Amy Waif, is that you? https://www.facebook.com/clareharvey13

Hello, are you feeling festive? For the first time ever I have done the Christmas cleaning. The irony is that now I'm no longer an army wife, I'm finally starting to act like one. I've had gel nails done, eyebrows threaded - should possibly be thinking of getting a spray tan or something and start to obsess about dusty skirting boards...
I know, I was supposed to tell you all about the wives' xmas party, which was blooming weeks ago now. D'you know what, I actually quite enjoyed being waited on by the CO in his mess dress, and cackling along with the whole hen-party-ness of it all. I'm starting to think I may actually miss being an army wife. Did I mention that I wore the same dress to my last ever 'do' in the sergeants' mess that I wore to the first one, 16-odd years ago. Shall I mention it again, just as testament to the wonders of the 5:2 diet?! I'm fasting today, actually. I've just had a delicious oatcake with marmite (no butter), and I'm about to have a cup of miso soup (the Wispa that Son gave me from his xmas choc selection is waiting in a safe place until it's past midnight - might have to stay up especially). Yep, that's my supper. To make up for the fact that my supper yesterday was two helpings of pasta followed by a bag of chocolate coated almonds and two glasses of wine...and after the two glasses of wine I ended up going through old letters and diaries that are stashed in a suitcase under the bed (as you do), and realised that I was effectively doing the 5:2 diet even as a teenager - although, back then, I was worried about getting fat because I was nine stone. Nine stone! Those were the days.
So, the thing is, I'm really, really not an army wife any more (despite the gel nails and housework). Hubby has been employed elsewhere for a month now. I've just signed a two-book deal for historical fiction (yay), so I suppose I have morphed, somehow, from army wife to author. Still a little bit flabbergasted at the whole thing.
Anyway, I'm in the process of sorting out an author website, so when I do, I'll post the link here, and you can see who I really am!
In the meantime, have a fab xmas xxxx

I'm still here, in my married quarter, feeling like a bit of a fraud. My meeting with the publisher is in the diary, and I'm frantically trying to think up plotlines for the next book to present in a synopsis at the working lunch. My agent reminded me the other day, in no uncertain terms (I don't think she's the kind of woman who does anything in uncertain terms, actually) that 'the synopsis won't write itself, you know'. I do know. Just as I also know that I'm still teaching ESOL classes, running writing workshops, co-ordinating a volunteer project, and undertaking research for the arts centre, as well as looking after three kids (admittedly, not looking after them terribly well, under the current circumstances).
No, I'm not complaining at all. But the transition period from army wife to novelist does seem to be a teensy bit busy. Never mind. I've had lowlights, highlights and gel nails done, so I'm starting to look the part of a novelist, even if I still haven't written the synopsis-that-won't-write-itself. What's more, it's the wives' xmas party tomorrow night, which will be my last ever function in the sergeants' mess, where it all began. I'm going to wear the same dress that I wore to my first ever function in the sergeants' mess - more years ago than I care to share with you (oh, alright, about seventeen years ago). Luckily, thanks to the whole book deal suppressing-my-appetite phenomenon, I can still fit into it (just about)! Cheerio xxx

Hey, I'm not an army wife any more! I am, however, today, a stay-at-home wife. Not one, but two ill kids (two out of three ain't bad, as Meat Loaf would surely comment, were he here with us, watching old episodes of Dr Who and taking regular doses of Calpol). Twin 2 has earache and Twin 1 has a really bad tummy ache, which has now been going on for 12 hours - I'm paranoid about appendicitis, so she's off to the doctor later on (I know, it's probably just constipation, but I'd never forgive myself if she got peritonitis whilst I was telling her to just drink some water and have a big poo). And I'm waiting for my agent to call. I hope she doesn't ask me to meet up with the publisher tomorrow or anything, not sure I can cope with being a glamorous novelist after almost no sleep, sharing a bed with two poorly nine-year-olds. The good news is I'm so uptight (about the book deal and the appendicitis) that I'm not hungry at all, so hurrah for an impromptu fasting day with almost no effort on my part - need to lose weight in anticipation of all those chocolate tree decorations... Righty ho, better go xxx

Two bits of news...as of today I'm no longer an army wife. Hubby starts his new career on Monday. I'm also starting my new career, as an author. I'm slightly flabbergasted by the whole thing, but my very lovely agent appears to have pulled off a blinder and got me a two-book deal. I'm still in a married quarter, though, and still have the army wives' xmas function to go to (couldn't miss the delights of one last night in the sergeants' mess, could I?), so I'm not signing off quite yet, but nearly...xxx

hi, how has your half term been? We've been to London, which has sucked the very life from my bones, in the way that only London can. Great fun, but exhausting. Saw some lovely friends, who were all remarkably tolerant of Twins & Son.
We also did the V&A, the British Museum, the Olympic Park, Hamley's and the theatre (Hubby said now we're middle class we should blooming well act it, so we had our night out 'up west' - what with that and the trip to Hamley's, which resulted in the purchase of two over price Build a Bear toys and a pair of LED thumb covers (!), we can no longer afford the new hoover we need..). l also met my agent who, after our tea and lemon tart, remarked, "Well, you didn't disappoint", which l guess is a good thing. She also showed me the leather jacket she has promised herself when she nails us a publishing deal (l didn't mention that any advance l get will be spent on a G tech air ram super hoover) Always good to be incentivised, no?
Right now l'm on the narrow boat, chugging back to our mooring. Poor Hubby is on the tiller, in the rain. l have offered to take a turn but he says there is no point two of us getting wet (phew). Might make him another cuppa though.
So that's been my half term.
Only two more weeks as an army wife!
Take care xx

hello you! Sorry, it's been a while. Lots of stuff going on. I'm only going to be an army wife for another couple of weeks. He's off to sample the dubious delights of civvie street. Which will mean my seventeen odd years as a trailing miIitary spouse will come to an end as well. Just when I'd finally got used to it, too! However, I'm planning to continue this blog a teensy bit longer. l began it in November 2007 so l think I'll finish in November 2014, just so l can go to my final wives Xmas party in the sergeants' mess and tell you all the thrilling details about that before signing off for good.
Hubby has just grumpily reminded me that l shoud be making the tea, so l guess I'd better go xx

"Don't worry, Mummy, Daddy can shout at us instead."

I've got a tiny spot of time to write. Update on last Tuesday's drama: I also got caught on a speeding camera, zooming back from the boatyard to my dental appointment, I discovered when the police notice landed on the doormat today. Although this is of course a bit of a bummer, I'm frankly flabbergasted that our mystery machine actually managed to 'speed'. In fact we were doing 36 in a 30 mph area (I think I was overtaking a roadsweeper at the time). Just call me Louise Hamilton!
What else? Went down to visit the boat (the one which is ours, because we paid for it and have a receipt, yes we do, angry telephone man) at its new mooring, which was lovely. The trip was marred a bit by the fact that I have a really dreadful cold, though. So I spent a lot of time in my bunk, drinking hot backcurrant, with my manuscript, trying to sort out my paragraphing for my poor potential agent who says it's practically unreadable in its current format (who knew? not me, that's for sure). On Friday, I lost my voice totally. My very supportive Twin 2 said helpfully, "Don't worry, Mummy, Daddy can shout at us instead." Bless her little cotton socks. Worryingly, I still feel as if I'm on board, though. Everything is swaying around. I think I may  have mal de debarquement syndrome, but Hubby just thinks I'm a malingering tart, as usual.
Back with my lovely learners tomorrow. One student asked for a lesson on English humour. I'm not sure I can manage that, but we are going to do a mingling activity with some jokes, and spend time trying to work out why they are funny (or not). I hope that will be okay. I'm feeling a bit lacklustre and not really up to dissecting a section from Live at the Apollo for a mixed class of Chinese, Taiwanese, Koreans, Iraquis, Hungarians, Romanians and Libyans, and trying to explain why what's really funny is being downright evil about someone, because in some wierd British way that means you like them. Nope, I can't begin to explain that, so bang goes the A2/B1 ESOL class on 'taking the piss' - I'll leave that to a better teacher than me!
Okey doke. Nearly Twins' hairwashing time, better go xxx

Hello! How was your day? Mine began badly, but got better, which is preferable to the other way round. lt began with an angry phone call from a man claiming that we hadn't paid for the boat (we have) and threatening to 'lift' it. After some panicky phone calls and a trip to the boatyard with poor Twin 1, who was off school with a tummy bug, it transpired that the boat brokers have gone into liquidation. Although we bought the boat weeks ago, the now-bankrupt brokers failed to pass the cash on to the vendors. All a bit messy.
Next Twin 1 was dragged along to my dental appointment, where my over-zealous dentist told me that as l both clench and grind, l shall need a bigger mouthguard. He intimated that l may need to consider a brace, but l said that at four grand a pop, considering it was all I'd do.
Then we went for lunch with a friend l haven't seen for 6 years. We had bread baked in flowerpots, which was surprisingly nice.
Just as we were about to pick up the other Twin from school l got a call on my mobile from a literary agent who's interested in my book. Whoop, whoop.
this evening l dyed my hair - cinnamon spice, in anticipation of the autumnal weather that that nice Alex Deakin says is heading southwards.
So it has been an unusually eventful day.
l utterly failed to do any writing, though.

aaaarrrggghhh!

