Snickers, Fairy Cakes and Pink Willies-Whoops, Wellies

I met a lovely author recently named Sue Watson. Sue has written a very funny book titled ‘Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes’ Check it out here. Sue invited me over to her blog for cake and coffee and this is what happened…

‘Pink Wellies, Flat Caps and Someone Else’s Snickers Bar’

 I recently read a very funny book – Pink Wellies and Flat Caps and just knew that the author would be my kinda gal. So having enjoyed a lovely session of book chat, coffee, cake (and a ’mix-up’ over Maltesers) at her place, I invited the fabulous Lynda Renham over to mine. My mission was to discover her writing secrets, over copious coffee and cake.

Lynda’s latest book is the best-selling ‘Pink Wellies and Flat Caps,’ and tells the hilarious tale of Alice Lane, who has everything; a wonderful fiancé, a responsible job and a lovely flat in Chelsea, but after a bra fitting her life goes tits up. Homeless, and with just a sparkling engagement ring as a memory of her previous life Alice accepts a live-in farm manager’s job and discovers that things actually can get worse. I was intrigued to know how Lynda saw Alice, so my first probing question was;

Lynda, I love Alice who is feisty, funny and bright. The character is so well written I felt like I was alongside her during her adventures in the country. So if Hollywood called tomorrow and optioned the book for a film, who would you like to play the part of Alice?

If Hollywood called tomorrow, the lost likely scenario is that I would drop dread from a heart attack and would never get to shout ‘Emily Blunt.’ In my mind I have no doubt that it should be her. I adored her performance in ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ and she is so versatile. She would be perfect and of course we would become best friends J Most importantly she is British and would understand the British humour.

Yes, I can definitely see Emily Blunt in the role, she would encapsulate the vulnerability, intelligence and fun of Alice.  It seems you have always been a writer, and were writing stories as a child. So when was the moment you decided to write your first novel?

When I was nineteen and I still have the original draft copy in a chest in our summer house. I have written many since then and have numerous unpublished novels knocking about the house. The moment I decided to go for it with comedy was after my humorous blog took off. I had just returned from Turin where I had gone to attend a wedding and where along with my mother in law we transported a wedding cake. From this whole experience a small germ of an idea was transplanted and later became ‘Wedding Cake to Turin’ My first comedy romance.

What a lovely story and around Italy too – such a romantic setting. So, your next book can you tell us what it’s about, what’s inspired you to write this, and when we can get our hands on a copy?

Ooh, always reluctant to talk about WIP. But I can say that there is a monkey involved, a few East End Gangsters, lots of misunderstandings and a touch of Downton Abbey and of course a gorgeous hero.

Sounds great! I know what you mean it’s always difficult to talk about a new book because you don’t want to give anything away – yet at the same time you can’t wait to share it with everyone. But with all that potential hilarity and a delicious hero, it sounds like a winner already.

The hero is definitely the most gorgeous yet I think…the book’s out in September and of course it also contains a huge amount of comedy.

I can’t wait! So while you’re slaving over a computer and spending afternoons busy with gorgeous heroes at your writing desk, what do you nibble on?

Whatever I can get my hands on… I even stole the builder’s Snickers bar from the fridge when they were building our extension.  I would also buy them doughnuts and then steal one or two for myself. Shameful but necessary for the creative juices to flow…

Absolutely! And as I always say, if it’s someone else’s chocolate it’s someone else’s calories.

Stolen Snickers Bar

So apart from other people’s food calling from your fridge what keeps you awake at night? 

Guilt at the number of doughnuts I’ve eaten that day and whether a spider may run over my face, as happened once, and oh yes the plot of my novel, of course…

Ah yes, doughnuts… but let’s not be side-tracked by soft dough yielding to wickedly sharp yet sugary sweet raspberry jam - as can so easily happen. No we’ll stay with writing…we will… for now. Back to books; a plot can cause many sleepless nights until it’s firmly nailed down and what with a fear of spiders and Snickers calling from the fridge I can see you may have your work cut out. So who is your favourite writer? Have any writers inspired your own pen?

I have many. Iris Murdoch I particularly admire as was lucky to meet her husband John Bayley and see her study. A new favourite writer is Kimberley Chambers, a good friend. I am a huge fan of Salman Rushdie, Jo Carnegie, and Ronni Cooper. My writing has been more inspired by films than by books and Richard Curtis I admire greatly.

Yes I am also inspired by films and as a writer of romantic comedy I can see how Richard Curtis films (Bridget Jones, Love Actually, Notting Hill etc) would be the perfect inspiration for you. Me too!

Do you have a favourite book or books?

Several. ‘The Heart Listens’ by Helen Van Slyke. I never forgot the main protagonist Elizabeth Quigley. ‘End of the Affair’ Graham Green. ‘Calico Palace’ by Gwen Bristow and ‘Blood Secrets’ by Craig Jones. I also loved ‘The Feud’ by Kimberley Chambers and ‘The Sea The Sea’ by Iris Murdoch.

Talking of favourite books, one of mine is Stephen King’s psychological thriller, ‘Misery.’ Paul Sheldon the novelist in the book has various rituals while writing and on completion of each novel indulges in a cigarette to celebrate. Do you have a special treat you enjoy when you finish that final sentence?

Not really because it is quite a worry knowing if it will be received well…But if it does go well, however, we would celebrate with some bubbly.

That sounds perfect! So until the new book is completed and you open that bubbly, more coffee? It’s been so delicious sharing cake and some of your writing secrets Lynda so while I put the kettle on, here’s a final, silly but extremely vital question; if you were a cake, what would you be?

A fruitcake, in fact sometimes my husband thinks I am one!

Ha ha… that reminds me, do help yourself to another fairy cake… and thanks so much for joining me.

To read more about Lynda go to her blog here.

http://lrcook.wordpress.com/tag/lynda-renham/

Facebook http://www.facebook.com/lynda.cook

Follow her onTwitter https://twitter.com/Lyndarenham

And if you want to know more about Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (how could you not?)  Then pop over to Amazon

Lucille Ball and Hijinks

Brilliant review by Blog Critic

If Lucille Ball were alive today, cookie cakes, she’d be devouring Lynda Renham’s madcap romantic comedies like Cookie Monster devours cookies. When it comes to screwball storytelling the delightfully talented Renham sets the gold standard in penning hilarity.

The characters in Pink Wellies and Flat Capsand their dialogue are charismatic, sharp, and witty. Renham’s latest is brimming with engaging,

 

 

energetic, and flawless entertainment.

Alice Lane has it all; a magnificent fiancé, a responsible occupation and a charming flat in Chelsea, however after Alice has a bra fitting her world turns topsy-turvy. In a nutshell, her life goes tits up. Adrift with just an iridescent engagement ring as a token of her former life Alice agrees to take on a position in Cornwall as a live-in farm manager and learns her situation in fact can indeed get worse. The appealing Alice finds exactly what she is made of as she wrangles to handle her temperamental employer. Nevertheless can Alice forego love and repel the dynamic Dominic or will the past come back to astonish her?

Alice sparkles brilliantly as she tackles life and her new career. side-splitting laughter, amusing adventure, and feel good awesomeness is flitted throughout this delightful tale.

At moments heart-wrenching, at moments raucous, at moments zany enough to tinkle from the hijinks, at all times engaging and satiating,Pink Wellies and Flat Caps earns a read if you’re a romance comedy enthusiast.

Article Author: Diane Morasco

Diane Morasco created The Book Resort in 2009. In 2011 she founded Morasco Media and in 2012 Morasco Enterprises. Ms. Morasco is the Founder and CEO of Morasco Media(MM) and Morasco Enterprises(ME).

Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes and of course Maltesers

Meeting Sue Watson

There is nothing I enjoy more than talking to other writers. I love hearing about their writing process. And today I am chatting to the lovely Sue Watson. I’ve had to hide all the chocolate mind you and put a lock on the fridge but apart from that it has been an enjoyable experience having her on my blog. Sue is one very funny lady and if you haven’t read her book ‘Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes’ then I suggest you pop over to Amazon right now and download it onto your Kindle. You won’t regret it.
So with no further ado, let’s crack on shall we and meet the lovely Sue. But be warned hide your Maltesers. She’s already gone through my stash.
First question to ask Sue after plying her with coffee is of course,
What made you first decide to write a novel? And have you always wanted to be a writer?
 I’d always wanted to write a novel, from being quite young, but I’m quite lazy and the idea of sitting down and writing 100,00 words plus was too daunting. I’d always been a writer in that I was a journalist before I became a TV Producer. And when it became clear there was a novel bubbling away in my head it was only a matter of time before I had to write it. Working in TV was great fun, I met some amazing people and had some hilarious times – and now I write about it. I still dabble in TV, and particularly enjoy working on ideas for new programmes but the novel writing has won through and that’s my main job now.

And we are thrilled it is too. Now I don’t know about other writers but when I get stuck, which seems to be often lately, the first place to get raided is the fridge. I’d love to say it was the fruit bowl but hey… So is Sue a girl after my own heart?
So Sue, what is your biggest indulgence when writing. We’re all hoping you say chocolate so as to make us all feel less guilty? 

While writing, I eat only a few organic salad leaves and a litre of water.

Oh no! I needn’t have locked the fridge and maybe it wasn’t Sue who nabbed my Malteses. I take it all back…

As if! Unfortunately working from home means I’m far too close to the fridge – and as I like my chocolate cold… well, you can probably guess the rest.

What a relief, huh girls?
Now for the question that always interests me. Computer or pen and paper and why?

Oh definitely a computer for ‘proper’ writing. I couldn’t even write a sentence on pen and paper now. I sometimes wonder how I would have coped in the past before computers. I use a pen and paper for notes and if I’m out and about and suddenly have a great idea for a plot or character I stop everything to jot it down, or I’ll forget. I will often pull the car over and delve into the detritus of congealed sweets old tissues and melted chocolate in my handbag to hunt down my note book. Being quite disorganised I can never find it and end up scribbling ‘vital’ stuff on old receipts. Much of this ‘literary gold’ is of course lost forever when I clean out my handbag and forget that the screwed up, chocolate stained receipt contains the best plot I’ve ever written!

So budding writers begin scouring dustbins now and email me for my address. I need that ‘literary gold.’

Talking of literary gold, tell us about your current novel.

Described as ‘a story of love, loss, friendship and cakes,’ Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes is a romantic comedy about Stella Weston, a woman striving to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother and the perfect career girl. She’s also desperate for the perfect body and torn between a desire for slimness and a passion for cake! When Stella’s life is suddenly turned upside down, she turns to the mixing bowl for comfort, in the hope that zesty lemon sponge with frosting will give her the courage to face an uncertain and scary future.

Worth a read I reckon. But I’m curious to know if the main character is based on you.

