Accentuate the Positive

A friend told me last week that every time anyone uses the expression “credit crunch”, a fairy dies, yet at the moment it is getting impossibly difficult to avoid the doom and gloom in our newspapers, on our TVs and in the general water cooler chatter in the office.
I swear I am reaching the stage where if I hear a single mention of the “current climate” or “economic downturn” one more time I’m not going to held responsible for my actions.
Sure, things are tough out there at the moment for a lot of people - but being constantly reminded of the fact is not making life any more bearable or enjoyable.
I’m not advocating a bury your head in the sand approach to the whole thing - although sometimes hiding under the duvet, putting my fingers in my ears and singing “La La La, I can’t hear you” sounds mightily appealing. What I am, however, advocating is that we all just stop being such merchants of doom and gloom. Life is tough, but it’s not impossible.
A friend and I have decided to make sure we focus on the more positive things in life for a bit. Like most people we are feeling the pinch but, as my friend so rightly said there is some comfort in at least knowing that we (in a High School Musical fashion) are all in this together.
We are all being challenged on a daily basis to think more creatively with our finances and to do the best we can to protect our children from the feeling the strain.
I’m trying my best to remind myself of when we were growing up. Like a lot of Derry families we didn’t have much money - but there were very few occasions when I actually felt deprived.
In fact the only one that truly springs to mind was not having Levi jeans when the rest of my Bros loving friends had them. I made do with the Dunnes Stores, Better Value version.
There was always food on the table, clothes on our backs and plenty of presents under the tree at Christmas. In hindsight - and after talking these things through with my parents as an adult -things were tight on more than one occasion.
There is a story of legend in our house about how my mother fed us wains custard for our tea one night as the cupboards were bare and at least we would be getting something warm in us, and a good dose of milk.
I know my parents spent a lot of our childhood eeking things out and making do - but as children were protected from their financial worries and in fact we found different ways to pass the time. Sure there were no personal computers or games consoles. We didn’t always have the latest must-have toys. (Although I did get a Crystal Barbie one year and was over the moon with myself - she was the most envied doll in Rosemount Primary School). And as I’ve said high fashion didn’t come into it. We were a family clothed in home knits and hand me downs - although there were always new clothes for special occasions and the excitement of new pyjamas at Christmas. (I’m pretty sure we got new pjs during the year, for the record. We didn’t have just the one set to see us through - but Christmas stands out.)
My husband always has a good laugh when I tell him that there were no array of breakfast cereals in our house and we made do with Weetabix or Ready Brek except for at Christmas were there was an annual box of Sugar Puffs - which was a source of amazing excitement.
And as I’ve become a little bit (for that read a lot) obsessive about cutting down on our oil consumption, I remind myself there was a time when central heating was unheard of and the only source of heat in the house was the fire in the living room. (Which was an experience I endured, and survived, again at university in our icebox house just off the Shore Road in Newtownabbey).
The thing is - apart from the memory of going to bed in three layers of pjs at university - none of these memories are particulary bad and they are certainly aren’t painful.
It wasn’t hard to deal with - it was just the way things were. And to be honest I’m pretty sure we were more appreciative of the little things (like Sugar Puffs and a Crystal Barbie) and we certainly didn’t feel deprived.
Perhaps my parents had their share of sleepless nights over it but we certainly were not aware of that. Childhood remained as innocent as it should be.
So even though times are undoubtedly hard for many people it’s time to just get on with it - batten down the hatches, put a smile on your face and cope as best as our parents, and their parents did before us.
There might be a lot to worry about out there, but there is also a lot to be thankful for.

That sinking feeling..

When you hold off your lunch break til late so that you can attend your child's parent teacher meeting.
And you make your way to school and notice that the classrooms seem eerily quiet.
And his teacher looks at you as if you are slightly demented (which you just actually might be) and then it dawns on you that the meeting was next week and not this.
And you wonder if his teacher suddenly thinks that your poor child hasn't a chance with a disorganised eejit at the helm like me.

I blame working too hard, and pregnancy hormones.

The outcome was okay however. We had our meeting and the boy is a genius - or at least a very capable and lovely student who makes everyone laugh. (Thankfully with him and not at him... unlike his mother).
I did struggle to look his teacher in the face this morning however - even though she said she was glad she wasn't the only one who made such gaffs.

That writing bug...

I've written about 3000 words this week - and I'm loving it.
It's flowing, it's funny - it feels right.
I'm not brave enough to do NANO but I'm pushing myself on anyway.
Anyway 6500 words down, just (ha!) 103,500 to go!

Oh and I'm also working on a non-fiction piece for Poolbeg on the joys of parenthood.
Feel free to share your best and worst parenting experiences!

It's seems a bit stupid..

.. not to post about "the" elections today.
I only hope (and REALLY hope) that America proves itself and votes in the only right man for the job.
It's been a topic for much discussion in our office, as you can imagine. And last week I raised the issue that this will really come to down to whether or not America is still racist at heart.
It's one thing to say you are voting for Obama in an opinion poll, it is another thing to stand in the privacy of a polling booth and vote knowing that no one will know it was you who ticked the box.
One colleague said the race issue didn't matter any more and I have to disagree. It may well be 40 plus years ago that the civil rights movement kicked off Stateside but even though there are now laws to protect people regardless of creed or colour - there does appear to remain an undercurrent.
I've heard that there are Democrats who will be voting against themselves - so opposed are they to the notion of a black President even if that black President holds the same political views as them.
I only hope the record turn out at the polls will prove that the vast majority of Americans are forward thinking rational people who are prepared to give the new man a chance
I will be watching with great interest and I hope that we truly are living in historic times. The world needs some good news.

Who you gonna call?

have to say Derry City Council have pulled off a blinder with this year’s Hallowe’en celebrations.
Not only do we get to enjoy the usual fireworks display (approximately 15 minutes of ‘Oohing’ and ‘Aahing’ at 30 second intervals as the sky lights up) but we also get a host of other family friendly adventures including the drive-in movie screening of ‘Ghostbusters’.
With a four year who is dressing up as Peter Venkman for the occasion he has been almost uncontrollable with excitement at the prospect of seeing his favourite movie on the big screen. (Apart from the ghost in the library, he doesn’t like her one little bit - and sadly drive-in movies have no fast forward facility).
The truth is having a four year old has made Hallowe’en (‘Ghostbusters’ or not) all the more enjoyable again. I’ve gone through different stages of loving and hating Hallowe’en.
As a child, it was a great adventure altogether. We’d haul down old curtains, discarded First Communion dresses and cover cardboard wands with tin foil to make them shine and dress up as a variety of witches, fairies and vampires. Armed with our Wellworths bags we would take to the streets of Creggan, rattling on the doors of neighbours and sing-songing “Any ‘hing fer Halloween?” over and over again until our bags were laden with mandarin oranges, apples, monkey nuts and grapes.
If you were lucky the odd lollypop, toffee apple or rice crispie bun made their way into your bag. (There was a wee woman on Broadway who made the nicest toffee apples in the world ever!).
True success on the big night was measured in two ways however. Whoever got the most hazelnuts/ brazil nuts and survived a raid by one of the gangs from the neighbouring streets was the winner. We would sit, all on the carpet, pouring out our loot and fighting over the one pair of nut crackers my mother owned. If we got really impatient we would batter the living daylights out of the poor nuts with the back of the metal poker and try and catch the nuts before they sped across the room at the speed of light to disappear under sideboard never to be seen again. (Well not until the big Christmas clean anyway).
It was all good, innocent fun. (Apart from the evil raiders who were merciless with their hijacking of hard earned monkeynuts.)
I still loved Hallowe’en into my late teens and early 20s when you just had to make it out the town. I didn’t care then that you couldn’t get into a pub unless you went at an ungodly hour or that there was no chance of a seat or getting a drink from the bar without a ten minute wait and that a taxi home was out of the question. (Now that I’m well established in my 30s all these things are very important to me. Forget a mad night’s dancing - sharing a bottle of wine in a quiet corner of a bar with friends before stumbling into a taxi is my idea of non-pregnant heaven).
I remember my feet hurting for days after from all the dancing and the eerie feeling of the morning after the night before as worn out looking Cinderellas, bumble bees and werewolves wound their way home in the early hours. But it did then reach a stage where it all seemed like too much trouble.
Sure I’d watch the fireworks from the warm and comfy vantage point of my back bedroom window but apart from that it was a case of hiding from the wains who knocked at the door (yes, I became a Halloween Grinch) and putting on a distinctly unHallowe’en-y movie.
Having a four year old (and a Peter Venkman impersonating ‘Ghostbusting’ four year old at that) has changed things again and I’m almost as excited as I get at Christmas. We hunted for his perfect costume, complete with inflatable proton pack and I’ve managed to find a small toy ghost for him to “bust” all night. I
’ve been reading ‘Room on the Broom’ (a gorgeous, gorgeous children’s book) ad nauseum and singing ‘The Witches of Halloween’ on a loop. (Thank you to Mrs McDowell at Galliagh Nursery for reintroducing that to my repertoire last year).
Tonight (if we can tackle the fear of the library ghostie) we’ll be going to the drive-in and then on to watch the fireworks. Then it will be back to my sister’s for some Hallowe’en games, probably too much chocolate and maybe one or two hazelnuts smashed with the back of a poker.
There will be dancing to the “Monster Mash” and maybe a spot of ‘Trick or Treating’ (although I still prefer the old war cry of ‘Any ‘hing fer Halloween?’). There might not be drunken queues at the bar or the walk of shame home in the early hours but it will still be magical all the same.
If I thought there was a ghost’s chance in hell of it still fitting I would slip on my wedding dress and cover some cardboard in tinfoil to make a wand. So whatever you’re doing tonight - enjoy the party and let’s show everyone how Derry still does Hallowe’en best - be it with an old curtain, a drive-in movie or a fireworks display.

