Happy Birthday to Amy Lynch

SBook birthday

I’m thrilled to wish the lovely author Amy Lynch a ‘Happy one year’ birthday.’ It’s been one year since Amy debuted with her novel ‘Bride without A Groom’ and what a fab book it is too. And I’m giving you a taster of it to celebrate this fab occasion. What better way to celebrate than to have a book tour. And today is the day the tour stops here.

The lovely Amy Lynch pictured below is an Irish author of humorous romantic women’s fiction, but not always with fairy tale endings!Amy in garden 2

Amy has been working in the charity sector for many years, is married and has two young children. When she is not writing, she can be found juggling school runs, packing lunch boxes, tackling the laundry mountain and walking two large rescue dogs who stare at her until she walks them. Talk about multi-tasking! I know I couldn’t do it. I moan about stopping writing to cook dinner.

Her debut novel ‘Bride Without a Groom’ is a laugh out loud Bridezilla comedy, was published by Avon, Harper Collins in May 2015.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Single, coupled-up or married, this laugh-out-loud summer read is the perfect anecdote for the wedding season!

Rebecca has chosen the most luscious, five tiered, wedding cake. The engagement ring that she has selected is celebrity inspired. The wedding singer is on speed dial. He doesn’t usually do Michael Bolton, but as it’s for a first dance he’ll make an exception. Father Maguire is checking dates for the parish church as we speak. The deposit on the white sand honeymoon is paid for in full on Barry’s card. She has fallen for an ivory lace couture gown that is to die for. The down payment may require her to sell a left kidney, but it will be worth it. Isn’t that why you have two?

There’s one teeny tiny problem. It’s nothing, really. No need to panic! It’s just that Barry has yet to propose. Says he’s not ready! He can be a bit of a kill joy that way. In fact, he’s gone away on a business trip and says that he needs some space. Meanwhile, Barry’s tie loosens, the Tiger beer is flowing, and his colleague Shelley is providing more than a shoulder to cry on. Back in Dublin, Rebecca worries, putting Operation Win Back Barry into action. But who is the mysterious dark haired woman that is so keen to talk to her, and what is it that Barry wants to get off his chest?

YOU CAN CONNECT WITH AMY by following the links below and scroll even further for your free extract.

www.facebook.com/Amylynchauthor /

 www.twitter.com/Amylynchauthor

www.amylynchauthor.com

BUY LINKS

UK http://amzn.to/1JVC7ls  US http://amzn.to/1RS4OR9 

Thanks for popping by Amy and have a fab tour. Now enjoy the extract from this fabulous novel.

EXTRACT FROM ‘BRIDE WITHOUT A GROOM

‘Anyway,’ Emer lovingly diverts the conversational traffic back in my direction.

‘Did you go to look at engagement rings that time? You said that he was going to take you ring shopping?’

A deep burgundy hue creeps up my neck, and the stomach churn returns. The ever so shameful truth is that, technically, he did not promise anything of the kind. Technically, I led him blindly by the arm to Weir & Sons the last time we went to Dundrum town centre.

I’d accidentally on purpose taken a wrong turn, falsely luring him to the centre with a sneaky suggestion that he take a look in Tommy Hilfiger for a new polo shirt. His old one was decidedly shabby, I had convinced him. I couldn’t give a flying flip about his polo shirts, but the tactic worked. He allowed me to stand and point at the window in the direction of engagement rings. The chocolate cake I’d fed him moments before from Butler’s made him sluggish and docile. He’s easier to manage that way. Sadly, as you may have guessed, it was the tennis bracelet that caught his eye.

‘Absolutely,’ I lie. ‘He can’t say he doesn’t know what kind of ring I want. I mean, I bloody pointed to the exact one. Remember? It’s the two-carat, Edwardian-style, oval-cut solitaire diamond ring with pavé detail? It’s set in platinum and rose gold? Just like the one Tom Cruise gave to Katie Holmes on top of the Eiffel Tower?’

They know. I’ve only mentioned it, like, a bazillion times. I do have exquisite taste.

‘Also, I left him a magazine clipping of it in his lunchbox one day, along with a little love note…’

They laugh, and I don’t correct them. Perhaps it’s best if they think I’m joking.