They say write what you know and there’s a lot of me in Stella Weston (even our initials are the same). Like me she works in the world of TV, is struggling with life and feeling torn between all the roles imposed on her. I think as workers, wives, mothers and daughters all women feel this way at some point and I certainly relate to Stella and the problems she faces. We also share a sense of humour a love of baking and a futile desire to be size ten!

Shall we move on from the size 10? You know, before we find ourselves crying into our chocolate cupcakes. Let’s talk about something less depressing. Finally having a room of one’s own at last and not feeling in the least like Virginia Woolf, I couldn’t help wondering if Sue writes in a room of her own or somewhere completely different.

When I gave up my job at the BBC with a rather naive plan to write a novel I didn’t know if I’d ever get published and it felt a little premature to even buy a desk, so I wrote on the kitchen table. I like being there as I’m not cut off from the rest of the family and can get their input if necessary, however this is a double-edges sword and sometimes hard to concentrate. On days when I’m struggling with a scene or a character and everyone’s asking me stuff and making a racket I think Virginia Woolf was right – a woman does need a room of her own to write fiction! Of course there’s a major advantage to working in the kitchen too – close proximity to the fridge (for chocolate), the oven (for baking), and the kettle (for coffee), a writer’s most important equipment along with a computer!

I’m obviously doing it all wrong and am much too far away from the fridge. So, enough of the writing malarkey how about a little more about Sue Watson and her lovely family and pets.

Originally I’m from Manchester, I moved to London in my twenties and now live in Worcestershire with my journalist husband, Nick daughter Eve and two cats. Harry and Poppy our cats are the same age both 7 and both lovely in their own ways. Harry is a big furry moggy with weight issues and a weakness for cheese while Poppy is a pretty little black cat who chats a lot.
We did have a rather glamorous swishy tailed gold fish called Eddie. However, my daughter decided she was a girl, so we changed her name to Edina. At the age of 3, having been resuscitated several times by my husband (‘the fish whisperer’), Edina passed away peacefully in her sleep last year. We take comfort from the fact she lived a full, fish film star life in a large tank with her own underwater castle and regular supply of fishy nibbles.

Do you have a work in progress, something for us to look forward to? I heard something about Nepal, did you go there?

I have been working on my current novel ‘Younger, Thinner, Blonder,’ for almost two years. It’s due out in the Autumn and is the story of Tanya Travis, a daytime talk-show host who enjoys all the designer handbags and high end interiors that go with fame and money… until one day her life spirals out of control. In the novel, Tanya visits Nepal, which is somewhere I haven’t been, but would love to go to. And having done lots of research and spoken to many different people, I feel like I know it very well.
In the novel is a reality show, a gay actor, a sex-tape star, a couple of gorgeous guys and some very expensive shoes. Yep, it’s my usual cocktail of highbrow, intellectual, issue lead writing, but essentially a about love, fame and how what we want is often different from what we need. I hope it’s a novel that makes readers think – but not too much!

I’m thinking another one worth reading…Talking of reading, who are your favourite authors?

I have so many favourites, and though I love chick-lit I also love darker, edgier crime novels too. I loved ‘Gone Girl’ by Gillian Flynn and have just downloaded Sharp Objects by the same writer. I’ve also recently discovered a great writer called Lynda Renham and having thoroughly enjoyed her latest novel ‘Pink Wellies and Flat caps,’ have started the fabulously titled, ‘Coconuts and Wonderbras.’

Ooh *blushes furiously* While I go off to fan myself can you tell us your all-time favourite book?

Oh that’s sooo difficult! From Jane Austen to Khaled Hosseini I love many, many books, all very different and all great in their own way. Can I cheat this question a bit and tell you about one of my favourite all time writers who’s written several of my favourite books instead? Jen Lancaster is a best-selling American writer who is irreverent, very real and very, funny. She has written several books about her life: ‘Bright Lights, Big Ass,’ ‘Bitter is the New Black’ and ‘Such a Pretty Fat,’ are all favourites of mine and though I don’t always agree with her politics I love her take on life and her humour. I was recently beside myself with joy and extremely flattered when an American reviewer on Amazon compared my writing to hers… what a moment!

How flattering is that? You have us intrigued us now and I for one will be looking up Jen Lancaster. Before you leave us Sue and eat me out of house and home can you answer two fun questions?
Sweet or savoury and why?

Mmmm. The honest answer to that would be just ‘food.’ My current obsession with salted caramels and salty sweet popcorn probably straddles all aspects of taste (and decency?). But if I really had to choose it would probably be sweet. I adore chocolate, fresh cream cakes, biscuits, ice cream, hot chocolate fudge sauce… I will stop there or this may become the longest blog answer in the world ever!
Stop there, yes please else I’ll be dribbling all over this blog posting.

Finally If you were a cheese what kind of cheese would you be?
Full fat cream cheese covered in chocolate – obviously!

Sue, thank you so much for coming onto my blog, I have enjoyed it immensely.

Thank you so much for having me, this was great fun! xxx

To read more about Sue go to her blog here.

Better still join her on Facebook Sue Watson Books on Facebook

Or Twitter  https://twitter.com/suewatsonwriter

And if you want to know more about Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes, which of course you will. Then pop over here

 

Pink Wellies and Flat Caps – extract

Hello my friends.
‘Pink Wellies and Flat Caps’ is now available on Kindle at £1.98. Go here for yours

Here is a little taster…

Chapter One

Don’t you just hate men’s timing? Only a man could drop a bombshell on you while you’re sitting in a fitting room with your tits hanging out. Not that I spend a great deal of time sitting in fitting rooms with my tits hanging out you understand. My friend Georgie had convinced me that if I am going to buy some new underwear then I really should have a proper bra fitting. It’s not like I’m Dolly Parton or anything and I hasten to point out as such.
‘Hidden Beauty is the place to go when buying a bra. They really know how to fit a woman,’ she argues.
‘But I really don’t need a fitting,’ I protest feebly.
‘You can’t just buy a bra off the peg,’ she insists, dragging me into one of the most exclusive lingerie stores in London.
I assure her that I can and that, in fact, on an NHS salary it is all I can afford.
‘You’re marrying a well-paid advertising executive in a few weeks. Your breasts are important to him. He would want you to take good care of them,’ she grins.
Important to him they may be, but in my experience Charlie has been more interested in getting bras off me than seeing me in them. I am also quite sure with his tight budgeting schemes he would, without doubt, balk at the prices in here. As it is he gets all agitated and red in the face if I leave the lights on in the flat.

I glance at the tag and try to look nonchalant as I search for a price. Just about everything is printed on this tag, and in about fifty languages. Okay a slight exaggeration, but how is it that they can get everything on this small piece of card except the price? Hidden Beauty has hidden prices it seems. This does not bode well for yours truly.
‘Lovely isn’t it?’ whispers Georgie as she strokes the lace. ‘I bought two of these last year and they were worth every penny.’
‘How many pennies exactly?’ I whisper, trying not to sound too panicky.
The Enya music in the background is doing nothing to calm my nerves. Between us, Charlie and I had just spent a small fortune on our forthcoming wedding. I really can’t afford to be extravagant.
She laughs carelessly.
‘About a hundred pounds each. Don’t worry. Enjoy your day off.’
Don’t worry, is she crazy? Georgie has no concept of money or more to the point, no concept of the lack of it. Georgie has a fantastic job as a fashion buyer for Harvey Nicholls where she is spectacularly overpaid and not in the least overworked. She always looks glamorous and toned. Two mornings she goes to the gym before work, and one evening to Pilates. With her sculptured bone structure and long thick black hair she could be mistaken for a model. Unfortunately, her (enviable) successful life also includes a prick of a boyfriend. That is if you can call him her ‘boyfriend’ seeing as he is someone else’s husband (not enviable). But Georgie is mad about James and there seems little I can do to dissuade her. She is convinced that he will leave his wife any day now, and has thought this for the past year even though I keep telling her he never will. When she is not thinking about James she has her head in a crime novel. In stark contrast I am scandalously underpaid in what must be the most unglamorous job on the planet. I am the deputy practice manager at an NHS doctor’s surgery. The truth is I am so shattered in the evenings that I can barely make it to the shower, let alone Pilates, and the only thing I do before work is hyperventilate. My stress levels are so high that I feel sure that just one session at the gym would be fatal. I would give myself a cardiac arrest just by releasing all my pent-up emotions. Even now I can feel the adrenalin rushing through my body, tinging my cheeks pink and brightening my eyes. However, I do have a lovely fiancé and a fairy-tale wedding booked. In just under a month I will be Mrs Charlie Marrow and I cannot wait.
‘I can’t pay a hundred pounds for a bra. I don’t spend that much on my highlights,’ I protest and make for the door but Georgie pulls me back to face the assistant who is rushing towards us swinging a tape measure.
After one look at me she grimaces and says,
‘Well, already I can see you’re wearing the wrong size bra. Just look at how you’re hanging.’
Good heavens, what happened to Good morning madam? That works better for me than look at how you’re hanging. I hope they don’t greet men with that when they pop into their posh underwear shops. Mind you, a man might be flattered to be told how he is hanging. I’m Alice Lane by the way, thirty-two, living with my successful fiancé, soon to be married and therefore respectable by all accounts, but not hanging at all well apparently.

Both Georgie and I look at my tits in a whole new light. Don’t you just hate shop assistants who know it all? I’ve been wearing this bra for years. Is she telling me I have been hanging wrong all that time?
‘She has a point,’ says Georgie while looking critically at one breast and then the other. ‘You’re definitely hanging lopsided’.
What does she mean I’m hanging lopsided? Surely a bad-fitting bra wouldn’t have me hanging lopsided. I feel an overwhelming urge to flee the shop but before I can, the assistant, who introduces herself as Justine, has pulled me into a fitting room. I grab Georgie for support.
‘If you really want to focus on bra nirvana it is better to come in alone,’ Justine says firmly.
Nirvana or no nirvana there is no way I am going in there alone with Justine, and I’m not sure how I can find any kind of nirvana if I’m going to bare my boobs. With Georgie’s encouragement I remove my jumper to reveal the offending bra. Justine tuts knowingly and touches it reluctantly with her finger.
‘It’s quite saggy and very unsupportive,’ she says grimacing.
I hope she is talking about the bra, and not my breast. I feel a desire to defend my saggy unsupportive brassiere but refrain.
‘Turn around,’ she orders.
I’m beginning to wonder if this is a bra shop or an army barracks. Blimey, she’ll be strip-searching me next. I do as I’m told and come face to face with myself in the fitting room mirror. Good Lord, I actually do look a little lopsided. I’m convinced they do something to the mirrors in these rooms. I am glad to see that everything else looks acceptable and not in the least lopsided. My complexion is clear, glowing in fact, and considering I was dragged out by Georgie before I had time to put my face on I look okay. My blue eyes are bright and shiny and I look altogether healthy. The light in the fitting room brings out my blonde highlights just a little too well though and I can see my roots are well overdue a treatment. Just as well I am having a complete overhaul for the wedding. But apart from hanging a little lopsided I think I look rather good for a thirty-two year old.
‘Yes, as I thought. You have it on its tightest setting. No wonder you are hanging so badly.’
‘Shame on you,’ sniggers Georgie.
‘Remove it please.’
Justine whips out her tape measure with great flourish and I jump out of my skin. I reluctantly remove the trusted Marks and Spencer bra and wonder if Justine will find fault with my breasts also. This is all becoming very cringe-worthy, so when my mobile bleeps I am quite relieved. I push my hand into my bag and Justine sighs so loudly that I remove it instantly.
‘Arms up.’
Georgie sniggers again and I throw her a dirty look.
‘Just as I thought, you’ve been wearing a 34B while you are actually a 36C.’
Georgie gasps.
‘Oh no,’ she squeals, ‘that’s all you need on your wedding day.’
‘But I’ve always worn 34B,’ I protest. ‘My breasts have been cushioned in a 34B for as long as I can remember.’
Justine scowls.
‘And look at the state of them.’
I’m starting to feel like a circus freak. She’ll be ordering breast surgery next. All I wanted was a bog-standard bra.

