S'not fair!

Time and events have rather run away with me, so I’m amazed to discover that it’s been two weeks since I last posted. (Why must it always be time and events that run away with me, and not Henry Cavill or James D’Arcy??) Last week I was down in London at the lovely AMBA lunch and Mills & Boon Toast to the Authors-- eagerly awaited as an oasis of civilisation in the squalor and chaos my usual life. As we are in the midst of renovating our bathroom things here are more chaotic than usual-- and considerably dustier-- so I was particularly glad to find myself sitting in the relative calm and comfort of the Virgin Express to Euston last Wednesday, my mini laptop balanced on the tiny fold out table in front of me, and a cardboard cup of surprisingly OK tea in my hand to soothe the ominous scratchiness in the back of my throat.

A trip to London wouldn’t be a fraction of the fun if I didn’t share a room with gorgeous Abby Green, and we had a great couple of days regressing to about the age of 17, and meeting up with friends old and new. Amongst the latter for me were Trish Morey and Jennie Lucas, both of whom proved as delightful as their books, and fresh, sparkly (and beautiful) new Presents signing Sabrina Phillips, whose first book is coming out next year.


At this point I'd better confess that I forgot to pack my camera, but in view of the fact that the moment I stepped off the train the scratching in my throat blossomed into the most spectacularly revolting cold that probably isn't such a bad thing. Spent the day of the AMBA lunch walking around with a scarlet nose and huge black circles under my eyes, and generally looking like an extra in some grim Channel 4 drama about the dangers of hard drugs. It is a tribute to the kindness of romance writers that people did still talk to me, however I'm horribly afraid that many of them might subsequently have regretted it. (If you're one of these people please let me know and I’ll send chocolate and lemsip by way of apology.)

Back in the north, the cold vanished as suddenly as it appeared, leaving nothing but a sore, raw nose and a lingering sense of injustice.

January Blues

Usually I kind of like January, and the clean-slate, pared-back austerity and sense of great purpose that follows in the wake of the Christmas chaos. But this year I can’t quite hit my stride. I want to cuddle up on the sofa with my children and watch soppy films, and ward off the cold world outside with treacle tart and custard. Must be my biorhythms. Whatever they are. Maybe I need a week in a health spa.

(Or maybe I just need a smacked bottom and a stern talking-to.)

Anyway, the one thing that’s cheered me greatly this week is a lovely review of The Italian's Captive Virgin over at Cataromance. Julie gave it 4.5 stars and said

With the release of her second novel for Mills and Boon Modern Romance, The Italian’s Captive Virgin, India Grey further establishes herself as a writer of amazing talent and extraordinary scope. Sensual, exotic and enthralling, The Italian’s Captive Virgin, is a captivating romantic read by a writer who is set to become one of the imprint’s most popular writers!

Thanks so much Julie. I think you just saved me about 700 calories worth of chocolate and half a box of tissues.

RSI strikes

Repetetive blooming Strain Injury.

Ouch, ouch, ouch. Like this book isn't hard enough to write already.

(You may have noticed that I've been pretty lax at keeping up with my labels, but the Self Pity tag is getting quite a lot of use....)

Moan, whinge, complain...

Am utterly fed up.

I have something in my eye. Something that feels like an enormous great boulder-sized piece of very sharp glass, but which is invisible. It is lodged just under my upper eyelid, at the outer edge, and makes blinking excruciating and sleeping impossible.

After wasting an hour of prime, day-time, child-free writing time waiting in the doctor’s surgery I am informed that it is probably an allergy. I disagree, although I am prepared to admit I could be allergic to the enormous boulder-sized piece of very sharp glass in my eye. The doctor points out (disapprovingly) that I am wearing mascara. I point out (defensively) that this is a good sign. For me, not wearing mascara will be one of the early symptoms of death.

I leave with a prescription. £6.45 later, in the chemist, I realise that it is for Allergy Eye Drops.

I am now wondering if a good cry will help by maybe washing away the enormous boulder-sized piece of very sharp glass. I think it’s considerably more likely to work than the stupid drops.

Payback time

The Cold, which has been threatening since the beginning of last week, has arrived with a vengence. This definitely feels like a punishment for too much drinking and late-night partying in London, and while I know I should be hugely grateful that it delayed its appearance for a week, am feeling far too full of self-pity to manage this.

This morning will see me retreating to bed with a notebook (though it's unlikely that romantic inspiration will strike when my head is full of wallpaper paste) a lemisp and the radio, so that I can listen to this on Radio 4 at 11.30. Am slightly nervous at this prospect-- for reasons so beautifully and concisely expressed by Kate Walker, here, and also incase after listening to the bit about the writing course I realise that I don't have what it takes to be a Mills&Boon author.

Think I shall also arm myself with the biscuit tin and several pieces of toast and jam, to ward off feelings of insecurity and because ancient medical lore says you must feed a cold. Technically I think that means today I'm eating for two.

Every cloud has a silver lining.