I need to vent. And it would be wrong to go bitching in the school playground, so you get it instead, soz.

Yes it's the flaming primary school. So here's the thing, Twins had been coming home from school saying that their PE bags (the same ones they've had for the past three years, proper school PE bags bought from Clarkes along with their sensible school shoes) are no longer allowed. Because they're pink. I fail to see how having a bag in school colours is likely to make my children run faster, jump higher or be better at catching a ball, but after a heated discussion with the Head on the subject, I wound my neck back in, apologised in writing, and went out to buy two new PE bags - mainly because I didn't want the girls to get hassle from their class teachers.

After buying said PE bags today, I went to pick the girls up from school. Twin 2 was in her PE kit. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Oh, you've just had PE - how was it?
Her: Not good. The PE teacher didn't know I had a disability.
Me: Oh dear.
Her: I told him and he said we'd go somewhere else to talk about it, but we didn't.

Call me an oversensitive, pushy middle-class parent (go on, I bet all the teachers at the school do), but to me a school that prioritises the colour of PE bags above the actual well-being of a physically disabled pupil in a PE class has its priorities somewhat out of whack.

Yes, I'm livid.

On the plus side, I'm so angry that I just went for the fastest run I've done in weeks, and I did sixty seven sit ups and thirty three press ups afterwards.

We didn't even make it as far as Beeston. And Hubby has gone back to work. Son started school today - the beginning of the new school year always makes me feel a bit emotional, because you realise that they're one step closer to leaving home forever. However, after Son left in his neat and clean (but not for long) new uniform, I began to feel that I wouldn't mind the Twins being a couple of steps closer to leaving home forever, the pair of angry screeching loonies. Ended up being a productive day, though, buying socks and football boots and pants and polo shirts and trainers and - oh, how did those half price  wedges slip into the sensible uniform-buying basket, hmmm? I couldn't possibly say, but once they were paid for it did seem like a bit of a pfaff to take them back, especially as they will look so nice with the leather trousers, and did I mention that they were half price?

I'm hiding in the cabin keeping quiet. Hubby (aka Skipper/Cap'n/Man of Wrath) is by the heads, clearing up broken glass and cursing to himself. It's one of the many things that haven't quite gone according to plan with this whole water-gypsy lifestyle we are embracing. The plan was that we'd be in a nice mooring in Essex by now, having enjoyed a wonderful couple of weeks exploring England's glorious waterways on the best family holiday ever. Instead, here we are in Nottingham Boatyard, waiting for the chippy and plumber to finally finish sorting out all the snags. There's a slim chance we may make it a couple of miles up the Beeston Canal tomorrow. Just in time for the end of the hols. Best laid plans and all that, I s'pose. At least we remembered to bring the whiskey. x

summer hols

I know, it's been ages. I've been really busy eating ice creams and stuff (evidenced by the tightness of my jeans - need to get back on the 5:2 diet pronto). Anyway, it feels like the summer is almost over. I'm sat on the sofa underneath a fleecy blanket, for goodness sakes. At least it didn't rain today when I met up with some old mates for a picnic. There was that whole 'Hello! You're looking well! When did I last see you? Was it at so-and-so's wedding?' bit, and we realised that we hadn't seen each other for ten years. I know, ten flippin' years. Wierd isn't it, getting older. I am lucky enough to know some really lovely people, who I consider friends, but actually I hardly ever see them. That was the point behind the  road trip, to try to catch up with at least some of them. However, the ill car and the new boat put paid to that one. At least I've seen a couple of 'oldies'. Think I may have to start planning a retirement community to populate with all the nice people I know - along with a smattering of useful celebs, like Jamie Oliver for food, Dawn French for laughs, and obviously Kirsty & Phil to make sure we're all in a really super dooper location. Oh, and talking of which, I have applied to be on 'Kirsty's fill your house for free', so that when we finally do get out of our married quarter and into a house in the real world, we will have a chic-yet-cheaply-furnished house. (Or 'property' - have you noticed that on those house-y programmes it's never called a house or a flat, always a 'property' and housing estates are called 'urbanisations'. Wonder what they'd call the clutter that fills our garage? 'Retro embellishments' or 'vintage accoutrements', perhaps?).
Anyway, I burble.
Summer hols are over halfway through, and have been alright so far. We've seen rellies and friends and had ice creams and fish & chips by the sea. The kids visited a lighthouse with the grandparents. We've visited three National Trust houses. Twin 2 has learnt to ride her trike. I've met up with an old schoolfriend from the 80s, fellow volunteers and colleagues from the 90s, as well as Twins' best mate from Nepal (and her lovely mum), and half of my siblings (my sheep-scaring elder sister, to be precise*). All that's left to do is make eight curtains and upholster six banquette thingys (for the new boat) and take to the water.
The mystery machine's still not fixed, but hey, you can't have it all.

*I'll tell you the story sometime, after the scandal has died down...

ps

Someone has just suggested that given our current financial straits, we should rename the boat 'The Everyday Value' - which might even attract sponsorship from a well-known supermarket chain and thus help offset the loan repayments...

Hiya, well the end of the month is imminent, so I thought I'd better get another one in, especially as I have news...ooh, what news?
Well, only that I'm not going to be an army wife for very much longer.
No, I'm not leaving my husband to run off with the slightly-plump-but-very-cheery-and-firm-of-calf postman. My husband, who has been in the army for a whopping (yes, I'm going a bit tabloid-speak on you, but the content seems to merit it) 31 years has only gone and found himself a normal job. No more zipping off to war zones at the drop of a weapon. Nope. Which means, obviously, that I won't be an army wife any more. Unless I very quickly divorce him and have an affair with one of the random soldiers I see running up and down the hill on a Tuesday or Thursday morning (not that I look, heaven forfend, I'm a middle-aged married woman, don't you know!).
It's sixteen and a half years since that morning with the hangover and the borrowed suit in the local registry office.
Sixteen and a half years since I thought "Good Lord, what have I done? I've sentenced myself to a life of gel nails, bingo and obsessing about cleaning products!"
Anyway, I haven't quite succumbed to the delights of Mecca Wednesdays, nail art and Mr Muscle, although I do actually hoover the house these days (well, Bertha the robot does), which is an improvement on 16 years ago.
My husband has decided to shake off his military shackles by becoming a water-gypsy. He's in the process of buying a narrow boat. I hope they throw in a pipe, bandana and mandolin as part of the deal. The plan is to call the boat SS Vengeange and get a cat called Admiral Marcus (apparently you will understand this if you are a Star Trek fan). I'm not, however, going to transfer from army wife to water gypsy wife, as the kids and I will be staying dry in a very boring house in suburbia - because it's near to a 'good' school.
Anyway, thought I'd let you know. Exciting, huh? xx

Hi, how are things? Twins have just been out dancing in the rain - we've just had the mother-of-all rainstorms. I love it; it feels all monsoon-ish, and I can almost imagine we're back in Nepal (until I have to get off my bum and do housework, that is). So it turns out that my fake tan application wasn't in vain; we have had what counts as a 'heatwave' in the UK (although in my humble opinion, anything below thirty degrees doesn't really count), and what's happened? Everyone's been moaning about it. "Oooh, isn't it hot?" they say. As if that's a bad thing. Maybe it's because as Brits we're so rubbish about complaining about the things we should (poor service in shops, etc.) that we misdirect our ire onto the weather. It's either too hot, too cold, too rainy, too windy, or - if it's changing from one of these states to the other -  "You just don't know where you are with it, do you?"
So today we've had sunshine and storms and I love it. I love love love the fact that it was worth my while applying my (slightly streaky) fake tan and (a bit chipped) nail varnish to my toes. I love the fact that last night I sat out until gone nine on the grass outside the sailing club whilst two-thirds of my offspring sailed up the river Trent (the remaining third was a refusnik who decided to read 'Pink' magazine instead of having a watery adventure with her siblings, and then came over all emotional when I reminded her that only sailors got to have a can of fizzy pop at home time - at which point all the other people at the sailing club made me feel guilty for making the little cripple cry...). And I love the fact that I'm sat here in a sleevless dress and I don't even have goosebumps.
The summer hols are almost upon us. Bring on the heatwave, and keep it here until September! xxx

ps

would it make more sense to put blog posts on the litfix site, d'you think? Which would you prefer?

