Apple Blossom Time*

(*In other words, a mighty long time since I last posted)

I love this time of year. I would say it's my favourite, except that I suspect I've probably declared in previous Septembers, Novembers and Junes that Autumn, Winter and Summer are the seasons I like best (ie. whichever shiny new season is just unfolding.) But I really love Easter, and daffodils and forget-me-nots, and I love those few weeks when the evenings lengthen and are indigo blue rather than sullen grey, and when the blossom is out and it glows against the gathering dark, and when our garden actually manages to look almost nice for about five minutes.

This year the season has been all the more special because amazing things have been happening in book world, and from now on I know I'll always associate pink trees and the scent of wisteria with the excitement, fear and amazement of selling my first longer-length, single title novel. In the two weeks leading up to easter my incredible agent (Becky Ritchie of Curtis Brown) was emailing daily to keep me updated on developments as offers came in, and the whole thing took on the aura of a pink-petalled dream. Finally, two days before Good Friday, a deadline was set and a decision made, and I can now announce with enormous pride and excitement, that Letters to the Lost will be published next Spring (also at apple blossom time) by Simon and Schuster under my new writing name of Iona Grey. 

I haven't blogged much (at all?) about the book, which I wrote quite quickly last year. This was a bit because I didn't really want to admit that I'd set aside the one I'd been writing for such ages (which I did four days after writing this post!) and a bit because, following my failure to make that one work, I was far from confident I'd be able to do better with the next one, even though it felt like a joy to write. I'm looking forward to massively boring everyone about it when publication time approaches, but in the meantime I'll leave you with a little synopsis, and the link to my Pinterest board. (How modern!)

Letters to the Lost is the story of how love can stand the test of time and death. 1943: In the ruins of Blitzed London American airman Dan Rosinski encounters vicar's wife Stella Thorne. It is the beginning of a reluctant, impossible, unstoppable love affair in which all the odds are stacked against them. In a time when everything is uncertain, their letters help them to hold onto the one thing of which they can be sure: their love for each other. 2011: Tia Moran stumbles on an empty house in her moment of need and it seems like a miracle. But then a letter drops through the door and she is drawn into the story of a love that has endured for over half a century, and the search for the elusive Stella Thorne. Can piecing together fragments of old lives give Tia a better understanding of her own? And can uncovering the story of a past love give birth to a new one?

In other news, we've got a new kettle. An electric one, which is quite something as for the last four years or so we've been using a camping one on the gas hob (it's a long story...) And, with GCSEs starting on Monday, today is daughter #2's last proper day at High School (although I'm not sure 'proper' is the right word, given that it will mostly involve water fights and drawing on each other's school uniform). How can this be? Wasn't it only the other week that she left primary school?  

India's End of Term Report

"...India has enjoyed a mixed year in 2013. It is disappointing to note that her promises to do better in the field of physical exercise came to nothing and she ends the year as dismally unfit as she began it. She has also failed to improve her level of organisation and tidiness: not only is her desk an utter disgrace but also a potential public health hazard. (Given her total lack of aptitude in Biology, her excuse that she is studying the growth of mould on cold tea rings rather hollow.) Her personal presentation remains an issue, as the unfortunate postman will certainly testify.

Nowhere is her lack of application more notable than in the upkeep of her blog. This might be more forgivable if the posts she did manage to write were more interesting, and less centred on flimsy excuses for their scarcity. Disappointingly, her annual piece on Christmas adverts has not materialised, and the fact that she has made so few posts this year that one only has to scroll down the page to find the last one is, frankly, little consolation. Although she did manage to attend the RNA Conference and the Winter Party she did not provide a report of either event, or any photographs. Holidays and 'research trips' have gone similarly unrecorded, giving rise to the suspicion that these have been little more than opportunities for more aimless loafing in alternative locations.

It is somewhat encouraging to note that the book she has been writing is actually completed and has been submitted (though one can only shake one's head in despair at the fact that is not the same book she blogged about in March, which was set aside soon after the post appeared). Her forays into Pinterest and Instagram are laudable, though rather dismal at present. (Since most of her Pinterest boards are secret, one has to question whether she fully grasps the concept?) Here, as in so many other areas India must try harder.