Justine disappears with a swish of the fitting room curtain to fetch an armful of 36Cs and I hastily retrieve my mobile. I’m about to read the text message when Justine breezes in again, and in one smooth movement whips the phone out of my hand and throws it into my bag and has my arms in the air before I can say Playtex.
‘There,’ she declares, turning me to face the mirror. ‘Look how perfect they hang.’
I take the catalogue she hands me and look at myself admiringly in the mirror.
‘You look fab,’ smiles Georgie. ‘Wait till Charlie sees you in your 36C.’
I’m actually quite impressed. It feels ten times more comfortable. However, after a glance at the prices in the catalogue I feel a little giddy.
‘I can’t possibly pay that,’ I stammer.
‘You would be mad not to pay it,’ responds Georgie in her usual nonchalant fashion.
‘There is absolutely nowhere else on earth where a woman should buy her bras, and you must buy two. You have to look good in your wedding dress.’
Buckling under the pressure I pull my credit card from my bag and see my phone flashing with the text message from earlier. The card is snatched from my hand and Justine strides to the cash desk. I follow, clicking into the text message as I do so. It is from Charlie.
‘Alice love, I am so sorry …’
Justine’s voice pulls my attention away.
‘That will be one hundred and thirty pounds madam, and may I say you won’t regret a penny of it.’
I hate to tell her that I am already regretting every penny of it.
‘Well, I may not eat for the next month, but at least I won’t be hanging lopsided,’ I joke.
There is nothing from the stony-faced Justine except for the immortal words Please enter your pin madam. I am given a free pair of G-string undies which, gratefully, Justine doesn’t insist on measuring me for. I look at my text as Georgie picks up the bag.

I can’t go through with the wedding. I should have told you before. I’ve left the flat and moved in with Geoff …’

What! What does he mean he has moved in with Geoff? Good God, my fiancé is a closet homosexual. He’s left me for another man. This could only happen to me.
‘Where do you want to go for lunch?’ chirps Georgie, opening the door and setting off a delicate chime.
‘Charlie’s gay,’ I blurt out, dropping the phone and falling onto the chair outside the fitting rooms and grabbing two tissues from the complimentary box that sits on the table.

I stare at the large sign above the till which reads, put your breasts in our hands. I’ve just spent one hundred and thirty pounds on two new bras after well and truly putting my breasts in their hands, and now Charlie tells me he is gay. He could have told me before I spent all that money. Good heavens, what am I thinking? Does it matter about the bras? Charlie has left me for another man. What will my mother say? What will my friends say? What will the vicar say? What about the wedding and the invitations? How can I tell people that Charlie prefers a man to me? Why couldn’t he have left me for another woman? In fact, why did he have to leave me at all?
‘What, you’re surely not serious?’
Georgie takes the phone and studies the text.
‘You mad bitch, you didn’t read it all … Here.’
I grab the phone. Oh thank God.
‘He isn’t leaving me then?’ I ask, relief flooding my body.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly.’
What does that mean? She pulls a face and gestures to Justine for some water.

… just until we get things sorted out. I promise there isn’t another woman but I’m not ready to settle with just one, at least not yet. I know I should have told you before. I’m so not ready for marriage. I’m so sorry Alice, please forgive me. This is the worst way to tell you, I know that. Forgive me. I’ll phone you in a few days. Of course you can keep the ring, no question.

The assistant hands me a glass of water and the tears I had been struggling to control burst forth.
‘He said I can keep the ring,’ I sob.
‘Oh well,’ says Georgie sarcastically, ‘that makes everything okay then.’
‘It can be an overwhelming experience when you purchase your first perfect fitted bra,’ smiles Justine while handing me another tissue.
‘Oh do shut up woman,’ snaps Georgie. ‘Your bras aren’t that bloody fantastic. Her fiancé just ditched her.’
Great, thanks a lot Georgie. I grab two more complimentary tissues and hiccup my way out of Hidden Beauty. All I did was buy a bra and now my life has gone tits up.

Pink Wellies and Flat Caps

Hello all,
It’s so good to be back blogging. I have very much missed my blogging buddies. It has been a crazy six months. It very much felt like my life as well as my home was overtaken by builders, plumbers and electricians. You can be quite sure that many a blog posting on builders is certain to follow. I have also been writing like crazy. The past few months have seen me almost strapped to the lap top and at times nearly dozing off. But finally the new novel is finished and will be shortly with my editor which means, it will shortly be with you, the reader. I am so excited about this novel. I had so much fun writing it. I think it is the funniest so far and certainly the most gripping.
The cover is Fab and I am mad about it. Thanks to Gracie Klumpp who is superb. She always manages to produce exactly what I picture in my head. How great is that? Do let us know what you think also. You can see more of Gracie’ work on her web page here http://www.gracieklumpp.com

Now for the really exciting news. ‘Pink Wellies and Flat Caps’ will be released on Kindle on March 1st and the paperback will be available for Pre-order from Amazon on Valentines Day.

Competition

Meanwhile there will be a competition for three lucky readers to win a signed copy of the book. For more details Pop across to my author page here
The three main rules are.
1) Sign up to the author page
2) Like my author Facebook page
3) Finally answer the three questions that are related to my two novels and send your answers to Pinkwellies@renham.co.uk

Good luck… And keep your eyes peeled for more news on ‘Pink Wellies and Flat Caps’

Doughnuts and Valium (the best combination)

Even this sight of me doesn’t drive the builders away

I thought to myself, because I do that sometimes. I talk to myself also (more than I should) but let’s not go there. I thought to myself, let’s write about this building work, after all it might be cathartic. Before I even wrote three words there were tears falling onto the paper blurring the words Okay, there would have been had it been on paper written in ink. In fact the words may well have been blurred by the scarlet red of my blood, so suicidal have I felt. But… there is always something good to be found. I don’t have to worry about dieting. It’s quite impossible to cook anything. The slow cooker is buried in brick-dust, the kitchen no longer exists and even heating up two TV dinners has become a skill. Balancing one on top of the other, making sure the dish covering one is just large for the top to take another TV dinner while continuing to rotate nicely. Wednesday night has become fish and chip night while Sunday has become Roast dinner down the pub. I buy the builders doughnuts and myself hot cross buns. I’m drinking copious amounts of wine (mostly because the doctor won’t give me Valium and wine is the next best thing) I don’t have to clean (no point) I use someone else’s bathroom as I don’t have one (luxury) and I always have a man about the place. Some of them are admittedly as good as useless but I have men never the less. I don’t have heating but I do have a small electric fan heater which we sit huddled over. I have found washing using a bucket isn’t so bad. I’m beginning to wonder what the fuss is about sinks. So between popping pain killers and laughing till I cry I am managing to stay sane amidst the chaos which begins every day without fail at 7.30. Come rain or shine I drag myself from my bed at 7 or earlier and am sitting in my tatty towelling robe when they arrive. They sadly realised quite early on that I am no Brigitte Bardot so why pretend? If Andrew can cope with the morning nightmare of me then so can they?
There is Mark, also known as ‘Dipstick Mark.’ Named thus by us. Dipstick Mark swaggers around all day swigging from his never-ending cans of Red Bull. I imagine he is flying by the end of the day and seems incapable of doing anything without an ensuing disaster. He plumbed in pipes for the heating and then forgot to turn the water on. We attempted to later that evening only to have a flood. Dipstick Mark returns to repair said damage and fits a tap in the bathroom so we have water upstairs. He then forgets to turn the water back on. When we do turn on the water we discover said tap has a leak. ‘Dipstick Mark’ almost flooded out our bathroom and ruined our new ceiling.
There’s lovely Dan, who I would adopt if I could. I’m not sure life will be the same once Dan goes and I won’t be able to shout ‘Dan,’ every time something doesn’t seem to work. Dan flies out to bring in the washing if it rains and takes in any deliveries. It’s like having my own manservant but without the ‘Mam’ bit.
There is lovely Kevin, the boss. He doesn’t say much but does plenty. There are two Steve’s otherwise known as sparky and the plumber. Not being versed in this language I spent several days waiting for someone called Sparky to arrive. I finally said to Dan,
‘I must keep missing Sparky. I haven’t met him yet.’
Dan patiently informed me that Sparky is the trade name for electrician. Well, I’m not to know that am I?
I’ve had four periods during the time they have invaded my home. Trying to insert a tampon while sitting in a portaloo with three builders outside having a tea break is no fun at all.
I’ve read builder nightmare stories of course but you never think it will happen to you. Oh, be afraid be very afraid. These builders are all the same. I’m actually lucky to still be alive after a rain of scaffolding came hurtling towards me. I have slipped on the mud inside the house not outside I hasten to add. Lovely Dan places the dust sheets neatly on the stairs every day showering the living room in a cloud of grey making the room resemble smoky Joes by the time he has finished. There was also the day they forgot to tell me that although I could see a cat flap hole on the outside, they had actually plastered it up on the inside. That night the cat couldn’t

Bend the cat has a tea break

get out to pee, hence the house reeks of cat pee now.
The worst thing possible they have done is… filled my fridge with Snickers bar. The overwhelming temptation has proven too much and was a disaster for my diet. But I am proud to say I weakened only once and stole one. ‘You’re roughing it very well,’ said Kevin. Is that a gloat I see on his face?
But enough of my story telling. Have a look at the photos.
All donations to the new building fund to repair builder damage can be sent to me directly.

Lovely Dan

Our living room/bathroom/kitchen/junk room

Living room

Bendy thinks ‘Ah this looks promising.’