Oh, hello, how's it going? I've cracked open the fake tan and tackled my pant moustache, in anticipation of the heat wave that's coming our way. Apparently. So one of my bosses told me the other day. Not sure why I'm feeling optimistic about it, really. The last so-called heat wave lasted all of twenty-four hours, as I recall. Anyway, at least my varicose veins are buffed and gradually turning a slightly less transluscent shade of blue.
What else? Hmmm....the mystery machine is still blinking the orange light in the corner of the dashboard in a sickly way any time I put my foot on the accelerator. I think it just has the vehicular equivalent of feeling a bit discombobulated. I'm sure the chaps at the garage think that I have the mechinics version of Munchhausen-by-proxy syndrome. Or that I fancy them (they may well think that because Twin 1 is convinced of it, and never fails to mention something in an embarrassingly loud voice every time I have to drop the van off there).
Work has calmed down a bit, and I've had a chance to write a bit more, so I've nearly finished the final final final version of the novel. Just one scene left and a bit of tweaking, I think. Yipee, in time for the hols.
Other than that, I've spent a stupid amount of time looking at houseboats for sale and houses for sale and contemplating the future. If I tell you any more than that, I'll jinx it, so you'll have to wait for details.
I'm also starting to have vague thoughts about a sequel to the novel I've nearly finished. I'm just gestating, but I think I have the beginnings of a plan. I know, probably should get this one finished and off with an agent first. Maybe I'm getting a bit previous. But I'm looking forward to starting the process again - it's almost the best fun you can have (and definitely the best fun you can have on your own!).
Right then, hairwash night, better go.
Take care xxx

My bad. Really been off radar for a while. I have had lots of work and various summer lurgies to contend with, though. Not to mention sports days and vague attempts to make it through the ironing pile, as well as tweaking the final chapters of the book, which I am desperate to finish before the summer hols. In addition, all my zero-hours contract jobs have suddenly become, well, no longer zero hours contracts. So I'm doing lots of really enjoyable work - some of it even almost reasonably paid, too - but having almost hardly any time to write/blog/create flash fiction. Mustn't grumble, though, it'll keep the pesky critters in two-ball screwballs and ninety nines this summer, if nothing else. Or alternatively pay for the exhorbitant (hmmm, how do you spell that word?) garage bill for the unresolved intermittent fault, which may - or may not - have something vaguely to do with the EGR filter, or the turbo...
Anyway, I should probably go and sort out PE kits now - it's multi-skills day tomorrow, you know (not to be confused with sports day, which was Monday, and in which my disabled daughter won a race - woo hoo - but only because I demanded that the poor little crippled girl be given a head start, for goodness sakes!). Better go. TTFN xxxx

ps.

Now posting all my flash fiction on FB: www.facebook.com/litfixx. 

Hey, how are things? Son is away on his school trip and the house isn't at all silent. Which proves that all the palaver and hullaballoo in this household are entirely down to the pesky Twins.
So, what have you been up to recently? We just had a weekend in London, almost entirely courtesy of Tesco coupons (Tower of London and Hatfield House for free, plus free kids meals at Pizza Express), which is all very gratifying, if you don't stop to think how much profit Tesco must be making from us if they can afford to give us one hundred and fifty quid's worth of freebies.
I have almost steamed my way through the terrifying ironing pile, thanks to a double bill of 'Place in the sun: home or away'. (yes, they chose a large villa with a pool and gardens in the south of France, over a dingy town house with no garden in Gloucestershire). Anyway, it got me to pondering on my ultimate lifestyle destination, and I've decided that it's not the south of France, it's Cape Town. Now I just need to convince Hubby. Or sell my book for a huge advance. Neither of which is especially likely at present, so I'll have to stick to the real estate porn on more 4 for a bit longer.
Hope that you're living the dream somewhere xxx

So, guess what? I'm just paranoid, after all. The inclusion manager hasn't been avoiding me, she's just heavily pregnant and with her 'preg-head' on has forgotten all about our quarter issues. Phew. No need to have awkward grown up conversations then, what a relief.
What have you been up to? I got all excited about the sunshine, but now it's getting so balmy I realise that it is, in fact, time to crack open the half-forgotten suitcase of summer clothes that has been languishing behind the bedroom door all these months (and serving a useful purpose as a door-blocker, in the absence of a bolt/lock). The only problem is that most of them now need ironing, so I now have an ironing pile as high as Sugarloaf mountain (yes, I'm exaggerating, but it must be at least a Munro, in ironing-pile terms). Maybe I can schedule a morning of tackling it whilst watching Eammon and Ruth (my BFF - well, I did meet her a few times back in 1991, you know!) on This Morning.
I'm back on the case with my novel, but can't get onto it quite as quickly as I'd like because I have all-of-a-sudden found myself with extra ESOL classes. A while ago I took some English learners into the art gallery to do a session based around the exhibition. It was well-attended and quite a laugh, so I casually mentioned to my boss that I wouldn't mind doing more ESOL sessions based around art. Hmmm, did any wise older person (probably an Auntie or someone in a floral blouse) ever say 'Be careful what you wish for!' whilst wagging a finger in a knowing way to you? Yep? Well, I wish they'd bally well done it to me, too and I would have kept my trap shut. So now, several months and a dod of Arts Council funding later, I have found myself frantically trying to think of a weekly two-hour lesson to link into the idea of art and cultural identity...for the next six months...
So, if you don't hear much from me for a while, you'll know it's because I'm casting around wildly for lesson ideas whilst manically trying to finish the final final draft of my novel.
Right, I'm off to panic about the enormity of it all and not manage to get to sleep, now.
Take care xxx

Don't you hate being a grown up sometimes?
It seems I must have done something to upset the school's inclusion manager, who is now not responding to my emails, which means there is a delay in getting a justification for us to retain our quarter here on the grounds of Twin 2's special educational needs. Blah blah blah. Luckily the class teacher is prepared to talk to me and sign the justification letter for me, but it's not really his job - the welfare of children with additional needs is the job of the inclusion manager...
So now I'm thinking that as I must have done something heinous for her to 'send me to Coventry', I should probably find out what it is, and apologise for whatever I have done to upset her, because that would be the adult thing to do.
I'm just not feeling like being a grown up, that's all.