In short, India needs to spend less time gossiping on twitter and scouring the internet for 'James D'Arcy shirtless' and 'Henry Cavill in a G.I. uniform' and more time tidying her desk and going to the gym. She also needs to understand that a day spent lying on the sofa reading other people's novels does not constitute 'work', in the same way that half a chocolate orange does not constitute 'fruit' (and cannot therefore be counted in the Five-a-Day total.) If she can achieve these things, and also expand her cooking repertoire beyond pizza, spaghetti Bolognese and chocolate chip cookies, there will be some grounds for optimism for 2014.

Wishing you all the very best for a hugely happy Christmas..." (and lots of love to you all. See you next year! xx)
 

11th November

I don't think there's anyone left to remember John Henry Skitt today, 

so I'm doing it.

A Poem for September

Or a bit of one. Louis MacNiece's Autumn Journal is pretty long, very beautiful and well worth a read as the nights draw in (with the possible addition of red wine and maybe even cinnamon toast if, like me, you find yourself in the mood to go large on the whole Autumn Experience.)

September has come, it is hers 

Whose vitality leaps in the autumn, 

Whose nature prefers 

Trees without leaves and a fire in the fire-place.

So I give her this month and the next

Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered 

already

So many of its days intolerable or perplexed

But so many more so happy; 

Who has left a scent on my life and left my walls 

Dancing over and over with her shadow, 

Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls 

And all of London littered with remembered kisses.

(I'd like to pretend I'm familiar with this poem from dusty university tutorials or because I have dozens of slim, well-thumbed volumes of poetry on my bedside table, but I actually came across this excerpt as a teenager in one of my all time favourite comfort reads, The Shell Seekers. As someone who definitely prefers trees without leaves and a fire in the fireplace it struck enough of a chord to make me seek it out, and to add it to the list of Things I've Learned by Reading Romance.)

Happy Autumn everyone! 

(Honestly, blog posts. Like buses. Not a single one for 5 months and then 2 in the space of a week.) (Nearly.) 

Moving On (and Looking Back)

Well. Gosh. Here I am. Five months - that's quite a long time, isn't it? Almost two seasons; long enough to encompass snow and heatwave in our eccentric British climate (I'm pretty sure we had snow in March this year?) Long enough to have celebrated Easter and a birthday, steered two teenagers through the white water rapids of Big Exams (or rather, watched from the bank, hands twisted in helpless anxiety as they steered themselves), had a wonderful time at the RNA Conference, indulged in fancy dress high jinks at our annual family get together, spent a glorious week eating carbohydrate in France, celebrated the results of the teens' exams, and almost written a book. (That last item probably needs expanding upon slightly at some point, possibly even in a post all of its own.) So, though five months is barely a flicker of the pulse of history, you can pack quite a lot into it; enough to make updating your woefully neglected blog feel like the labours of Hercules.

While I may not have been posting, I've certainly been thinking about the blog. (Oh, how wonderful it would be if thoughts translated themselves magically into words on a screen.) (But only if you had a chance to edit them first, of course. Otherwise it could get extremely messy and probably involve lawsuits.) Although I'm deplorably bad at keeping it updated, I am very fond of it; the friends I've made through it and the record it provides of the last six happy and eventful years. (Highs. Lows. Books finished. Books that stubbornly refuse to be written. Heroes. Idols. Being idle. Domestic triumphs and disasters and a smattering of philosophy.) When I started this blog my children were twelve, nine and six, and so it charts the primary school years, of Nativity plays and birthday parties and, in view of the fact that a month from now my eldest will be packing for university, I'm glad to have that record. (While being fully aware that it's of interest only to me, my mum and maybe my husband - if he actually knew where to find it.)

But, but... even having said that, I somehow can't see myself returning to those far-off days of blogging twice or three times a week, and I've been wondering why that is. Maybe I've got lazier, or maybe my life has got duller and less worthy of recording (though a glance back into the archives substantially discredits the likelihood of both theories). What I know for certain is that a day when I blog is usually a day when I don't add much to the wip, and so I often find that I'm stuck in a spiral of blog-neglect guilt versus unmet-wordcount guilt, and that such spirals tend to lead directly to the biscuit tin.