This looks even more promising

Progress

Our current draining system

But it will be worth it

Cow dung and cream teas

There’s nothing like doing a bit of research down on the farm is there? Except I’m not a real born and bred country girl as many of you may have already worked out. I’ve spent the past eleven years fighting a constant battle with wood lice, mice and spiders. Give me a lizard any day and I am fine. But a slug in the kitchen is my biggest nightmare. But I have decided the next novel is to be set on a farm and that my research can easily be done on the internet and via emails with a lovely farmer that I tracked down. Not so. Andrew thinks differently.
Last week he surprised me by saying.
‘I’m taking you away for the weekend’
Those immortal words every woman dreams to hear.
‘To a working farm in Cornwall, where you can see the milking and get up close to and smell the dung,’ he continued.
Not the words every woman dreams to hear.
All the same it sounded like a good idea. Nothing like experiencing the real thing now is there? So on the Friday morning we left our builders with their tea and doughnuts (oh yes the builders and the extension are a whole other blog) and began our drive down to Cornwall. I learnt it was down from a very irritated Andrew after I had mentioned to a few people that we were going up to Cornwall to stay on a farm. Up or down I can’t see as it matters but it seems it certainly does. Of course we had forgotten it was the school holidays and the traffic was a nightmare and the service stations were completely packed. You know the kind of thing. You revert to a Cornish pasty from the van outside because the queues are unbearable and the loos look like they have been raided and all that was worth stealing was toilet roll. There isn’t a roll to be found for neither love nor money. I found myself sitting on the loo with hand dryers going like no tomorrow frantically searching for just the smallest piece of tissue in my bag. I was desperate and finally rummaged to the bottom to find something (I’m not telling you what, but it did what was needed)
And so we continue and finally arrive at the farm where the sheep dog Molly greets me with a leap up my trousers. It has been pouring with rain in Cornwall. Everywhere is muddy and so is Molly and now so are my trousers.
‘Good boy,’ I say good-naturedly.
‘I think you mean good girl don’t you?’ asks Andrew. ‘Especially with a name like Molly.’

Molly

Okay, so I’m a bit tired. But Molly didn’t seem bothered. In fact she jumped all over me again in gratitude.
We are shown to our room with a promise of a farm tour the next day.
It rained all night and all the next day. But a farm tour I got, or more a tour of mud and dung.
Pearl, our lovely B&B lady told us to wear our old clothes. For her that was an old boiler suit. For me it was the only rain mac I possessed and my wellingtons over an old pair of leggings. I’m not a country girl remember. Andrew however looked well at ease in his old jeans, wellies and jacket.
Well, I cannot begin to tell you. I was the one with the camera which seemed a little unfair as even in my Wellington’s I am gingerly moving through the mud while trying to snap away. Pearl and Andrew forge ahead while I am slurping my way through muddy fields and several times almost went head first in the mud to comments of,
‘You okay with the mud there? From Pearl before she surged ahead.
And from Andrew,
‘You’re okay you’ve got your Wellington’s on.’

Andrew with Pearl. Looking sexy indeed. Andrew that is.

This isn’t mud this is quicksand. Even Molly is no help. She just keeps pawing me for more strokes. Talk about me, me me.
I slosh my way to the milking sheds and sigh with relief. Hopefully now we are in the dry I can relax. I take more photos and slap down Molly’s muddy paw for the hundredth time.
‘Let me show you the dung heap. That’s the dung spreader you can hear,’ says Pearl proudly.
‘We had to hire the spreaders. As we have twelve months of dung to spread we will need to work as long as possible to make the most of the hire. We only have them for four days.’
Holy Crap! (As one might say in ‘Fifty shades of Grey’) Twelve months’ worth of shit? She is seriously taking me to see and of course smell twelve months of shit? I am seriously thinking there are many places where the novel could be set and perhaps now is the time to tell Andrew I have changed my mind. But before I can he is again forging ahead with Pearl through the mud, slime, and now the dung. I slip and slide all over the place and I feel sure I cry out at one point but hey who is listening to me. I’m only the writer. The smell is now overpowering and there in front of me is the dung heap. It is fascinating. Pearl tells me how they will take the dung and spread it over the fields.

Cow dung

‘Fascinating,’ I say and it is but not so fascinating that I want to stand for fifteen minutes hearing all about it. Andrew, however, who has to leave the room if I should ever so much as dare to fart seems happy to stand all day in cow shit with the rain pouring on him. I am beginning to find it quite sexy. If you believe that then you will believe anything.
But it is quite amazing to watch I have to admit. I have never seen so much dung in my whole life.
We finally leave the smell, and sounds of the dung spreader behind us and head for the fields. Well Andrew and Pearl headed for the fields. I just kind of sloshed my way along. Then we’re in the farm buildings and facing me with wide eyes and wet noses were the cutest calves ever. Pearl explained that the female calves will be kept for milking. We were silent as I coo cooed over a male calf with unusual markings and then asked ignorantly.
‘What happens to the male calves?’ I asked
‘They go to the slaughter-house,’ said Andrew.

Right there right then, of course, I wanted to rescue every calf on the farm. In fact every calf residing in Cornwall I could have rescued at that precise moment. But like everything I quickly forgot. Had she offered me roast beef later that night I’m sure I would have thought nothing of it. As it happens it was roast chicken.
A quick trip into the fields or in my case more a quick slip and slide and we were heading back the whole time listening to Pearl’s wonderful stories of farming life and life in the farming community.
With an aching back and aching legs probably from all the tension I built up in my legs trying to stay upright, I made hundreds of notes. Andrew then took for a wonderful cream tea. Seriously it was one of the best cream teas ever. The scone was huge, the jam was runny and the clotted cream was divine. If you are ever near Bude do find the Lavender tea rooms. I can’t recommend them highly enough. It was just warm enough for us to sit outside overlooking the lavender fields. Heaven indeed.
Nothing like a bit of dung research to get the juices flowing, so to speak. Let’s hope it worked. 15,000 words into the new novel so can’t be bad…

Funerals, Bamboo trains and flooded tuk tuks

I’m preparing for the drive back to Siem Reap today, which will take about three hours. I am very much hoping the heavy downpours will hold off until after I arrive back. Travelling anywhere in Cambodia is difficult enough but it becomes much worse when trying to drive through endless floods. It is incredibly hot with the humidity at 85% but this is not unusual in the rainy season I didn’t sleep well last night even though I am staying at the wonderful Battambang resort. I’ve not really slept well since arriving. I miss my husband and Bendy and there is so much to think about that it makes sleep difficult. As I type I can hear the sounds of funeral music. I know it is funeral music for my tuk tuk guide Dang, pointed this out to me during my trip to the bamboo train. He explained how the sound makes him feel a little frightened.
‘It can last from three days to sometimes longer and wakes you up in the mornings,’ he told me.
I found the sounds beautifully haunting and you can hear them for yourself here.
I don’t know how far away this particular funeral is that I can hear now. It sounds close but then the music always sounds near when it is in fact very far away.
I shall be sad to leave Battambang. I have had an interesting if not catastrophic visit but then it would not be typical of me if there wasn’t some catastrophes involved. My most reason catastrophe involved a bamboo train. My aim had been to visit the countryside while here. Battambang is the capital city of Battambang province in northwestern Cambodia.
Founded in the 11th century by the Khmer Empire, Battambang is well-known for being the leading rice-producing province of the country. The city is situated by the Sangkae River, a tranquil, small body of water that winds its way through Battambang Province providing its nice picturesque setting. I spent some time researching it online and read that a visit to the countryside was something not to be missed. I asked at reception and a tuk tuk driver was arranged. He arrived ten minutes early and introduced himself as Dang and spoke English with a Cambodian/North England accent. I asked him if he had been to England. He looked surprised.
‘No, but I learnt at school and from British people who come here.’
I guessed he must have spent a long time with a Northerner. I smiled and complimented him on his English.

Dang

‘I’d like to go into the country,’ I tell him.
He looks thoughtful.
‘Ah, country. You go on bamboo train?’
I had looked at the bamboo train online and thought it looked interesting if just a touch uncomfortable. I turn to the owner of the resort and ask if she can explain that I want to go into the countryside to take pictures. She understands and a long chat in Khmer ensues. Finally she says.
‘We think Bamboo train is good way to see country.’
I’ve been bamboozled. The bamboo train it is then.
‘Come on Lynda,’ smiles Dang.
So I head off for yet another experience. Although as yet I had no idea just how much of an experience it was going to be.
The Cambodian people are the friendliest I have ever met. The children call out to you as you pass by in your tuk tuk and the adults always smile at you. Most tuk tuk drivers are exceptionally helpful and friendly and many are great tour guides. Dang turned out to be one of those. He points out the river explaining that this time last year it was totally flooded.
‘Very bad,’ he smiles. ‘Now I take you to Bamboo train’

So, off I go to the train. Obviously I am expecting a train. Something similar to the train I may board back home in Oxford. How silly am I?
We arrive at the station after driving down very bumpy roads.
‘Very bumpy,’ I say. I am so innocent. I have no idea that the bumpy roads are nothing compared to the bumpy ride of the bamboo train.
Dang just smiles.
I look around for my train.
‘The train not here yet?’ I ask.
He points to what looks like a water raft.
‘Here bamboo train,’ he says gaily and another man throws a large cushion onto it for me. Oh, good heavens, they can’t possibly expect me to go on that. But, oh yes they do.

My bamboo train

Dang explains that the journey will last one hour. I try to visualise myself sitting on this train for one hour but it just doesn’t happen.
‘I come with you?’ Dang asks.
This seems a good idea. I climb onto the train, take a deep breath and off we go. I shall never complain a tuk tuk ride is bumpy again. At one point my handbag jumped up several inches and almost left the train but for Dangs quick reflexes. As I cling onto my bag and camera Dang gives me some background on the bamboo train.
The bamboo train is one of the world’s all-time classic rail journeys. The train clicks and clacks along warped, misaligned rails and bridges left by the French.
Each bamboo train – known in Khmer as a norry (nori) – consists of a 3m-long wood frame, covered lengthwise with slats made of ultra-light bamboo, that rests on two barbell-like bogies, the aft one connected by fan belts to a 6HP gasoline engine. Pile on 10 or 15 people or up to three tonnes of rice, crank it up and you can cruise along at about 15km/h to 20km. What to do when two trains going opposite directions meet. In the case of bamboo trains, the answer is simple: one car is quickly disassembled and set on the ground beside the tracks so the other can pass. The rule is that whichever car has fewer passengers has to cede priority.
I would dismally remember this on my return as a monsoon raged about us.
Once I became adjusted to the train I actually found my ride quite exhilarating. Thirty minutes later we stop at a village and climb off. It is here that I hear very loud, haunting music and ask Dang where it is coming from.
‘It is a funeral,’ he tells me and shakes his head. ‘I do not like it.’
I find the music deeply moving and he attempts to translate the words for me. We walk amongst the villagers who bombard me with gifts made from reeds. One ties a home made bracelet to my wrist.