I decide that I’ve done nothing wrong. Let them snigger. There is absolutely no point in taking a chance and ending up with a hideous article to be worn ‘till death do us part’. The shame would, quite frankly, be too much to bear. Let’s be honest – the

first question you’ll be asked upon announcing your impending wedding is about the bling, and there’s just no getting around it. Research shows that an oh-so-subtle hint dropped here and there in the right places is merely a gentle way of leading a clueless chap towards the right ring. My plan is to feign surprise when he chooses correctly, and then brag to my girlfriends that he knows me so well. Flawless plan, yes?

My ring-size and preference are just information I’ve passed along to Barry a few dozen times. As I said, I picture diamonds, platinum and perhaps a princess cut. Sometimes I worry that Barry doesn’t have these words in his male vocabulary. Besides, returning an ill-fitting or generally revolting ring to the store and thus ruining my engagement buzz hardly seems like what a bride to be dreams of. What’s more, Barry has a distinct lack of creative flair. I’m purely thinking of him – saving him from himself, you might say. This is far too important a job for Barry to mess up!

 

 

Why mad drivers don’t intimidate me

 

Today I was harassed by a driver on the country road leading out of my village. He drove very close to me and was clearly trying to get me to go faster. I know I drive slowly when I leave the village and I’m aware that I brake on the bends. But what the driver behind didn’t know, was that in 2012 it was on just such a country road that I drove that little bit too fast because I was late for work. It ended with me not turning up at work at all and almost being too early into that next world.

It had been a wet morning and although the sun was now shining the roads weren’t dry. I can’t remember why I was late. But it was a long journey from my village to the surgery where I worked. It was all country lanes, sharp bends and nothing but green fields as my view for the entire journey. I remember approaching a bend and even before I reached it I knew I was going too fast. I had to brake. I’ve since learnt that is the worst thing to do on a wet road and on a bend. I immediately lost control of the car. I remember screaming and the world spinning around. Of course, it was the car spinning and not the world at all. But all I knew was that I wanted to get off. There were many bangs and strange feelings vibrated through me as the car things. I later learnt those things were a bollard, several trees, bushes, and more bushes. It had spun around in the middle of the road. Luckily there were no oncoming cars otherwise I would have hit them head on. It eventually crashed through more bushes, crushing barley in its wake and landed with a thud in the mud in the middle of a farmer’s field. I sat for several seconds dazed and looking around for my glasses which had flown off my head. My seat belt dug into me and I was disorientated. I could hear the traffic but couldn’t see it. I then realised it was the other side of the bushes. I stupidly attempted to start my car and then realised with some horror that bits of it were strewn around the field. There was the odd tyre, a piece of bumper, bits of metal. I calmly fumbled in my bag for my phone to see I had no signal. I thank God every day for the fact that my car landed in mud because had it overturned I could have laid there for hours. There would have been no way to reach anyone. I managed to unbuckle my seatbelt and shakily climb from the battered car and make my way to the road where my phone picked up signal and I called the police who then called an ambulance even though I said I was fine and that it was just the car that was damaged. In fact I wasn’t fine at all. I had bruised ribs which I didn’t even feel. I was in shock too but didn’t know it.

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My car was a write off. The police said they think I had a blow out as I took the bend. I believe I was driving too fast and my carelessness caused the accident. The car had to be craned out of the field. They also told me if it hadn’t have been raining and the field muddy then I most likely would have suffered serious injuries as the car would have turned over. As it was it got lodged in the mud.

I now always drive carefully and I never exceed the speed limit. If I’m late, then I’m late. I’m a terrible back street driver and always have my foot on an imaginary brake. I wince as bends approach when I’m in the passenger seat. A serious accident makes you aware. So drivers can drive close to me. They can get in my boot if they like but I won’t drive any faster. I had a lucky escape. I don’t think I’d be lucky a second time so why risk it?

The Day I Met Lady Gaga … Well As Close As.

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So, it was a very exciting day for me Saturday.

First I went to visit my mum. I always look forward to these visits while dreading them at the same time. Seeing your mum with her mind gone is the hardest thing on earth. Each visit I see a decline in her which is always depressing. But the fact that she smiles and sings for a lot of the time I am there, makes all the difference. She will be 90 in two months and I really was amazed at how chatty she was. We held hands, laughed, chatted and I kissed her many times and she seemed to like that. I talked about my books. I tried to tell her how many I had written. She always hoped I would be a published writer. She rambled for a bit longer and then amidst her ramblings was the word ‘pages’ making me wonder how much she really absorbs.