I think the main reason for the gradual falling off of my blog habit can be blamed, like lots of my other shortcomings, on twitter. Many of the staggeringly inconsequential things I used to put on here now find an outlet there and are instantly absorbed into its teeming depths. A quick glance at the list of blogs on my sidebar suggests that perhaps other people are doing the same, and that the gentle art of blogging, like letter-writing and taking afternoon tea, is being lost as technology gives us quicker ways to reach out to each other. One of the things I took away from this year's RNA Conference (in addition to a swanky silver bag bursting with books and chocolate) was the value of sites like Pinterest to authors, so I've revived my early, abandoned Pinterest interest and made a board for my past books (in addition to the three boards of various things I'd made a year or two ago and kept secret, which is probably missing the point somewhat.) I haven't quite got the hang of it all yet but will probably get there, just as the bandwagon rolls out of the station and onto the Next Big Thing. Just in case that happens to be Instagram I'm there too, after some hard sell from the daughters who all love it. I kind of love it, though I feel a bit like I've arrived in my horrific pyjamas at a party full of luscious, pouting adolescents. If anyone else is on there, please let me know and I'll gratefully cling to follow you and try to work out what it's all about.

So there we are. Moving on - to a new era of family life, in which daughter #1's place at the table will be empty *sniff* and onto new arenas for keeping in touch. The blog will definitely not be abandoned, but between appearances here there are other places where I'm likely to be found, dispelling any suspicions that I've given it all up to become a sheep farmer or have quietly expired over draft 392 of my book. (Which is, as I said, a subject for another time...)

So, has anyone else made a brave foray into the worlds of Pinterest or Instagram? Did you love it and linger, or feel bewildered and bolt? I'd love to know your thoughts, and also any tips you might have on what I should do and who I should follow. (And I'd love to see your pins and pictures!)

*A big apology to anyone who read this post when it first went up, when the last paragraph had somehow been replaced by an erroneous link that had gone astray from further up. You see, I thought I was being terribly clever languishing on the sofa and blogging on an ipad mini, but it seems it was just too mini to spot the glaring errors. (Which reminds me, must make an appointment at Specsavers.)*

The Gap Between Head and Page

Last week (or it could have been the week before the way the time is playing evil tricks on me) I finally wrote a scene that has been in my head for about 8 years. It was a scene that came to me when I first had the idea for this book, and which kind of informed and inspired the way the story developed. Although much of the book has been written, then re-written in a slightly different way with the characters under different names, then re-re-written with the original names but a different POV and/or motivation, this scene was one I hadn't actually committed to paper before, and through all the huge changes that this story has undergone and storms it's weathered, the way I'd pictured it had remained pretty much unchanged; a solid platform of certainty in the shifting landscape of the story.  I knew the circumstances under which it would take place, the three characters who would be in it, the setting, the mood and the way it would relate to what came before and after. I could see it - and I still can.

So why in the name of the Easter Bunny is the scene I've written NOTHING LIKE THAT??

It's all most unsettling. My very deep and emotionally loaded scene is now littered with other - very minor - characters, and instead of taking place in bleak, freezing February it's now June. The mood of yearning and despair that was supposed to pervade it has been replaced by a something less emotionally loaded, and whereas it was going to be the point where the dynamic between the hero and heroine really shifts, as it turns out they barely connect at all. Of course, as I write this it does occur to me that the changes I've made elsewhere were bound to have an impact so I suppose it's only logical, but it does still take me by surprise when the words I put on the screen end up creating a very different picture than the one in intended to write. Does it happen to other people, or is it just me?

The upside is that all the emotion that was supposed to be in that scene, with its shadowy chateau and candlelight and scratchy gramophone waltz (though the music in my head was this) now needs to go somewhere else. And so a completely new scene is taking shape, with rosy apple orchards and syrupy sunlight. And the music in my head is this. (DON'T LAUGH.) Ho hum. Onwards and upwards.

Oh - hello!

Happy new year, if February 27th isn't too late for such a greeting. I won't bore you with excuses  explanations for my shameful blog absence, in the hope of giving it a little air of mystery and intrigue, suggestive of sojourns on far-flung shores beyond the reach of wifi, or exciting happenings too top-secret to share. Anyway, here I am - still alive, still writing (still in my pyjamas at midday mostly - although perhaps I should keep quiet about that in view of the mystery and intrigue thing.)