The track

I look uncertainly up at the sky as dark clouds float dangerously towards us.
‘Do you think it will rain?’ I ask Dang.
He however does not profess to be the weather man.
‘I don’t think so but I don’t know.’ he answers.
At that moment the wind comes up so suddenly that we are almost thrown off out feet. The men in charge of my train indicate we should begin making our way back. I am relieved. I wait patiently but nervously as they prepare my train.


I am now keenly aware that I am a solo traveller and that any oncoming train will expect me to disembark, have my train removed from the rails and allow them to pass. This is fine and I am very happy to do this except as we begin our journey back the winds grow stronger and the rain begins to pelt down on me. This really could only happen to me. I quickly pull my cardigan off and try to decide which I should protect the most, myself or my camera. Dang looks at me apologetically and I smile although I feel far from happy. The wind is so fierce that I have to duck constantly to stop the overhanging branches whipping me in the face. And then horror of horrors, I see an oncoming train. I want to cry. Dang nudges me softly.
‘We need to get off train.’
The words I had dreading hearing. My slacks are now stuck to my legs and any hope I had of maintaining some kind of decorum is gone in a flash when I see my cotton top is stuck to me also. I look like an entrant for a wet t-shirt competition. Not quite how one should present oneself while in Cambodia. Within minutes my cardigan is drenched and so is my camera. I slide off the bamboo train feeling quite miserable but not as miserable as poor Dang who looks quite guilty.
‘I’m sorry Lynda,’ he says offering to hold the sopping wet camera.
We wave happily to the Chinese people who pass us on their train and climb back onto ours to continue the wet journey back.

A downpour in Cambodia

The arrival back at the station (which isn’t a station as such, more a muddy area full of motorbikes) produces such a sense of relief that I almost cry until I see how muddy it is. Visions of myself slipping and sliding to the tuk tuk torment me. I mean, why me?
Luckily Dang helps me and I make it to safety.

The station

At last, I think. We can go back to the hotel. I can dry off and have some dinner. Except… Dang’s tuk tuk is soaked and he can’t get it to start. Oh, no. I shall be stranded here forever. Okay, a bit extreme but I feel highly embarrassed dripping away in front of all these Cambodian men. They obviously take pity on me for several of them attempt to start the tuk tuk. Until finally amidst a cloud of grey smoke, it starts. I let out a long sigh and climb in.
I’m all for adventures but this is taking things too far.

Nothing goes as planned

I’m finally back in Cambodia but how long I will stay is very much unknown. Nothing in Cambodia ever goes according to plan.
The heat and smells assault your senses with such ferocity on arrival in Siem Reap (Cambodia) that it leaves you feeling quite heady.
Well, I have a headache so that’s my excuse
The combined heat and noise is quite a shock to my system after my quiet sojourning in the Cotswold countryside. Of course nothing goes according to plan in my life as most people who know me will testify.
I’m here in Siem Reap to write for the Angkor hospital for children. As of yet I have no idea what I am to be writing. In fact I am writing this in the offices of the hospital as I wait for the director of Human Resources to come and meet with me to tell me what is expected of me…
But as always I jump ahead of myself. Let’s go back to Heathrow airport, as boring as it may sound it is where my journey began.
My lovely husband Andrew took me to the airport and immediately began our problems. The lady at the desk at Singapore airlines said I couldn’t possibly fly back on the date my ticket was booked for because I would not be able to stay in Cambodia for that long. I was told in no uncertain terms that I must either change my return date or extend my visa for longer than thirty days. I was not happy to do either. I attempted to explain that I did not want to extend my visa too early. After all I had no clear idea how any of this was going to work out for me. I wasn’t keen to spend thirty pound on an extension visa that I may not use. After much discussion I changed my flight, settling for an overnight stop in Singapore on the way back. Not ideal but I didn’t want to be discussing it for the duration of the morning and it was better than extending my visa so early in my trip.
I am now glad I did for the director of human resources is now telling me that nobody had advised her that I was coming and that she needs to meet with her boss to find out what they had in mind for me to do. I am coming to understand this is very common in Asia.
I leave the cool interior of the hospital for the blinding heat of outside. Next stop to buy a fan.
I never remembered it being this hot when we were here in December but I’m being told the rainy season is when it is at its most humid. I have certainly come during the rainy season, but more of that later.
I phone Andrew and hearing his voice makes me miss him even more. ‘Make the most of your trip’ he tells me. So that is what I have been doing and will write more about it as I go on.
In the meantime here are some photos. Please leave comments as I love to hear your views.

Shopping with my daughter in law

The market

My new friend Sochenda

The hotel owner’s jeep here in Battambang, where I am staying for a few days. I got a lift into town in it to see the circus.

Coming soon. My visit to see the little girl Pesai that I sponsor in the orphanage.

Pesai and her friend. Pesai is on the right as you look at the photo.

A Cambodian catastrophe

So, it is now official that I do not save my catastrophes for home only. I also manage quite easily to have them in Cambodia too. It is typical of my luck that the loo in my en-suite bedroom got blocked. My stepson and his wife forgot to tell me to be economical with the loo roll. Those closest to me know that loo roll is my one extravagance in life (as if.) We have a problem and no plunger. I suggest asking the landlord. Down we trot only to find he has gone out. I cannot face the thought of a blocked loo all night. Travelling between bedroom and loo is where I get most of my exercise! I suggest asking at the restaurant opposite.
‘They must have to plunge a fair bit,’ I say ‘seeing as they rent out rooms too.’
James agrees but feels less inclined to walk into a restaurant and ask for a plunger. After all he does have to continue living here. However, I don’t speak Khmer. But I agree to have a go. After all I did block the toilet. I walk confidently across and into the restaurant full of dining tourists. Of course, it is at this point I very much want to walk back. How do I explain a blocked toilet in front of all these people who are happily eating? I lean across the bar in the manner of a conspirator. The waitress leans forward expectantly.
‘We have a blocked toilet,’ I whisper.
‘Oh,’ she says.
‘Do you have a plunger?’ I ask while miming the actions of plunging and not very well at that.
I can’t imagine how I look.
‘Oh yes,’ she says and rushes away to return a few minutes later with a large plunger which she diplomatically hands to me behind the counter. I feel like I’m doing a drugs deal.
I walk head held high from the bar swinging the plunger in my hand.
James thrilled that I have obtained one, agrees to do the plunging, except the plunger seems too small. Why am I not surprised? This is me this is happening to after all.
‘It doesn’t seem to have great suction. It’s too small,’ says James.
Too small? Good lord how big does it need to be?
It is then decided, by me. Who else would make such suggestions? That I should hold it over the hole and maybe this will help. James seems unconvinced but searches out some rubber gloves for me. So we try again. It looks rather like we are about to perform an operation and with James being a nurse it all seems quite apt. Still no luck but I spur James on to keep trying as a blocked loo in this heat is too unbearable to even think about. Finally, there is a loud spluttering sound and we are cleared.
I walk across the road to return the plunger to find the restaurant now has more people dining. I look around for someone to hand the plunger to but they are all busy serving. The waitress sees me and smiles. She wanders back behind the bar and holds her hand out. Cringing with embarrassment I hand the plunger across the counter, carefully avoiding the Cointreau bottle.
‘Thanks so much,’ I whisper and hurry back across the road.
Why do I feel this is one of many catastrophes I will have?

Getting carried away

I’m getting carried away I know. But I am so excited that ‘Coconuts and Wonderbras’ has now been released onto Kindle.
This novel was such fun to write and I hope so much it has you giggling on the bus and trains as ‘Croissants and Jam’ did.
PLEASE PLEASE send me your bra stories. Here is the link to win yourself a signed copy of the paperback. I enjoy reading them and hey they are all good ideas for future funny novels.
So, at the risk of boring you, I’ll stop going on and on about ‘Coconuts’ and wait for your opinions.
Enjoy….
Here is the Amazon link. Just click the picture.

Coconuts and Wonderbras (a Romantic Comedy Adventure)

It’s only wind!

My life surely has to be more entertaining than a soap opera. I really don’t intend for it to be that way. In fact I was not aware it was even similar to one until Andrew said as much and some good friends confirmed that he was indeed a saint to cope with it all. Poor Andrew. No wonder he swings from lamp posts.
Last week was a prime example I suppose, when I popped to the Doctors with what I was convinced was a serious problem with my stomach.
‘I imagine they will send me for tests,’ I told Andrew the night before.
‘Yes, of course,’ was his response. ‘Although the most likely scenario is that they will tell you it’s wind.’
So, the next morning off I trot to the Doctor, almost wanting to prove dear Andrew wrong.
After much poking around. Ah, talking of poking, that reminds me I must be due a smear test soon. Aren’t blogs wonderful things. They even jolt your memory.
‘Take a seat Mrs Renham-Cook. Now…’
Oh dear. Convinced she is about to tell me I can’t now travel to Cambodia, I begin forming the words to convince her of otherwise.
‘I can find nothing wrong.’
She can’t?
‘It could be irritable bowel.’
Seems Andrew was right as usual.
I go to stand up and the pain I had been having in my calf catches me and I gasp. She notices, has a feel and immediately phones the hospital. I nearly pass out in fear. This is the thing with being a hypochondriac. The illness you expect to be diagnosed with never materialises but when something does happen that you hadn’t even thought of it throws you into blind panic.
‘I’ll phone the nurse, see if she can take your blood now and we can send that off and get it checked for Deep vein thrombosis. We will have it back in the morning.’
Deep vein thrombosis. Oh my God. I immediately picture a clot on my lung. Convince myself I only have a short time to live and beginning planning how to break the news to Andrew. God, I know I sit down a lot but this is ridiculous.
The nurse rushes me into her room. She only has a few minutes before they come to collect the blood. I am jabbed unmercifully with her needle. I’m someone used to having blood tests. I have my thyroid checked monthly but nothing hurt like that one did.
‘Best to be safe than sorry,’ the nurse tells me.
Yes, quite. But does being safe mean it has to hurt so bloody much?
I drive home in a dream. Well, that’s normal actually. I do everything in a dream. But this time I think I was more in a dream than normal.
Andrew comes home and I break the news.
‘I may have DVT.’ I say. ‘Well it’s highly likely actually.’
My leg has been throbbing ever since I arrived home.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he responds looking through the post.
I’m sure he is worried, he just doesn’t want it to show.
I spend the evening with my leg up.
‘I read on Google that’s the best thing to do,’ I tell Andrew.
‘I’d chop it off if I were you. Save all the bother.’
Obviously he is trying to cheer me up with humour.
Now, of course my arm is so sore I can barely move it. By the morning I have a massive bruise. Although the morning seems a long time coming. Andrew seemingly unperturbed sleeps like the dead. I know this because at one point I try to wake him up. Before I tell you about the night’s adventure I should just set the scene a bit. Andrew sleeps very soundly. I don’t. I am up and down like a jack in a box. This used to cause all kinds of upset. I now use my Blackberry to see where I’m going. I’m night blind, did I ever mention this.
‘No, no, but please don’t fill us in,’ I hear you shout.
Okay, don’t worry. There isn’t time anyway. Suffice to say I use my Blackberry to find my way to the bathroom. So, here I am on my way back when from the light of my phone I spot something black and large on the bedroom floor. Oh God, a spider. How do I get past that? More importantly if I do, what is to stop it coming onto the bed. I am terrified of spiders. Yes, I have killed spiders. Or I should say asked someone else to kill them. I was told off for this on Facebook. Told I should think twice about taking a life. Does this apply to the mice that are overtaking my house and the ants that seem to be everywhere. I mean, where do I draw the line? Anyway, back to the story. I’m sure I will hear lots of opinions on killing spiders. Even I am rethinking it through. I call Andrew, well that is I whisper Andrew. After the eighth whisper I am screaming Andrew. The spider hasn’t moved but with all this racket going on he is bound to soon. Bendy the cat, sitting downstairs, hears the racket and joins in with his meows.
‘What’s going on,’ utters Andrew.
At last!
‘There’s a spider, do something. I can’t go back to bed.’
‘Is that why you woke me up?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’
He sleepily climbs from the bed, finds the spider, kills it with the metal detector that sits on the landing (lent to me by a friend to find my engagement ring, if you’re curious and that is a whole other post.) wraps it in my sock (I ask you) and asks if I am returning to bed.
The following morning Andrew informs me that the spider I was so terrified of, was in fact the fluffy cover off of my headphones. I mean, typical or what?
‘Let me know what the verdict is,’ he shouts as he leaves the house. I wait all morning by the phone chewing my nails and wondering if I should pack a small bag ready for my stay in hospital. I begin a list of things we will need from Waitrose. That way Andrew can go instead of me. Doctor finally phones.
‘All is well,’ she tells me.
Surely she has made a mistake? I feel so tired.
‘Let’s check your thyroid,’ she suggests.
Yes, let’s do that, I agree.
Oh, well this means I can go to Waitrose today after all.
Normal life resumes. I know, I know, it’s far from normal but it’s how I like it…

