July Newsletter... there's a new book on the way

And so it's July(or almost August) - and so it has been another two months since I have updated this blog. Seems I live on Twitter these days, when I'm not writing, or editing, or working or being a mammy to the two little ones.

And... worse than that, I've had an awful dose of "weemin's problems"... or at least we think they are weemin's problems. I don't quite have a diagnosis yet but there has been much lying prone in bed, mainlining tramadol and co-cocodamol and feeling immensely sorry for myself. It's strange but feeling physically sick has made me much more miserable than the 'horrors' - perhaps because with the 'horrors' I know what it is...

All these things aside, much is happening book wise. If Only You Knew has been just been released in paperback with a lovely lilac cover and a quote from Anna McPartlin, whom I love madly. All my books are now available to download on Kindle (Yay!!!) and I've been editing the very life out of 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted' set for a late August release. Have I shown you the cover? It's stunning? 

And the book is just so special...(of course I would say that, but really, it is... one for anyone whose heart has ever been broken at all).

In fact, thanks to the lovely people at Poolbeg, the book has now gone out to the media for review. This is a SCARY time. And I just hope they love it, because I genuinely do adore it. Below is the little pack Poolbeg sent out, with an invite (the book is set around a wedding dress shop) and little wedding favours and everything. I'm jealous they've not sent me a pack and a proof copy... I would enjoy that....

I am also working on book 7 - which has no title as yet, but the two main characters have names and the plot is coming to life so all is not lost. I'm fast reaching that obsessional about it stage where I cannot sleep at night without plotting scenes and dialogue and all sorts. This is actually a good stage - it's a brilliant stage to be fair. For the last few months I have eeked out a few words here and there and genuinely panicked that the well might be empty and seven books in was probably time enough to call it quits. I feared that having those nights of talking to myself as I drifted off to sleep would never arrive and that scared me. Writing has been such a huge part of my life for seven years now so that being without it would leave me a little bereft.

What I think I perhaps actually did was just give up on it for a bit... purposely made a point of not thinking about it and then all my lovely characters decided to have other ideas. So I am welcoming the glorious schizophrenia of writing with open arms.

Book seven has a central theme of homecomings about it - and finding the true meaning of where home is, although I've yet to think of a name.

Outside of writing and weemin's problems I have also agreed to let me children get a cat. This may come back to haunt me and you can expect a traumatised post soon.

With What Becomes due for imminent release (circa September 2) I will be posting an opening snippet soon. Watch this space.

May newsletter

Okay, so I know I said monthly... and I know I've been awful... and this probably won't be any better because they've changed blogger in my absence and now the screen looks all funny and I'm not sure what I'm doing... but anyway...

To round up the last few months... it is probably best to categorise things, isn't it?
First of all: Writing.

Book Six, or 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?' is done - bar the copy edits and will be in the shops (all being well, no floods/ famines/ world wars etc) at the end of August. The lovely people at Poolbeg have even furnished me with a cover which is divine and actually you would have thought they had read my minds because it suits the book perfectly.

I'm starting work on Book Seven, which has no firm name yet (did toy with 'The Heart of Me' but that was down to a pretty naff and shite session listening to Whitney Houston songs and feeling nostalgic and, out of context of a Whitney Houston song it doesn't actually make much sense, does it? ). I am finding it hard to get into writing this book but that could be because I have the fear.
This is my last book in contract with Poolbeg - I do not know what the future holds. So writing it feels a bit scary and intimidating and I feel it has to be really stand out. So no pressure there then? So far I've written three different starts - each of them will weave their way into the finished product. I'm just not sure how and what structure I'm going to take. (Dear agent if you are reading this, I am actually working, honest...)