Yesterday I managed to get changed out of my pyjamas before midday and put on mascara and decent underwear and head down to London for the RNA RoNA Awards. I hadn't intended to go, being under a self-imposed ban on fun, frivolity and glamorous events, but last week (in the middle of half term, which might not be coincidental) I had a sudden craving for all of the above; as well as for the pleasurable ache you get in your throat and feet the morning after you've talked your head off in a crowded room for a couple of hours wearing high heels. It was a fab evening, and easily justifiable to my inner Writing Despot on the grounds that it yielded not only plentiful champagne, but also bucketloads of motivation from being surrounded by totally top authors (as well as the chance to meet the amazing Susanna Kearsley in actual person, which was pretty overwhelming as I'd spent the entire journey down engrossed in The Firebird. Honestly, at my age I really should be past blushing and stammering when I meet people, shouldn't I?) Because it was a fairly last minute impulse, I didn't stay the night in town, but if I had I would have liked to spend it here, which is where Abby Green and Heidi Rice partied into the small hours on the contents of a very luxuriously-stocked mini-bar.

Anyway, the news on the homefront is that my book is coming together, though my computer is falling apart. Remember the terrifyingly efficient Mac? *hollow laugh* It is no longer presiding over my cluttered desk with its reproachful sleekness, but is in some repair centre in Warrington where, I was informed this morning, it might remain for another three weeks. THREE WEEKS? Do they not know that I've set myself a deadline of May for this book and there's still an awful lot of anguish to endure (both on the page and in reality) if that goal is to be met?? Of course there's nothing to be done (although the mini-rant on the phone was cathartic) except keep going - on scraps of paper, on the Fisher-Price netbook and the backs of envelopes if need be. Luckily I'm at the stage where the story is vivid and immediate and writing itself, which is just as well as writing is a bizarrely ritualistic activity; generally I need to be in the same place, with the same mug, the same scented candle, listening to the same music, wearing the same pyjamas for it to work. Though maybe that's not writing. Maybe that's just me.

It's been ages since I posted any writing soundtracks, so here's a bit of the music I'd be listening to, if I still had my Mac on which to listen to it. As it is, you can imagine me humming it tunelessly as I scribble away in my cheap supermarket notebook.

End of Term

In common with my children, I'm still technically working, but while they fill their days watching films in the classroom, most of my time at the keyboard is spent scouring the internet for out of stock Christmas presents I should have bought ages ago, and suitable alternatives.  Given that I'm writing this at 2pm on Thursday afternoon and haven't opened my manuscript document since Tuesday I probably might as well give in and accept that the holidays are here.

I've been a really rubbish blogger this year, largely because, without the rolling drama of deadlines and new books to start every 4 months there's not much to write about. The book I'm writing is slowly taking shape into something that I could just about imagine submitting, though it's not finished yet. In writing terms, 2012 has been such a steep learning curve I've needed crampons and a grappling hook, and although I've mostly enjoyed the climb I can't help hoping that 2013 lies on more even terrain. (Paved. With benches placed at regular intervals along it. And nice shops.) Anyway, thank you everyone for loyally checking in to read my sporadic and less than scintillating posts (many of which seemed to centre around not posting much.) If I could send you all chocolate I would, but as that's not possible I'm going to give you the emergency recipe for brownie in a mug that's got me through many a day when the words aren't flowing. Give a girl a brownie and she'll eat for a day. Give her a recipe for brownie in a mug and she has a failsafe fix for a lifetime of chocolateless afternoons.

Chuck 2 tablespoons of plain flour, 2 of sugar (I like to use 1 caster, 1 soft brown) 1 of cocoa powder, 1 of vegetable oil and 1 of water into a mug. Add a drop of vanilla essence and mix it into a revolting-looking paste. Put in the microwave for a minute or so, depending on your microwave. (You might have to experiment a bit here, which is no bad thing.) 

When it comes out it will still look revolting, but as you're not serving it to your mother-in-law that doesn't matter. Eat it standing up in the kitchen, with the addition of Amaretto cream if it's Christmas. 

