Out of Touch

So it seems that the sudden demise of my ancient computer is just a tip of the communications-nightmare iceberg here (those Titanic images just won't go away, will they?) Thanks to everyone who left comments here about my email issues: I checked my website yesterday and realised that it was down too. Apparently it's something to do with the server, so now I've let them know it should be sorted soon, (yeah, right!) but big apologies to anyone who emailed and hasn't had a response. For once it's not just because I'm a lazy old slacker!

Of course, the other reason for my lack of communication is that, in the aftermath of finishing the book I think I've just run out of words. My head is filled with echoing empty spaces where sentences should be. I'm guiltily aware that the deadline panic meant I didn't properly celebrate the release of Alejandro's book (At the Argentinean Billionaire's Bidding) with the usual contest and giveaways and background information and stuff. Is it all too late now? If there's anything anyone wants to know more about please shout up. In the meantime (and since I'm now actually boring myself with my extreme lack of anything worthwhile to say) let's just quietly contemplate Alejandro's gorgeousness, shall we...? (via the medium of his real life body double, Argentine polo ace Nacho Figueras)

Hmmm. That was nice. Think I might go and research my next hero now. He's South American. And Royal. And very naughty. Am sure I can just about rouse myself for that kind of challenge...

Some serious post-match analysis

The Six Nations rugby tournament started on Saturday, which means that I don't have to look very far for entertainment or romantic inspiration for the next few weekends. It also means that He and I are for once in happy agreement about what makes for a great afternoon, although obviously for rather different reasons: this Saturday He was thrilled because England won, and I was thrilled because they were playing Italy. I started watching convinced that Italy boasted the best looking team in the tournament by far, but having also watched France (against Ireland) and then Wales (playing Scotland) I'm actually pretty impressed by the competition. I'm clearly going to need to conduct an more in-depth study over the coming weeks.

One major disappointment was that the new French coach has inexplicably dropped last year's Number 10 from the 2009 line up. David Skrela gave France a massive boost in the sexiness stakes, and was also the player I used for inspiration when I was writing Alejandro from At the Argentinean Billionaire's Bidding (surely both good, solid reasons for keeping him in the First XV?) Argentine polo player Nacho Figueras was the face of Alejandro, but Skrela provided the raw rugby passion, and specifically the sexy-as-sin bleeding lip which Alejandro suffers in the opening chapter of the book-- a look modelled by Skrela in the France-Wales game of last year's Six Nations. I can't find a picture of the actual incident (although I've really enjoyed looking) but here's one for you to enjoy without the cut lip.

Anyway, back in the real world last week's snow has now dissolved into khaki-coloured slush, but the three very oddly shaped snowmen made by the daughters remain bizarrely unmelted. Very sinister, and with their black, staring eyes and gaping mouths definitely more Stephen King than Raymond Briggs. Annoyingly, more snow is forecast for later on today and tonight, so I'm going to be spending the next 24 hours looking anxiously out of the window and wondering whether I'm going to make it to the RNA Awards Lunch tomorrow. It's all in the lap of God, the Met Office and Virgin trains, but believe me, I won't miss out on a lipstick-and-heels occasion for anything less than Arctic armageddon.

Talking of which, I'm blogging later on today at iheartpresents about the underrated romance of ice and snow. Please come over and visit!

Vanished!

And it's all the fault of this man...
He's the hero of the book I'm currently racing to finish, an Argentine polo player called Alejandro. (Well, I guess he'd call himself Nacho Figueras. Whatever. I hope that in real life he's more accommodating than his fictional twin) He's actually been quite a joy to work with, but I wish that he'd just accept now that he's beaten and give in gracefully, since the book is currently about ten thousand words too long. He's that kind of guy.

Anyway, while I disappear again to wave my editorial scissors over his head (and other parts of his gorgeous anatomy) you can enjoy him here in the super-smooth Ralph Lauren ad. If anyone has any thoughts on what he intends to do with that trumpet, do share...