Drive across Britain – Haydock

This morning I decided not to run or to try and see the cyclists off.   I had booked into the Haydock Park Hotel, by far the most expensive bed I will have all week.   The hotel boasts a pool, spa and a steam room.  It feels churlish not to make the most of every single facility laid at my feet.  Hence I find myself trotting for miles through the corridors that all look the same, dressed in my complementary robe and slippers.

With the whole depth at 1.5 metres I cannot even pretend that I leapt in, but took the more leisurely route down the steps straight into the beautifully warm water.   The pool was not big so I managed a few lengths before hauling myself and my soaked costume out of the pool and into the Jacuzzi before testing out the steam room.

Yesterday I was going to pop into Ludlow again and check out a few more places even try to get in to the Feathers for a cup of coffee, but as with all my plans it didn’t happen like that.   I got a text from Sexy Sporty Dad to say he was being patched up by the medical team having come off the bike.  Ludlow is definitely on the list to come again.

What do they say about pride before a fall except that it was my pride and his fall, not sure its suppose to work that way.

The great thing about covering the whole country is that in some places we will go through places we know or have a connection with.  So it turned out that the route cycled through Lymm and past the Green Dragon where I had already met up with his father and two brothers among  others.   We were able to cheer on several cyclists before Sexy Sporty Dad arrived for a quick drink with us, all patched up and raring to go.

His family joined us at base camp before we all went on for a meal at my exclusive hotel.  Despite all the style and expense there was a lack of personal service and I was just another paying guest rather than someone special with a story.  It is odd to say but from all the places I have stayed this is probably the only one I would not wish to revisit except in rare circumstances.

Despite his antics and the delay in Lymm, Sexy Sporty Dad still managed a very credible 102^nd.   It is still not a race but he seems to be getting the hang of it and has now passed the 4^th day which is the most difficult in terms of psychology.

So today I have learnt that the cost of something does not always reflect the quality.

Tiggy

 

 

Question of Balance

It is half-term and as usual we welcomed the break from school routine with friends coming round and a late night party.    The format of the night has evolved as the children grow up and have social lives and work commitments of their own.  The celebration remains just that a celebration that we have made it to the half term without too much stress and strain.  A few bottles are opened and a take away ordered.

So what does the week’s break mean for my family.  Sexy Sporty Dad still has to go to work, although he has managed to secure three days holiday with us.  He plans to paint the downstairs rooms and try to find a few hours to do a practice cycle ride.  Practising for what doesn’t really matter as long as he can get out on the road and feel the chill of the wind whipping past him as he pushes his body onwards through the pain barrier, ignoring the beads of icy sweat freezing before they have a chance to fall.   I suspect the gym will be well frequented this week  although he may use the better weather to go on a run.

No 1 Son will be bored.   He should be studying and has a stack of homework he could be doing but he will go out of his way to avoid.   He too will spend the time running, visiting the gym, playing tennis.  He will train for a rugby match that he will not play in as it is for the older colts cup but he will train.   He will turn his nose up at the meals I put in front of him because their calorific  value is too high.   He will forgo his breakfast in return for a whey product that he assures me is not banned or illegal.   He will pick at his lunch only eating the bare minimum before exercising to the point of collapse and stuffing himself with a snickers bar, a wispa bar and a packet of crisps.  Then he will return to bother his brothers; getting bolshy about their time playing x-box not through any concern for their slouchy lack of exercise but because they are hogging the machine.   Still full of chocolate and crisps he will only allow a tiny plate of food in front of him at tea time.

Middle Son who should be spending his week revising for GCSE’s will entertain his friends and Mini son’s friends on the x-box, I-pad or PS2 before cycling down to the local supermarket to stack up on his private supply of chocolate, pizza, croissants and crisps.   His allowance which is meant to help him survive the month with some independence will be blown probably in the first couple of days.  He will do some studying for his maths module which he takes soon after the holidays are finished.  The effort put in to get the studying done should guarantee an A but unfortunately the effort will be from Sexy Sporty Dad and I who will be drained by the end of the week remembering how to do factorising and line graphs.

Mini son will enjoy the holidays as his friends all live locally and he will probably go to stay over at his best friends for one day possibly stretching overnight.  He will play on the x-box but get bored quickly and want to go out and run around.  He will find himself playing rugby, football, cycling or scootering  around the estate with any children prepared to forgo the constant trigger thumb of  console battles.  He will be up early so he doesn’t miss any of the holiday.   He too will come up with elaborate plans and excuses not to do any reading or writing; despite my best efforts to get him to enter Chris Evans’ 500 words competition.