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And suddenly out of the blue she began to talk to somebody and look at them as though they were standing next to me. I looked to the side of me but there was no one there and suddenly she said ‘I love you Billy, I do.’

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My dad was known as Bill or Billy (when he was younger). I left feeling very emotional. I always used to chat to my mum and I so miss that. But we kind of chat and I guess I will have to be grateful for that.

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So we left mum and we were now heading for Putney to meet Katie, the owner of Outlandish Creations.  Katie is a ceramic designer and I had decided that the  main character in the new novel will be a ceramic designer too. So after a few exchanged emails Katie and I agreed to meet.

Now, Katie isn’t just a ceramic designer. She is the most abfab designer I know. Not only do I think so, but so does, Graham Norton, Lady Gaga and Ruby Wax, to mention just a few and here am I about to meet her. Only recently her work was featured in Vogue, so I was slightly nervous. It’s not every day you meet the woman who designed a cup that Lady Gaga drinks her tea from.

Katie was very welcoming, very pleasant and very helpful.  Watching her at work was very inspirational and all kinds of wonderful ideas for my character flowed through my mind. She took me to her workshop and showed me how she made her brilliant pieces. I’d already purchased one piece from her some time ago and still use it regularly and love it.

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So how could I not leave without another?  Here it is. Fab right?

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So when you read the next Little Perran novel, remember this blog. And do check out Katie’s work. It is truly Outlandish, funny, decadent and unique. I’m thrilled to own two pieces by her.

Keep tuned for the next novel but meanwhile don’t miss the special offer on ‘Perfect Weddings’ at the moment. Only 99p. Go here. Don’t miss it.

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To check out Outlandish Creations go here. You can also join her on Facebook here and read about her in Vogue here

Much love until next time

Lynda

x

Going All The Way With A Bus Driver

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So, I’ve got a bus pass. Let’s not go too much into how I got one, okay? I’d rather not go there. Anyway, a free bus I have. It’s been in my purse for months. I live out in the sticks, where buses run hourly (if that) so the thought of standing around waiting for a bus when I could pop into Oxford quite easily in my car seemed a silly choice to make … until. I met my friend Marie in Oxford for a few hours shop and some lunch and the car parking charge was over ten quid. Now, that’s just taking the Michael right? So, when we arranged to have another jolly (as Marie terms it) around Oxford, I thought why not use my bus pass? It’s free after all.

So, Organised I became. And that’s unusual for me. I checked the bus number, G3. It came to my village at a quarter to the hour, every hour. I then checked the times of the returning buses, emailed them to my phone. I prepared a chicken curry in the slow cooker, turned it onto low, after all I would be back by three so it would be safe enough. Armed with everything I needed for my bus trip, I set off to get the 11.45 bus which would get me into Oxford by 12.30 and all free of course. Marie never said a word but I sensed she was uncertain about the whole thing. It was a lovely sunny spring day. Perfect for my first venture on a bus, after all it must have been all of thirty years since I went on a bus. It was lovely. I travelled through several other local villages before heading onto the main road, and then finally towards Oxford Town itself.

‘Let me know when you arrive?’ Marie had texted.

I don’t know why she was so worried. I arrived on time and we had a great shop and several coffees. In fact we had been enjoying it so much that we lost track of time. It was almost four.

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‘Fancy something to eat?’ asked Marie.

My stomach churned at the thought of the chicken curry. It would be okay wouldn’t it? It was on low anyway. But to be on the safe said. I text my stepson who lived nearby to ask if he could pop in and turn it off, after all, better safe than sorry and then off we trotted to Pizza Express. Halfway through my phone bleeped. It was a text from my stepson.

‘Sorry not at home today, won’t be back until after 5.30.’

My stomach flipped over. Oh no. I’d just presumed he’d popped in around four and turned it off. Visions of my cottage on fire now began to haunt me. Oh no, this is a disaster. Even a free pass isn’t worth my house burning down.

We finished up our food and I glanced again at the time on my phone.