This has been our first Christmas for 13 years without nativity plays, carol concerts, the need to make 50 mini sausage rolls (or cheese and pineapple on sticks) for the class party or write a poem for the talent show, so thus far the run up to festivities for me has been marked solely by... shopping. Oh, and cleaning the oven. However, now I have declared myself officially on holiday am going to spend the rest of the afternoon watching low-budget, made-for-TV tearjerkers and eat the Quality Street I bought for the bin men and forgot to leave out yesterday.

Happy Christmas to all of you. Wherever you are and whatever you're doing, I'm wishing you love, laughter, hot baths and good books. And for the phone not to ring during the Christmas episode of Downton Abbey.

A bit of Critical Media Analysis for your Monday Morning

At the start of the autumn I remember making a rather rash promise to come back and do a post on the orgy of pleasure and escapism (and, in this house, also of wine and Mrs Patmore-esque pudding) that is Downton Abbey. Its non-appearance is, in part, due to a bit of reluctance to tarnish the joy for American readers by selfishly spilling spoilers, but also (much less nobly) because I evidently go into a mysterious trancelike state the moment I hear the title music and the instant it's finished I can't think of a single critically incisive comment to make about it. I love it all, and even when I'm howling at the television and rolling my eyes, I'm still loving it (which admittedly might have something to do with the wine and pudding.) Anyway, am feeling slightly envious of you US gals who still have it all to come. Here, we're already looking forward to the Christmas episode.

Talking of Christmas, it's still only November but already the advert breaks are full of sleigh bell sound tracks and polystyrene snow. Happily, my critical brain is in fine form when it comes to this year's crop of festive supermarket offerings. Forgive me again, non-UK residents, for whom the names Morrisons, Asda, John Lewis and Sainsburys probably mean nothing, but the following clips will tell you all you need to know. Let's start with Asda, who this year have decided it's a great idea to get us lay-deez to spend our money there by reminding us that, on the great Downton scale of things, we are definitely Team Servants. And our husbands, of course, are Lord Grantham and Matthew and King George V all rolled into one. Notice the cheeky little line at the end from the humorous boy-husband...

(No, you may not have a proper seat at the table; you might get ideas above your station. Oh, and while you're down there...)

I have a theory that Morrisons' creative team went to the same 'Feminism: Let's Pretend it Never Happened' seminar as the Asda chaps (and I bet they were chaps), but they were at the back of the queue for coffee and the biscuits ran out, giving them a darker take on it all. In their offering, our downtrodden heroine is not plucky and cheery about her lot. No. In fact, she is clearly a woman on the edge of doing herself harm and the whole thing looks a lot like an advert for a seasonal mental health helpline. 

('I wouldn't have it any other way.' WHAT???  You're not fooling anyone with that line. And PUT THE CARVING KNIFE DOWN.)

John Lewis are a definite cut above, darling, and their adverts are whimsical, high-budget and have great soundtracks. When I first saw this one I liked it, I really did. It has snowmen! And look, in snowman society the male of the species has reached a peak of evolutionary finesse way beyond human men, enabling them to go shopping! And yet... and yet... watch it back-to-back with the other two and don't you need to crack open the cooking sherry? It's all so... grim, this seasonal slog to equip ourselves with the trappings of festive overindulgence. You'd think these retail giants would have an interest in making it look easier, wouldn't you? I'd love it if John Lewis could produce a follow-up advert that showed the snow-woman whip out an ipad the moment her partner shuffles tortuously off into the blizzard, and order him something online. 

(Did you keep the receipt? I don't suppose you could take them back and swap them for another colour...?)

For me, Sainsbury's is the clear Christmas Campaign winner. Look, no tired stereotypes! Cute kids! Cute dad! And he allows the mum to sit on an actual chair at the table! I am filled with hope for Christmas Yet To Come when this boy will have grown into a man who knows how to work a dishwasher

Well done Sainsburys. And, as a reward I will do all my shopping with you this year, as always.  So, tell me - do these adverts set your teeth on edge too or do you laugh in wry recognition (because you're less uptight than I am?) Have I spent too long at the keyboard and become and joyless overthinker? 

Lipstick, literature and a lovely weekend.