So what will I do with my week.  It may be half term week but working at a school is only one of my many jobs.   Having a school holiday will give me time to concentrate on

Weighing it all up

one of the other tasks that I try to balance.  I will write some articles and get the magazine to the printers, I will update both blogs and the magazine web site.  I will have my hair cut and coloured so that I have a few hours to read my writing magazine.  I will come out revived and determined to find time to rewrite memories, planning my time to include editing time as well as writing time for new fresh copy.  I will spend time cooking, clearing, chauffeuring, washing, shopping and being wife and mother on constant call for anyone else’s needs.  I need to pop round and see a couple of houses for my mother who is toying with the idea of moving close by if her house sells. I may, late at night steal a few moments to browse some holiday destinations;  I know we can’t afford them,  we cannot pick a suitable time to go and do the boys really want the same thing as Sexy Sporty Dad and I;  for that matter do we want the same holiday.  I can dream! Sun, sea sand and someone on hand for my every need ahhhh.   One day when my ship comes in the scales will balance until then I continue dream and keep writing.

Writing

I don’t normally double up on my blogs but inspiration comes in funny ways;  this is the piece I have sent into the magazine for March.

Following the Dream   When I was little I was subjected to the age old question; “what are you going to do when you grow up?”  It was easy I wanted to write a book,  I wanted to see my stories in print giving pleasure to generations of readers.

In those days my heroine was not J K Rowling but probably Enid Blyton whose Famous Five stories  left me thirsty for adventure. I saw criminal conundrums  or puzzling problems requiring  solving in everything I did.  My poor teachers would tear out their hair complaining that my imagination was just too vivid and could I not just do the homework devoid of embellishment and fictitious characters.

Obviously my parents were concerned about this ethereal world I frequented and over the years I was persuaded to grow up and get a job that paid money with firm foundations in the world of security and career paths.  

It didn’t go away; that niggle, that itch to put down on paper a story made up in the dim recesses of my mind that had escaped my teachers’ tyranny and my parents’ persuasion.  Recently I was rewarded by seeing a fellow blogger publish her first novel.  Hannah Evans is someone I identify with strongly and her book MOB Rule epitomises my life nearly as well as if I had written it myself.  MOB  = Mother of Boys.  She is me ten years ago except; she has taken the bull by his proverbial horns and accomplished what she set out to do rather than waffle around the issue and keeping  the desire hidden.  If ever I need a prod to kick start my flagging writing career here it is. 

I have followed Hannah Evans for a while having met a friend of hers who commented on how similar my writing and hers is.   I came away determined to find the blog the friend had shown me.   All I  could remember of her was she was a mother of boys and had a blog –  you try googling MOB.

Finally my birthday arrived and unsuspecting, my sister asked me to wait for my birthday present;  she would explain when she gave it to me.   A week later I received the gift.   MOB Rule  the book had been published only that week; hence the wait.   I had a copy literally hot of the press.  It was not only finding this writer that delighted me, but Sexy Sporty Dad who rarely; except under severe duress reads anything I write, was hooked.   He has not put the book down denying me any chance of reading it.  However from his comments and gales of giggling I know he is identifying closely with FOB.

Go Hannah go and yes those scales will tip towards giving me time; after all my boys are old enough to join in and be an active participant in this family of ours.  She is still coping with the young demanding 24/7 needs of tiny tots so here goes.

 

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Déjà Vu

I would never class myself as well off in monetary terms, it is an aspiration yet to be reached.  However outside the world of filthy lucre I feel I have been richly rewarded; my ever enduring Sexy Sporty Dad, three brave and beautiful boys, five loquacious siblings and two enterprising parents not to mention a strong network of faithful friends and relatives.