Second of all: family.
I remember when my children were younger and at that very demanding "do it all for me" stage I thought life would be so much easier when they got bigger and a little more independent. I remember thinking I'd have bags of free time to do whatsoever I wished. This is not true. This is a big fat con. If anything the older they get the more demanding they get. Like, they want you wash more clothes. And cook them dinners not out of jars. (I never was an uber mammy) and drive them places, or help them with *horrors* homework. I'm also at that delightful toddler stage with the girl where I must answer approximately 5000 questions an hour. The call of "Why-ah?" happens a lot. (I do not know why she adds 'ah' to the end of lots of her words, but she does Why-ah, No-ah, yes-ah etc) There are times I have patience x a million with this. There are times when I wish to shout "I don't effin' know-ah". (Not that I would swear in front of my kids... of course....erm....).
But that aside - God they are some craic. The boy made his first communion on Saturday past and we had a brilliant day. I was not expecting to be so emotional with it all, but I did have to blink back tears a few times (not least because I'd had my make up done by a proper make up girl and I didn't want to ruin it).

The wee doll, as she is now known, is developing her own character more and more each day. Favourite part of the day, bar none, when she snuggles down to me in the evenings and tells me I'm her teddy bear. Bless her wee heart).

Third of all: The mental-ness
Hate to tempt fate, but it's okay, ish. As long as I remember to keep busy and take my tablets and when the crappy days come remind myself that it will pass. There are still times I am just so completely and utterly fed up with it. There are still times when I can be fine one minute and then feel horrendous the next, out of nowhere. But I think maybe I'm being a little more accepting of it? Fighting it made it worse. I need to fight to get better - I need the energy to put into that instead of refusing to accept all is not well in the first place.
Does that make sense? It kind of does in my head.

Fourth of all: The loveliness.
Folks... in BIG GIANT NEWS have spoken with Marian Keyes on Twitter. And she didn't tell me to feck off. Which was lovely of her. Twitter is a lovely place to be - why not visit and follow me @claireallan

Finally: Random Conversations with the Boy/ Girl

The Boy: To a picture of his late grandma: "You're my favourite person who died in the 90s".

The Girl: In chapel at the First Holy Communion, at a moment of silence and great solemnity, as loud as she could manage: "Mammy, how do babies get in your tummy". Followed by. "I need to a poo".

Ah, pride doesn't come close!

February...erm March newsletter

Erm... remember last month (or in fact, January) when I said I would update my blog more frequently and well, at least once a month?
Well, can we just ignore the silence that was February. To be fair, February was a bit mad. And a month I have been happy to consign to the bin and file under "months we must never, ever talk about again".
Generally January is my black month - where I mope about thinking about my tax bill (yeuch!) and how cold it is and all other such things. But January passed in quite an uneventful haze of writing, not being really all that cold and tax bill being paid just about on time.
February, however, unleashed itself like a hound of hell on me (Does that sound dramatic enough? I want it to sound just about as dramatic as it can?). First of all I HAD to finish the book - which meant writing around the clock on top of general mammy-ness and working full time and all that. (Not meant to be a woe is me post, but I felt a bit woe is me). I also took to baking a lot - trying the Marian Keyes, "it it's broke, feck it in the oven and bake the hoop out of it" approach.
And I made soup - a LOT of soup - all Slimming World friendly and exceptionally time consuming it was too. When I say I made soup, I mean from scratch. In a big heavy bottomed pot with loads of fresh veg and stock and not a single tin opener.
It was lovely soup, I have to say. Really healthy and nutritious but as I stood sweating onions and blending tomatoes and crushing garlic I thought of the perfectly lovely tinned soup in the cupboard which I could open and heat in three minutes and wondered - really, did I have to make my own soup? I firmly believe the baking and the soup making started to serve as a welcome distraction from the book writing, which then made me more anxious....a vicious cycle of buns and Leek and Potato soup and book guilt ensued.

