of Writers Forum which is out this month, have been signed up to do a session at Middlesborough Literary Festival in June, give an after-dinner talk at The Swanwick Writers Summer School in August, and take part in BBC Berkshire's Desert Island Discs show on February 18th.

So, I'm sitting here looking like a skip-hopper but (for once) feeling like a Proper Writer. All I need to do now is stop faffing and stop eating and stop staring - and WRITE!!!!