Many years ago my royal marine father decided to escape the world of regimented rules to bring up his burgeoning brood; I was just four years of age.   Taking an enormous risk he mortgaged his life and bought a very run down village rectory. “Lawrence of Clyst st Lawrence” had resonance that money could not purchase. With no income coming in to speak of, he went to teacher training college and obtained a civvy qualification as numbers five and six of his children made their appearance on the world.

updated and modern but still housing the ghosts of the past

 

The cold, dark, haunted historic house became the most beloved childhood home anyone could wish for.  From the word go, the house had to pay its own way and so developed a long list of enterprising endeavours for my mother.  Initially taking in lodgers in one wing of the house kept us from poverty while my father trained. Later homing a small number of foreign students during the holidays led to a sustained period of the house become a locally renowned international school with pupils as young as 6 being left with us to avoid kidnap or worse at home.  It was not an unusual site to arrive home to a diplomatic limousine parked in our drive; the body guards with bulging lapels ready to shoot at any perceived threat.    My mother would receive a brown envelope with thousands of pounds in Stirling, American dollars or other untraceable cash to cover their board, lodgings and education for the year to come before a parent might spare the time to see these poor children again.

The school funded the construction of a small but well used swimming pool which led to years of fun filled frolics along with a hand painted tennis court.   Finally there was enough money in the pot to revolutionise part of the house with an antiquated central heating system.  With the numbers of growing children requiring food, sustainability became a necessity and we acquired the beautiful big eyed Susie; a jersey milking cow who provided us with milk, cream and often butter a plenty.  A series of runt piglets passed through our garden saved from an early death; brought up on rich jersey milk and copious peelings to develop a flavour uniquely ours when their time finally came.  Chickens too provided eggs and Sunday lunch and most of our summer vegetables together with the copious strawberries all came from the walled kitchen garden, bigger and better kept than most modern day allotments.

There were not many things that came into the house that did not pay their way in some form,and Tiggy was no exception.  A pedigree golden Labrador arrived; no more than a puppy saved from a dubious existence,  who became my father’s constant companion, not only did he sire two offspring which we kept he also sired 90% of the puppies born in a 10 mile radius of the house.   He also became known as a ferocious guard dog protecting the house and all children who played within, as the postman and other tradesmen found out on more than one occasion.   Now long since buried in the rose garden of the house he called home he gave me my pen name and will live on in my writing forever.

The school came to an end as less and less foreign children were requiring an education from such a young age so the house became a bed, breakfast and evening meal accommodation.   The clientele were executives wanting a particularly luxurious weekly accommodation with quality home cooked food and stimulating conversation as they were parted from their loved ones.   Regular clients became lifelong friends as they returned time and time again long after the house became a base for growing teenagers and a mother who ventured into the retail business creating one of the first co-operative craft centres with cream teas on tap in the market town of Exeter.

My parents were renowned hosts and the house was always filled with laughter and fun times. Parties were well attended and remembered long after the event.  Unfortunately times change and we grew up and my parents reluctantly sold our childhood home.  They moved several times in the intervening years prior to my father’s death.  So too has the home we all loved metamorphosed through yet another happy family home with the addition of a stable block before now becoming a luxury self-catering holiday home; Old Rectory

Birthdays come and go and every now and again we celebrate a significant one; some we look forward to but more and more now we dread.  My mother has just reached the grand age of 80.  It is difficult to find a suitable present to celebrate such a milestone.  She was never going to learn to paraglide or parachute over the Wiltshire countryside.   Sending her on a cruise or the Orient Express without my father would not have given her the pleasure we would have wanted to gift her. It turned out to be the other way round; she presented us all with an invitation some months back.

For a similar price to what my father had paid in 1967 she was able to hire our home for her birthday weekend.  Calling back her six children now with partners and children of their own the house once again rang with children laughing and playing.  The rooms housed clothes strewn about them while mattresses moved and children slept altogether in the snug that had overseen many a sleeping child in the past.   Saturday night the house rang with champagne and drinks as old friends and relatives again made the trip out for a party.   Memories flooded back as every guest savoured their own sweet reminiscence.  I suspect a few Sunday morning heads were also recalling past parties. The ghosts of the past hiding in every secret cupboard as the modern children re-created our own hiding places.

With a labour saving change to our original living conditions we used the opportunity to bring in caterers to feed us all; our contribution to the weekend’s celebration.  Kate and her lovely staff from Kennford Kitchen laid on the most wonderful meals all weekend.  She was there for a wonderful three course meal on Friday as we all arrived and she provided a fitting array of dishes for Saturday’s party.  She sent our partners and most offspring off on Sunday following a scrumptious roast dinner with sumptuous side dishes and perfect puddings to keep even the hungriest teenager full.    She arrived early each morning and breakfast was cooked and laid out before most people even woke.