Back at my desk and feeling rather deflated (though sadly only in an emotional rather than a physical sense) after a weekend of brilliant company, amusing conversation, culture, champagne and shopping. Friday saw the annual Mills & Boon Author lunch, always a full-blown lipstick-mascara-heels event and a big gold-star date on my calendar. Travelling down on the train I tapped away at my laptop, enjoying the illusion of being a proper Professional Person, while trying not to bounce up and down on my seat with excitement at the prospect of seeing everyone and a whole day and night of behaving irresponsibly with Abby Green.

Cool professionalism was further undermined on arrival in the room where the lunch was being held (feel the urge to refer to it as 'luncheon', which tells you what kind of room it is) by the pink goody bags at each place setting. As someone who, over the years, has spent vast amounts of cash and many late nights putting together pink party bags for mini-guests at endless birthday parties this was a most pleasing manifestation of karma, though I have to confess that nothing as generous or exciting as Laurent Perrier champagne, Hotel Chocolat Kir Royale chocolates, candles or pink moleskine notebooks (with M&B logo) have ever appeared in a party bag of my creation.

It was a fabulous day, ending with a lovely, champagne-hazy evening at the M&B Author Toast (complete with dainty canapes, but no actual toast) during which conversation embraced such highbrow topics as The Actor Most Suited to Playing Christian Grey (Henry Cavill, obv) and Preparations for Childbirth (which I'm not going to mention, for fear of attracting the wrong sort of visitor via Google Search).  The following morning I met Daughter #1 from the train at Euston as she'd been shortlisted in a poetry competition in Peterborough that evening, which was a fine excuse for a day in London first. Given the purpose of the visit and her literary leanings she was keen to make a pilgrimage to Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey, which supplied the cultural element of the weekend. Not only is she a talented poet, but she also has a prodigious skill in getting me to part with large amounts of cash, so after lunch I found myself in Topshop with my credit card in my hand. Seriously, the girl's a genius.

The evening's poetry event was hugely enjoyable and inspiring, not only because Sir Andrew Motion was the judge and gave a reading, but also because hearing the variety of styles and approaches to the theme in the shortlisted poems was so interesting. Also on the judging panel was the super-cool Mark Grist, writer and performer of one of my favourite poems of recent years. Check this out...

(I like a man who even knows about the works of Jilly Cooper, 

never mind re-enacting the raunchy bits...)

Anyway, yesterday was spent sitting on draughty branch-line stations in the syrupy autumn sun and waiting for delayed trains and missed connections to get home. The days when this would have been an endurance test of endless games of I-spy and Hangman are still fresh in my memory, but it was actually a joy to spend time with lovely daughter #1 and talk about things we never get a chance to at home, where conversations rarely progress beyond the number of wet towels on the bathroom floor or the whereabouts of my Touche Eclat.

Back at home the fridge was full (of slightly random items ordered by Him in the online shop) the fire was laid, and there was plenty of time to unpack, hug daughters 2 and 3 and chill the goody bag champagne before DOWNTON ABBEY.

(And that, ladies, is a whole new avenue of joy and the subject of a post all of its own...)

New term. New Start. New shoes.

Daughter #3 left for her new school very early this morning (at least 20 minutes before her older sisters, who both go to the same place) looking unrecognisably smart and grown up in her new uniform and shiny shoes. Watching her go, I experienced one of those crystal-clear flashbacks that occur often in books but rarely in real life, of watching her walk down the lane to nursery in the autumn that she was 3 years old, wearing her purple coat and holding her daddy's hand, looking up at him. It caught me so off-guard I had to blow my nose hastily on a tea towel.

So the plan was that the moment the daughters were all out the door I'd be up to my office like a rat up a drain, typing away frantically and trying to get down all the fabulous, sparkly words and ideas that have glittered in my head all summer when I've been far away from a computer. Instead I spent the first hour wistfully sorting washing and feeling teary-eyed and nostalgic for the happy weeks of freedom from routine and time spent with lovely people. This year we timed our own prestigious Family Olympics to coincide with the similarly-named event in London, although as a member of Team GB I have to report that we didn't do nearly as well as the official team, despite my own gold-medal performance in the Sock Sorting event. After that, with scarcely a washing-machine-cycle's turnaround, we went off to St Ives, where the evenings were warm, the sea was clear and the surfers were plentiful. We'd chosen a house right in the centre of the town so the teenagers could come and go (and stay in bed) as they pleased, which seems to be the Shape of Holidays to Come. Am fleetingly sad about the passing of the sandcastle-building years, but on balance think that the going-out-in-the-evening and drinking-wine-on-the-beach years will have much to recommend them.