‘I’ll be in time for the 5.30 bus,’ I said confidently.

But I won’t be home until well gone six and by then we’ll either have char-grilled chicken curry or a burnt down cottage. I sent Andrew a message saying I should be home before him but to be aware the slow cooker had been on since 9.

‘You worry too much,’ he replied.

‘Where do you get your bus from?’ asked Marie as we hurried along, both of us conscious of my burning cottage.

My brain froze. I had no idea.

‘Presumably outside Debenhams,’ I said.. ‘That’s where I got off.’

‘Probably,’ said Marie, unworried.  ‘My friend used to get that bus and she picked it up around Debenhams.’

We kissed goodbye and she trotted off to her bus stop and me to find mine, except the G3 wasn’t mentioned at the Debenhams bus stop, or at the bus stop further down. I strolled around the corner to the next lot of bus stops. The sun had now gone down and the wind was sharp and cold and I didn’t have a coat. I tried not to panic, after all the G3 had to go back too didn’t it? Finally I found it. G3. I double checked it did go to my village, although I knew G3 was the right one. And then I waited and I waited and I waited. It was getting colder and there seemed to every bus in Oxford but the G3. I checked my phone again. There should have been one at 5.30. Then I saw it, large as life and the most beautiful sight ever, the G3 bus. Except it said it was terminating at Woodstock, which was quite a way from my village. Never the less I jumped on and checked.

‘You want the next one love,’ said the driver. ‘I’m not going the whole way.’

I sighed and clambered off into the cold again. Meanwhile another passenger waiting at the stop asked me about his bus. I simply gave him a blank look. I barely knew which, was my bus, let alone what was his. Plus, I had a lot more on my mind. Like my slow cooker. It seemed my stepson at this point was going to pop in and then he saw my car and presumed I was home. How was he to know I’d taken the stupid bus?

Finally another G3 came along and I jumped on, sighing with relief. Maybe I would be home just in time before the dinner dried up totally. I struggled to relax and focused on the two women chattering away behind me. My ears pricked up when one of them said

‘This is the Enstone bus isn’t it?’

I nearly threw up into my handbag. Enstone, what did she mean Enstone? Enstone is miles from my village. No, she must have it wrong surely. It’s the G3 and it goes to my village via Woodstock. Yes, here we are coming into Woodstock. The bus goes through the village as I hoped and then travels along the road that leads to the turn off for my village. I check the time. It’s now almost six. Andrew will soon be home. Please let him come home to a charred chicken rather than a charred cottage. The turning for my village loomed ahead. I’m ten minutes from home. I may even make it before Andrew. I get my phone out ready to dial 999. Best to be prepared, I always think.slowcook3

But the bus flies pass my turning and continues on into the countryside. Oh no, he is going to Enstone which is miles away. Has he gone insane? I jump from my seat, almost flying into his lap as he brakes sharply.

‘You want this stop?’ he asks.

I stammer out my village and he looks curiously at me.

‘I’m going to Chipping Norton,’ he says.

Oh my God that’s even further away. He may as well have said Dublin.

‘But … I thought …’ I begin.

‘You needed the Charlton G3,’ he said.

How many bloody G3’s are there? Why can’t there one like everyone else has.

‘But …’ I begin, but it’s no good telling him about my charcoal cottage is there

‘You’ll have to go all the way with me now,’ he says, moving off.

I sigh and text Andrew, fighting back my tears.

‘I’m so sorry for burning the house down. I only wanted to save parking fees.’

A quick message back tells me he is home and that home is still there in fact, and that the curry looks great. Meanwhile, I’m travelling through the countryside of Oxfordshire.

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We arrive at Chipping Norton where the driver tells me he has to wait a while before turning back.  We then go all the way back and finally reach the turn off for my village but instead of taking it he stops.

‘This is you,’ he says

‘But aren’t you going to …’

‘You need to cross over, get the next one. It should be five minutes and that will take you to the village.’

Oh for goodness sake.

‘One consolation,’ he says.

Oh really, is there one?

‘You won’t do this again will you?’

He’s quite right of course.   I cross the road, get the oncoming bus and get home at 6.45.

Still it could be argued I got the most out of my free bus pass.