It was sentimental stepping out into the driveway that I once had known so well. A turbulent turmoil of emotions collided as I walked to the door.   Slipping the latch and

unchanged over all those years

holding the unchanged dated key in my now grown up hand catapulted a cacophony of conflicting feelings. The house now very luxurious with additional current touches had changed and modernised immensely but the presences of a previous period still pervaded each room.   Laughter lingered from a lost youth while a new generation created their own memories as happiness and hilarity radiated from the hot tub and the soft play room. Enough cousins to make a competition on the multi-games court I once began my non-existent Wimbledon career.  Watching my 17 year old son driving in and around my old haunting ground replicating my own initiation to the world of driving in the same make of car left me with a blow to the solar plexus of emotions.

We raised a large toast to missing friends and relations who had not been able to make the party; some through snow, some because of their own fragile health and some whose mortality had moved on.  Absent they may have been in physicality but omni-present among the ghosts of the past.

my father – in his rightful place 

Overseeing the whole affair was my father, still in pride of place in front of the fire where I remember him pontificating, presiding and saluting friends and relatives over the years as he hosted many a party.    His story of our childhood was immortalised when his book was published, copies of which are still available through Amazon or requestable at the library; Our Grass Was Greener by Peter G Lawrence.

Returning home to the present day and making my own memories for my children I continue to carry the past not only in my mind but through who I am and what I write.  One day my book Memories will be published and sit alongside my father’s on the bookshelf; maybe!  I of course wish my mother a very happy birthday and hope the memories of the past colliding headlong into the present give her the stamina and strength to embrace the future.  Who knows when we will make it back there again, her 100th?

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

 

Parental Responsibility

What can you do?   Tomorrow you have a packed day full of appointments and you already know time is too precious.   Then you spend the night up with a poorly child, coughing, hot and generally not well.  You already know what the dilemma is going to be.

Working mothers struggle so much when their child is not well, commitment to employers, guilt to the child and wisdom to find the right answers.

How ill does your child have to be before you cannot chance sending them to school?  How far should you travel away from home, in case the call comes to collect?    If they are that ill can they not go shopping, in the car, to work?

Some people have the luxury of a grandparent or family member already at home with young children who depending on the illness will look after your child.   Let’s face it though where does he really want to be:  at home with mum.

These days that scenario of having family help is all too often not available.   Many grandparents are either still working themselves or too far away to be useful at times like this. Other family members fall into the same category.

My mother was nearly called upon the other morning.   The reality, however, was to get Mini Son to her for the day; I would have had to get him up, dressed and out of the house by 7 am.  We would have had an hour’s drive to her house.  I would drop and run to be back in time to take Middle Son to school and me to my appointment all for 9am.

Had any of this really been plausible, the shock to my mother of me ringing her, at what she would have considered the middle of the night may well have finished her off.  I suspect arriving on her doorstep at 8am in the morning unannounced would also have been shock enough.  Not to mention, she has tai chi or church carers lunch or was it the square coffee morning she would be going to.   There had to be a plan B.

Plan B, involved Sexy, Sporty Dad.   He could stay home and look after his offspring, nurse him through the day and tend to his various needs.   It all made perfect sense for him to take on the parental responsibility.  Sexy Sporty Dad informed me he had very important meetings all day.  I knew the kind where you drink coffee and make very important decisions.  He was obviously not going to be Plan B.

Why couldn’t I just forgo my day?  What do I do that is so important anyway?

Well the hairdresser for a start.  Not a good defence to begin with I agree.   Had I just been popping in for a trim I could have cancelled and booked again anytime; but I wasn’t.  I was down for my half yearly colour and cut, a whole three hour appointment which had been booked since the last one six months ago.     It was not something I could just move to another slot in my diary or theirs.

I had a new lead that afternoon someone I really needed to come on board with my magazine.  I had actually made the appointment to fit in with his hectic schedule.  This meeting was important not just for the immediate business it may or may not bring, but in order to avoid commercial suicide I had to turn up and be professional.

I could of course just send the poor boy to school and hope for the best.  A sudden flash rushed into my brain;  the colourant half baked with me wrapped in foils and unable to move – that was when the inevitable call would come from the school asking me to pick him up.  That left me with no illusions about him attending that morning.

There was nothing else for it, he had to stay with me.   In a perverse sort of way I was happier; while he was feeling so bunged up and miserable I could monitor his asthma and not rely on relinquishing the responsibility to others.

