Hello. How are you? We went to London this weekend to visit Hubby's work flat. The sat nav (aka Bossy Steve) told me that it would take less than two hours to get from here to Hubby's flat in North London. But he lied. Bossy Steve was probably chuckling like a little electronic Mutley when we finally arrived, a mere three and a half hours after we set off. Kids were distinctly underwhelmed by Buckingham Palace in the rain, but quite impressed by the free lollipops they got when they asked for the bill in a greasy spoon cafe on Camden High Street. And even more impressed by the fact that at Hubby's flat they have a television in their room, and they were allowed to watch it as much as they want (well, I needed a break after the M1 traffic jam experience). I think we'll go back though, despite Bossy Steve's lies, and the rain and the Queen very rudely not inviting us all in for a cuppa.

Twin 1 went to school upset this morning. It was because of Edward the worm. She made friends with Edward as she scootered in. She told me that he was a fat worm who liked reading (a bookworm, perhaps). She said she was just getting to know him but because he was next to the zebra crossing and a car was waiting for her that she had to leave him behind before the car hooted at her. It was a most distressing incident. I promised to say hello to Edward the worm on the way back up the hill again after dropping them off. I did, but Edward was quite aloof and didn’t even so much as raise an eyebrow in acknowledgement. Then when I got home I had to report the broken toilet seat that apparently broke all by itself because nobody – no, honestly, nobody – stood on it and pretended to be an alien/dragon/wizard. And now I’m waiting for the return of Wayne the boiler man.

I’ve just finished typing up my final scene. It’s not bad, but does need to be a bit more heart rending, I think. Maybe I’ll print it out and have a plate of kippers in front of Ruth and Eamon and get back to it later (did I ever tell you my celebrity link to This Morning’s Ruth Langsford? I house sat for her and her boyfriend once (before Eamon) and I also went out to dinner with her (and about eight other people, not just me and her), so every time I see her on this morning I think, ah, it’s lovely Ruth – whereas I’m quite sure she has absolutely no recollection of me whatsoever). Anyway, better go xxx

Ps. Just realised, it’s Thursday, so it’ll be Phil and Holly, boo, no celebrity link there at all…

I had a bit of a moment this morning when I wrote my main character's final scene (no, I can't tell you because it would give it away). I think Wayne who came to fix the boiler (again) thought I was a bit unhinged. Anyway, now I'm having marmite on toast in front of the tail end of This Morning in order to fully recover from the emotional trauma (not sure if Chekhov ever did this and I'm quite sure Vladimir Nobokov - the pompous old fart - never did). Right then, better get back into it I suppose, tissues at the ready...xx
ps. not going to tell you about how the training day went for my student volunteers yesterday because I'm still too upset about the disappointing turnout. Bloody students!

I just had a look at the stats for this blog, because for some reason there's been a blip in the hit rate and I can't think that I've written anything that exciting. Anyway, it turns out that my blog comes up under a keyword search for 'wife naked dancing'. How disappointed must that poor, poor man have been when he found my domestic blatherings instead of footage of some foxy minx doing the rumba (no, I don't really know what a rumba is, either)?
Today, as well as chanelling my inner eighty-nine year old, I hashed out a plot for the rest of the novel, and put it all in a colour-coded spreadsheet. I also put coloured dividers into my manuscript, dividing it up into acts one, two and three (yes, half of two and all of three are empty). It might not seem like much, but it took hours (so long, in fact, that I didn't get round to having a run, and I was almost late for school - luckily one of the other mums passing by in her car took pity on me and let me hitch, which was a good job as I would never have made it in time otherwise), and now I feel a lot less panicky about writing the remaining fifty thousand words...

I'm only procrastinating a bit, honest. I've already spent an hour and a half asking my main character about how she really feels. This is because I can't get on with the rest of the book until I know here a bit  better. She's been fairly forthcoming. It turns out that she's blanked out a lot of what happened to her (on page one, you'll have to read it one day!), so she's left with survivor's guilt, but not much else until much later in her life. So I think I need to spend a bit more time with her as an old lady, to get to the heart of it. I'm planning on taking her out for coffee all morning tomorrow as I have a day off from the voluntary work, so if you see me sitting in the cafe next to Lidl, apparently talking to myself like a crazy, please be reassured that I'm just channelling an eighty-something year old version of my main character (I know, any excuse to get out of the house for a latte and check out what's on offer in the Lidl bargain baskets). Cheerio xx
ps. after many visits from many workmen of various types - sometimes quite late at night - I seem to have recovered from my house-maintenance Munchausen syndrome. Also, it looks like we're not going to have to suddenly get posted to London, yay.

Ps. I must tell you about my Munchhausen syndrome equivalent (in a facilities management context), and also about the prospect of us being booted out of our lovely quarter in a leafy corner of camp and down to scary London (where in my mind the schools are all full of drugs and knives). But right now I need to finish my wine and watch Corrie, and wait for the man to come and fix the boiler. Night xxx

I've decided a large glass of wine is in order. Just got my results: a distinction in my masters. Now there's just the small matter of writing the other fifty thousand words and getting the novel published. I'm happy, don't get me wrong, but I realise that this is just the start. It's fab to have some external validation that I can write, but now is when the work really begins, when I'm doing it on my own, without workshops, critiques, feedback, etc. It often occurs to me that the sensible thing would be to give up, because really, what are the chances of getting a publishing deal and being the next Joanna Trollope? But I think I'm a teensy bit addicted now, so I think I'll just keep plugging away, sitting amidst the debris of unwashed breakfast dishes at the kitchen table, huddled in cashmere (on account of the heating bills) and imagining what it was like to be a teenage girl soldier in 1942.
It'll all come good eventually, won't it?

Hello! How the devil are you? I have a sore throat and a craving for bonfire toffee (shame it's all gone already). I also have a very nice new lip-and-cheek stain. (Sometimes a new purchase more than makes up for a lingering viral infection, I find). Anyway, how was your bonfire night? Here on camp the pyrotechnics were as splendid as ever and, surprisingly,  I didn't see anyone ducking for cover. It really was an impressively long display, so long, in fact, that Son got bored and went off to buy some toffee half way through. So that's the last of the exciting and sugar-filled manic nights over with, until Christmas, at least. Christmas! I know, it's far too soon to think about it, but that hasn't stopped me from buying all my xmas presents already. I can't help it. I start thinking about it as soon as the summer holidays are over. Tragic, I know.
Right, I had better go as it's nearly ten and I promised myself I'd go to bed at a sensible time tonight because I'm teaching in the morning. Tomorrow's lesson is about giving advice (use of should & shouldn't), and I'm giving out real problems from Zelda's problem pages in the Mail (no, I didn't actually buy a copy of the Mail, I appropriated it from McDonald's the other week). I have even done a recording of myself as Zelda, giving out useful advice to a forty-three year old woman whose husband has been having an affair, as a listening comprehension (I hope they don't think the forty-three year old is me...).
Night then xxx