Oh yes, anxiety. It came back - in waves of horrible adrenalin coursing through my body, starting at the top of head and rushing downwards hitting every nerve on the way making me feel nauseous to the point that yes, I started being physically sick. (Which was nothing to do with the soup or the buns, before anyone gets smart). I started doing the crying thing too - as I did the last time "the darkness" took hold which meant when I wasn't snapping at people I was bursting into tears.
And the dark thoughts returned as well. The thing about the dark thoughts, and the crying and the adrenalin is that you don't know how long it will stay for. Will be a day or two of feeling crappy and scared, or more? How dark will the thoughts get? How scary will it be? How will you be able to cope? Do you want to cope any more?
I am aware this is essentially a light hearted author page/ blog and I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about how bad things got, but they have - mostly - passed. I still am taking medication for panic attacks. I have to be religious about taking my anti-depressants. Not taking them does not end well. I have to keep making the soup and eating well and trying to get some fresh air. And I cut out a little picture from my Slimming World magazine which says "You Can Do It" and I put it in my purse and look at it often.
People say maybe I should remind myself there are people worse off than me - and while that is a relatively good technique - too much time thinking about people who are worse off than me leads me to feel really doubly guilty and very anxious about the state of the world and wondering when the bad things which have happened to them will happen to me. So really, for someone as neurotic as I am it might not be a good move afterall.
I'm lucky I know though that I have had friends and family who have helped me through. Who have been there (and sometimes just being there is enough), who have listened and who haven't said "Pull yourself together". That means a lot.

Now, the other thing which February brought was the experience of me having a smear test with a toddler in the room. (This was not a planned occurence, in case you wondered). Simple tip for anyone going for a dreaded smear (which you MUST MUST have because fandangos are precious commodities) is bring an inquisitive toddler with you. You will be so concerned wondering if she will say, do or see something inappropriate that the actual act of getting your hoo-haa out for a relative stranger will be much less daunting. My own version of toddler came out with a cracker. She stayed head end, chatting to me but did ask the doctor what was "up there" as she delved around in my region.
As I had (very badly - slapped wrist to me) put off my smear test for a year I was TERRIFIED waiting for the result (which probably contributed to the 'bad' days) - but thankfully I got an all clear. I have vowed not to put them off ever again - although by the time I'm next due one I won't have a toddler to make it more bearable any more and I don't see anyone offering me a loan of one of theirs... Note to self: Must find a different coping strategy for 2015.


In writing news I FINISHED THE BOOK. I cried (happy tears thankfully) when I finished it, looked at it for a long time and felt as I had been on a mammoth journey. The book, called What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?, is the most out and out love story I've ever written - except that of course it's a couple of love stories, with very many spanners thrown in the works, and broken hearts akimbo and all. It really touched me in a way none of my other books have and made me tap into my own feelings about love and marriage - how tough it can be, how good it can be, how sometimes love isn't enough and (to quote a cheesy song) how sometimes all you need is love. It's set between a magazine office (the same one from Rainy Days and Tuesdays) and a wedding dress shop called The White Room, which I actually really want to own and run.
It is now with my publishers and agent and please God, it will be out before the end of the year.

And finally, my brother made a YouTube ad for me - on the theme If Only You Knew about Claire Allan.



We maybe should have put a disclaimer on the end (You know, the Irish one...not the other one who writes very serious books and appears in The Guardian and the like...).



Enjoy.

January - and time to update the blog



Have you seen the girl who used to write the blog?
Me, second row, second from left singing with
Encore.



Marian has inspired me again. La Keyes has posted an updated newsletter on her website and it made me think of this sad neglected little website - where the blogs have been less than plentiful of late.

 I admit, hands up, I've been taking a kind of head-in-the-sand approach to blogging. Life in the last year has become so insanely, very busy that not everything is getting done.

But reading Marian's update I thought, well, I'll try and at least once a month update what is going in in my life.

First of all - writing. Well, If Only You Knew managed to sell quite well and garner quite a few positive reviews. This made me very happy indeed as it was the toughest writing experience of my life. It did get one spectacularly hilariously bad review in the form of an anonymous letter from a reader who was aghast at my use of "bad words". "Who wants to read about that 'fecking' and virginity losing?" she asked.