You can buy Lynda’s latest bestselling comedy novel ‘Perfect Weddings’  here

 

Read the First Chapter of ‘Perfect Weddings’ by Lynda Renham

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Hi guys, I thought I’d give you a preview of ‘Perfect Weddings’

Here is Chapter One.

Enjoy

Chapter One

 

Don’t you just hate wedding jitters? Maybe you don’t. Perhaps your big day hasn’t come yet but trust me, it will. If I, Amy Fisher, can get married then anyone can. I’ve waited one year, three months and twelve days for my big day; that’s one year, three months and twelve days from the moment Greg proposed to me in the Little Chef. Yes I know, it isn’t the most romantic of places, but it was Valentine’s Day, so that makes everything all right. Although, to be strictly honest, it was me that proposed to him, but I am sure Greg would have done if I hadn’t got in first. You know what men are like, they just need a little push sometimes don’t they? We’d been on our way back from a Tottenham Hotspur match and stopped at the Little Chef. Did I mention that Greg likes football? Does the pope pray? Well, that’s how obsessed Greg is with football. It’s not just a game for him, it’s a religion. I think if Greg could marry Tottenham Hotspur instead of me, he would.  So, there we were, tucking into our All Day Breakfast when Greg looked over his grilled tomato, gazed into my eyes, and said,

‘You’re the perfect girl for me.’

His words had sent a tingle down my spine. We’d been together for nine months and I just knew Greg was my Mr Right. I loved everything about him from his receding hairline to his bouncy walk.  So, while still buzzing from our Tottenham Hotspur win, I asked him, right there, right then, in the Little Chef, to marry me. He looked so handsome in his Tottenham shirt that I just couldn’t help myself. There was a heart stopping moment when he hesitated, but then he said yes. That was one year, three months and twelve days ago. The time has flown by in a flurry of wedding magazines, dress fittings, reception venues, guest lists, seating plans, wedding cakes and of course football. And now the day is here. My stomach gurgles with excitement and mum fumbles in her bag for the Windeze.

‘Maybe pop a couple.’ she suggests. ‘Better safe than sorry, after all, we want a packed church don’t we?’

I glance at a box of Thorntons chocolates that sit on the dressing table. One white chocolate truffle won’t do any harm will it?

‘I’m hungry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t have breakfast.’

‘How can you think about food today of all days?’ scolds mum.

I’m not thinking about food, I’m just thinking about chocolate. I’ve never been so nervous in my life and chocolate is the answer to all ills isn’t it?

‘Just one,’ I say. ‘One won’t hurt, will it?’

She sighs and opens the box. I devour the white chocolate truffle and then feel myself drawn to the Hazelnut Heaven, but mum slams the lid down and puts the box back on the dressing table.

‘I’ll straighten your veil,’ she says nervously.

I look at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. I can’t believe I’m standing in my wedding dress. My hair hangs in a perfect short bob with a pretty slide clipping back one side so my diamante earrings can be seen. I’d gone for the natural look. There is nothing worse than an over made up bride is there? I’d applied a small amount of blusher to my cheeks and a pink tint onto my lips with just a light brush of mascara to my lashes. I’m blessed with a clear, fair complexion and natural brown wavy hair. I’m not beautiful or anything but I think I’m reasonably attractive.

‘You look stunning,’ says mum.

‘You don’t think I look a bit chubby?’ I ask, swallowing the white chocolate truffle.

‘Chubby?’ says mum, just a little too loudly. ‘Of course not, you’ve lost loads of weight.’

That’s true. I did lose a lot of weight. The only problem is I put it on again at the food tasting for the reception. At least that was the start, the diet went pear shaped after that. Still, I can lose it again after the honeymoon can’t I? After all, Greg loves me for who I am.  Mum adjusts the veil while I fiddle with the pearls around my neck. The dress looks terrific. It had cost a fortune but it was worth every penny. I’d been dreaming of this since I was a child. It is the happiest day of my life and I want to savour every moment. I embrace a bouquet of lilies and sigh contentedly.

‘You look like a princess,’ says mum.

‘Not like Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids?’ I ask worriedly.

‘Don’t be silly. Anyway she was the bridesmaid, not the bride, so you can’t look like her.’

‘You know what I mean.’