Mini Son did not let me down, he was so good having taken his sketch book, DS, reading book, lunch and drink.   He entertained himself drawing a bird, which then needed a background, a few other birds and ducks appeared over the pond and in the field.  He challenged himself on the DS reaching a best ever score; for him at least.  My phone disappeared from my bag and I learnt about a lot of the game apps that have mysteriously appeared on it.  Bite by small bite the lunch and juice disappeared over the morning while his reading book lay quietly unopened in his bag.

It was certainly an alien environment to him as he wandered over to show me his latest success.  Glancing around a salon full of noisy women; all at differing stages of their individual cuts, blowdrys or colours he watched fascinated.

“Mummy why have you got tin cans on your head?”

Probably not the image I really want for my readers or my potential customers, so let’s just say I came out of the salon looking a million dollars,  it nearly cost me as much.

As we left and let’s face it I did feel a million dollars so now was the time to work my charm I realised we would pass the post office as we drove home.  Well it would save getting him out again later.  I dashed in and then popped into a couple of potential clients, one wants to come on board later and one gave me his card to design an advert.   We then returned to the car, guilt now replacing the self confidence.

A builders van was parked behind me and a young man stood gathering bits from the passenger seat.  One last wave of opportunism hit me.

“Are you Clifford?”  I asked.

“No I am Tom his son”

“No problem I am….” And it was done,  another media pack and business card given out; he even looked interested and asked the right questions.

We got in the car.

“Mummy you always say ‘don’t talk to strangers’ and you didn’t even know that man.”

Van Man Danger Stranger

Touché.  To be fair, the stranger did have his name, or rather father’s name plastered all over his transit and I was in the main street very visible.  My nine year old son is right though – you should not talk to strangers.

Mini Son then had to accompany me to my afternoon meeting which after an hour I had managed to persuade the client to come on board, not this month but as a tester next month.  What a coup!

“Why did it take so long, you said it would be only 10 minutes”

He was right, most of my meetings don’t take an hour and more to the point I usually do the talking and attempt the selling.  Not this one; my client did most of the talking and finally talked himself into coming on board. Some coup!   Take note I must learn some tips from him.

Mini Son’s learning may well have been increased that day although I am not sure how many curriculum subjects we could claim to have covered.  When he is the next Lord Sugar, Vidal or has a string of Virgin companies, my guilt at dragging him round may be assuaged.

So is Mini Son going to be fit enough tomorrow?  Let me get my diary out!  I feel a duvet day coming on……. Oh lush…

Have you had the dilemma?   What did you do and how did it work out for you?  Let me know.

 

Tiggy

 

Check out my tea time treat this week and serve your guests a delicious pear and ginger crumble http://tiggy-tea.blogspot.co.uk/

 

 

Time Passing

We moved from Devon 6 years ago this November and only fleetingly have gone back to visit.  Initially we did go back briefly to stay with my mother, refusing to visit any old haunts or even see old friends.

It was a conscious decision at the time as the choice to move was not altogether a happy one.  We had been settled where we were, the boys at a school that seemed very much to match our needs despite the 15 minute drive each way.   I had my own business having been made redundant a couple of years earlier and Mini Son had just started nursery.   My mother was in the same village, a peaceful stroll away past the cemetery where my father now unfortunately resides, the children would always stop and visit his grave as we passed.  Birthdays and anniversaries would be marked by a few flowers often picked from the hedgerows as we walked.

Why would we ever wish to move you might say.

Sexy Sporty Dad had got a new job which was just over that feasible hour’s commute. He got his new job the day the builders moved in to build the fantastic new extension we had been working to get for the previous 7 years.    It took three months before he actually had to move, so he would return each evening to yet more chaos as they built the foundations and blocked the garden.   My business was just taking off and timings really couldn’t have been worse.

Once his new job began, Sexy Sporty Dad left us each week, renting a spacious flat, yards from his office which he stayed in all week.  We visited during school holidays when he still had to work.  I have many friends, braver than me who go through this every week, it is not unusual particularly in these days of recession, but for us it was difficult.  Three boys growing up needed their father’s presence to guide and reassure them.  I had terrific support from friends and family while I was on my own but I too missed him and the half hour phone call each evening, shared with the boys did not really compensate.