I can confirm to you dear reader than no virgins were harmed at all in the course of the book - and the fecking was fairly mild. Swear to God. I'm a good girl really.

That aside, Feels Like Maybe came out in Norway, which was very strange and also wonderful. No anonymous Norwegian letters have arrived with me - yet.
With If Only You Knew out of the way I started work in earnest on my sixth book, which will be known as 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?' and tells the story of Erin and Kitty - two women whose lives intertwine through Kitty's bridal shop 'The White Room'. Erin is planning her wedding to Paddy, who is battling testicular cancer. Kitty is dealing with the unexpected disappearance of her husband Mark. I promise lots of heartache, tears, laughter and a wee bit of fecking (see above) - but it will be done in the best possible taste.

Outside of writing - well my children continue to grow, as children do. The boy will be 8 at the end of this week. The girl will be three in March. This FREAKS ME OUT. But both, bar a recent dose of tonsilitis, are happy and healthy which is something I am very thankful for. The boy is obsessed with football. The girl is obsessed with me - as in totally, limpet like, stuck to me like glue obsessed. Which would be very endearing and lovely if I never had to do anything but sit and play with her. Even toilet trips are accompanied. And we'll not even mention her accompanying me to a certain kind of examination ladies get every three to five years. Let's just say the words "What's up there, mummy?" will stay with me forever.

Writing with two children, especially the limpet, is no easy task - but they do give me some of my best material. And they do give great hugs.

As for myself - I'm still a proverbial wreck. My depression has been back - it's still lingers but I'm taking tablets and taking steps to make myself feel better. I know I'm forever going on about being on diet - and yes, I've started again. And it's working, for now, and with God's help it will keep working and I'll start to feel better physically as well as emotionally. Winter, I find, it always a tough time mood wise. So the glimmer of light I spotted when leaving work on Friday at 5pm was very welcomed indeed.

My other big saviour has been singing, with my choir Encore, each Thursday night. The craic has been fierce and we've managed to sound good. Just before Christmas we played a sell out concert at Derry's Waterside Theatre - which was daunting, exhilerating and wonderful.

We had a recent bus trip to Dublin to see Sister Act and we sang and laughed the whole way there and back like a big pack of eejits - and it was the most fun I'd ever had on a bus. (The show was good too).

2012 has a lot in store. I'm getting a new niece or nephew in July. The boy is making his First Holy Communion in May. 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted' will hit the shops in late August. Who knows what else we'll experience - but please God it will be more good than bad.

Random Conversations with the Boy... the virgin diaries..

The boy and I were singing Christmas songs in the car in preparation for his Nativity play. (He is playing Joseph again... am a very proud mummy indeed).


Anyway, the boy told me he didn't know 'Silent Night' so I launched into a (stunning) rendition ... and reached that line which has no doubt made parents cringe for generations....



"Round yon virgin...."



"What's a virgin mammy?" he asked.

My mind screamed "think of something... think of something... think of something" before I piped up "Someone who is pure and holy".

He nodded, taking on board this information.

"Well in that case *insert name of school friend* is definitely a virgin. He's light a candle at our Mass on Monday and that's a very virgin thing to do. I'm going to tell him he's a virgin first thing...."



Oh feck...

Random Conversations with the Girl

A few years back there was the famous conversation with the boy which warned me about my behaviour in the car. As we drove over a speed bump the then two year old piped up with "That's a f*cksake bump, isn't it mummy?"
Needless to say my language improved.
On Sunday I was in the car with my parents and the girl (now 2 and 9 months) and my father, who was driving, drove off onto what can be a bit of a treacherous junction due to road works. This is a junction we pass every day and where, quite frequently, some sneaky fecker will zoom in front of you and cause a near accident.
I thought I handled said junction quite calmly normally until the girl piped up to her grandad, a little enraged "You forgot to beep the horn, Grandad".