I'm having a taste of the future...the Twins are off on a school residential and the house is eerily quiet. Since I came in from work, and Son came home from school, there's just been the almost inaudible hum of elecrickery, as he dominates his Minecraft universe, and I ponder flash fiction and next week's lesson plan. We broke the silence with a brief chat about tuna pizza and geography homework. And when I drove him to karate the absence of an internet connection forced us to exchange pleasantries. But otherwise...oddly absent of noise. Nobody claiming to have been scratched by anyone else. Nobody needing their physio monitored or guitar practice cajoled into or spellings tested or reading listened to. There hasn't even been any housework to do - no biscuit crumbs, apple cores or illicit sweet wrappers on the floor, either. It is - Son and I agreed - very strange indeed. I ended up with plenty of time to write, lesson plan, pop to Tesco to buy a green jumper (yes, another one, but it was £3 in the sale, bargain or what?) and do 44 sun salutations and write to you. And it's not even ten o'clock. I feel like I'm retired, or have just slipped back into a pre-kids life. Anyhow, I'm going to use this somewhat spooky bit of extra spare time to have a nice bath, without interruptions or the nagging thought of bunging a load in the machine or packing PE kits. Ta-ra xx

Ey-oop, how's it going? I've not seen hide nor hair of Gareth Malone recently. I'm going to have to resort to pretending that perfectly ordinary people are really famous TV celebs to get that frission of B-list excitement as I pass through the camp gates. If you see me wondering, unfocussed, with a vague smile on my lips, it may well be that I'm pretending the gate guard is really Colin Firth or...(d'you know, I'm so out of touch that I'm at a loss to think of a tasty actor to add to that list - and the truth is I have gone off Colin Firth a bit, ever since Mama Mia, really).
It's all good here, really. My mood swings are still swooping around like a particularly unsafe fairground ride, but hey-ho. I'm eating as many phyto-oestrogen rich foods as I can handle - just polished off the last of the hummus, and am about to make myself a generous soya milk shake - but to no avail. Must order some more St John's Wort...
The good news is that I got feedback from the romantic novelists association on my manuscript, and they were particularly nice about it. They suggested a few changes and then getting it out there to agents and publishers. So my mission now is to get stuck in with the amendments and try to get them done before the summer hols. This may well put paid to my copy writing work - or maybe I'll try just to do one ambulance-chasing/geeky thing a week, just to keep my hand in, in case my stellar rise to author celeb doesn't come all that quickly!
I'm still writing flash fiction, but I'm bunging it all on the FB page now. So if you're interested, do like and share! www.facebook.com/litfixx. 
xxx

Hiya, here we are, June already. Sorry, I've been away in the mystery machine, in Weymouth, in the rain. Hurrah for the British summertime. I'm sitting in my living room with the heating on, in a cashmere jumper and pashmina. It's just not bally well right. I've been watching all those endless episodes of 'a place in the sun', 'a place in the sun  - home or away', 'a place in the sun - winter sunshine', and my personal favourite: 'oh just anywhere with bloody sun will do' (yes, I made the last one up).
I've also done a lot of housework, mostly unsuccessfully (smeared windows, still dust on the skirting boards, can't face doing any more though), but at least I gave it a good go, whilst the Twins were at the camp's YMCA holiday club and Son was sucked into the virtual world of Minecraft.
And I've set up a Facebook page for the flash fiction, so I'm not sure whether to carry on posting them here or not. What do you think? My imaginary world is far, far more interesting than real life (and less cold and rainy too). Anyway, here's the link: www.facebook.com/litfixx. 
I'm going to say toodle-pip and drink my Crabbies now xxx

A flash for the weekend...

I thought that it wouldn't mean much more than a slew of golden bangles and a token red sari, when he asked. I didn't think for one second about his judgmental parents, his innumerable aunts and uncles, his expectations. I just thought that one day maybe we'd have beautiful latte-coloured children: bilingual,resourceful. I was only thinking how much I loved him, when he opened those gorgeous soft lips and said, "Will you marry me?"

I've accumulated all these amazing appliances, but somehow end up with even less time. Go figure. At least I've managed one 75-word flash (saviour of the universe), 44 sun salutations, five oatcakes and four pickled onions (ooh, that 5:2 diet just gets better and better, doesn't it?). Copify keeps sending hopeful emails about copy to write for ambulance-chasing law firms and geeky blogs, but I have very little time and even less inclination. Now my stomach is rumbling and it's eleven o'clock, so I'm off. Nightie night xx

Bill's flash

Echoing voices under the high glass atrium, good suits and glossy leather shoes,and the lone Big Issue seller: scruffy beard, missing tooth, cheeky grin. I think of that face, looking down from the bunk, telling me which warder to trust, when to lie low. An old lag - twenty years on me - he'd be 61 now. Yes, it's him. I keep my head down, hurry on. I don't carry small change around these days.

Oh it's all going flash crazy. But now I really do have to load Neville and set off Bertha and also dry my hair with  - erm - Daphne (would that be a good name for a hair dryer?) and then style it with Trevor (no, this is going too far, isn't it?). Let me know if you want me to make a piece of flash fiction for you - and give me a word or two to play with xx

flashtastic

I didn't like the look on his smarmy face when he said it was just a midlife crisis and that she meant nothing, and I knew I'd never be able to forgive him.
Such a shame that he got tangled up in his tackle and capsized the skiff, what a tragic accident, they said.
I said he never did know how to keep his tackle packed away where it should be.
I'm not sorry, you know.

today's flash!

Earthquake. 

I wake, to the absence of the air conditioner's white noise. My hair clings wetly to the nape of my neck. I wait for our gate guard to turn the generator back on. But there's nothing but darkness and the sudden howling of street dogs nearby. I think irritated thoughts of the guard, asleep on duty, again. But then, a distant hum, like a faraway train on the underground, and the bed beginning to shake.

Today's flash

But you never play.

I will, I promise.

When? When will you?

I don't know, when...

You never will. Chicken.

Don't call me that.

Chick, chick, chick, chicken!

Alright then, next time.

The lights are flashing.

Get off, I’m going.

Quick, before the barrier.

Are you happy now?

Keep still. It’s coming.

I can hear it.

Don’t be chicken, now.

I’m not moving, okay?

Just a bit longer.

I can’t hear you.

Jed, Jump! NOW!

Hi, how was your weekend? I would love to tell you that I took advantage of the spring sunshine to throw a barbeque, invite the street, work on my tan, drink Pimms and take up tennis. Of course I did none of these things. Instead I mowed the very large lawn and got through several times my own body weight in washing and line-drying. And - erm - that's about it. Today Twin 2 is being home-schooled, doing a dyslexia programme. She was really, really happy about it this morning when she realised she could wear her new flowery shorts instead of school uniform. What's more, she got to go to Tesco instead of straight to school because the tutor (lovely Aunty Tessa) has overslept and wasn't due to arrive until nine thirty. She's less happy now she's actually embroiled in the whole 'schooling' side of home schooling, but hopefully it's doing some good. Ey ooop, lunch time already, better go xx

compass

From the distance you can’t tell. The dog could almost be walking itself, alone in the Tuesday morning sunshine, pacing the perimeter fence. But a little closer and you see the figure, sand-green combats against the pale green grass, stepping one-two, one-two close up against the netted wire. 

Closer still and you notice the tidy blonde bun below the beret, and a tautness in the cloth of the combat trousers, pulling a curve in the fabric over the buttocks.

The dog is straining on the leash, shiny coat like a crow’s wing, saliva beginning to drool from the muzzle. She gives a sharp tug, tells him to heel, and the leash goes slack again. The ground is soft underfoot, the air yellow-warm. 

A sideways turn of her head and she looks, beyond the fence, into the back gardens of houses, chopped up into sideways squares by the mesh: trampolines and rusty barbequeues, grass kicked to dirt and discarded footballs. One garden has gnomes. The sound of pop music drifts choppily from an open window.

When she was a little girl she’d always wanted to live in a house like this: a house with an upstairs, and a dad – not just a succession of unrelated ‘uncles’. The other girls at school had friends over for tea. Their mums remembered parents’ evenings. They thought ‘brown’ was just the name of a boring colour.

She turns away from the back gardens and focusses ahead. Hesh is tugging again and she gives his lead a yank. The cloth of her trouser legs swish against each other as she walks. Her nose prickles with pollen. There is a sudden stutter of fire from the range, but Hesh barely blinks. He’s a good dog. She has no idea why he always growls at Adam like that. Adam says it’s jealousy. He says he doesn’t want to be in competition with a bloody dog.

The sunshine catches something in the long grass, a sharp reflective stab of light – broken glass perhaps? She bends down to look, and Hesh pauses, panting.A transparent rectangle of a compass, half hidden by a dandelion, dropped during one of the orienteering exercises the other week. She picks it up, watching the needle spin wildly, finding direction. She puts it in her pocket and feels it push against the other thing in there. The thing she’d been trying not to think about: the white plastic stick with the thin blue line on it – or not on it.