The final straw came when Middle Son was run over and leaving the other two with neighbours, I was blue lighting down the motorway in an ambulance and I had to ring him mid week and ask him to drive down to Devon not knowing if Middle Son would make it.  Thankfully Middle Son did make it, escaping with a fractured skull and cracked hip.  That was September, 9 months after he had left.

By November we had let the house with it’s fantastic new extension and my own designed kitchen to die for.  We bought a new house on an estate with a primary school next door.  The boys had their greatest wish, they could walk to school and not have to drive each day.  The irony now is that they have a 15 minute walk up to the top school and they try all kinds of persuasion, urging and subterfuge to persuade us to drive them the half mile or so up the road.

It has taken a long time to go back and face our past.  My mother moved about two years after us to a village close to both my sisters and nearer us than she was in Devon, which negated the need to return regularly.

With the school half term upon us and my brother having just moved back to Devon, to the next door village, it was time to return and check out old haunts.  On our way down we took the boys into Exeter.  We were about to show them the old maternity hospital that saw all three of them born over the years.  No longer a hospital; a brand new Waitrose had opened its doors to the public apparently within the last month.    It triggered many hilarious jokes of giving birth in the aisles of the supermarket, and the quality of Waitrose producing strapping young men, not to mention questioning their returns policy.

We also drove them past the hotel where we had celebrated our wedding reception, the colours and feel of autumn similar to that day so many years and so many lost friends and family ago.  Then taking the longer route managed to meander up through the village and past the tiny cottage where following his birth No 1 Son came home for his first six months on this planet.   Poignantly we visited my father’s grave 9 years to the date of his death.  Mini Son watered the plants on his grave,

he doesn't even remember him

despite having never really knowing his grandfather.  His older brothers commenting on the number of new graves and the baby boy, who had been in our thoughts many a time, buried behind Gramps still has constant fresh flowers even after all this time.

My brother has moved to a wonderful old house where he will spend probably the next 30 years doing it up, and like the Forth Bridge will require starting again before it is finished.   There is now central heating to top up the rayburn and woodburners that circulate warmth around the thick cobbed walls.

Narrow passageways lead through the house to uneven walls and non regular rooms.  Original beams on the ceilings so low, that my boys now have to stoop to save their heads from being hit. The large enclosed and fabulous garden full of apple trees, climbing trees and a huge kitchen garden where they plan to grow all manner of vegetables and fruit.   Hidden beneath the overgrown hedges we found sheds and fruit cages, a bird house above a stone bird table and in the middle of the garden the pond with a tiny stone bridge over just begging for a fishing knome to dangle his rod.   They are going to have their work cut out but they will have a great project for years to come.

We finally plucked up courage to go back to our old house, well to the road we use to live in.  We called in on our next door neighbour for coffee and realised her baby was now a boistrous 8 year old with a mind and life of his own.   She suggested we knocked on the door and have a look around the old house.  Not that brave yet we but noticed the new windows and checked up on all the other neighbours and what they were doing now.

We moved round the corner to great friends of ours and were met by their youngest child. It was only yesterday had he started nursery; when I first met his mother, he and No 1 Son were just a few months apart and attending the same nursery at the school 15 minutes away.  He has now left top school and travels each day to college to do his A-levels.  He too is taller than me and his sister who was not home is away at University no longer in her second year of top school as she was when we left .  Where did the time go?

I know we have kept in touch and commented on what our children have been doing, over the years.  Meeting occasionally when work commitments brought her within spitting distance, but it is only the visible sight of the children that makes you realise that they are no longer the tiny people we left behind.  They, like us have grown up and got on with their lives and there is no way of catching up on that lost time.

Writing

Well NANOWRIMO is upon us all too quickly and as threatened I have again fallen under its spell.  I have committed myself to trying; even if this does not succeed I will be able to say I have tried.  Writing a novel is quite scary anytime but to do it within the tight time frame of a month is probably as Sexy Sporty Dad has commented complete madness.   He has been very supportive so far asking how it is going and how many words so far.

Delighted with his new found interest in my writing, although I believe it is more in keeping with the idea that he wants 50,000 words to be written quickly and be out of the way, rather than interest in the actual story.  I will however treasure the fleeting interest I might receive from him for as long as it takes and if I can produce a half decent novel at the end then all the better.

Tiggy

I also write this with thoughts and prayers for all those affected by the horrendous M5 crash.