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....