Back home again, the days settled into an easy routine of waking early and writing before the daughters roused themselves from their beauty sleep. I've been writing something a bit different which has been both challenging and fun, which I usually find a contradiction in terms. (Not sure whether the fun element was due to writing in bed, which adds a certain holiday atmosphere. Also, on the downside, a certain amount of toast crumbs. Impossible to write without devouring mini-breakfast, to boost creative energy levels.) The afternoons were given over to entertainment and adventure, and a good deal of extremely messy baking, so that the kitchen has become so covered in drifts of icing sugar it looks like Miss Havisham's dining room. It was only the prospect of cleaning it that finally sent me hurrying upstairs to blow the dust off the computer and locate the 'on' switch... (after which I spent a pleasant hour browsing the internet for new shoes - which are surely an essential compensation for the end of summer and onset of autumn?)

Hope everyone else has had a lovely summer and made a few more memories to add to the precious store we each carry with us. If there are any that you'd like to share I'd love to hear them...

A Wonderful Weekend, and the Season of Last Times

Am in nostalgic mood after a weekend in Penrith at the RNA Conference, where I met up with a whole  lot of truly lovely people - some of whom were old friends, others whom I was thrilled to be meeting for the first time. (That sentence is so grammatically correct it hurts.) Last year was my first so I'm still a Conference New Girl, but already it's become a highlight of my year. Where else would you be given free books and chocolate, educated, entertained, fed, motivated, inspired, hugged, and made to laugh and cry*? A ginormous thank you to all concerned for a fantastic weekend

(*yes, Julie Cohen, I'm talking to you!)

So, already feeling a bit emotionally brim-full, I've come back to a week of saying goodbye. On Thursday I'll be doing the school run for the very last time after doing the same route with daughters in varying numbers and of varying sizes since the last Millennium (September 1999, to be exact.) The Big School is within walkable distance of home, which is good news for the planet and our petrol budget, but I'm going to miss driving through the Cheshire countryside with the mist lying in veils over the fields, the cows telling us (through the medium of bovine body language) what the weather is going to be like, and the trees marking out the stages of the year (through the medium of Leaf). I'm also going to miss the school itself, and the fabulous people associated with it, who've taught each of my children to read (Number One on my list of Essential Lifeskills), taken them for their first nights away from home, looked after them when they've been sick, told them off when they've been naughty and generally made up for our parental shortcomings.



They've been pretty idyllic years. I loved the small (non-iron) uniforms and the handmade Mothers Day cards, with their unguarded, from-the-heart messages (You are the best mummy in the hole world. I love you millions). I absolutely adored the Christmas plays and summer fairs (where I campaigned tirelessly, tirelessly I tell you, to be allowed to serve Pimms alongside the traditional tea and coffee) and harvest festivals and, although I grumbled at the time, now I think I even liked sitting on a chair seat half the size of my bottom to watch them. I loved the parents evenings that consisted of smirking over the things they'd written in their 'News and Stories' book followed by a quick debrief with the teacher. I loved the way they always came out of the classroom smiling, and chatted all the way home about stuff that had happened that day. The teenage years are exciting and bring many advantages, but you need the skill of an Enigma Code-breaker and the cunning of Hercule Poirot to find out a fraction of what they used to happily impart from the back seat of the car.

Since the start of the school year in September I've found myself secretly and sadly counting down the Last Times: last Christmas play, last school trip, last Easter Bunny Drive. The past couple of weeks have brought last sports day, last Performing Arts Club play, last summer fair, and now we're down to last Monday and the final few grains of sand in the glass of the Primary Years. Must NOT weep too loudly and messily during the Leavers' Assembly and embarrass poor Daughter #3...

(Plenty of time for that when she gets to High School.)