Picture perfect

I just read this gorgeous post about the importance of taking pictures.

Pictures are big deal in our house too with my grandad and my father both being snap happy. Recently my lovely daddy scanned in more than 3000 old family images (from the pre-digital age) and gave them to us all as a present on a disk.

I laughed, and cried, at the memories but they are all so, so precious.

Pictured in this post, as an example of how precious these memories can be is me (the ickle tiny baby in the shawl) on my christening day, my big sister, my beloved, late, grandad and my beloved granny when she was in better health.

You really cannot buy such memories.

I've not been ignoring your comments...

They've been mysteriously filtered to my spam doodah so I thought you'd all just stopped caring.
All comments much appreciated and I hope I have the darn glitch fixed now.

News, reviews and having the blues...

...AS someone famous once said.

Every now and again I pop on Amazon and have a look at how my babies (aka my books) are doing. Now part of being a writer is that you take the rough with the smooth.
You realise that not everyone is going to gush over your book the way you yourself would. I certainly now, in hindsight, can look at Rainy Days and Tuesdays and feel that bits certainly could have been written better. But, that was the story that was in me at the time (a shocking three years ago now!).
Some times I'll take a review on the chin. Some times I'll shake my head in disbelief. Some of the corkers I've received are that "it reads too like an autobiography". Now if this person knew my life intimately they would know it's NOT ABOUT ME. If they don't then how on earth could they say it read like an autobiography? It is one woman's life - it is supposed to be one woman's story.
Another review, which has come up several times recently, is that mum lit has had it's day. Well I disagree but regardless RD&T was written 3 years ago. It was of the moment three years ago. It was published a year and a half ago, when it was still of its time- the charts were filled with mum lit and still are.
The third gripe thrown at me is that the book is "too expensive for Amazon". Amazon do not sell books in the format some low cost airlines sell flights. The price is there from the outset. It's no surprise. It is also not set by me, or determined by me on any level. May I suggest if someone does not like the price of a book then simply do not read it.
Of course I've had more good reviews than bad (funny being a writer we don't tend to focus on the good...) but when the reviews are sometimes a little weird you can't help but get the urge to GRRRRR back at the reviewer.

I'd rather not pass judgement...

But when a 16 year old's father spends £100,000 on her wedding, including £16,000 on a dress that wouldn't look out of place in a Las Vegas Burlesque show, you can't help but think there is something very, very wrong with the world.
It's not only that I think 16 is too young to make a lifetime's commitment to someone (I married at 24 and even now look back at and think I was a bit of a wain), it's also that £100,000 is just an obscene amount of money to spend on a wedding - regardless of background or beliefs.

Dignity at all times

Just in case you have been living in a rock for the last week or so and hadn’t heard, let me be the first to tell you Madonna and her husband, film director Guy Ritchie have split.
The couple, who initially appealed for privacy to help them get through this difficult time, have spent the last week tearing shreds off each other as they battle for the best headlines and public sympathy in a divorce battle that will no doubt make Heather Mills and Paul McCartney look like an episode of the Tweenies.
Apparantly (according to “friends close to the couple”) Ritchie was a money grabber who spent Madge’s money like it was going out of fashion. While she was and is an self obsessed harpy more interested in sculpting her body into a lean, mean muscly machine than spending time sculpting her marriage into a happy and successful relationship. (The woman works out for four or five hours a day.
How is that even possible without dying of exhaustion?) And then, of course, there is the issue of the children. Madonna has a daughter, Lourdes, who is said not to like Ritchie, and they have a son together, Rocco who does (funnily enough) like Ritchie while there is also a wee adopted toddler David who probably doesn’t know his nappy from his elbow at the moment.
Apparantly (again according to “friends close to the couple”) Madonna wanted to adopt more, while Ritchie was happy enough with the brood they had - especially given the fact the pair both have punishing work schedules. This caused terrible strife among the pair which was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Now the whole sorry scenario is playing out like a soap opera and much as I would like to say I’m retaining a dignified distance from the gossip columns, I just can’t stay away. I admit I, like the majority of people, do enjoy a bit of scandal. (Especially given the fact my own life is so sedate at the moment).
I do however, salacious gossip aside, wish they would keep it to themselves. I can’t help but feel it’s not right to be so openly nasty about each other. Sure they obviously have certain gripes with each other to split in the first place but whatever happened to retaining an ounce of dignity - if not for their own selves but for the sake of the children?
In my opinion and experience it never ends well to air your dirty linen in public - not least for the children who years from now will look back and see the plethora of insults thrown between mammy and daddy while trying to convince themselves there must have been some love shared between the two in the first place.
I’m really sure that Rocco will not want to read in future years that his mother was a horrible woman to live with who was so muscly she turned his daddy off in bed. Nor will David want to know that some “friend close to the couple” are blaming his adoption for their split. It’s hateful to think what these children are growing up with - even though their lives were unlikely to ever be normal anyway.
Couples who split - celebrities or not - should try their damndest to keep their cool and not let their lives become a soap opera for the general masses. Splitting up is, I imagine, hard enough without having to consult your PR spokesperson first. Splitting up should be a matter of doing what is best for all parties without launching a public attack on the the person you once pledged ‘Til death do us part’ to.
Regardless of their (alleged) wrongdoings - listing their grievances in public is never going to win you an army of fans. Already the public is turning against Madonna and already, just one week into this latest celebrity scandal, people are growing weary of their in-fighting. Madonna is being accused of putting her PR machine into gear - casting aspersions on the couple’s entire relationship, while Ritchie is said to have held a counsel of war in his (their) mansion to come up with ways to tackle the onslaught. Friends, previously loyal, are falling over themselves to spill the dirt and the public - while still reading (of course) are becoming uncomfortable with just how nasty it has become so quickly.
So even though Madonna is unlikely to be one bit bothered by what one reporter in Derry is saying about her, I’m hoping she catches herself on soon and waves the white flag. For the sake of her children, if nothing else.

Saying our final goodbyes..

Along with having our scan in England at the weekend, we travelled over to say goodbye finally to my father in law "Lucky Dave".
David died a year ago, at the ripe old age of 81, surrounded by his family. It has taken this long to arrange for us all to get together again to scatter his ashes. So on Saturday we (being me, husband and the boy, two sisters in law and their husbands, a niece, two nephews and two police dogs) traipsed into a muddy field in Cheshire to scatter his ashes in a place dear to his heart.
It is close to where he used to live, and where hubby grew up, and also the same spot where my mother in law's ashes were scattered just before I met my husband.
I'd not been there before but it really was a gorgeous place - rain and muck included. With wellies on, and me trying to balance my wibbly wobbly almost five month gone tummy, we trekked through the field. It was hard to get maudlin with Joseoph whooping with laughter at the dogs and asking if we were in heaven (Because you know, Grandpa is in heaven).
We all took turns to scatter a little bit of his ashes - even Joseph gave it a turn - and there was nothing sad or solemn. It was a family walk, with lots of laughter, lots of memories and plenty of cow pats.
Obviously the passing of nearly a year made it easier to take, but I couldn't help but feel it was at least all that bit more peaceful and gentle a goodbye than the harshness of a funeral on a winter's day.

Introducing, my baby girl...

Well they are as convinced as they can be that Bam Bam is infact a lovely little lady in waiting.

While I would have been delighted with a boy, it means things are getting even in the Allan household and even better, Joseph can remain, forever, my best boy.

RIP Pat Kavanagh

The name Pat Kavanagh may not mean much to those outside the literary world but she was a big player.
For many years an agent at PFD she represented the likes of Joanna Trollope and Ruth Rendell.
She has died, aged 68, after battling a brain tumour.
My personal connection to Pat is pretty minimal. She was the first person to reject my work - back in 2006. She, a big player in a huge firm, sent a gorgeous two page letter praising my writing, wishing me well and ultimately saying she didn't do chick lit - but in a nice, non-patronising way.
She was a lady.
Anyway, I feel a little sad today to hear of her passing and I just wanted to mark it some little way.