At last… ‘Coconuts and Wonderbras’

At last! I am so excited and thrilled to tell you that ‘Coconuts and Wonderbras’ will be released onto Kindle on July 1st. Here’s the blurb.

‘Literary agent Libby Holmes is desperate for her boyfriend, Toby, to propose to her and will do anything for him and if that means dieting for England then she’ll have a go. However, when Libby’s boss introduces her to her new client, Alex Bryant, her life is turned upside down. Alex Bryant, ex-SAS officer and British hero, insists Libby accompany him to Cambodia for a book fair. What she hadn’t bargained for was a country in revolt. Libby finds herself in the middle of an uprising with only Alex Bryant to protect her, that is, until Toby flies out to win back her affections. Come with Libby on her romantic comedy adventure to see if love blossoms in the warm Cambodian sunshine or, if in the heat of the day, emotions get just too hot to handle.’

A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy
Unputdownable from beginning to end
A light, fun, feel-good read

I’m thrilled with the cover. Let me know what you think. A lovely lady named Katie Eder did it. If you like her artwork, you can see more on her web page

I couldn’t possibly let such an exciting day go by without a little competition could I?
In the novel, Libby, the protagonist finds her Wonderbra truly does become the eighth wonder of the world.
To win a pre-launch signed copy of the paperback, go to ‘Coconuts and Wonderbras’ launch and competition page. There is a link at the top of this page. Send me your own stories of how a piece of your underwear has been used for a purpose other than what it was meant for. I will put all entries into a draw to be pulled on the 1st September, in time for the September 2012 launch of the paperback.

A signal from my dad? I hope so…

I have a sense of humour. If you know me, I imagine you may have noticed that. I was brought up on humour. I can’t remember a time when my lovely dad did not joke. Even when he was diagnosed with cancer my dad made a joke about his chemotherapy treatment. When I met Andrew I knew he was the one. His humour matched mine. In fact I think he may be even wackier than me. To live with us is not easy. We laugh a lot and make fun of everything, especially each other. There is not a situation we won’t laugh at.

After our wedding!

Andrew’s father was the same. When very ill in hospital shortly before he died, the nurse asked if she could take his blood pressure.
‘Sure, as long as you leave me some,’ he responded without missing a beat.
My dad knew so many jokes that it became tedious. Whenever we visited my parents he would always have a new one up his sleeve. He joked with everyone. When he was near the end of his life he still attempted to joke with his carer by pretending to box with her. I miss my dad very much. But my mum is still here.
If you thought I was bad, you should meet my lovely mum. She now has dementia and she is funnier now than she ever was. Dementia is a terrible illness but there is humour in that too if you look. I know she want me to see the funny side of what is happening to her. She is in a good place mentally and smiles a lot. She is confused but contented. It is ironic that my mother who always hated anything green and that included fields and the countryside is now living deep in the heart of the country in a beautiful home for dementia patients. We couldn’t have found her a better home if we had tried. This one almost fell at our feet. She will always tell you that she doesn’t have a clue what she is doing there and will go home soon.
‘Your father keeps saying he will come back for me. He never does. I’m not going to hold my breath for much longer.’ She told me on my last visit.
‘I think he has got another woman. It wouldn’t surprise me. He was always a ladies man.’
My dad only had eyes for my mum. Although a lot of women had eyes for him so I understood.
‘Of course there are a lot of men in here if I wanted a man.’
My mum is nearly eighty-five.
‘They chase us around the rooms here but I don’t have the energy for that. Let’s face it once you have a man in your life you spend your whole time on your back.’
That floored me, especially as she didn’t take her eyes off Andrew when saying it. I wondered if she remembered him. After all she had known my first husband for longer. I didn’t want her to mix them up.
‘You remember Andrew don’t you mum? We got married.’
Her face lit up.
‘Oh, congratulations. How lovely. Are you going to have lots of babies?’
Andrew spluttered into his tea.
We took her upstairs to her room to hang the photograph we had brought with us. In the lift Andrew leaned across her to push the button and she raised her eyebrows and winked at me as if to say,
‘He’s a bit of all right.’
I wrapped her up in her coat and scarf, took her hand and we pushed open the emergency door to the large grounds.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she responded.
The door closed and automatically locked behind us. She looked at the door and then smiled.
‘I might go and stay with Olive a bit,’ she said.
Olive was her sister who died when mum was thirteen.
‘That will be nice,’ I said, wondering how the hell we would get back in.
‘We can walk around to the front,’ says Andrew.
Of course, except the gate is padlocked. Obviously they want to keep all the inmates in.
We both stare at the gate, while mother stares at us.
‘Can you climb over?’ I ask Andrew.
Mother gives him another admiring look. I can imagine my dad laughing.
‘Best not, let’s see if we can catch someone’s eye through the glass door, if not I’ll have to climb over.’
My mum stands smiling at us the whole time. She is enjoying the little adventure. Of course we did get back in eventually and I returned mum back to her seat next to her friend Doris who immediately took mum’s hand. Relief evident on her face that my mum had survived the visit with the mad daughter.
Some days I miss my parents so much especially my dad and I always try to think of ways to get him to tell me he is fine. Andrew laughs at this. Once I was convinced my dad was a blackbird who used to sit close to the summer-house. Andrew would call out.
‘All right Bill?’
My dad always used that turn of phrase to everyone.

With my sister’s handbag

‘All right Lyn,’ he would say to me.
My dad was one of the few people I allowed to call me Lyn. If anyone does now I tend not to respond. I see it as a term of endearment only my dad was allowed to use.

Always the joker

The other day I felt so much the loss that I asked him to send something. I then decided that was a bit vague. I then said.
‘Dad, send a bird to come into the summer-house while I am sitting there.’
I then proceeded to help things along by putting nuts just outside the door. Yes, I know.
I was really expecting a bird to just walk in, say hello and then leave? Yes, okay, you can laugh.
Several hours later after nothing had happened I dismissed the whole idea. An hour later to my shock a bird flew straight into the summer-house, around my head and out again. I was left in a state of shock. I later told Andrew who of course laughed and explained all the rational reasons for why that would happen. I nodded.
I on the other hand don’t want to think of rational reasons. I want to think that was my dad.
It made my day that’s for sure…

The Oxfordshire mating call…

So I decide to go to Waitrose. This is never a good idea for many reasons. In fact I am beginning to wonder if I am actually safe to be let out alone. Oh, you think I joke. I kid you not.
On Friday I decided to go to Waitrose early. There were many good reasons for this, although as soon as this decision was made it caused problems. A heavy debate ensued about dinner. Usually I buy a Rotisserie chicken and we have this with some Moroccan couscous and then… Could you stop yawning please. I assure you this gets better. Where was I? Oh, yes and then we watch a DVD or maybe two. Friday night is the highlight of our week and I don’t need your pity. You can put that back in your pocket right now.
Now, here was the problem. If I go to Waitrose early they will not have a chicken cooked and ready for me to take home. A tricky problem is this. So, I need to check what else Lord Cook would like. We decide on a curry.
Why not just go later, I hear you ask? A reasonable question, if I do say so myself. I needed to be at the Doctor’s at 11.02. At least I thought it was 11.02 but we’ll come back to that later. Plus, to complicate matters even more, the appointment is not at my usual small village surgery but at the main one in a nearby town. I hope you’re keeping up with all this because it gets more complicated as time goes on. So, I decide to pop to Waitrose, that’s if you can pop to somewhere that is about six miles away and then on the way back I can do a short detour to the Doctors and then home.

‘That will give me the whole of the afternoon to write,’ I told his lordship.

Oh, famous last words or what?