At NAAFI break she’d been across the road to the chemist’s. She wasn’t one to check dates. It was Adam who’d noticed how long it had been, said he wouldn’t mind if she was, that they could get married, get a quarter. He said she should give up work, though. He said she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with that bloody dog when she had a baby to look after.

And she hadn’t said anything.

After NAAFI break she went to the toilet. It was like pissing on a biro; she’d got it all over her hands. Ten minutes, she read off the box, before she threw it in the bin. Ten minutes: long enough to get Hesh and be right at the edge of camp, past the range and the woods, away from it all.

Here she was now. Thirty-year-old Lucy: Adam’s girlfriend, Hesh’s handler, with a directionless compass and an unread pregnancy test.

She takes one last glance at the back gardens through fence, feels for the plastic stylus in her pocket and draws it out. She holds the innocuous white stick up to the spring sunlight and looks.

Is that line blue?

Ey oop. It's nearly half past ten and I still haven't loaded Neville or Larry or set Bertha off. I've been at work most of the day. The place I work in the mornings had an ofstead inspection today, and you could have cut the air with a very blunt plastic throwaway knife. Everyone was VERY tense (not to be confused with past tense, past perfect tense, present perfect tense, present perfect continuous tense...I could go on - actually I couldn't, what with my grammar teaching being somewhat limited), except me, because I was the only one not actually being assessed. So, no butterflies in my tummy. And nothing else, either, what with it being a fasting day. Actually I didn't have a totally empty stomach, as a very nice Turkish student had brought in some home made pastries, nom, nom.
So after work I planned next week's lesson, which is about museums. Apparently it's international museum day on 18th May - who knew? (who, for that matter, cared - apart from half-starved ESOL teachers desperate for lesson-planning inspiration). Then took Son to karate and battled with stupidly difficult abstract spellings with Twins. So despite my army of anthropomorhosised (sorry, can't spell any better than my kids) domestic appliances, I still haven't got round to any housewifery, which I really should. I do have an interesting lesson on museums planned, though. And also this short story, which I've just written, coming up next. xxx

Neville

I think I may be in love with my dishwasher. Don't get me wrong, I'm still very fond of Bertha-the-robotic-hoover, but the dishwasher has changed my life. I now actually have time to do things in the evening, whilst the great white hope of kitchen appliances methodically gets on with making things clean, and does a much better job of it than I ever could. Sturdy, reliable, helpful, always there, never complaining - I shall call him Neville (in honour of my favourite Harry Potter character).
This evening, whilst Neville was getting on with the dishes, and Bertha was sorting out the carpets, and the washing machine (Larry?) tackled the duvet covers, I did 44 sun salutations. That's one for each year of my life, because, yep, I'm 44 tomorrow. I stocked up on protect & perfect serum last week in anticipation. And tomorrow I am having cinnamon buns for breakfast. I know, living the blooming dream or what? x

today's flash!

I'm not going to answer it. I know who it will be. If I don't answer, then it will be as if it didn't happen and we can just go back to how it was before, can't we? But the blaring noise forces me reach out, and I watch my hand, slo-mo - chewed red nail varnish, unravelling edge of my old cardigan, scar on my wrist - grasp the nagging phone. "Hello? Yes, I'm home."

His hand sweeps across the table, catching the napkin, quivering in the wine glass as it passes, then thwacks into the water jug, spilling a miniature iceberg tsunami over the glass table top, washing up breadcrumb detritus into the lap of her designer dress. His hand raises to slap her and she grabs it, tugs it down, hair flying, words hissing: "Not here. Someone will see." She inclines her head towards the doorway, the waiting photographers.

airy fairy nothingness

I've got another flash for you, but not much else. I have been even more spaced out than ususal today, despite the coffee and the mad half hour on the rowing machine (which you would have thought would sharpen me up a bit). No more sightings of the elusive pocket-sized choir master. But, given my zombified state today, he may well have been strutting about in the welfare centre or hanging out with Ray at the garage or wafting out in the art gallery, or pumping iron in the gym. He could have been in any of these places and I simply wouldn't have noticed, because my head is full of airy fairy nothingness. I should probably just go to bed!

The water trickled between his shoulder blades. He shifted his head back and let it swill, tepid and briny, over his two-day-old stubble. The stained sleeping bag lay sloughed off on the sandy floorboards. Next to it the precious letter, still in its pristine cream envelope. He imagined the black type inside, jostling and straining against the paper prison. He was Dominic Slater, 29, failed teacher, living in a beach hut. But not for much longer.

Busy day, no time for pants, as they say. Actually, I did have time for pants. No time to eat, though.
My lessons on family vocabulary and the royal family seemed to go down okay. I picked up my potential birthday present leather trousers from the collect plus corner shop, tried them on, and took them straight back again. My waist is too small and my legs are too chubby - at least my unusual body type has saved my husband a small fortune on the birthday present though. I am, as usual on a Wednesday, far too hungry to stay up much longer, but I have written you a little Wednesday flash, which follows. Nightie night xx

Gareth Malone!

Hey, guess who I saw on camp the other day? Only Gareth Malone. Yes, that Gareth Malone. I know! Who would have thought he'd be in our neck of the woods. The military wives choir are all being very tight-lipped about it, but clearly somethings goin' daahn, innit?
I was just driving out of camp and I saw someone in a car who I recognised, so I gave him a nice big smile. Only later, I realised he wasn't a random bloke from our street, no, it was him off the telly!
I'd already driven halfway down the road by then, so sadly it was too late for me to say, "Oi, aren't you that bloke off the telly?" He must get strange women smiling at him all the time, thinking that they actually know him. But I like to think that my smile was special. He looked like he almost smiled back (no, he didn't - in fact he looked quite grumpy).
So that was last week's excitement. Which semi-celebrity with a vague military connection will it be next? Ross Kemp? I'd give him a cheery smile if I saw him at the camp gates. Oh yes I would!
Better go, work tomorrow (teaching the students about the royal family - not just because the queen is actually my husband's boss, but in the hope that it may in some way help with the incredibly difficult citizenship test, which asks people important British questions such as when were the Corn Laws repealed....).
xxx
ps - and in honour of Gareth Malone, a reminder of the 2011 MWC smash hit!

 The wonderful Military Wives Choir- alternative funny lyrics written by Sarah Myers

Wherever you are, I wish I could get through,
The dog is lost, the fish are dead,
What am I s’posed to do?

Wherever you are, I need to know your PIN,
The bank has called, won’t speak to me
“we have to speak to him”

Light up the darkness, oh, where are the bulbs
You’ve put them somewhere safe and sound,
But no one have you told,

Light up the darkness, oh, where are the keys?
I am locked out of the house
and I may need to call the police.

Wherever I am, I don’t know what to do,
The kids are ill, your mother’s phoned
And wants to speak to you.

Wherever I am, not sure what day it is,
The Sky wont’ work, I have to call,
But they’ll just say “its his”

Light up the darkness, night has come
But I still have to grab a coat and go and mow the lawn,
Light up the darkness, for all my sins,
I must change a fuse, fix countless things
And put out all the bins.

flash fiction BOGOF Thursday!

Over here.

You see the brindled grey sea, and the wind-rippled dunes. High and far away a lone gull wheels and disappears. Wan cloud curtains the insipid sunshine. Far down on the strand a man is walking. His fair hair is flapping up in the wind like a wing, and he's got this red scarf, looping free. You want to shout, to wave, but the tape still covers your mouth, and the handcuffs bite deep. He turns.

today's flash fiction

There she was, in the next pew. The sun was streaming through the stained glass. Before he died, he'd
specified a Beatle's song to play as they brought the coffin in: Lucy in the sky with diamonds. A psychodelic funeral march, typically him. She turned and I noticed her greying temples. There was something different about the set of her mouth, as if she'd spent the last twenty years not saying something.
"Hello Lucy," I said.