That reality TV feeling

Are you addicted yet? Have Saturday nights become a complete TV fest - from the sparkles and sequins of Strictly Come Dancing to the bright lights and bad hair of X-Factor?
I know that every year I say I won’t get caught up in the hype and yet every year I do and now, as the weekend approaches, I get a little excited at the thought of my Saturday night in front of the telly. (Which isn’t as sad as it sounds, honest, being almost five months pregnant - a girl is allowed a few indulgences.)
In fairness ‘Strictly’ has a special place in my heart. Having taken dance lessons a few years back I watch it wistfully with an air of “I coulda been a contender” in my heart. Of course my dance teachers at the time might well disagree with that but what woman doesn’t watch the likes of Erin Boag and Lilia Kopylova and not feel that pang of jealously?
There are the sparkly dresses, the chiffon, the delicate gold ballroom shoes and the hair adorned with sparkling chips and glittery hairspray. Not to mention these ladies have legs which go one for miles and tummies without a single stretch mark (stark contrast to my current roadmap status).
Yes, we may be grown up, but nothing sets a woman’s heart racing more than a bit of glitz and glamour (and the sight of Vincent Simone shaking his hips in a delicious salsa). ‘Strictly’ is my guilty pleasure. Yes sometimes the boy will look to watch it with me, but most of the time he can be persuaded into another room and I’ll lose myself in the dances and make suitably impressed or disgusted noises at the judges’ observations.
By the time it’s over, I always convince myself that once I’m fit and able, I’ll get back to those dance classes and I spend the evening daydreaming of my once around the floor with one of the hunky professionals.
Then of course, it’s time for the X-factor and this is where the real family entertainment bit comes into play. The boy arrives in to dance to the theme tune and stand hands crossed declaring he has the X-factor while my husband takes to his favourite chair to do his best grumpy Simon Cowell impression throughout.
For a man who has not a note in his head (and as an equally tuneless person, I should know) I’m constantly amazed at how he turns into a musical expert each and every Saturday night. But then I suppose part of the fun of X-factor is that we all take our place on the judging panel - passing comment on everything from the singing to the clothes to the hairstyles. (For the record, contestants could you please brush your hair tomorrow night? I don’t care if the ‘bedhead’ look is in at the moment - I want some personal grooming, thank you.)
This year we do have a local interest in the form of Eoghan Quigg - who is apparantly 16 but doesn’t look a day over 12. I have to say I watched the show last week from behind a cushion. There are some amazing singers this year - with Alexandra and Laura to name but two giving outstanding performances. How on earth would or could the wee lad from Dungiven match up? I almost, almost didn’t want to watch and when the band started up with the opening notes of John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ I really didn’t want to watch. But he did good - he even made me cry (which in fairness due to the hormones, isn’t that difficult. I cry at advertisements at the moment.)
The husband, not being from Derry, made “Hmmm, that was okay” noises, and sheer loyalty to a local lad had us all phoning to vote for him anyway. But what is it that makes these programmes so appealing? Sure it’s good clean entertainment and that always helps when it comes to me deciding our family viewing - but there is more to the appeal of these shows than just that. Maybe it is because they are showing us people achieving their dreams, pushing themselves a wee bit harder and working to get to the end of the series.
Perhaps it is the fear of them falling flat on their face (literally as the case may be in ‘Strictly Come Dancing’) that keeps us tuning in. I’d like to think the biggest part of the attraction for me is knowing that they are going out there, live on stage and doing their best. That takes a certain amount of guts - putting yourself up for public praise or public criticism takes a lot of guts. Knowing that to achieve your goal you have to put yourself in the eye of the media storm and take whatever comes at you isn’t easy.
Be it one false turn on the dance floor, one dud note in a power ballad - these contestants can have their fortunes turn in a heartbeat. And that, to me, makes great viewing. So roll on tomorrow night - I’ll be there in front of the telly, cheering them all on.

So I got that wrong...

Apparantly I was to answer in just one word...

1. Where is your cell phone? Desk

2. Where is your significant other? Car

3. Your hair color? Brown-ish

4. Your mother? Karen

5. Your father? Peter

6. Your favorite thing? Joseph

7. Your dream last night? Weird

8. Your dream/goal? Happiness

9. The room you're in? Depressing

10. Your hobby? Writing

11. Your fear? Depression

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Happier

13. Where were you last night? Bed

14. What you're not? Jolly

15. One of your wish-list items? Pram

16. Where you grew up? incomplete

17. The last thing you did? lunch

18. What are you wearing? Clothes

19. Your TV? Off

20. Your pets? None

21. Your computer? off

22. Your mood? Meh

23. Missing someone? Lots

24. Your car? Skip

25. Something you're not wearing? Smile

26. Favorite store? Next

27. Your summer? Over

28. Love someone? Family

29. Your favorite color? Blue

30. When is the last time you laughed? Morning

31. Last time you cried? yesterday

And the award for "Fionnuala likes to read this" goes to....

Thanks to Fionnuala, I've got a wee award to share - isn't it lovely.
I particularly like the penmanship.

Anyway, all thanks to my readers, Blogger, my parents, my agents, my children (born and unborn) and the special tablets the doctor gave me to stop me puking.

A condition of said award is that is that I have to answer the following meme so here goes...



1. Where is your cell phone? On my desk beside me... it's cracked.. a bit like me (For non Irish readers that means slightly mad, not off my head on drugs...)

2. Where is your significant other? Half way to Antrim for work, I think.

3. Your hair color? Chestnut brown, with greyish roots. Need a date with Clairol.

4. Your mother? Is 52 today! Yay mammy, I love her.

5. Your father? Is at work, after making the kiddies laugh by chasing the car this morning.

6. Your favorite thing? Joseph.

7. Your dream last night? There were many and they were weird - from being carjacked to being able to hold the unborn baby's hand through my tummy.

8. Your dream/goal? Not to get the evil PND this time round.

9. The room you're in? Work, office, noisy, artificial light, kind of cold.

10. Your hobby? Writing. Although when DH calls it a hobby I want to kill him.

11. Your fear? The evil PND next time around.

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Happier, more successful, content.

13. Where were you last night? At home, asleep from 8pm with the boy. I was vay tired.

14. What you're not? Content or confident.

15. One of your wish-list items? All baby related at present.

16. Where you grew up? That is still a work in progress.

17. The last thing you did?Answer the last question.

18. What are you wearing? Black maternity trousers, turquoisey top, look of concentration

19. Your TV? At home, without me.

20. Your pets? None

21. Your computer? My nice (non work) computer is also at home. This is a work one and it is very busy.

22. Your mood? Meh

23. Missing someone? Always

24. Your car? In the car park - a 2005 Suzuki Liana

25. Something you're not wearing? Pants (not really, of course I am.. but it seemed like a funny answer)

26. Favorite store? Next

27. Your summer? Is all done.

28. Love someone? Yes, several, in different ways.

29. Your favorite color? Joseph says it has to be Blue... like his favourite colour.

30. When is the last time you laughed? This morning at the crazy boy

31. Last time you cried? Last night - it was a sicky bad night

I've to pass it on, but I think everyone else I *heart* already has it, so I'll get back to you.

Sharon Owens giveaway!

I just I thought I'd share this lovely little bit of info on my dear friend Sharon Owens who is just working on her sixth novel, 'The Seven Secrets of Happiness'.
Sharon writes beautifully quirky and dry witted stories about lovely people and her books are perfect winter warmers. 'Seven Secrets' sounds just as lovely - telling the story of widow Ruby O'Neill who puts her life back together after the death of her husband.
To generate a little buzz about the book (as if she needs it!) Sharon has commissioned some gorgeous handmade velvet bags to give away - one a month - to readers. If you want to read more, or fancy a chance at winning, then visit her website at www.sharonowens.co.uk

Random conversations with the boy

So I'm at work and I phone home - more to check that his daddy has actually remembered to pick him from his aunts more than anything.
"Hello buddy."
"Hello Mummy. I'm on the computer, on Cbeebies. Brum is on."
"Great Joseph, sure you can tell me all about it when I get home."
"No mummy, hang on. I'll just put you on speaker phone."

Speaker phone??? He's four!

Sorry if it's gone a bit quiet...

I'm rewriting furiously, first time writing less furiously, promoting a little, sleeping a LOT. (Honestly, I go to bed at the same time as the boy these days), feeling sick a fair bit (don't so much today but we'll not curse it by talking about it), working a great deal, trying to be a mammy, grow another human being, keep home and hearth together, not murder my husband or lose the will to live myself, hunting for the perfect maternity wear, trying to get the nursery sorted and trying to plan for Christmas.

Many times in the last 2 years, since my writing career began, people have looked at me with a little sense of wonder (or maybe it is sympathy) and asked how I find the time to find everything in. The shocking truth is that these days, I don't.
My house, well it's a mess. Last week in a fit of pique I tried to persuade the husband to buy a new one so I didn't actually have to clean the existing homestead (Yes, I know, madness... but I'm hormonal). My child lives on potato waffles (or wobbles as he calls them) and I live on toast and water with occasional jacket potatoes.
So blogging, much as I love it, has dropped off the radar a bit. I promise I'll try to do better.

Credit crunch it...

Anyone else fed up of hearing about it?
Seriously, I know it's bad and I'm not being flippant but please everyone SHUT UP ALREADY.
With a husban who works in financial services and a baby on the way I don't need the stress.
I may stop reading the news - which is bad news for a journalist but seriously, feck up. It's depressing.

Yes, Keris, I've nicked your MeMe

Because I'm fresh out of creativity.. this is courtesy of Keris

Foundation: Something from Boots, number 7. I think it's a moisturising one and in a very light shade as I am almost translucent and not in a lovely Kiera Knightly way, more in a Morticia Adams kind of a way.

Mascara: One of the benefits of working in a newspaper office is that we sometimes get free samples and as I as deal with the lovely ladies from Clarins, I get some Clarins doodahs now again. So my mascara dejour is whatever Clarins ones they've sent me. (Apart from the purple one). I don't wear it every day because I do have incredibly long lashes and would look like a hooker.

Day Cream: It's from Clarins (but not a freebie) and it's in a green bottle. Multi hydrafying something or other. My sister recommended it and I bought it. It's very light and lovely.