So, off I pop. Trying to get to Witney from my village is a feat all of its own. The road leading to Witney is a driver’s nightmare. I have been done twice for speeding along there and I don’t speed. But the speed limit changes so often that I feel like I’m driving chitty chitty bang bang. So I potter along, accelerating from 30 miles an hour to 40 and then up to 50 miles an hour. The car behind me obviously doesn’t give a fig about speed limits and spends much of his time in the 30 miles per hour speed either flashing me (with his lights obviously. My luck never stretches to anything further than that) or hooting me while driving as close to my bumper as he possibly can. I’m under no illusions. This is intimidation, just in case you thought it was some kind of Oxfordshire mating call. We all relax when I am back in a 50 miles an hour zone. This doesn’t last long and I am back to 40 and quickly down to 30 and being flashed for all I’m worth. Finally, I reach Witney and the car park for Waitrose. Guess what? It is full. How can this be? I’m early for goodness sake. I drive round and round until my head is spinning. I finally spot a space and shoot into it only to discover it is only an hour stay. I do a quick calculation in my head and figure I can race around the store and be back within the hour.
Don’t you just hate supermarkets? Even worse, don’t you hate supermarkets on a weekday? I fight my way past the mums with their screaming children and hover for five minutes behind an elderly woman who is studying the teas and make my way to the chicken counter, where the assistant smiles at me and continues checking the temperature on the cooked birds with such concentration, you would think she was operating. I feel like telling her they look very dead to me and could she pop one in a bag. I attempt to speak but she holds a hand up to stop me and continues with her deep concentrated efforts with the thermometer. I’m getting close to telling her where to stick that thermometer and it isn’t in the chicken. I want to scream,
‘I’m on an hour here Lady. Can we move on with this?’
‘Can I help you,’ she says eventually.
Oh, how fab. She has finally seen the customer. I mean, there is enough of me, so she couldn’t really miss me.
I choose my chicken and hastily leave the meat counter. I fly along the aisles, throwing in everything I need and finally I am at the till. It has taken me forty minutes. A record and I almost feel like they should give me a medal at the till and not just a little green disc for the charity box. I saunter from the store and make my way to the car. It is then I realise I am still holding the green disk. Typical. I throw the carrier bags into the boot. Drop the disc into the trolley and pop the trolley back to the trolley park. I’m making good time. Then, I am in my car and making my way back home. Checking the time on the clock I wonder if I have enough time to take the shopping back before driving onto the Doctors.
I don’t know about your Doctors, but my surgery is ultra-organised. They even send you a text message with the time and date of your appointment. Not that it helps me, of course. I have a vague memory that the appointment is 11.02 but it could well be 11.22 for how good my memory is. I decide to be really organised and check my phone at the next lay by and therefore make an informed decision. After all I have one hot dead chicken in the boot, not to mention the Mini who is behind me. I swear if he drives any close he will be joining the chicken. I’m wondering if he would like to join us for the DVD later.
Finally, I see the lay by. I indicate, pull in and reach for my handbag to check my Blackberry. My stomach lurches when I see my bag is not on the passenger seat. Time stands still and my mind does one of the back track things that you see in the films. Everything runs before my eyes in slow motion and I see my handbag in the shopping trolley.
Oh God. I left it in the trolley and I left the trolley in the trolley park. I picture all the things that are in it. My glasses, Blackberry, purse, credit cards, money and groan inwardly. I check the clock. I have waited weeks for this appointment and it is almost 11. Oh, no, horror of horrors. I will have to tell Andrew. He is working from home today. I restart the car and zoom down the country lanes to our village. So much for keeping to the speed limit now. I skid to a halt outside our cottage, fly into the house, bound up the stairs and declare to a wide-eyed Andrew that I have left my bag in the trolley and the trolley in the trolley park.
‘Again?’

You can almost understand Andrew being driven to things like this.

Yes, you heard him. It is not the first time. I won’t repeat the other things he said. They went along the lines of how could I be so stupid and that there is something seriously wrong with me. I phone the store, my heart in my mouth. Please let them have it I plead. I was lucky enough the last time this happened. But just how many honest people are there out there? Well, most certainly two it seems. Someone handed it in. I yell up the stairs to Andrew that I am going to the doctors in the vain hope that my appointment was at 11.20 and not 11.02 and then back to Waitrose.
Off I go again at top speed. I assure you there was no driver up my backside on this journey. I swear I left a cloud of dust behind me so they wouldn’t be able to see my backside if they tried. Zoomed into the Doctor’s car park and raced in to discover my appointment was for 11.30. What a relief. The day has barely begun and I am exhausted. I could go back to bed.
You’ll be pleased to hear that my blood pressure reading was normal. My return to Waitrose was uneventful also. In fact I even got parked directly outside the store and everything was inside my handbag, not even a snotty tissue was missing. So, right there, right then, I decided all this scatty behaviour has got to stop. I’m pleased to tell you that so far so good. Mind you it has only been five days. Ask me after five weeks…

And a new dress is needed

I was just getting ready to write a blog posting about my lovely dad when an email popped into my inbox. I saw the word award and got very excited. I popped over to my blog and there was notification that I had been given the ABC award and the Versatile blogger award. I get terribly touched whenever I receive an award. I must thank Alison for these. Please pop over to her blog and have a look. You won’t be sorry that you did.
Now to the ABC award, which I’m thrilled to have and even more thrilled to pass on.
I think an award is a good reason for a new dress don’t you? Yes, of course you do. Now, I have to convince Andrew of that too. Talking of new dresses be sure to read the blog that will be coming soon on dresses, weddings and diet and of course, not forgetting the one that is still to come, about my lovely dad who taught me to smile at all times.
Okay, peeps to the ABC award. This is a relatively new award and what a lovely one too.
This one is simple – to ‘accept’ the award you just add the abc award logo to your blog –and then you can share something about yourself with your readers and then pass the award on to other worthy bloggers – there’s no limit to how few – or how many – other bloggers you can send this to.
To share something about yourself – you will need to go through the alphabet and choose a word or phrase for each letter and use that to describe yourself – it might be something about you, something you like, or a place or thing you dream about. And that’s all – no long descriptions or detail – just create a new post, add your shiny new blog award badge and alphabet words and let your readers enjoy finding out a little more about you.
And then have fun choosing the other blogs you would like to award this to…. Send them an e-mail and the link to this award logo and watch the fun begin! and there is also a Facebook Group for bloggers who have been given the ABC Award – so do come over and join the FB group page set up specifically for you! Meet other bloggers and be encouraged and inspired by some of the amazing blogs and writers that are in the group.
Click here to join the ABC Award group:
Now my ABC… Let me tell you this was hard, so I finally just went for it. So, I hope it reveals some things about me.
So here’s my alphabet about myself:
A Andrew (my husband) B Bendy (our cat)
C Croissants and jam (my second novel) D Dollops of mash potato
E Eating (all the time) F Friends
G Generous H happy
I Ice cream J Joyce (my mother)
K Kind L Lynda
M More (of living) N Novels (love reading)
O Open minded P Pavlova
Q quirky R Romance (What I write about)
S sunny T travel
U Utopia V Venice
W Wedding Cake to Turin X Pass
Y Yoga Z zany

Now to the blogs I want to present the ABC award to. As there are no restrictions on how many, here they all are.

http://colonsaycroftess.wordpress.com/ A fabulous blog. Has me hooked.

http://maturestudenthanginginthere.wordpress.com/ One of my all time favourite blogs.

http://janeannethorne.wordpress.com/ I love Jane’s blog and so will you.

Enjoy x

The one that got away

If anyone told me I would have pet tadpoles in my kitchen I would have laughed in their face. But, pet tadpoles I have. In fact, the thought of releasing them back into the wild is making me feel quite sad. It is going to be something of a wrench.
How did you manage to get tadpoles in your kitchen, I hear you ask.
It all started with a routine walk around our village. We love our home in Oxfordshire and feel very privileged to live in such a beautiful part of the country. We began our Sunday stroll about four on a Sunday afternoon. We had just had a lovely couple of sunny hot days. We walked past the church and on towards the small pond by the meadow where the frogs lived. Except, there were no frogs, in fact there was barely any water as the pond had dried up. Struggling in the small amount of water were about a hundred tadpoles. We stared in horror trying to work out what we could do. Andrew suggested we go back and find a container and return to rescue them. Without giving it anymore thought we rushed back. I rummaged through the kitchen cupboards and found a huge vase that I never use and off we went again. With a small plastic cup Andrew rescued almost all of them.
We plucked several pieces of pond weed and trudged back to take the tadpoles to their new home. We filled the vase with fresh clean water and they all swooped to the bottom.
‘You’ve killed them,’ I cried.
‘I’ve stunned them. They will be okay,’ says a confident Andrew.
He was right. They were fine. They have resided in the kitchen for several weeks now and the pond is only just starting to fill up again. Bendy (the cat) has given them odd looks but overall has not seemed very interested.
Then, the day came when they had outgrown the vase. Again I rummaged through the cupboards. Ah, yes. I had a large bowl that I used once for transporting soup. I won’t need that again (she hopes) I hand it to Andrew and we look at each other. How to do this without losing our precious babies down the sink? It was nerve wracking. Out came the sieve. The kitchen bowl was emptied. Deep breaths taken and Andrew empties the contents of the vase into the sieve. I squeeze my eyes shut, convinced they will all fall through the holes, into the sink and down the plug hole. Oh, what a thought. Some tadpole mother I would have been. How would I be able to live with myself if I killed a hundred would be frogs?
‘Are they okay?’ I whisper.
I open my eyes to see them wriggling in the sieve. Quickly Andrew tips them into their new home. A big sigh of relief from us both. Then, we see a tiny black wriggling thing on the kitchen counter. The one that got away. I grab a spoon and hand it to Andrew who gently scoops it up and pops it into the bowl.
‘He’ll have a big story to tell,’ he laughs.

Our growing babies

My heart is still in my mouth that I cannot laugh back. My legs are all weak. I mean what a state to get into over a tadpole. You’re so kind, you are thinking. Well, I guess you’re right. Although there was the day that I almost killed them with an overdose of stale bread after misreading a text from Andrew. As you can see Andrew is in charge of our babies. I noticed a stale piece of bread in the bread bin and text Andrew to ask how much they could have. I don’t want to be the one responsible for killing them you see. I’m sure you understand.
‘Give them what they want I guess. There is a big piece in there that should be thrown out.’
I took it to mean there was a big piece of bread in the bread bin that should be thrown out, so the tadpoles can have it. What he meant was there was a large piece of bread in the tadpole bowl that was no good anymore. Whoops. I piled in the bread, along with what was already in their bowl. Andrew comes home to a bowl so murky he cannot even see our babies, let alone see if they are still alive.
‘You’ve probably killed them on bread overdose,’ he accuses.
I nearly cry.
Luckily all is well and once the bread is cleared out they can breathe again and so can I.
As I write this, babies are doing well thank you and getting very big. I fear I will wake up one day to a kitchen full of frogs… I’m not kissing them all, so forget it.