At least it wasn't swearing.

The angel of doom has visited me...

I'm quite a fan of psychics and I tend to love to have my angel cards read. I believe the angels (and yes I do believe in angels very much) can bring you no harm and every reading I have had has been very life affirming and comforting.
Until I had a reading on Friday night, with a local woman who shall remain nameless. I arrived expecting, well, I don't know, some comfort, some reassurance, some promise that I will continue to beat this depression, that my career is going in the right path, that my son - currently bumping through the shitty sevens will not turn into a reprobate. What I got was this... and I'm paraphrasing here - partly for comedy purposes and partly because she talked a whole lot and it would be impossible for me to tell you it all.

Anyway:
Angel lady: *mumble mumble* angels *mumbles about timelines* angels... more about angels.
Me: *confused, wondering if she has started yet*
Angel lady: *turns over card- sucks in breath, turns over another card, sucks in another breath* then  proceeds to tell me that

• My mother is getting ready to "cross over" to the other side. But not to worry because all her loved ones would be there, so sure wasn't that just clas
• Oh my maternal grandmother - yep, she's ready to leap that big divide too - but probably after my mother, or maybe before...
• My paternal grandmother (the one who is actually quite ill) well, she's a goner too - but to put it in perspective (and she said this with a smile) "You'll be surprised who goes first".
• And finally, for her parting shot, a man close to me has cancer. He's not been diagnosed yet. But it's there. So ner, ner de ner. *

I wasn't feeling the angel love to be fair. And while I'm not one to mock anyone's beliefs the fact that she then launched into a whole speech about how Jesus visited her bedroom and, then, my (possibly... we didn't discuss it) heavy periods were directly related to Padre Pio's stigmata and well.... it's fair to say I was disturbed.

But as much as I  could not take this woman seriously, when my mother as rushed to hospital in an ambulance on Sunday, I couldn't help but wonder if scary angel lady knew her stuff.

Thankfully, after surgery, my mother seems to be on the mend but the worry... well, that will take a while to get over.

I'm still convinced scary angel lady was full of toot - and that makes me angry. Because if you don't genuinely have a gift... why speak to people? Why scare people? Why make random statements which lead a person to live in fear?

Random conversations with the boy - Christmas is coming

Joseph: Do you think Santa's list has a relegation zone? You know for when you are good, but know you could try harder?

Have you anything for Hallowe'en?

I’ve been on the hunt for a Hallowe’en costume for the boy this week. His request for this year is to be Harry Potter and he has approached it with great seriousness, googling costumes and presenting me with the results telling me where I could get a cloak, wand and Harry glasses at the best price.


“This one’s only £30,” he said, with the enthusiasm of a child who has no knowledge at all of the actual value of money. I thought of all the lovely, £10 costumes of Dracula and the like hanging on the rails of supermarkets the town over and tried to persuade him down that road. But no, his mind was made up. It was Harry Potter or bust.

I could have been creative, I suppose and sat down to try and make him a costume but my sewing skills are a thing of legend - and not in a good way. He would have ended up looking like “I can’t believe it’s not Harry Potter” with a dozen forgotten about pins ready to jag him if he so much as sat down.

I probably would have spent three times as much in botched attempts and ended up in a crying heap - so I gave in and purchased the elusive costume (at cheaper than £30, admittedly) and had a very happy child on my hands.

He insisted, of course, in stopping off at his granny’s house to show her his impressive new kit. She smiled, told him he looked fab and then later told me things sure had changed in the last few years.

His new costume was a far cry from the costumes we wore as children - when some times going out ‘dressed up’ for the big night was as complicated as pulling up the hood of your duffle coat and putting on a mask, bought for 10p in Wellworths. The whole look was completed not with a fancy loot bucket but with a Wellworths bag which would be filled to bursting with nuts, grapes and apples and the occasional disintegrating Rice Krispie bun.