Essential Beauty Product: Clarins (sense a theme?) although also paid for, Peach Water essential cleanser. It's the only thing that suits my skin.

Favourite Makeup Product: Eye shadow, especially glittery stuff from Urban Decay. They also do a wee eyeliner doodah which is almost entirely glitter and I love it more than life. However I rarely get the chance to wear it.

Perfume: I am insanely in love with Alien by Thierry Mugler which is an acquired taste and doesn't suit everyone but every time I wear it, I get complimented. I'm also quite traditional and love Chanel No. 5 which I bought on my honeymoon and Organza which I wore on my wedding day. The lovely Sharon Owens bought me Gucci by Gucci and it's my proper grown up, nice night out perfume.

Nails: Are mildly better since being pregnant. Still they break a lot. I used to always have them polished but now I rarely do.

Hands: Keris' answer was Every now and then I think I need to look after my hands and I buy some hand cream, apply it every night for - ooh - two or three nights and then it lingers on my dressing table until, months later, I throw it away. Mine is remarkably similar, although I do keep a bottle of Sanctuary hand cream on my desk in work (and assorted Clarins freebies).

Feet: I have two. They stay hidden except for summer when I'll buff them and put on some nail polish.

Three Products to bring on a deserted island: Deoderant (or however it is spelled), toothpaste and face cream.

Women I admire for their beauty: Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn and Doris Day.

Women with the Best Sense of Style: I think in the next life I'd like to be Jennifer Aniston, thank you very much.

My Ultimate Dream: To one day think "You'll do" when I look in the mirror and mean it.

How Do I Define Womanhood: Compassion, empathy, warmth and resilience.

Favourite Fashion Publication: The Next Directory is as far as it goes here.

The little things...

I've been feeling pretty rubbish lately and it has affected how I've been dealing with the world, but tonight my wee man cuddled up to me and asked if I loved him most in the whole wide world.

Of course I do and he sighed and gave me a kiss and a cuddle. And then he slipped his hand in mind and I thought how precious it is to have a child's hand to hold. The gorgeous, pudgyness - the softness of his skin and the trust that hand hold entails.

I'm a very lucky mummy.

A bizarre day in the life an author

So yesterday I was due in Dublin again for the launch of the Eason Christmas Catalogue to their third party buyers (As Eason also supply a lot of independent book shops). Deciding I could not face the drive again after the last notorious vomit incident, I decided to be tres swish and book a flight. (Not that it was swish, it was one of those wee jet prop planes which seat about 40 people and move about a lot in the wind... more of that later).
So I arrived in Dublin just after 9am.. feeling rough. Managed not to be sick in Dublin airport (huzzah!) and calmed my preggy tummy with a Cranberry juice while waiting to meet my agent for tea and scones.
By the time she arrived I was thankfully not green around the gills and we had a lovely hour or so chatting. Boy that woman knows how to pamper my ego!
So then, as she leaves, I turn around and there is fecking Cecelia Ahern sat about four foot away from me. What, I ask myself, is yer wan Ahern doing here? And then it dawns on me (yes, I'm thick at the moment, blame the baby) that perhaps this "do" isn't as casual as I thought it would be. That is confirmed when Sheila O'Flanagan walks in, and Collette Caddle, Amanda Brunker, Martina Reilly and a host of other "names" from the Irish writing scene.
Dinner is nice. I'm sat becside some of the head honchos from Eason and a couple of lovely booksellers from Cork. I'm relaxed. Cecelia Ahern seems very lovely, although all the while I'm thinking I once said in a magazine I greatly disliked her book 'A Place Called Here' and at a second's notice she might come over and lamp me.
But then, I realise she hasn't a clue who I am (and the fact my name badge says 'Clarie Allen' might help in my cunning disguise.)
But dinner soon ends and the lovely people from Eason get up to have a wee chat and they decide to thank all the authors who have attended. (Now this bit is important) In. Alphabetical. Order.
Immediately I suss what this will mean. Yer wan Ahern is up first. They list off her (many) achievements that would make many a grown writer weep with jealously and they ask her to stand up for applause. I smile and applaud nicely.
Then, because of the alphabeticalness of it all, I'm up next. Claire Allan (or Clarie Allen) has written two books. Da Dah!!! (Well in fairness, Eason were lovely - they said RD&T was one of the strongest debuts they'd had for years and the second book was selling brilliantly and I was a bright light yadda yadda... but compared to Yer Wan, it really did sound a little "Claire Allan has written two books".)
And then I had to stand up... in front of Cecelia Ahern - cover blown. But she did clap (and not in a vicious way) and no books came hurtling towards my head.
When dinner was over, I went and chatted to the lovely Chris Binchy (fabulous and very tall male author who has a very famous auntie) and we had a great old gossip. I also chatted with Noelle Harrison, who is also very lovely while all the while avoiding Yer Wan. I also had a lovely chat with Martina Reilly and Kathryn Thomas (off the telly), although she was much too glam for my liking.
But all in all, it was a wonderful opportunity to meet some lovely booksellers (all hail the booksellers) and lovely writers and have a great story to tell about Cecelia Ahern.

Now since the last time I went for dinner with the people from Poolbeg I managed to end the evening in a fit of projectile vomit, I was delighted to have made it through the dinner unscathed. I made my way back to the airport, feeling grand and looking forward to the short flight home.

Mistake. Big Mistake.
It was windy, you see. And turbulent and being that it was now evening (being that my morning sickness gets worse in the evenings) this was not boding well.
I deep breathed throughout. "I'll be fine," I said. And I almost, almost was. Just as the plane came into land I wasn't. Thankfully the air steward at Air Arran (a very cheerful American called Troy) was absolutely lovely and didn't bat an eyelid at my projectile vomit. I managed to clear off the plane before most people walked past me, but the smell of sick hung heavy in the air as I traipsed back to the car.

So, a morning of ego boosting, an afternoon of schmoozing with the stars and an evening of puking on myself in a public place. My life - are you jealous?

Our duty to humanity

Forgive me if this column takes on a rather sombre tone this week, but sometimes a news story comes about which cannot be ignored.
This week Barnoness Warnock - from all accounts an old biddy with not an ounce of compassion - stated that elderly and frail people should consider that they have duty to end their own lives in order to stop themselves becoming a burden on their families.
In particular Lady Warnock, an influential figure in Whitehall, referred to dementia sufferers stating: “If you are demented, you are wasting people's lives, your family's lives, and you are wasting the resources of the National Health Service.”
I’m almost tempted to let her comments hang there.
Surely such an inhumane approach to the weaker members of our society needs no comment. Are we really willing to accept a new order where the answer to the growing number of people developing dementia is to encourage those people to commit suicide? Surely we can’t possibly be promoting a society where only the fittest and most able minded should be encouraged to live out their natural lives?
Haven’t we been here before, in or around the 1940s, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t end well then? Now previously I’ve been in the camp where I’ve agreed with the idea of Euthanasia. When someone is in intolerable pain and wishes to end their life with dignity then I feel they should have that option.
After all, we live in a society where we put animals to sleep rather than let them endure extremes of pain or suffering. But after reading Baroness Warnock’s comments (she being one of the biggest campaigners for euthanasia in the UK), I’m not so sure.
Where can we be sure when to draw the line? I’ve always hated that “start of a slippery slope” argument believing that there is no point in pre-empting problems where none exist, but suddenly it has come into sharp focus.
What defines a burden? Who decides if that burden is too much? Is it the once healthy and capable human crippled, emotionally and physically by the effects of their decline into ill health? Or is it the family who have to rally round to provide care? Or is it, as some observers have suggested could be the case, the supposed support services struggling to meet the needs of those who need care?
To suggest it would be less of a burden on a family, a society or the health service to simply top yourself as the first signs of old age kick in (taking into account those most severely affected by dementia would not have the capability to make a decision to end their lives never mind carry it out), is nothing more than a disgrace.
We should not, as human beings, even dare to suggest that those less well and fit should die - we should instead be campaigning - and as loudly as possible - for an improvement in funding for research into causes and treatments for dementia and for the appropriate support services to be put in place for those affected and their families. Funding for research into the causes and treatments of Alzheimer’s is minimal. Access to invaluable treatment is also exceptionally limited. NICE (National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence) guidelines recommend that only people in the moderate stages of the illness receive the appropriate medication.
The ability to keep someone’s memories and ability to function alive is not, according to NICE, worth £2.50 a day. The availability of carers and support is limited - with resources stretched to the absolute limit so that families caring for someone with Alzheimer’s do take on the bulk of care for their loved ones - sometimes feeling as if they are out on their own.
Surely the humane response to all this is to take a more serious approach to the treatment and care of Alzheimer’s patients and make decent respite care readily available. In the UK 700,000 people suffer from dementia. This number will rise with the growing age of the population. None of us knows how we will end our days or what support we will need in the end stages of our lives - so how any of us can stand callously back and not rile up against this woman and her vile beliefs is beyond me.
People with dementia are not easy to live with or care for. It is hard, especially for those responsible for the bulk of the care. There is nothing more devastating that being stared at blankly by a face that used to welcome you warmly to their house, or to watch that same face fade away - from the inside out - through one of life’s most cruel conditions. But that does not take away the humanity of dementia sufferers and we leave our humanity behind entirely if we start picking off the weak and infirm. It may start, as Baroness Warnock has suggested, with those with dementia - but where will it end? Will we pick away and pick away until only a master race remain? We cannot and must not let this happen. For all our sakes.