The great escape

As Andrew and I bit the heads off our little Chocolate rabbits (to celebrate Easter don’t you know) I was horribly reminded of the little headless bunnies that Bendy, our cat, brought it for us last year. The thought of a recurrence of that this summer makes me shudder. The pleasure of a cat is certainly overshadowed by that cruel thing known as nature. How often do you hear that? Don’t you just hate those calm people who, as your cat belts into the house with a live mouse, say ‘But it’s nature? What? Nature is flowers in bloom and buzzing bees surely. Nature is watching those little seeds you planted, blossom into something edible. I know, I know. Nature is also that awful savage thing where animals tear each other apart. Can’t we just call it massacre instead, that seems more fitting?
I love my cat but the pleasures of having a pet are wearing a little thin in this household. Our cat while cuddly and loveable in the house turns into a mass murderer when venturing outside. The problem however is not his hunting ability but his inability to hang onto his prey or finish them off. Last Summer I walked into the kitchen to many a headless rabbit, a leftover mouse’s kidney, and on the odd occasion a bat but there were many more that he had somehow dropped and lost. Not to mention the ones he has left only half dead and which Andrew has to finish off. Then there are the sparrows and blackbirds which no amount of screaming will force him to drop.
Last weekend my mother-in-law came to stay and obviously as a gift to her, Bendy brought in a large mouse. Mother-in-law, thanked him with a horrendous scream and a fast leap to the bathroom. In shock at this response, he promptly dropped and lost his prey. Andrew, of course, had conveniently gone for a run. I was left screaming at the cat to ‘Find it, find it,’ as if he understood one word.
Thankfully he did and finally took it outside where he proceeded to throw it in the air with much gayness. How could my lovely cuddly cat be so sadistic? I felt like locking the cat flap. I also swear he waits for Andrew to go out or even better, go away. For whenever he has gone away, Bendy has brought me more than my fair share of gifts. One time he brought me three bunnies in the space of two hours and another time he left me a lovely big juicy rat. Oh, I shudder at the memory. The problem with Bendy, however, is that he loses more mice than he kills. Last week Andrew went to get a saucepan from the cupboard only to find mouse droppings.
‘That’s it, I’ve had it with that cat,’ he snarled, as saucepan after saucepan came out of the cupboard and the whole place was scrubbed and disinfected and a mouse trap strategically placed.
‘That’s one mouse dead then,’ I hear you say.
Oh, if only it were that simple. This mouse is not just any mouse. It is SuperHoudiniMouse. So far, it has gotten through half a jar of peanut butter which has been used as mouse bait, teased Andrew when he tried to catch it and has managed to avoid the cat. Three times he has been caught in the trap and managed to escape somehow. Mind you it has dragged the trap around with it. It has peed all over my J cloths and bin bags and left a tidy mess eating through dusters. To say Bendy is not popular is an understatement. Sharing my kitchen cupboards with a mouse is not my idea of fun. This bank holiday weekend I traipsed around the hardware shop searching for superhuman mouse traps. I came home with two more traps and a sonic deterrent, which scared me and the cat but has had no effect on the mouse. We now have five mouse traps in the cupboard but amazingly Houdinimouse is still at large. We are reaching the stage where blowing up the kitchen doesn’t seem like an insane idea. So, if you read of a mouse coup in Oxfordshire, you can be sure it is us.

The things we do for love

My husband has always been more adventurous than me, although since meeting him I have become more so. It is amazing how much influence another person can have over you. When we first met I had something of an adventurous spirit but not an ounce of what I have now. Any fears I had of trying something new was quickly quashed when Andrew introduced me to his microlight.
We had been together less than a year when he drove me to the airfield where he had a hangar. I had no idea what a hanger even was, except something you hang your clothes on. In fact I had no idea what a microlight was and I do wonder now if I had had even the slightest clue, would I have gone that day. It was a lovely Summer’s evening. Very warm and all Andrew seemed to talk about was thermals, while I wondered why we would even need them. Of course the thermals he was talking about was rough bumpy warm air and not extra warm clothing. I asked more about the restaurant we were going to afterwards than I did about the flying. After all, I had been on many flights; it couldn’t be much different from that could it?
Oh, good lord, it was very different.
We parked outside the hanger and Andrew opened it up and wheeled out what looked like a motor cycle. I watched in fascination as he checked it over thoroughly before wheeling out a huge wing. My stomach lurched at this point when it dawned on me that this was the wing that would keep me in the air. I looked frantically around the hanger for a possible plane. I didn’t mind how small as long as it was something enclosed. There was no plane. I then looked for the cover that would go over the top of the motorcycle thing, but there wasn’t one. I watched with trembling legs and beating heart as Andrew positioned the wing on and fastened the bolts. He then handed me a flying suit and helmet. I nearly passed out. My god, I can’t go in that, can I? I quickly learnt that a microlight is pretty much a motorcycle with a wing and not much else. Well, a motor obviously. Heavens, did he actually say that he can fly up to about 10,000 feet in this? Not with me in it, thinks I?
‘Ready to go?’ he asks with a smile.
I climb into my flying suit and zip it up with shaking hands. This is it, I shall die and this relationship that I had hoped would be something good will be no more. I stare dumbfounded at the two small seats and try not to picture myself sitting in it at 10,000 feet. I feel sick. Andrew helps me clamber in and helps me on with my helmet. He then affixes the mike that will allow me to speak to him while we are up there. Oh, God, what if I fall out. He straps me in tightly and I thank god for that. I wonder if I should make a few last calls from my mobile, you know my final goodbyes and all that? But before I can do anything he is climbing into the front seat and starting the propeller.
‘Clear prop.’
I would come to know those words very well in the coming years.
‘How long have you been flying?’ I ask in a shaky voice.
‘Since yesterday,’ he jokes
‘About ten years,’ came his confident response.
Well, he must know what he is doing. We motorcycle down the track and stop at the runway. It’s now or never. I can either run, or close my eyes and pray. I choose the latter. You only live once after all.
‘Golf, mike tango, Yankee, echo is lined up for immediate departure.’ he says in one of those typical pilot type voices.
‘Golf Yankee echo is cleared for take off at your discretion.’ Advises a voice in response and I wonder what at your discretion means.
‘Golf yankee echo, take off.’ Says Andrew and before I can ask what is happening we are storming down the runway at about 50 miles an hour. The things I do for love. Then, we really do have lift up and, oh, here are the thermals. A few bumps and I feel myself clinging onto Andrew. Well, we certainly got close on this flight. We go higher and higher and I feel myself tense and tense even more. Finally we are so high that I don’t care anymore and the views are spectacular. I am like a bird.

The wind blows against my face and ahead of me is a hot air balloon.
The cows and sheep below look like tiny dots and I see people sitting in a field having a picnic and they begin waving to us. I wave back. Andrew takes us higher and higher and it is the most wonderful feeling in the world. The colours of the fields seem to change with the shifting light and the shadows are incredible. There is one shaky moment when he asks me to lean over the microlight very slightly so he can check the fuel. I do so and find myself seemingly dangling from the flying motorbike. We turn, go lower and then rise up again. I am having a wonderful time. We skirt around Blenheim Palace where they have a function happening and the driveway is lined with flaming torches. From 3,000 feet the scene is amazing.
I was disappointed when that flight ended and as the years went on I went up many times with Andrew. On one flight I leant forward and guided the microlight by the handlebars, with Andrew assisting of course. I helped wash down the wing and have even been known to sew it before now. I do not enjoy bumpy flights however and always avoided even slightly windy days. We have visited other airfields and have enjoyed the sights of Oxfordshire from the air.

Just over two years ago the microlight failed its MOT and although we got it repaired Andrew felt it’s time was running out. We were both busy but he was busier and had his studies to focus on. After a lot of thought Andrew sold it.

We have done many other exciting things since and I know I would never have done them had it not been for Andrew. Navigating the whole island of Boracay in the Philippines for instance on a motorcycle. I had never been on one in my life and Andrew hadn’t ridden one in years, but what a fab time we had.
Oh, yes the things you do for love.

Living my life to the full!

I received an award from a blogger the other day and it came on a day that I was really thinking through my life. I had been pensive and a little melancholy for a few days. This was totally unlike me and not fitting with my fun personality. I began to wonder do I need anti-depressants or something. It didn’t take long for me to realise this had coincided with my birthday. I was a year older and just a bit older than I wanted to be. For the first time in my life I went into an age panic. I thought of all the things I wanted to do and felt an overwhelming fear that I wouldn’t get everything done. A few days later I gave myself a shake and made a firm decision that from this point onwards I would only do things I wanted to do. I would not let anything stop me and I would not say no to anything I wanted to do and I also would not let age be an obstacle to something that appealed to me. I was and am determined to get the most out of my life. I am not afraid of failure anymore. So with these thoughts in my mind I looked at what I wanted to do. The first thing was to get down to the allotment and plant as much as possible there. I have always wanted to be self-sufficient and grow my own food. So, if you live near, be prepared to be given lots of fresh fruit and veg. I have no ambitions to jump from a plane or go kayaking. I have flown many times in a microlight with Andrew and that was adventure in the air for me and I now want to go up in a helicopter and hot air balloon. If anyone can offer either do let me know  I want to travel more. Having already spent a lot of my life in the Middle East I very much want to return to both Egypt and Israel. Meanwhile my dream to visit Cambodia has materialised. I am returning soon for a long visit and hope while there to sponsor a child at the Orphanage I visited. Not having children of my own this seems an ideal way to give someone else the future I could not give to a child of my own. I am already fulfilling a dream to help this country and am grateful to have been given the chance. I will continue writing as this is my main love. I will visit China and Vietnam hopefully in the next five years. I want to finally finish a cross stitch pattern. I want to take better photographs and spend more time with friends. I am already making more time to go shopping with girlfriends. It is probably time to take art classes, something I have always wanted to do and maybe even horse riding lessons again. Whatever it is, if I fancy it, I shall do it. If I fail, so what? At least I tried.
So if I seem a little busy, it is because I truly am trying to live my life to the full and part of that is blogging where I have made some wonderful and very sincere friends. One of them is Jacqueline who gave me this lovely award for which I am thrilled, as always to receive. Jacqueline writes a very human and loving blog, do drop over and see her. The Sunshine award, really did come on a day when I needed some sunshine

The Sunshine Award asks me to answer some questions, so here we go….

Favourite Colour:
I don’t think I have a favourite colour. I’ll go for ‘sky blue pink’ and keep my options open.

Favourite Animal:
Cats, without doubt. I love them all. I would have a houseful if Andrew allowed me.

Favourite Number:
7 and I have no idea why.

Favourite Non-Alcoholic Drink:

Ginger Beer

Facebook or Twitter:
Facebook, I think although of late I have become a little addicted to Twitter. I will always prefer Facebook. So many great friends to see on there.

My Passion:
Writing, followed by music. They go together for me.

Favourite pattern:
Jacqueline gave me the idea for this. After seeing her answer I thought of Andrew’s ancestral tartan (from his mother’s side) Mackay tartan. Here it is.

Favourite day of the week:
Sunday. A time to be together.

Favourite Flower:
Freesias’

I will pass the Sunshine Award on to the following blogs and I am aware that some of you may have received this already, but I wanted to let you know that your blogs bring sunshine into my life:

Kew Smith for her great blog ‘Random reasoning’

Fellow author Jane Lovering, who never fails to make me laugh