These days you’d get hung out to dry for slipping a monkey nut into a child’s Hallowe’en lootbag in case the poor critter had an allergy. And you’d get nothing but bad looks for handing out apples and grapes.

Hallowe’en has instead become yet another feast of overindulgence - ladling handfuls of Haribo and squashed Celebrations into loot bags while mammies and daddies the town over have to work extra hard to make sure their children don’t over indulge too much and boke everywhere.

My children will probably never know the joy of separating out the different kinds of nuts and using the back of the poker to smash hazelnuts because someone else had use of the nutcrackers. I’m sure we ate more shell than nuts a lot of the time but we didn’t seem to care.

For the years when we went “all out” and dressed up more than with just a gawdy coloured false face, my mother would go into overdrive, hauling what she could from the hot press, the attic and the back hall to make us a costume. There was many a night we went out as a monster, wrapped in an old curtain, or, if a First Communion had taken place that year you got to don your frock again and dress as a fairy. If you were lucky you got a self made star wand to cart around with you - the star cut out of a Cornflakes box and covered in tinfoil robbed from the kitchen.

We would get together in our gangs - one street in Creggan pitted against the next, and walk round to all our neighbours’ houses asking if they had “any ‘hing fer Hallowe’en?” in our sing songs voices before walking on, peeking into our carrier bags every now again to assess our haul.

We all knew there was one woman on Broadway who gave out the most delicious toffee apples known to mankind, but you had to get to her house early. Rumours would quickly circulate over who was being generous - which few houses had sweets (some of which were left over Quality Street from the previous Christmas).

Similarly rumours would spread like wildfire if there was a whisper of a raid - where a gang from one street would steal your carrier bag and make off with your night’s work without a care in the world. Raids were a serious business - they struck more fear into our hearts than any tale of monsters, ghosts or vampires ever could.

There were no fireworks, no city centre carnivals, no wealth of storytelling and themed events. But it was still magical. If I close my eyes and think about it I can still smell the crisp Autumn air and hear the shouts of my friends that “they’re raiding at the top of Dunaff”.

Yep, there is a wealth of top class entertainment today. The children of Derry have never had it so good, it would seem, and yet I kind of think that back in the day, we had it pretty good ourselves.

Treading through treacle

It's been three weeks since I went back on my magic happy pills. I was warned, and knew from experience, that it can take 6 weeks or more for the pills to start working on a therapeutic level but I did feel a little more "up" the week after taking them - probably a kind of weird depressive's elation at admitting there is a problem.
Last week I struggled a bit - thankfully was able to hold it together and smile during my book promoting duties in Dublin and actually enjoyed bits of the process - but when my mood slipped I found myself staring into the great big abyss of nothingness and self loathing that comes with depression and I didn't like myself or the feelings I was having.
My sleeping has also gone to pot again - waking in the wee small hours and staring at the ceiling while anxiety - founded in nothing really - surges through my veins and the andrenalin wakes me up so much that I know there is no chance of getting back to sleep any time soon.

That's all thoroughly depressing, isn't it?

But I know it will pass - sure don't that tattooed on my neck to prove it? I've been here before and I've come through before. There is no reason why I won't come through again. It's just going to take a little while and I'm just going to have to give myself a bit of time - and cut myself a bit of slack - and maybe eat a little chocolate.

Today is 'If Only You Knew' Day

Out from now, in all good bookstores and on Amazon and from Poolbeg.
Read, enjoy, be nice.