This might just be the start of book 4

It's finally coming together in my head...

I wouldn't say I'm jealous of Fionn. Just because she's getting her happy ending while I seemed to have morphed my life into one of those "choose your own ending" books with umpteen choices and no idea how to get to any of them.
She deserves her happy ending - I believe that entirely. But still I couldn't help, as I watched her walk out of the changing room in her stunning shot silk gown, her eyes misty with emotion, feeling a little green around the gills with envy (and the remnants of last night's vodka).
"She's gorgeous, isn't she?" the over enthusiastic shop assistant almost squealed, while I nodded.
"Do you really like it?" Fionn asked, her face begging me to say yes.
"I do," I said and I wasn't lying. It was a stunning dress which accentuated my friend's natural beauty but when I choked back a tear it was because I couldn't ever see myself in her position - no matter how carefully I had planned every aspect of my life.
You see I had this wonderfully crappy habit of messing things up. If there was a degree in being a fuck up I would have passed with first class honours.
"I'm so glad you like it," Fionn said, waving her hands in front of her face to try and stem her tears, "Because I really think this is the one. This is my wedding dress, Annie. My wedding dress." She emphasised the words while twirling around like some sort of demented overgrown fairy princess and the shop assistant actually did squeal with delight at this stage.
I just sobbed into my hanky. In a most undignified manner.

Bestseller - woohoo!!!

Feels Like Maybe has now officially hit the top ten of the Irish original fiction chart - moving up this week from number 11 to number 6.
Woo- and- hoo!


(And yes, I know, I'm still to do the giveaway. Soon, my pretties, I promise.)

Cracking review...

... which has made my day!
From the Newsletter!

"I sat down to read Feels Like Maybe and was completely hooked. This is a moving, page turner of a read shot through with moments of laugh-out-loud humour'.

The school run... and other joys

Ah, the school run.

I only thought I knew what stress was doing the nursery run when I had to run, a mere 30 ft, in the rain to class room and peel a child off my leg.

But Primary School has brought it's own unique joys.

First off all, the boy goes to school approximately five miles from our house (and just round the corner from my work) and I have to pick my niece off to leave her to school too.

Now the boy refuses to leave before Thomas & Friends ends on Milkshake. He never used to mind but now thy have animated the trains' faces and you can see them talk and he's all a frenzy. So there is a little mini row each morning as we try and force him out the door before driving to my niece's. Now my niece is lovely, but she likes to forget things, or dawdle, or just generally chat to you before she puts her seatbelt on - while all the time the clock is ticking.

I'm already close to meltdown by the time we set off on the bulk of our drive, through rush hour traffic at a virtual standstill while the clock ticks on.

Reaching the school, usually, five minutes before the bell tolls we face another joy. You can't park in the school grounds, you see. Or anywhere near the doors. And it's busy, really busy so generally you find yourself having a good old sprint to get there in time - remembering coats, schoolbags, lunch bags and children as you go.

Reaching the school, we deposit my niece first - cue ceremonial hugging, kissing and "I'll miss you" between her and her cousin and then we walk, about 234 miles to the other end of the school to deposit the boy.
We are still there before 9.10am - but still we seem to always be the last ones to arrive and his teacher smiles at me sympathetically as we scurry through the door.
Joseph has even started apologising for me. "Sorry teacher, the traffic on the bridge was really, really bad" and I batter on red-faced and stressed because 10 past nine is still 10 minutes after I'm supposed to be in work.

So I run back to the car, drive like the clappers and get to work 15 minutes late, and feel like I've run a marathon.
My only consolation is that as I arrive I generally bump into my colleagues with children who all have the same look of stress and harassment as they walk through the door hoping no-one notices.

The up[side is that nothing in your day is as stressful after that.

I'm a little perturbed..

By the arrival of the Sony Reader.
This little gadgety thing does away with the need for books - glorious, paper smelling, thick, print-laden books.
Instead you get a cool metal gadgety doodah, which no doubt eats batteries or needs plugging in and you read your latest "must read" on screen.
Oh no. It's wrong. It's simply wrong. Not only will it give you eye-strain, but you lose the best bit of the book experience.
You lose the feel of a book, the weight of it in your hands, the chance to run your fingers over the embossed cover, the chance to flick back and forth, to fold down the corners (yes, yes I know, this is vay bad habit), to feel the warm texture of the paper and to enjoy the smell.
I've had cause to visit both Eason HQ and the warehouses of Argosy Books in Dublin and the thing that struck me was the delicious smell of print, the piles of books all fresh and ready for the reading.
The Sony Reader, takes away that lovely personal relationship with books and makes it all mechanical.
Sure it might take up less room in your luggage while on holiday, but woe betide your battery runs out just as the big plot twist kicks in.
No, Sony, we don't want your reader. Thank you.

Random Conversations with the Boy, Part 11

So tonight we're talking about baby names with the boy.
We know we pretty much wants a baby brother and we've trie to tell him that we don't have a choice in the matter - nonetheless we are talking about boys' names.

Joseph: "Is Jesus a boy's name?"
Me. "Yes, it is."
Joseph: " We could call our baby Jesus. That's a good name."

Can't fault the reasoning.

So, I'm having a baby

Nothing particularly new in that announcement but today, at just over 15 weeks pregnant, I had my first official scan (on top of the early scan after a scare).
This was the first time we saw a baby - not a wee shrimpy looking thing - but a baby with wee hands, curling and stretching and legs kicking furiously like it was doing a jig.
I've had my issues with bonding with this baby (probably due to the early scariness) but today my heart flipped when I saw my baby. (Our baby as my husband reminds me).
I've been getting myself into all sorts of hormonal states because I've not been feeling stupidly emotional over this baby - not bawling at silly songs in the car on the way to the shops etc.
So today, when I fought back tears listening to Michael Buble's 'Everything' I knew that things were going to be okay.

There are things you don't want to do...

And getting quite violently ill in front of your publisher is one of them...

Let me tell you a story...

So last Thursday things were going well - too well. I did a day of signings around the M50 and managed to not feel at all sick. I was thirsty yes, but not at all sick.
I was delighted - absolutely over the moon. In fact it prompted me to do a little happy dance that my morning sickness was gone.
So that evening I get ready, straighten my hair, wear most flattering preggy dress, do make up. I'm picked up by lovely Poolbeg people who drive me to a lovely restaurant where I'm to meet the rest of the Poolbeg people and some lovely booksellers.
The restaurant looked lovely. (Although the menu referenced oysters which was never going to go down well).
So anyway I start to feel sick - like really sick. And a little faint. So I get a drink of water. I'll be grand, I tell myself and the lovely publisher lady is very concerned. I go to get some air and s comes and sits with me, like my mammy, and is very soothing and reassuring.
I just feel worse.
So in the end I get a lift back to the hotel, in the car of a lovely Poolbeg girl who has not long passed her test and is clearly in love with her car and terrified that I might chunder everywhere. She drives at about 5 miles per hour (exaggerated for creative licence) and is very considerately gentle at speed bumps.
I get to the hotel without so much as a goodbye and run, yes RUN, to my hotel room where I'm so violently ill I burst the blood vessels in my eyes.
I then lie, moaning on the bed, all night before driving the 200 miles home weeping with sheer embarrassment.
This was not the impression I was hoping to make.

Yet still, I'll laugh about it sometime I'm sure and it might even make it into a book

Well I made it, and to prove it I'm here...

...as my dear old daddy would say.
Three and a half hours (with occasional "comfort breaks" being as that I'm pregnant and all) and I arrived in Dublin. I practically kissed the hotel receptionist who handed me the key to my room and was all toasty and asleep by 10pm.
Now the Sat Nav was grand, except it doesn't know there is a new motorway between Monaghan and the M1 and it kept sending me off on mad goose chases.
The annoying lady kept telling me to turn left - you can't turn fecking left on a motorway - and when I could I found myself in someone's very lovely driveway.
I ended up stopping Castleblaney, which was entirely unnecessary, and feeling the will to live drift away.
I then promptly ignore the Sat Nav and followed the signs for the airport - sorted.

I've spent today stalking Melissa Hill (not really, but she's on the same book tour and I'm signing books in all the same shops she's been to, so it feels a bit Norman Bates) and trying to ascertain whether or not my morning sickness has gone, or is just in hiding. Time will tell (prob on the drive home tomorrow).

Things with the book are going okay. It's number 13 in the Borders Bestsellers and Hughes and Hughes are expecting it to chart this weekend. It's also gone into a big promo at Eason - so fingers crossed.

Tomorrow will be interesting...

For I am driving to Dublin, in a car, by myself. For the first time.
It's approximately 200 miles in a direction I have never driven before. (I've never driven 200 miles in the one go either). I haven't a feckin' clue how to get to where I need to go and the fact that my husband has equipped me with his Sat Nav is no help either.
(This is me, who got lost in Belfast with the "help" of Sat Nav. I tend to spend entire journeys shouting at it ala "But I can't stay right, right is three lanes over. Ya big smug eejit computer fecker" and things like that).
Added to that, I'll be driving 200 miles - with morning sickness. Which is why I'm driving, for the record, as a non- morning-sicknessy bus ride to Dublin earlier this year made me feel rotten - I'd be dead for sure trying it now.
I'm taking a packed lunch (rock and roll) and some cheesy CDs.
If you don't hear from me any time soon, I'll probably be lost somewhere near Cork, shouting at at the Sat Nav... of course.