I reach for the Hazelnut Heaven before she can stop me. The chocolate hits my blood stream sending a wave of temporary euphoria through me. I tick off an imaginary list in my head. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue and a silver sixpence in her shoe. The slide in my hair is the something old, borrowed from my grandmother. That’s if borrowing something from someone dead actually counts, but I’m sure it does. She would have lent it to me had she been alive. The something new is the wedding dress. No way was I having a second-hand dress.  I’ve got a garter which belongs to my mother, just in case borrowing from my grandmother doesn’t count, and the something blue is the ribbon tied around my bouquet. The silver sixpence is pressed tightly against my little toe. I had forgotten nothing. There will be no bad luck on my special day. I’m marrying my Prince Charming, Greg Martin. Just the thought of him makes me quiver inside. Life is going to be magical from this day forth.

I walk carefully into the living room where dad is waiting.

‘Aw, you look a picture,’ he says proudly.

‘I’ll see you at the church. Don’t be on time,’ laughs mum. ‘And don’t get too nervous, you don’t want to stutter through your vows.’

I’m going to be exactly three minutes late, no longer. I read in Bride magazine that it is unfair to make the groom stand at the altar for too long.  I fidget as the garter cuts into my thigh. Those extra three minutes may be the difference between life and death the way this garter is constricting my blood flow.

‘Ready?’  asks dad.

I nod. I’d better go before my leg turns purple. The neighbours stand at their gates and ‘ooh and ah’ at me.

‘Doesn’t she look lovely,’ says one as I climb into the Rolls Royce.

There’s nothing like a wedding is there, to cheer everyone up?’

‘Bring us back some cake,’ shouts another.

We’ve got a three tier wedding cake in blue and white icing. Blue and white are Tottenham’s colours and Greg was insistent they should be the colours of the cake. Not my choice but you’ve got to have a bit of give and take haven’t you? The photographer flashes pictures of me in the car making me feel like a celebrity, and then we’re off. I wave in manner of Kate Middleton, and feel very regal, aside from my numb leg. It takes ten minutes to reach the church. I glance at my wedding finger and tremble with excitement. Soon I will be travelling back as Mrs Greg Martin. It’s better than winning the lottery.

‘We should go in,’ dad says anxiously.

‘Once more around the block,’ I say, ‘it’s not time yet.’

I seriously can’t feel my foot. After one more drive around the block we finally stop at the church and I can’t say I’m not relieved. This garter is worse than a tourniquet. I’ll have deep vein thrombosis if we wait any longer. So, here we are, or at least here I am, about to get married and I couldn’t be happier. I limp from the car and dad fiddles with the dress while managing to stand on my veil.

‘Oh damn, I’m sorry love.’

‘Not to worry, it could be worse.’

I’m more concerned about the pins and needles in my leg. At this rate I will be limping down the aisle like a zombie bride.  It’s then I see Rosie wiping tears from her eyes. At first I presume them to be tears of happiness but then I see my mother crying too and my stomach tenses. Then Jack, the best man, begins talking earnestly to my dad who this time steps on my wedding train. My stomach churns the half box of Thornton’s chocolates that I had eaten this morning and for one awful moment I think I’m going to be sick down my three thousand pound dress. That would be the pits wouldn’t it? First my dad’s foot and then my vomit. Not the best start to marital bliss. But something tells me that this wedding isn’t going to start at all, that something had happened, something awful. Oh God, Greg has been fatally injured in a pile up or at the very least broken both legs.

‘Greg isn’t coming. I’m so sorry,’ says Jack.

‘Is he sick?’ I ask stupidly.

‘He said he can’t go through with it. I’m so sorry.’

It takes me a few seconds to understand what he’s saying. Obviously, I’m relieved that they haven’t dragged Greg’s battered body from a mangled car or amputated both his legs, but my relief turns to disappointment and then anger, and then I want to stab him to death myself.

‘He’s not coming?’ I stutter, knowing I’m stating the bloody obvious.

Jack doesn’t speak. My world reels around me. I try to cling onto dad but I can’t see him through my tears.

‘Oh don’t cry Amy, please don’t cry.’

Everyone looks at me, watching my humiliation.  The man I love is not coming. I suddenly feel fat, vulnerable and stupid.

‘What a sod,’ says mum.