Let's go round again

Well that time of year has come again when, despite my best efforts, I have to put my hands up and admit I need a little help. So I'm back on anti-depressants.
It wasn't an easy decision... well, I say that, in the end it was an easy decision. I had started to feel so low, and so anxious and the scary thoughts were starting to nudge their way back in. But I had resisted it for a while, thinking if I can get through this week, I'll be fine. Or just this month, I'll be grand. Or if I can get this book launch out of the way, things are bound to calm down. But the truth was, I was reaching the stage where I was looking "forward" to the book launch with more fear than excitement. The thought of going to Dublin, speaking to people, being out of my comfort zone was just too much.
I wanted to run away.
And then I got sick - all achey and fluey and I'm pretty sure it was a result of the stress I was putting myself under. So I slept, for about 40 straight hours and still felt anxious and horrible and I knew it was time.
Having been on antidepressants for the lion share of the last 9 years, I had thought I had gotten over the feeling of being somewhat broken or wrong by admitting a need for help. But I'll admit in the last six months, when I wasn't on antidepressants, I had felt a sense of relief or pride to be able to say "nope, not taking them at the moment".
I was a pretty fecking miserable cow though, with an exceptionally short temper and an increased propensity for panic attacks.

I feel I've made the right decision now. Only talking it through with my lovely doctor did I realise just how depressed I have become again - how how I'm feeling is not right. I have realised I have pushed so many people away over the last year because depression has made me feel not worthy. (Not to be said in Wayne's World type voice). I fear some friendships are unrepairable and that is something I will have to come to terms with.

I went to bed last night and my mind slipped back to a passage I had written in Rainy Days and Tuesdays, when Grace writes about how she has pushed people away when all she has really wanted to do is pull them close, and hold onto them and tell them how much she loves them. It is ironic, five years after I wrote that book, I'm feeling kind of the same.

But like Grace, I've got help. I'll get better. Please God, I'll start to enjoy life a bit more. And as for today, I'm going to take the girl to Jo Jingles and revel in her loveliness and then I'm going to sing my heart out with Encore Contemporary Choir and when I get home later, I'll pop my little white tablet and hopefully the darkness will lift a little.

A few weeks ago I had my tarot cards and angel cards read by a very lovely woman. She looked at me and said immediately "You don't need to go into the darkness". No, I don't. And I won't.
She added "When the sun shines in your world, wow, it shines bright!".

And she is right. So I'm letting the sun in a little. And I'm going to enjoy life, because there is so much to enjoy.

Random conversations with the girl

C: Can we go to granny's? My want to see granny.
Me: No, honey, granny is sick today.
C: Ach, why? (standard response to most things these days... complete with Ach first).
Me: She has a wee bug in her tummy.
C: Ach why she have a wee bug in her tummy?
Me: She just does. But she's getting better.
C: Why she have a wee bug? Where did she get a wee bug?"
M: She just did pet.

C wanders off a little confused and comes back later.
"Mammy, why does granny have a wee caterpillar in her tummy?"

Growing up too fast

So, the deed is done. My son was deposited back to school, shoes polished and hair cut into a neat and respectable style. His new, slightly too big, uniform was pressed to perfection and his schoolbag was stocked with new HB pencils, a collection of sharpeners and rubbers and some brand new colouring pencils.


He was excited to go back. He jumped awake at some time around 6.30am and declared, with a punch of his hand in the air, that “Yes! It’s a school day”. I spent the following two hours trying to convince him that we had plenty of time and no, there was no need to leave just yet.

He did hold my hand a little tighter as we walked through the school gates but he had no sooner set sights on his group of friends than I was dropped like a cold snotter and left to walk back through the gates to the car alone.

I’ll admit it. I felt a little emotionl. Actually I felt a lot emotional. Even though this was the fifth time I had left him at the school gates, surviving the emotional upheaval of nursery school and everything after there was still a part of me which realised we had reached another milestone.

He’s in P4 - officially out of the infants section of the school and officially one step closer to being one of the proper big boys. He’s put aside a lot of his childhood things already. His toys, the bits of plastic he couldn’t live without for years, are lying in their drawers replaced by a Nintendo DS and a football in the garden.

His spaceship themed bedroom - which we considered to be his big boy room - has been repainted in red and white, in honour of both his beloved Liverpool and his beloved Derry City.