I thought the recent kitchen refurb had disturbed some spirits from an old Indian burial mound our house may have been built on when I heard strange noises coming from downstairs this morning. Turns out it was just a man drilling a hole in the wall for the tumble dryer duct. Shame, just when I thought I'd done with my annual dusting session, too. Also shame it wasn't anything actually supernatural, which would have been fairly exciting for a Thursday morning - almost as exciting as getting a delivery of a new dishwasher and a whole week's supermarket shop at exactly the same time (did the delivery men synchronise watches before setting off, I wonder?).
So, today I plumbed in the dishwasher, moved the tumble dryer and re-plumbed in the washing machine. I also did lots of wiping windowsills and chucking stuff away. And ironing, too.
I felt the tedium of housework totally justified eating Twin 1's forgotten Easter egg for her.
I've just noticed that there's still a pink jelly worm on the ceiling of the living room, and  the leftover brick dust from the drilling, and a basket full of washing to sort, and an untold amount of ironing left to do, but I'm kind of done with being a housewife today.
What I really need is some genuine supernatural activity in the form of an OCD poltergeist. Something that, instead of hurling things across the room in a spooky way, instead picks them up and puts them neatly in a drawer somewhere. That would be nice...

I'm in danger of turning into a real life version of Ria from Butterflies - remember that programme? (You won't if you're under forty) - wafting vacantly around, having vague existential angst and cooking soggy souffles. Although I'm not falling in love with a tubby businessman I see jogging in the park. There aren't many tubby businessmen about on the barracks. There are a few intimidatingly fit young soldiers, but none of whom, I suspect would be remotely interested in my soggy souffles, either literally or metaphorically. Today, I'm at home, waiting for a dishwasher delivery and finding reasons not to dust the upstairs of the house and sort out the washing pile. Maybe I'll channel my inner Ria later and attempt a souffle....

today's flash for you

Vamp.

I knew you were the one. Not because of the white t-shirt stretched tight over your chest (although that helped), or even your dimpled chin. We found ourselves in the kitchen, escaping the throbbing party music, talked all night, until the colour began to bleed into the eastern sky. At sunrise, heart beating, lips parting, I fell towards you, and you closed your eyes. I was right about you; it was your neck that did it.

Just a quickie - busy day, two classes taught, no food (almost - does three oatcakes really count as sustenance?), 32 sun salutations done, one week's ESOL lesson planned, one online food shop finished, two TED talks watched with Son, one chapter of Secret Seven book read with Twin 2, 10 spellings tested with Twins, one flash fiction story submitted to paragraph planet. By golly, I'm exhausted just writing about it. Night then xxx

today's flash fiction for you

She pulled the tights further down over her face, wishing they were clean. It was like the beginning of a bad heist movie. It would have been funny, if she'd been watching it on TV. If she hadn't actually been playing the starring role herself. The door opened and she swung forward and the knife struck deep. She thought later that the tights were a stupid idea. He'd be dead before he recognised her, anyway.

I think the kitchen is finally finished. I couldn't procrastinate any longer and finally got round to doing the housework that I've been putting off for weeks because of the refurb. I even dusted, and got rid of a few cobwebs. I feel like a proper housewife. Well, sort of. I haven't actually put away any of the washing up - but at least we are no longer eating pizza off paper plates and their isn't an inch of plaster dust on every flat surface downstairs, so it's a start.
Oh alright, I wasn't quite as virtuous as I'm making out. I got a bit bored of the whole hausfrau thing and wrote a couple of flash fiction stories, too. Which is why there is still dust/cobwebs/mildew upstairs. Oh, please don't make me do the upstairs, too!

I think I may be in danger of becoming addicted to writing flash fiction. As well as the minotaur one (below),  and the one about the lost will, I've just written one about a female assassin. I suppose other people must feel this way about soduku or crosswords or rubik's cubes or somesuch. Here's the web link for the creative exercises if you think you'd like to give it a go: http://www.writing-workout.com. I would honestly rather be doing these writing activities than almost anything else in the world (almost!) ;)

Minotaur

I walked without thinking into the cool blue shadows, the hairs standing up on my arms. The sunshine was far behind me, now. I thought of calling, but you wouldn't hear me through all that stone: sandstone? granite? marble? You would have known. Big blocks like tombstones. There was a distant sound. Your footsteps, perhaps. 

I walked deeper into indigo-grey, not thinking, just looking. And then I saw.

But it was too late to turn and run.

http://www.paragraphplanet.com/

Small excitement for a Monday: had a 75-word flash fiction accepted for paragraph planet website. It's very gratifying, because it's my first attempt. I sent off my novel for feedback last week, and decided that I wasn't ready to start another novel just yet, but wanted to keep my writer's muscles active by just doing some short writing exercises. I tried writing a flash fiction within a tweet, but that didn't really work (too short). However, I did find paragraph planet. The idea is that you have to piece of flash fiction that's exactly 75 words long. It's a great constraint, because it's long enough to have the suggestion of something happening - good for practising opening paragraphs. I'm now totally addicted. I'm supposed to be cleaning the bathroom now, but instead I've been writing about a codicil to a will and a family secret...oh, I suppose I really should scrub the toilet now (but at least I can think about overgrown gardens and orphaned children and family feuds whilst I'm doing it).
My story will be on the paragraph planet website on 29/4/14 ...or here forever (see next post)!

It's all happening in my kitchen. I could barely contain my excitement this morning when I got back from the gym to find a man and a roll of lino in my house. I even offered him chocolate biscuits with his cup of tea. And now I can hear drilling, how thrilling! Full steam ahead to try to get it all done in time for the Twins' birthday party tomorrow.
I just picked up my new hand whisk from Tesco, but have given up on the idea of actually making it into the kitchen today to bake birthday cupcakes, so I bought a tray of ready-made ones, which is a bit of a cop-out, but loads better than I could manage, even with the help of a brand new whisk.
Right then, I just need to buy monster's ears (dried pears) and monster's fingernails (flaked almonds)  - yes, it is a 'spooky' party - and I'm good to go, woo hoo! xxx

Hello again. How are you? I'm still kitchen-less (and humourless). I know, shouldn't complain, taxpayers expense, etc. In many ways being unable to do the washing or cooking is a good thing. Tonight I came home from work to a nice fresh layer of cement on the kitchen floor, so no chance of even washing Son's filthy PE kit (yes, he left it at school throughout the Easter hols and has only just brought it home) or even bunging a pizza in the oven. Hey-ho, I thought, we'll just have yet another McDonald's, so I plopped back in the car, leaving Scooby Doo to babysit for me, and zoomed off...only to discover that McDonald's is also being refurbished and is closed for the next few weeks. Nooo! We had fish and chips last night, for heaven's sakes, so I couldn't go down the chippy again. So the kids ended up having pretzels, tomatoes, cheese strings and chorizo (what will I do if Lidl shuts, too?). And I'm on a fasting day, so I was only ever going to have an unexciting oat cake and salad anyway.
I suppose the good thing is that I'm really looking forward to being able to use the kitchen again, and, rather than feeling like it's my personal domestic prison, I will embrace it with the joy and warmth of a long-lost companion. In fact, I'm so excited about the prospect of returning to my culinary sanctum I have even ordered a new hand whisk (in order to better whip up cup cakes, natch). xxx

I'm on the motorway in the rain, with a tummy full of chocolate. A typical British Easter Sunday. The hols are nearly over, the mystery Machine (now re christened Henry Bongo) hasn't blown up and I'm wearing my exciting new weekend hoodie. yes, it is another blue hoodie, but entirely different in so many respects from my other two blue hoodies. Must go, nearly home xx

PPS. "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."

Samuel Beckett

ps. Just googled. Apparently the murder rate spikes around full moons...