And the third review is in...

From the Irish Independent..

Allan has a strong writing style that is smart and funny.
Feels Like Maybe ... is a sparkling and feel good romantic read.

The review also references that the subject of infertility has been done before in contemporary fiction and I can't deny that. Again I would say there are no new stories. but just new ways of telling them.
Still "sparkling and feel good" works for me.

The second review is in...

From Trashionista...


Feels Like Maybe was a breeze and a joy to read. In fact, it's one of those books where you don't notice you're reading; when I think of it now, I feel like I watched it on TV. It addresses so many different relationships with warmth, wit and wisdom. At times, my heart hurt for both Aoife and Beth and at others I laughed out loud. Loved it.

I think I love this one!

Ah, but yes, he is vay cute

And I do love the bones of him already...

I got a new nephew - and a whole big set of issues

My sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Ethan, in the early hours of yesterday morning. This was after what felt like the longest pregnancy ever and definitely one of the longest stop/ start labours ever (although in fairness, once it really did kick off, it really kicked off)
I met Ethan yesterday morning - looking very much like his big cousin Joseph did at the same age. All 6lbs something on him, with blonde hair and chicken legs.
My sister is besotted. (Sore, ya know, but besotted). She doesn't want to put him down and can't say as I blame her - he's pretty damn cute.
But a little part of my heart broke yesterday because I thought I was over my birth experience and my post natal experience. I saw her cuddle him, and hug him and thought back to the 24 hours after Joseph was born. I barely held him. I was too damn tired.
I knew he was my baby and I knew I would bust the arse of anyone who tried to hurt him, but I didn't passionately feel that mother love. I didn't marvel at his ears, and his fingers and his long feet. I didn't spend my day smelling his head and kissing him. I fed him, and changed him and saw to his needs.
That made me so very sad - to see her like that yesterday. Happy for her, of course, but sad for me because I'll never get that back with Joseph now and while I love him and he loves me and we are close as two close things in a close place I'll never have the memory of marvelling over a newborn him.
That kind of really, really sucks.

And the first review is in!

4/5 Stars from the RTE Guide.

Claire Allan's second novel has struck the perfect balance between humour and emotion. Despite dealing with a very sensitive subject honestly and thoughtfully, there are many laughs along the way with the situations Beth and Aoife find themselves in.

I quite like that!

Well my big boy is now a school boy

And he's a grumpy wee sod this evening on the back of it.

He was so excited this morning and I managed to retain my composure as he got dressed into a uniform for the first time.

Leaving him to school was fine. He smiled, went into his classroom and sat down like a good boy.

He did give me a soppy eyed look as I was leaving and I did cry all over the playground.

He was fine when I picked him up - if a little over tired and over excited and now I'm just settling myself down to the fact we have to do it all again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day.

I think I'm knackered from the exertion, never mind him.

Who did you want to be?

Poolbeg (the lovely people) have just launched a forum where you can go discuss your favourite books, speak to authors* and find out more about submitting a manuscript to them.
Now one of the threads currently on the fledgeling forum is about your favourite books and it got me to thinking of the first Poolbeg book I read, way, way, way back in the very early 90s.
It was 'City Girls' by Patricia Scanlan and it centred around three friends, coming through awful adversity to become a success. It was the first of a trilogy of books by Ms Scanlan on the three City Girls and I so wanted to be Devlin - officially the coolest girl on the block.
Sure she had her tough times - an unwanted pregnancy, a stint in Ballymum (one of Dublin's notorious high rise areas) and a great fecking whack of tragedy. But she pulled herself through it to become a success, find love and launch City Women - a chain of plush fitness and beauty spas.
She had a cool name, funky business suits, a sexy boyfriend and a very nice blonde bob.

So, when you were younger - who did you want to be?

A little flutter of excitement

I remember very clearly about 6 and a half years ago when my sister was heavily pregnant with my niece. Abby was going to be the first baby in our family for many's a year and I remember sitting in my parents' house on Sunday afternoon - not long before Abby was born - and getting a wee flurry of excitement that soon things were never going to be the same again.
So now my sister is two weeks off giving birth to my wee nephew and today, when I received an email from her to say she was feeling a little niggly I felt that flutter of excitement again.

Things that make you smile...

Picked up my phone in work today to the following message left by the husband and the boy last night.

"Hello Mummy!"
"Leave a message for mummy. It's an answering machine. Say something nice."
"Mummy, I love you."
"Say something else.
"Good mummy. Great mummy. You're the best."
"Okay, say goodbye."
"Bye mummy."
"Say you love her..."
"I love you so much, mummy. See you soon."

I particularly loved the "Good mummy, great mummy, you're the best".

Short and sweet

I've been asked to write a short story for an Irish magazine. Now it's been a very long time since I wrote a short story - probably way back in the days of school uniforms and not having the attention span past writing a few hundred words.
Now being more geared up for plotting over 100,000 of the buggers I'm finding it a little tough.
I'm currently on about draft 15 - this time a story about a red pair of shoes. And it feels a bit like an exam.
A big yay for anyone who manages to write short stories without feeling they are cutting themselves off before getting into full flow. I never realised just how hard it would be.

In other news, I'm now officially 12 weeks pregnant. Whoop Whoop! I'm hoping the sickness eases soon so that I can actually finish the edit on book three which has gone on the back burner due to my general sea-sicky type feelings each evening. Computers make me nauseous - not so good for a writer.
I'm now craving a massage as I seem to be carrying loads of tension in my neck and shoulders. I might just treat myself to one when I'm off in the next two weeks (or better still persuade La Husband to treat me to one - feels even more special then!). (Donna - if you're reading this by the way I will be touch soon about the lavender pack and oils! I promise).

And finally - FEELS LIKE MAYBE IS OUT THIS WEEK!!!
IT SHOULD BE IN THE SHOPS BY THE WEEKEND - AND SHOULD BE AVAILABLE ON THE POOLBEG WEBSITE AND AMAZON IN THE NEXT DAY OR TWO.
BUY EARLY AND BUY OFTEN!!

I'm disturbed, very disturbed...

Now, dear friends, we've spoken at length before about my fear of fish.

They scare me. They make me feel uncomfortable. They make me feel, sorry dear fishy friends, rather nauseous.

And just when I thought I could not feel any less inclined towards fish, my lovely friend Keris sent me a picture of these "beauties".

No, they aren't a joke. They are from designer Christian Leuboutin - ya know a proper fashion designer person.

Now they disturb me on many levels - not most of all because they have eyes and shoes should not have eyes. There is no need for eyes on anyone's shoes - unless you are four and have froggy wellie boots*

The second way they disturb is that wearing them would involved putting my foot inside a fish. This is something I have nightmares about. And yes I know it's not a real fish, but it might as well be. Just thinking about wee fish teeth clamping themselves around my toes makes me feel weak.

So no, Carrie Bradshaw is welcome to these bad boys.

*And yes, the boy had a froggy wellies.

I'll be having a giveaway soon...

Of Feels Like Maybe and Rainy Days and Tuesdays.
I just need to think of a good angle or hook.
As obviously my initial thought of bribery with wine is out the window due to my current condition!

So we have a start date

Yes, we've had to wait til the 19th of August to find out but today we have been told the boy will be starting big school on September 1.
We're just about all ready in terms of uniform, school bag (which I had to order from frickin' China (thanks to Ebay) because we just had to have a Ben 10 theme), hugely expensive proper school shoes.
The boy is excited. He just can't wait to see his wee friends from nursery again and to learn exciting things like reading and writing.
What I'm not ready for, however, is the emotional leap from having my gorgeous wee man to a big boy who goes to school.
I'm of course delighted that he is independent enough to make these first important steps, but part of me just feels emotional about it. Emotional and proud.

It's so lovely...

On Friday I got this thing of beauty delivered. I've been having some special alone time with it all weekend - stroking it, cuddling it, leafing through it and marvelling at it. I mean I'm impressed - seriously impress that every word in that book was written by me. It's a year of my life - a story I love and have every faith in and it has a pink cover. What more could a grown woman want.
Ladies and gentleman, I give you Feels Like Maybe. (Available in all good bookshops from August 28).

Okay I have a new favourite

in Last Choir Standing.
I want to be in this choir (if only I could sing). I want to dance, and wail and have a bit of craic and spend some time with the delicious Marc. :swoon:

Enjoy


And

What's in a name?