I couldn’t have put it better myself, although I can think of more appropriate words for him. I, Amy Fisher, have been jilted by Greg Martin, and if there is anything worse than your dad standing on your veil, this has to be it.

To read more go here  £1.99 on Amazon.

much love

Lynda

xx

 

You’re Invited to Perfect Weddings

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Hi everyone,

I thought I would never get over here. Things were manic on my Facebook and Twitter page yesterday because … hurrah it was the launch day for my new novel ‘Perfect Weddings’

I’m so excited about this book as everyone is saying they think it is my best one yet.

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I love the cover thanks to Katie Grace Klumpp, who is so talented, you have to agree. Click her name to check out her work.

 

I hope you enjoy ‘Perfect Weddings’ If you like weddings then you are bound to.

Do you remember Amy Perfect who wrote ‘A Christmas Romance?’ Well, my bit of fun was to name the main character in ‘Perfect Weddings’ Amy Perfect too:-)

A Christmas Romance Design!

 

And by the way, while we are talking about ‘A Christmas Romance’ it is now 99p. It is the first in the Little Perran series and it doesn’t have to be Christmas to enjoy it. So why not treat yourself to both. That’s only £2.98 for two books. What can you buy for that these days? Go here for ‘A Christmas Romance’

So what is ‘Perfect Weddings’ about?

‘Every bride wants a perfect wedding and that includes Georgina Winters. Amy Perfect is the crème de la crème of wedding planners so who best to plan Georgina s wedding… except the man Georgina plans to marry is the same man who jilted Amy three years ago. Will her plan to give Georgina the most imperfect wedding backfire on her? Is this the chance for Amy to win back the love of her life, or will insufferable Ben Garret put a spanner in the works? Arab princes, spoilt brides and wedding catastrophes make Perfect Weddings a page-turning romantic comedy that will keep you guessing until the very last page.’

I do hope you enjoy it. You can get yours here

http://goo.gl/Vp78vS

Much love as always

Lynda

x

Back From the Dead

 

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Thirteen years ago one cold foggy evening I held a knife to my husband’s throat. We weren’t married then and after that I’m very surprised we ever did get married.

Those were bleak days. I would pack a suitcase every weekend and leave him. It may have been for something as stupid as him making a comment on my washing up. I cried all the time. I felt like some other being had possessed my body when I wasn’t looking and was now determined to destroy all I held dear to me.

The knife incident was the final straw. It was one month before Christmas.  Andrew didn’t want to be murdered before the festivities. You can’t really blame him and frankly I didn’t want to spend my life behind bars for killing him. Although I feel sure I would have got off due to hormonal imbalance and me not being of sound mind, although it can be argued I’m not of sound mind most of the time anyway. But that’s a whole other blog. I was also suffering severely from Bartholin cysts. If you’ve never heard of them they are little cysts that develop on the inside of the vulva, on, of course, the Bartholin gland. They make it hard to sit down. They throb and sometimes bleed. Taking a pee is nightmarish. The many years I had them no doctor seemed to know how to treat them. By the time I got an appointment to see a doctor they would have gone down. I was given creams, antibiotics and told to shower rather than bath. The antibiotics helped but the cysts would always return.

stress

So, I went to the GP. Of course, some may have said I needed a psychiatrist but I felt the GP was good to begin with. He was.  I was told I was peri menopausal and put on hormone replacement therapy. My life changed. The terrible tension I had suffered stopped. The cysts went away and never came back. The migraines I had been suffering with for many years stopped. My eyes, which were always dry and gritty suddenly felt normal. It was like a miracle had happened. I continued taking Femoston 2/10 my HRT tablet for the next thirteen years. But then my periods got heavier and more painful. I began having brown staining before a bleed. I went back to the doctor and asked if I could change to something else that would perhaps stop my periods. I felt sure they must have stopped and I was simply having a break-through bleed on the cyclical HRT. This was the beginning of a whole new nightmare for me. They began telling me I had been on the HRT for a long time and it was time to come off. You know what they say about opening Pandora’s box or poking a hornet’s nest? Don’t do it. I changed doctors for a completely different reason and went to request my HRT medication and was told I needed to see the doctor first. I made an appointment and saw a male doctor who banged angrily on the table when I told him what I wanted and declared ‘I would not get that poison from them’ My blood pressure had been slightly raised on a previous visit and he told me I could have a heart attack or stroke any day. I did not leave feeling reassured.