Hello. I'm writing again now I'm slightly less mad. The full moon is on the wane, hey ho! Let me tell you a secret: I am a genuine lunatic. I know, it sounds all a tad eighteenth century, but the fact is, I do end up a teensy bit insane when the moon is full. I don't really want to delve into the spooky New Age witchy theory as to why this is the case (if there is a spooky New Age witchy theory - probably, hmmm...might google it after this), but now I have a lunar phases app on my smart phone and a half-full bottle of St John's Wort tablets, so at least I can dose myself up in readiness these days and not succumb totally to the bedlam.
So, I've been hearing/reading the odd thing recently about how important failure is. That it's a good thing to face the 'dark night of the soul' alone, and pull yourself up by your bootstraps, etc. That we should all learn to 'fail better' as I think Beckett said (probably need to google that as well)? I quite like this philosophy (who wouldn't like the reassurance that being a loser is a good thing?) BUT this morning when, after hours of trying, Son & I still couldn't get Minecraft to download and what's more, I couldn't get the lawnmower to start, I have to say that I no longer gave a stuff about the opportunity to develop and learn through the experience of failure. I just wanted the blooming things to work. Furthermore, I didn't want my personal 'dark night of the soul' journey to be through the wastelands of mechanical and geeky frustration.
However, I suppose I did learn a few things through today's experience:
1. Geeky forums sometimes give valid advice
2. The phone number for the grounds maintenance chaps
3. Tesco sells sugar-free chocolate

Hope your day was less frustrating than mine xxx

Alright my lovely, how are things in your neck of the woods? Here, we're part way through the scary old kitchen refurb. I've managed to miss most of it by being in Devon and London respectively, but we couldn't stay away forever, so here we are, eating pizza in front of the telly on paper plates (I'm quite enjoying this refurb lark - at least there's no washing up, and further more, as the workmen are still about, there's no point in cleaning the house, because they'll only cause more dust tomorrow, so hardly any housework for me, yay). It's all good, although feeling a little skint due to all the fast food we've been forced to live off recently - and a bit porky, too (not helped by comparisons with my newly-slinky sister, who had the flu this winter and dropped about 10kg - and she's just retrained as a fitness instructor, so she's irritatingly toned as well). So, after catching up on the laundry, the next stop on the avoid-the-kitchen-refurb-tour will be Dorset, so long as the mystery machine doesn't pack up on us. I'm taking it to the nice garage men tomorrow for diagnostics to find out exactly what the flashing light that comes on when we do over three-thousand-revs actually means. Hope it's not too dire, or son's new laptop and the girls' tablets will have to be returned...
Oh, I didn't get the creative writer job. Hey ho. But you know, it would have been a little stressful starting a new job this week, in the middle of the hols and the kitchen refurb, so maybe it's not such a bad thing.
Right, I'm going to drink my tea and watch Scooby Doo, now. Take care x

So, how would you feel if I started posting short stories on this site? Or should I start up a new blog for fiction? What d'you reckon? x

Finished writing my book. l know, again! I'm hoping this is the final draft, although l do still have to run the spill chocker, and the even more irritating grammar checker. But it's done! Now l can spend all day tomorrow gutting the kitchen in prep for Ghengis the chippy. The Avon Lady says her kitchen looks very nice, so perhaps the marauders won't be too bad. I'm off to drink a celebratory dram and dream happy dreams about book signings and three-figure publishing deals... ;)

You know how there's always something to moan about? Like, the traffic, or the wierd Saharan smog, or the stupid amount of spellings your child has suddenly remembered they have to learn by tomorrow morning. Yes, life is a teensy bit annoying. However, when I teach my Wednesday ESOL classes, my life is often flung into very sharp perspective. One student, for example (whose husband is working towards a PhD here), is from Aleppo in Syria and has no contact with her family - the only means she has of finding out whether or not they're still alive is by looking online for the death notices. Today I discovered that an Iraqui friend of another student had to leave her one-day-old baby behind to take up her PhD place here. She's now half way through her research, and although she Skypes her (now) two-and-a-half year old, she has not been able to see or hold her little girl since she was a day-old newborn. Both these examples are from relatively wealthy, middle class women. If it's like that for them, imagine the sacrifices that the poor and ill-educated are having to make to try to build a better life for their families?
So I've decided that today I'm not going to get huffy with my squabbling children or whinge about the disruption my kitchen refurbishment will cause, or feel a bit droopy about not seeing my husband all week, and just keep my trap shut and feel blooming lucky that they're here with me, and that we're all safe.
TTFN x

I'm this close to finishing my novel. Well, maybe this close...oh, that's right, you can't see my hands, can you? Anyway, I'm pretty damn close. I'm even in with a shout at getting it done by the Easter hols. It depends whether or not my husband turns up on Friday night or not. He's not sure if he'll make it back from whatever far-flung location he happens to be wafting about in this week (I know, I probably should be suspecting him of some kind of an affair, but the truth is that I simply haven't the energy for that level of paranoia right now). So, if he doesn't appear for exciting sausage and mash and a cider in front of this week's Lovefilm, I may try to do a late night writing storm on Friday and just get through it, because, psychologically, it would be good to get it done before the end of term. Also, I've just applied for a (temporary, freelance) job as a creative writer for an arts project starting mid-April, and if I get it, it would be good to have one thing finished before starting the next (fingers crossed -  they'd be crazy not to employ me, but, as you know, the world is full of crazy people).
Right, washing to hang and frizzy witch-like hair to tame (did I mention my altercation with Edward Scissorhand's crazed sister the other week? I'm not sure what part of 'Just a trim please' she didn't understand, but I now have really short hair. Sad face indeed). Better go xxx

Hiya, the laptop has been requisitioned by a gang of 11 year olds. For homework, they claim. So, I'm doing this on the phone - apologies for any wierd spellings if my handwriting is misinterpreted. So, how are things with you?
The main news on the barracks at the moment concerns the kitchen refurbishments. Yep, the whole darn camp is getting a spanking new kitchen. Cause for hearty hurrahs and hanging out the bunting, no? Well, apparently not. You'd think the Mongolian Hordes were on the rampage. The word kitchen can only be used in a sentence that also includes the word nightmare, it seems. Even the Avon Lady's done a bunk for the duration (to avoid being pillaged or worse by Genghis and his cohort of chippies and plasterers). If the MoD has any sense, then now would be a good time to announce further redundancies or an imminent mobilisation to Crimea or Syria.  Nobody will take a blind bit of notice, because nothing - nothing, I tell you - could be worse than having a new kitchen fitted. For free. At the taxpayers' expense.

Ooh, I've been away a while, haven't I? Just that I don't feel much like an army wife any more, I suppose. There's almost nothing army about my life these days, other than walking to school past a live firing range, and the very aggressive sign telling me not to pick the daffodils (I've told the girls that if they do pick one of the daffodils they will be shot, or at the very least set upon by one of the barky old guard dogs - I don't think they believed me, though).
I did go to circuits on Friday. That was quite army - and nearly did for me. I did the easiest level, but still felt like death afterwards. Running up hills, doing chin ups and burpees...just feeling a little bit too much like the middle-aged matron that I am for that kind of punishment. I may go again at some point...or I may stick to trotting round camp listening to trance anthems and wishing I wasn't too old to go clubbing.
What have I actually been doing for the last three weeks? Taking people to karate lessons and school discos and helping out in school literacy classes and teaching 'used to' to talk about habitual actions in the past with ESOL students and recruiting new student volunteers for the gallery workshops and discovering root touch up to banish those pesky hairline greys, mostly. And drinking the odd can of cider.
All my lovely silk dresses are slowly mouldering in the wardrobe - can't remember the last time I went to a mess function, or even wore anything other than jeans and boots, for that matter. Sometimes I do hanker a bit after the life of wafting about in silk and jangly silver jewellery (don't wear that much either, these days - gets in the way when doing housework).
I had a bit of an awkward moment in school today. I went in to help support Twin 2 with literacy, and couldn't help but notice that the teacher was teaching something incorrectly. My inner Hermione Granger leapt out before I had the chance to stop it. The class teacher was just telling the assorted eight and nine year olds that one of the important language features of instructions is that they use the third person. Before I could stop myself, my hand shot up and I asked him if he didn't mean the second person. Once a smartypants, always a smartypants. I said I could be wrong (I wasn't) and apologised. He took it well, bless him. The materials he was using were incorrect - it wasn't really his fault. Still, oh deary me. All the teachers at that school will hate me if this gets out....

There's nothing wrong with a bit of dumbing down, after a day of monitoring playdates and ironing, is there?
I'm sat on the sofa, eating tortilla chips, drinking cider and watching Amanda Lamb telling people how to sell houses (mostly by painting everything white, apparently).
Should I have another cider and go for broke by watching Big Fat Gypsy Weddings as well? I know, I ought to be watching the Culture Show on iplayer or listening to something obscure on 6 Music or reading that Zola short story I'm halfway through on my Kindle.
It's a perennial dilemma: chavness or pretentiousness?
Hmmm, feels like I'm often on this fence, somehow.
What would you do?

