Hi Rob, thanks so much for coming onto the blog today and more importantly thank you for the apple pie, it’s delicious, especially with this custard you brought along.
Hello Dame Lynda, it’s wonderful to be visiting you on your website, thanks so much for welcoming me here today!
Well, if you bring lovely food you can come whenever you want.
I have an exclusive extract from my new romantic comedy Miss Wrong and Mr Right. First though, here is a short introduction to the book…
Natalie Love has worked hard to have it all: she runs a successful theatre in Soho that’s about to host one of Hollywood’s leading stars. Her biggest supporter is her eccentric Hungarian Gran, and she even has the ‘perfect’ yoga teacher boyfriend – Namaste!
Life in the bright lights of London has always been Natalie’s escape from her chaotic country family in rural Devon and Jamie, the childhood sweetheart she left at the altar 15 years ago. And then he turns up at her theatre door…
With rivalry clouding old feelings, events in Soho bring Jamie and Natalie together in hilarious ways. Gran is loose in the city once more, it seems to be raining sandwiches and records are broken for Burlesque flash mobs. If she can keep her world together, will Natalie discover who is really Mr Right, and that perhaps she isn’t Miss Wrong?
A delightful new romantic comedy, from the Number 1 best-selling author, Robert Bryndza…
The following extract is when Natalie takes Anouska, her Gran, for a routine bunion operation…!
The roads were quiet as we drove towards Guy’s and St. Thomas’s Hospital. It was a grey day and a light drizzle covered the windscreen. I turned on the wipers and they dragged across the glass with a squeal.
‘If I die on the operating table, I vant to be buried in my green dress,’ announced Gran.
‘Don’t be daft. You are not going to die,’ I said remembering my dream, her dead face talking to me.
‘And I don’t vant a vash and set. Some morticians just know how to do one kind of hairstyle. I don’t vant to be lying there looking like any old biddy…’
‘And you vill do my make-up. Chanel red lipstick, Givenchy powder, and eye make-up like yours.’
‘I’m putting it all here in the glove compartment,’ she said pulling out a little clear make-up bag and popping it in. ‘And if I die before they finish, make sure they sew my foot up. I vant to be buried in heels… you promise.’
‘Gran, please,’ I said my eyes beginning to well up.
‘Promise me, Natalie!’
‘Okay. Yes, I promise. But you are not going to die!’ I insisted.
I found a parking space and then we made our way into the hospital. When Gran was settled in her cubicle on the ward, a doctor appeared and closed the curtains behind him. He was very handsome with dark eyes.
‘My, the NHS has improved since I was here last,’ said Gran sitting up and patting her hair. The doctor took out a felt-tip pen and explained the operation. How he would cut out the piece of protruding bone in her big toe, which was causing the bunion, and then reset the foot.
‘It’s a very simple, routine procedure, so nothing to concern you. One of the nurses will phone you after the operation,’ said the doctor. Then he moved onto the next cubicle leaving Gran with a scribble of felt tip pen on her foot.
‘Natalie, look at that,’ she whispered.
‘At what?’ I asked.
‘That big toe he has drawn on my big toe…Is that how my new toe vill look? It’s crap, even I can draw better…’
‘He’s not an artist, he’s a surgeon.’
‘Thank God he’s not doing my tits! Imagine the kind of tit he’d draw?’
‘Gran, it’s fine,’ I said.
‘No, I vant to vear all of my nice shoes after this operation. Vat if I end up vith a huge toe like a Cumberland sausage? Go and find him, bring him back…’
With a red face, I called the doctor back. He was very nice, and explained that the toe he’d drawn was just for guidance, and that as well as being a surgeon he was a keen amateur painter. He summoned a nurse, who removed the felt tip ink from Gran’s foot with an alcohol wipe, and he then redrew a much neater toe.
‘Perfect, a toe Sophia Loren vould be proud of,’ smiled Gran admiring his handiwork. The doctor grinned and went back to the next cubicle.
‘I still vouldn’t buy one of his paintings,’ muttered Gran in a low voice.
‘Do you want me to stay with you? I can take the day off work,’ I asked.
‘Don’t fuss Natalie,’ said Gran, settling down and opening a copy of Vogue. ‘They knock me out, do the operation and I vake up. Bobby’s your uncle. Now go to vork, I’m fine.’