My sister is currently winding her way towards the end of what seems like the longest pregnancy in history ever and even though the end is now in sight, she has a problem.
Her baby is as yet without a name. She’s knows the gender but has not been able to decided on a name befitting of the bump that has become known to us all as Peanut.
Naming a child, you see, is a pretty big deal. I had umpteen sleepless nights when I was expecting the boy as we tried to find (read that as agree on) a name that would suit our baby. I made my mind up very early on that should young baby Allan appear as a girl, she would be called Grace. However my husband, with his warped male logic, turned that down as it reminded him of John Innman in ‘Are You Being Served?’ (which was set in the fictional Grace Brothers’ Department Store).
Much as I tried to convince him his logic was, at best, completely illogical, he would not budge from his position and very soon we had to abandon the name Grace altogether. Which, in fairness, became less of a problem as I grew to suspect that the baby in my tummy was a boy anyway.
Now, no matter how you try and pretend, boys’ names are generally quite boring. It seemed that with a daughter there were a wealth of possibilities from Phoebe to Faith, Aoife to Niamh. When it came to boys’ names we were utterly stumped. (Being stumped of course being code for “the husband was so blinking fussy we couldn’t agree on anything”).
Eventually, about 10 weeks before he was due, I had a moment of inspiration. A friend suggested thinking of a name which had meaning to me and I just thought it would be lovely to name our baby after my late grandad - who was my childhood hero. Of course his first name was Ernest and we decided that would verging on child abuse so we opted for his middle name which is of course Joseph.
It was lovely, two weeks later, when a scan indeed reveal I was having a boy to have a name ready and waiting. (Although I had a minor hysteria induced moment in the labour ward when I made my husband promise that if the sonographer had been wrong we could in fact call the baby Grace as “she” would be born on a Tuesday).
The sonographer, however, had been right and we soon welcomed Joseph - with the middle names Peter (after my daddy) and David (after the husband’s daddy) into the fold.
Now people’s reactions to the name were mixed. I had one lady tell me off (yes, seriously, tell me off) in a shop for giving my child a name which could be shortened. I just nodded at her before making my escape from her shop without buying anything. My sister (she of the longest pregnancy in the world, ever) declared the name old-fashioned and decided she would be calling him Joe or Joey. (He is so not a Joey, for the record).
A nun visiting the hospital however declared it was lovely to see a baby with a proper name which would she would have no problem spelling or pronouncing.
We knew that we weren’t choosing a name that wasn’t as popular or trendy as Dylan or Jack or Ben but that it would always have meaning for us and that worked. This week (which is still very much part of the silly season as far as news reports go) there have been newspaper reports warning against the possible “extinction” of certain older names which have all but disappeared off the record books.
In fact, Ernest (sorry Grandad) is one of those which has lost popularity, alongside Percy, Herbert, Clifford, Stanley and Fred. For the girls, it seems we have lost favour with Annie, Gertrude, Margaret and Lilian. But if I think of the names of some of my friends’ children there are plenty of more traditional names in the mix.
There’s Lily, Charlotte, Maisie, Elizabeth, Matthew, Harry, Fred and of course Joseph.
A few years ago people would have considered any of these names a little out of favour. So I don’t think we really have anything to worry about. Names come and go in popularity. I swear the year I was born every second girl was called Claire. (I was named after the song ‘Claire’ - the moment I met you I swear...’ for the record). Okay, I don’t think my sister will be rushing out to call her new baby Herbert or Gertrude (see, I’m being very coy and not revealing which gender the peanut is) but that’s not to say that in 20 years time the names won’t see a resurgence in popularity.
And as for me, when the time comes to have another baby, I’m already preparing a plethora of reasons to knock down the husband’s wonky reasoning. I could get a Grace after all.

Dear American readers...

Do you think my sense of humour is too dark for your fellow countrymen?
Thus goes the rejection from a major US publisher today.
While they loved the work *happy dance* and thought I had a great energy *happier dance* they just weren't sure the Northern Ireland sense of humour would translate to the US market and that my humour was too dark.
I suppose we northerners have a certain darkness to us (years of living under the threat of paramilitaries etc will do that to a gal)... but surely someone wants to take a chance on me?
Will keep you posted.

Bizarre places you get your fashion inspiration

Okay, I'm a tacky magazine addict. I like to read my Take a Break (Tik a Brik) every week. It's trashy but it takes little effort when I've no energy for diving into a novel.
So anyway I'm flicking through Tik a Brik last night and come across a picture of a lady wearing a lovely purple dress with even lovelier purple knee high boots.
"Hmmm," I think, "I like that. I'd love something just like that for my book signing. If not the dress, then definitely the boots. Oh yes, I love the boots."
So I glance up and notice that the outfit of my coveting is from an ad for Always Envive - which for the non initiated are basically incontinence pads. (Or aids for bladder sensitivity, if we are being pc).
Which leaves me with two problems. The first is that I am no further forward as to where the boots can be purchased from. Should I therefore email Always not about their fine feminine hygiene products but about their ads and ask them nicely where I can get the boots? Would that make me look slightly insane?
The second problem of course if that if I tracked down the boots, and the dress, and dared to wear them would people look at me and say "She's the Always Envive girl. She has bladder weakness! Ha ha ha!"
You can see my dilemma.

It is just so typical of me to be excited by outfits designed to promote people who leak urine.

Good grief the comedian's my brother

My brother is a very funny guy. Seriously. A bit mad cap and not at all traditional, but very, very funny.
Anyway, he is the main writer for a group called 'Love the Concept' who are also all very funny.
So I'm sharing this moment with you, from their live show.
It's an Irish traditional rendition of MC Hammer's U Can't Touch This.
It makes me snort in a very indignified manner!

(My brother is the eejit in the Val Doonican stylee jumper on the left, btw)

Thus goes the big edit....

100 pages down, 265 to go (plus additions).

It's quite a good book, actually.

A funny thing happened on the way to my blog...

It's still early days as these things go... but here is the big reveal (For those who haven't guessed, which I think is no one).

Click on the link to discover my deepest, darkest, secret!

The way things are...

My husband and I (does that sound all posh and proper?) have had a nightmare of a year.
I can't begin to describe how hard things have been for us - and in particular for him for the last 12 months.
This time last year we heard the company he was working for was "restructuring" (make of that what you will) and he started to look for alternative employment.
He found some, albeit with a four hour commute each day, and settled in. Things were looking good and then in early November his father took seriously ill. We knew that David had been ill for a while but being that he was 81 and stubborn as a goat we kind of thought he would always be there.
It was a shock for us that my husband was called over to his bedside (in England) while I was left holding the fort and caring for the boy at home. It broke my heart more than words can say that I could not be with my husband and comfort him during his father's last days.
And it broke my heart more when he phoned me, in his matter of fact way, to tell me David had passed away.
I travelled over the following week for the funeral - where my husband gave the most impressive eulogy and made me proud beyond words.
We returned home and business being what it was, and the property market crashing, we soon realised the new dream job with the four hour commute was a nightmare. So my husband started looking for work again - taking time to grieve, I suppose in his stoic fashion, and to spend time with our son.
We didn't expect to wait long and things were getting hairy when 5 months down the line he still wasn't working. But he has surpassed himself. Three months ago he set up his own business which is growing nicely (I'm always afraid to say "huge success" for fear that it will fall down round our ears, but we are doing okay.) He works hard to provide for us.
But through all this, there have been times when I've felt like an observer on our life together. My mother in law died just before the two of us met. My husband never really showed that he was upset (I know he was, but he was very much of the stuff upper lip school of thought).
I suppose I just assumed he was the same with his dad died and his career hit a wall.
I know now he wasn't and a lot of that hurt, anger and grief is coming out now and it's up to me to be there and ride out the storm with him.
So I'm publicly promising him, here, that I'll do that. As the song says, Come What May.

The terrible four and a halfs...

I should preface this week’s column by saying I love my son.
He is the light of my life and generally speaking he makes me proud and happy more than he makes me want to tear my hair out and sit rocking in a corner having a wee cry. However at the moment we are experiencing a phase that few and far between parenting manuals warn you about.
We have landed, huffing, puffing and back-chatting into the terrible four-and-a-halfs and boy it makes it terrible twos look like a fun filled afternoon in Bananas.
The child - the son who I have always been impeccably proud of - has turned into a three and a half foot version of Victor Meldrew meets Kevin the Teenager.
Generally I consider myself to be well up on parenting matters, but I was so not prepared for this. I was expecting a glorious final summer with the boy before he started at big school and instead we’ve been spending more and more time issuing warnings, becoming familar with the naughty step and sticking stars on reward charts (or not, as the case quite frequently is).
I’ve had to zip my mouth closed not to make mention that this kind of behaviour won’t be tolerated at primary school as we have been warned not to use the big school as a threat - but the result is that I’m at the end of my tether.
Now when the boy is good - he is very, very good. He remains one of the most affectionate children on the planet who heaps kisses and cuddles on those he loves and is always ready to offer a hug is someone looks upset. He can also contentedly while away happy hours playing with his toys or his friends with not so much as a hint of a whinge.
But when he is bad.... well you know the rest. I wasn’t expecting to deal with the surly response of “Don’t want to. Don’t have to. Not going to. N. O. spells no” just yet. I was hoping to have at least nine years of a nice, lovely, respectable son to look after until that hit.
Nor was I prepared to hear phrases such as “Because I said so” or “Stop whining before I give you something to whine about” coming out of my mouth just yet. I imagined I would stay on my floaty (mostly) calm mammy cloud for another wee while and that we would have spent all spare time this summer skipping hand in hand along the sandy shores of Buncrana Beach or laughing madly as he hurtled down a slide in the playpark.
I suppose I was living in a happy parenting bubble where there were occasional flashes of tantrums and huffs but we more or less got on just fine.
Now I’m told it’s natural and just one of those phase things. I’m told that it’s common for children, just before they start at the big school, to have one major flurry of boldness to push the boundaries and come back from it all feeling reassured that you still love them. I’m told this - but I’ve only been told this in the last week or so.
It seems that this particular phase is yet another one of those parenting secrets that is only divulged on a need to know basis. In fairness if someone had sat me down at the start of this whole foray into the world of parenting and told me exactly, and in graphic detail, what I was letting myself in for I would have run screaming for the hills. Parenthood offers so many surprises that it is most certainly not for the faint hearted.
And yes while it is, for the most part, one of those life choices where the good outweighs the bad there are times when you seriously start to fantasize about it being a job you can take a holiday from. However these joyful little phases, it seems, are something you just have to ride out. But it has given me a glimpse into the teenage years to come and heart is filled with a sort of cold dread.
I remember so well when he was a little tiny baby and mad with colic and generally quite grumpy and I was like the living dead. “You think it’s hard now,” one well meaning ‘friend’ commented, “wait ‘til he’s older. That’s when the real hard work starts.” At the time I resisted the urge to point my puking baby in her direction, but now I think she might have had a point.
With all that in mind, however, it is my job as a parent to guide my child through these storms and remind him, even when he is doing my head in, that I do still love and I will forgive his tantrums and huffs because that is what mammies’ do.
And I knew that before signing up to the whole parenting deal. As many a good Derry mum has done before me, I’m just going to have to take my oil and get my happy child back on track.