I have turned into a bit of a zombie, capable of nothing but aimlessly surfing the net for things I haven't any real intention of buying (I have three Stompa high sleeper beds in my amazon basket). I may be able to gather enough energy to pop a pizza in the oven in a bit. Or then again, I might not. The problem is utter tiredness. I haven't felt this fuzzy-headed since the kids were ickle noisy screaming bundles of snot.
Why?
Last night I agreed the kids could have a sleepover in the pop up tent inside. They'd been in there about twenty minutes when Twin 1 rushed in and told me that Twin 2 had been sick. I cleaned up and sent them all off to their respective beds (Son hadn't even noticed, he was so engrossed in some improbable internal narrative, possibly involving alternate universes and wrinkles in space-time). Twin 2 then continued to vomit, at regular intervals, throughout the night. I attempted to finish the enormous ironing pile, but gave up when I got to the shirts - managed most of it, though. As a result, I'm wondering around today in a sea of wet washing and incapable of thought or speech (I know, no real change there). I've now run out of washing powder and places to hang things, and have therefore resorted to looking at expensive kids' beds, leather trousers and coral lipstick (to name but three of the useless items I have perused recently).
Right then, laptop nearly out of charge, better put the pizza in. xxx

Poor old Twin 1. She had a poorly tummy today. She felt sick. So I cancelled my classes (lovely lessons for Valentine's themed around 'The story of us' by Taylor Swift) and sent her to bed with a hot water bottle (she wanted to watch telly and do colouring in, but I insisted that if she really was ill enough to make me forfeit a day's pay then she had to do it properly and go to bed - you are definitely not allowed to have any fun if you're off sick in this house, at least, not until lunch time). The problem was that there was a year 3/4 performance of The Lion King at school this afternoon, and she had the very important job, as the third elephant, of leading in Miss Corbett's class to the hall. 'But Miss Corbett needs me,' she whimpered, teary-eyed, when I said that sick children couldn't pick and choose which bits of school to attend. Her sister was also an elephant, and it did feel a bit as if the pachyderm would be incomplete without her, so we raced to school just in time for her to rejoin the savanna. Miss Corbett looked thrilled, but Twin 1 spent the whole performance regretting her decision, and her hand-painted elephant mask was wet with tears by the end of the performance (Twin 2, by contrast, ripped her mask off, swung her ponytail and belted out those Elton John numbers with an enormous grin on her little face Genetic clones, my bottom. Nature vs nurture, go figure...).
Ah, sometimes it's tough being eight and half, I guess.

Ah, there you are! How the devil are you? My sore throat is almost better, only had to take two lots of cold relief medication today and felt well enough to fast (didn't check how many calories in the cold capsules, surely they don't count? And I'm also fairly certain that the bite l got from Twin 1s Curly Wurly was calorie free, too...)
I'm really looking forward to tomorrow, and not just because l can eat again. l have a whole day with no teaching or housework, I'm feeling better, the kids aren't sick and l'll get to spend a good four hours finally and thoroughly sorting out my heroine's psyche. Can't wait.
And I'm going to make sushi for lunch.
Blimey, my life's alright at the moment!

We christened the mystery machine at the weekend. No, not in that way - far too cold to venture out of my arctic sleeping bag for middle aged rumpy pumpy, thanks (I'm sure the temperature drops at least five degrees once you get north of Derby). We were visiting long suffering friends. They were lovely. We don't have many friends though, so there's always a temptation to stay a bit too long. Other people always have nicer food and cleaner houses, too, don't they?
Nice to get away for the night as well, even if it was to the frozen north.
This week Hubby is overseas with work, so he'll only be home for one night. No mystery machine outing planned this weekend.
He says he can't make it back on Friday because the military flight only goes on Saturday. l asked why he couldn't fly home on a civvie flight and be back f.. the whole weekend, but he said he could no longer fly on civvie flights from that location. Why, l wondered, thinking potential international crisies and emergent conflict zones? Because there are too many fat people on civilian flights, he said.
Hmmm. Well there's a sound operational justification if ever l heard one.

Hello again. I'm going to make this brief because I'm shivering at the kitchen table and desperate to go to bed. No, I'm not going to turn the heating up - are you insane? - I'm just going to do the sensible thing and go to bed in woolly socks and a cardi.
I only wanted to tell you about the mystery machine. Oooh yes, we bought a camper van at the weekend! It's just a diddly little one (a Mazda bongo),  but it's got a cooker and a sink and a fridge and everything. All we need is a few dodgy looking monsters and ghouls to unmask and a comedy chase montage involving swiping hands and cobwebs (oh, actually, we've got the cobwebs - the cleaner has quit - can't say I blame her: some jobs are just too much of a challenge...).
So I've been feeling very Thelma-ish this week. I may take to wearing purple mini-skirts (or is that Daphne?) and glasses, just to complete the look.
The other exciting thing that happened this week is that my husband sent me flowers and chocolates. Nice huh? So it's been a pretty good week so far (yes, apart from not having a cleaner and having to do the housework myself, and then failing to do it and then feeling guilty about not having done it). What excitement will tomorrow bring? xxx

Twenty years ago this month, I first went out with my husband (yes, a bit later on I chucked him and wafted off to Africa for a year, but let's just gloss over that bit for now). When we were due to go on our first date, I had a hideous cold, so - instead of a hot date - he made me spaghetti bolognese and tucked me up in bed with a box of tissues. For me, that first spag bol was more romantic than the biggest bouquet of flowers or posh meal. I'm telling you about this now not only because it's 20 years since the event, but because it has influenced another relationship.
I mentioned the spag bol thing to my Wednesday class, adding that my husband has now taught our 11-year-old son to make it, because clearly wowing the totty with home cooking is an invaluable life skill. Today, one of my students said that the story has changed her marriage. She's from Taiwan, and married to an only-child man. When she got married, her mother-in-law took her aside and told her to remember that once she was a wife and mother, there would be no time off (I know, what century are we living in?). However, when she was ill over Christmas, she told her husband what I'd said about the spag bol incident, and even though he was utterly flabbergasted at the idea of a man doing any kind of domestic nonsense, he did cook and look after the children for her, so that she could get better quickly. She says now, even though she's better, he'll get up and get breakfast for the family. It has transformed their home life.
So, Hubby, if you read this, I salute you! x

Ooh la la. That was xmas then. And in the words of John Lennon, "What have you done?"
I'll tell you what I haven't done. I haven't held back on the chocolate or booze. And I haven't had any fasting days either. So it's going to be back on the soda water and sugar free gum sometime this week. However, I have also seen some family, vowed never to see some other family ever again (don't ask - or if you do, ask in secret), sent back two versions of my xmas present (the first one was too small so I sent it back for the next size up, which was also too small - could this have anything to do with my xmas choc n' booze frenzy, I wonder?) and am currently awaiting delivery of the third incarnation, just in time for the hols to finish.
Hubby has gone back to London. He's done a splendid job of looking after me recently. A virus has left me partially deaf and dizzy - I think it's called Labrynthitis. I'm going to try to get to the doctor this week, but you know, trying to get an appointment is like oh, I don't know, trying to do something very difficult (sorry, all out of imaginative similies right now).
I've just had yet another go at my PhD proposal. I've been accepted, but I need to get funding or I can't afford it, and writing a funding application is as tricky as getting a doctor's appointment when you want one, or finding a christmas present that actually fits (see, I got there with the similie thing eventually). At least feeling too dizzy to get up and do the ironing has been good for something, though. I've read all of Stephen King's 'On writing' today, as well as doing my third draft of the PhD application. The deadline is Thursday. I do so hope the nice people at the Arts and Humanities Research Council will decide to give me some money. I'm worth it (I would say this whilst flicking my hair with a coquettish look on my face, but my hair is all greasy from a day in bed, and, as Hubby pointed out, a little bit grey and in need of a boost of Nice n' Easy golden auburn  - or whatever is on special offer at the moment).
I was going to start tweeting in 2014, but I think I'll put it off a bit longer - there was a feature on Radio 4 the other morning about social network addiction, which played to my Luddite tendencies. I'll get round to it at some point though, and I'll let you know when I do. Cheerio and Happy New Year xxx