I like to be in charge of my own body. After all it belongs to me. My quality of life matters only to me and those closest to me. A GP who doesn’t really know me has no idea the kind of nightmare I am living. To refuse me a drug I had been on for 13 years was both distressing and worrying for me. I was fully aware of the risks and took as much care as possible to check on them. The buck was passed to the menopause clinic at the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxfordshire. I met my consultant and after a long chat she agreed that if my quality of life was severely affected then I was a candidate to stay on HRT for as long as needed, but it is always a good idea to wean off if at all possible.

Let me tell you weaning yourself off something that not only helps you feel like a normal functioning adult and also does wonders for your skin and the aging process is not an easy thing to do. However I agreed to go on a patch which I was assured would stop me bleeding. However, three months and I was still staining badly a week or more before my bleed. The stomach cramps were now worse and continued past my break through bleed. An ultra sound was arranged. It showed a thickened womb lining. I was given a different medication to encourage bleeding in the hope this would eventually thin the lining. It didn’t. A second US showed the lining was still thick. It was decided a hysteroscopy should be performed so they could look inside and if anything needed removing they would remove it. So, under I went and they discovered multiple polyps which were removed. My womb lining was scraped and home I came. Weeks later I went back on my old HRT and felt fine. Then after a few months we tried the patches again and I attempted to reduce my dosage by cutting a small piece off each time.

 

Then the nightmare began. I suddenly went from being a happy fun-loving woman to a grumpy, exhausted wreck. My joints began to ache. Tiredness overwhelmed me. It would take me twenty minutes to make the bed. I would stop to lie on it several times in between changing the sheets. I was tense, irritable, and no fun to be around. My eyes were dry and gritty again. I couldn’t work. I kept crying. I couldn’t pull my aching tired limbs from the bed in the morning. My sex life was non-existent. I didn’t care if I never had sex again. My back ached. I moaned. Cooking dinner was a chore that wore me out. I was a shadow of my former self and no one seemed to care aside from Andrew. I googled joint pain and tiredness. I came to the conclusion that I was suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome again along with fibromyalgia. Some people even suggested this may just be my age. At a certain age you stop wanting sex apparently. But I also noticed that the day before I was due to change my patch I suddenly felt increasingly worse but would feel marginally better the following day after the new patch had been put on. This encouraged me to contact my consultant at the menopause clinic and to also do some more research myself on HRT, the risks, the preparations, the delivery and so on.  I also researched Tibilone. I was also tired of being tired and of not feeling sexy anymore. I pushed my case as hard as I could and requested Tibolone, fully expecting to be refused. However, my eyes were so red and sore that she was convinced I was tearful. ‘We can’t have you like this,’ she said understandingly. My blood pressure was taken, the risks of stroke were laid out to me. I said I understood and wanted to try it. My blood pressure unfortunately was 140/80 and considered far too high. I explained that I had been anxious about attending, had a difficult time parking, eventually sliding my Seat into a disabled space. She agreed to me having my blood pressure taken at my GP surgery and arranged a blood test to check my oestrogen level.

tib

That evening she emailed me. Hurrah, I was extremely low in oestrogen. I had not been absorbing the patch very well. That night on her advice I went back to taking HRT in pill form. The next day I felt brighter, more energetic but still with joint pains. I collected my Tibolone later that day and started it that night. I woke up the next morning and felt so much better. We went out with my stepson and grandson and larked around Waddesdon Manor. I returned with my husband and met friends for lunch. We came home and then I went shopping. I felt more alive than I have in months. Today was my second day on Tibolone and let’s just say there has been a little more action in this cottage than there has been for some time.

Yes, it could all be in my mind. Maybe I expect to feel better but I can’t explain why my eyes are back to normal. Why I feel happier, why things feel and seem so much better. It’s like being brought back from the dead and that really isn’t an exaggeration.

I’m not advocating HRT for everyone but I would certainly recommend it if you are suffering terribly from menopausal symptoms. Do check out the risks yourself and if someone tells you ‘It’s just your age, don’t accept it’ You can get older and still have a life.

I shall be monitoring my symptoms over the next few months and I am very much hoping that things stay as they are today.