It's not often the Daily Mail makes me whoop with joy

But it did today - thanks to this amazing, wonderful, positive article from Ulrika Johnson about her post-baby body.
What a refreshingly wonderful read. I personally want to jump to my feet and give Ulrika a standing ovation.

Think, live, dream... blog

This is stolen from Keris who linked it from Alex Beauchamp.
I'm sharing it because it has a message for everyone and especially for me.
I think sometimes we stop believing that we have a voice worth sharing and that we can make a difference. It feels arrogant sometimes to raise a hand and say "Yup, that's me, touching people's lives", but why should it be?
Anyway, enjoy this please.


Please go out there and do. Live. Don't be the same as yesterday. Don't live vicariously online. Don't use language that has no meaning or talk ideas you don't really live. Don't hide. Don't copy others or live their ideas or life. Don't fear doing your thing. Don't fear doing.
Instead of reading a decorating magazine, paint that room. Instead of thinking of baking, do up a cake. Run, walk, bike. Put that self help book down and pick up yourself.
Let go of the snark, your worries, your anger and fear and give into possibility, action, joy and life. Do. Do some more. Stop thinking about you. Stop blogging about just you and your kid and your pet.
There's a world out there to connect to, really connect to. Being of use is more important than being popular. Think about the lady down the street, the person at the drive through, the man fallen in the street, about politics, the environment, healthcare, another country and then do something about it. Never stop at thinking.
Dream big, work harder. Have lots of fun, lift a finger, do something for someone else. Cheer your friends on. Cheer yourself up. Celebrate as much as possible. Enjoy everything. Right now. It's OK to want more and do more but be present with where you are or who you are with. Don't rush the situation - even if it's bad. Move on when you can. Don't settle. Try everything you can and get over everything holding you back.
Go outside. Go outside yourself. Make a difference, make some change. Don't complain about someone unless you're talking to that someone. Don't complain about a situation you're not willing to make better. They don't have it better and you don't have it worse. Don't make excuses. You'll never see possibility if you do. And you're smart and worth more than settling for a life of complaining and limitation.
Hope. Hope more. Give someone else hope. Get healthy and contribute to a healthy environment. Think about everything you do, you buy, you say. Only be lazy on Sunday and even then, be conscious. Rest is useful, giving up is not.
Play. Remember what it's like to be seven. Remember to listen to a seven year old because you just have more words and life experience, not necessarily more wisdom. Have more questions than answers and don't put everything into words. Sometimes just feel things and be. Be quiet more often, listen harder, talk exactly as you mean to.
Strive for your best and not what you think someone elses' best is. Follow through. Don't let others down. Don't let yourself down. You are better than your circumstances. Ask for what you're worth. Make magic happen don't wish for it. Don't envy others' lives, envy yours. Live it fully. Teach by example how to live well, how to be treated, how to be kind, how to be alive.
Do. I can't stress that one enough. Take action on your life. Make the change. No more sulking, waiting, thinking, reading, talking about.


It's time. You're ready.

I think I'm going to call her Annie...

My new MC, that is.
I think it could work - although it's neither funky or Irish. It does however allow me to reference John Denver again which will keep my daddy happy.
The first chapter is forming nicely in my head - just have to do the actual physical work and write the damn thing.
Am hoping one of these days someone will invent some sort of brain reading machine which will allow you think your book and it magically appear on the screen.
However, I know that's likely to be hard - because my brain is a bit distracted generally and I'd probably get three lines of book, one line of random thought about dinner, one line about how Joseph is growing up, a weird thought about how my back/ legs/ tummy/ head is aching and then three more lines of book.
The edit might just kill me on that one.
(And of course I'm not avoiding the edit on Book 3 by thinking of Book 4... not at all).

Starting the big edit

The joy at having finished book 3 is seeping away as the task of editing the thing kicks in.
It's a strange mix of emotions - reading, editing, adding to a manuscript you have ceremoniously declared "Finis" not a week before.
First of all as you read it you weep tears of joy at the bits that work - at the dialogue, sense of place and lovely things you have basically forgotten writing. I some times think the good writer genie has come in and fiddled with my work in my absence like the wee elves from the Elves and Shoemaker. (I loved that book when I was little, by the way - all the fancy shoes with the fancy buckles...).
You also do a fair share of cringing too - at the mistakes, the bad sentence structure, the typos. (I drop small words a lot. I think it's a shorthand thing) Sometimes I read a sentence and wonder what the feckity feck I was thinking. It makes no sense. It has a joyful randomness. I can only think I battered down a line from whatever was on the telly at the time.
And sometimes you just want to cry when you realise there is a glaring plot hole that requires major surgery.

Still I promise myself that when this is done, I get to write the next one - and it's going to be a lot of fun.

Friday funny...

What happens when Ben 10 meets PC Plum, meets Bob the Builder?

Shock, horror! Nadine is human!

So Nadine Coyle has cellulite. Stop the presses. It seems that our lovely local lass’s legs are once again headline news - but the truth is, do we really care?
And do newspaper editors really think that we really care?
The Daily Mail this week (I know I shouldn’t read it, but it helps give me a focus for my anger) published one of those “shock, horror” type exposes about the 23 year old’s “losing battle with the dreaded dimple thighs”.
It makes it sound oh so serious, doesn’t it? There is something in the Mail’s reporting which puts the dreaded dimple thighs up there with Rabies, the Ebola Virus and Bird Flu.
We have to wonder how the stunningly beautiful, successful and talented young Derry wan gets out of bed in the morning. Surely the weight of her dimply thighs weigh her down to the bed? Surely, as she wanders about in her hot pants and designer Uggs the only thought going through her head should be the godawful state of her legs. The shame of it.
Of course when you look at the “shocking” photos of our Nadine, her “dimply thighs” look just fine. She may or may not have the eeniest bit of cellulite or it might just be a bruise.
Either way, I doubt she is losing much sleep over it. She is a fit, healthy and attractive young woman at the top of her game. She is among one of our most successful exports and has achieved the adoration and admiration of thousands of fans.
The pictures of her a week before performing at the Isle of Wight would have the average Derry woman turning green with envy. There wouldn’t be a chance in hell that I would ever, or will ever, fit into any of the figure hugging outfits La Coyle has been wearing, nor is there any chance that even nipping out to the shops I would look half as glam.
If The Mail want to see what real cellulite looks like they should stop off at Buncrana Road some morning where they will be able to see a harassed mammy/journalist/ author with dreaded dimple thighs that could make a grown man weep. (Or indeed a grown woman). W
e’re not likely to be shocked that Nadine has (possibly) some dimples on her thighs. If the average observer is anything like me they will be staring at their own definitely dimpled legs and wishing for a good dose of dysentry to shift a few pounds (or stone) and a year with a personal trainer to sort themselves out.
A few of us may even have started to look at the vacuum cleaner with a keen eye wondering if it would be at all possible to perform a DIY liposuction job.
Now I’m a journalist and I know that the summer season is a quiet one. It has long since been known as the “silly season” when stories which wouldn’t normally make the news seems to find their way to the front of the paper - but I don’t get how - even on the silliest of silly days, one little patch of imperfection on a singer’s legs is newsworthy.
Then again, in the same edition the paper debates whether Catherine Zeta Jones has gotten too skinny, discusses the £11,000 Britney has spent to get back in shape and lambasts Desperate Housewives star Nicolette Sheridan for her bingo wings. Radio One DJ Chris Moyles had an accident with some hair clippers too - so you know the paper has proved they can give men a touch as well.
But I do wish with all my heart that people just didn’t care who had cellulite, or who has lost a bit of weight or put on a few pounds. It’s just boring and all smacks a bit of the school bullies who sit at the edge of the playground trying to look tough and cool by slagging everyone else off.
I didn’t like those kind of girls in school and I don’t like them now as an adult. Surely there is nothing noble about spending your working day spotting imperfections in others and holding them up for the world to see. (By the way, before you write in, I’m aware I’m doing the same - but what I’m criticising here is lazy journalism - what they are criticising is ordinary women with imperfect bodies.)
There are few if any women out there who are flawless and I’m of the firm belief that she without wrinkles should cast the first jar of body firming cream.
I suppose, however, I should be envious - not only of Nadine and her designer pins - but also of those people out there in newspaper land who have nothing more substantial to worry about than which celeb has exposed a tiny flaw that day.