He rolls his eyes when his baby sister wants to watch CBeebies, changing the channel to Sky Sports News at every opportunity. He no longer needs mammy to read him a bedtime story and wriggles about in an embarrassed fashion when I remind him of all the nights sat on the rocking chair reading ‘Bunny My Honey’ or ‘Guess How Much I Love You?’.

He turns scarlet with embarrassment when I remind him of the songs I sang to him as a young child and when his sister and I launch into a chorus of ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep’ he declares it dumb.

He’s most certainly not my baby boy any more. When he looks at me I see a young man stare back at me. His baby features are all gone. His face is thinner, his features growing more manly day by day.

His gapped tooth smile - a mix of tiny baby teeth and adult teeth which seem too big for his head, smile back at me. There’s not a hope of getting him to wear any clothes which are not football related and when he goes for a haircut he demands wax and wants to style it like a footballers.

I still remember when his hairstyle could only be described as “ frizzy curls” and when his baby face would grin up and me and no matter what I did, or said, or sang I was always the coolest mammy in the world.

Time, I feel, is just passing too fast. So when I dropped him off and school, and skulked back to the car - my hand still warm from where he had held on - I felt myself choke up with emotion and had to fight the urge to ugly cry right there and then amid the hoardes of other parents dropping their wee ones back off for the first day of term.

Of course I know that he will always be my baby - and that is especially true of a Derry son and a Derry mammy. We’ll always have that link - but there are times when I wish I could press the pause button for just a bit. Or even the rewind button to relive those moments I wished away when he was smaller.

I’m tending to take things at a slower pace with his sister. I’m tending to savour the moments more and not crave the milestones. She still, much to the horror of my health visitor and many right thinking yummy mummies has a dummy when she is tired or unwell. She still drinks her bottle of milk at bedtime. The potty training is coming along well, but part of me looks at the nappies with a certain (sick) affection and feels not ready to let go of that particular vestige of parenthood.

I’m already mentally counting down in my head to next September when I’ll hold her hand and walk her through the gates to nursery school. There is a fair chance they will need to sedate me on that day.

A friend very wisely said to me last week that while childbirth is agonising, it’s nothing compared to the pain of letting your children grow up and do their own thing independent of you. It’s a curious feeling - pride at how far they’ve come, overwhelming love, of course, and an almost uncontrollable urge to pull them back to you and hold their hands for ever.

Aged about 2

First day at Primary One, aged 4

Summer 2011, Aged 7 and a half.

Did you miss me?

It's been manic - like never before manic. The rewrites are done - the book is being typeset as we speak. Only one further step - proofreading - stands between me and publication in just over three weeks time.
It is all go.
So I'm sorry if I have not been around - but seriously, I've not even been there for my own children and blogging is not quite as top of the list of priorties as that.

Well, what can I say about the last few months... to sum them up in short phrases...


writing
crying
sleeping
panicking
writing
laughing
potty training
singing
editing
more editing
a bit more editing
celebrating
realising there was more to be done
stopping the celebrating
more editing
working
cleaning
shopping ( a little)
reading (not as much as I would like)
redecorating
eating (have put on lbs in editing weight).
writing
breathing

But I'm back... and ready to launch myself on the world again.
Did you miss me?

My lovely family...

 My niece Abby, my daddy, my sister Emma, my mum, my brother Peter , my crazy son, me and, on top my big sister Lisa

Sometimes this is all that matters. Crazy and all as they are.

Feels Like Maybe, in Norwegian

If Only You Knew

The Blurb! At last! And lo there was great joy across the land. (Or at least in my house).


Cousins Ava Campbell (married, sensible, feeling old before her time) and Hope Scott (single, debt ridden, in love with a man who will never love her back) have nothing in common. But fate is about to throw them together.



When their beloved aunt Betty, the free spirited black sheep of the Scott family, dies in France the girls find themselves flying to the picturesque village of Saint Jeannet, tasked with sorting through her belongings and fulfilling her last wishes.


To guide them on their way, Betty has left them a series of letters detailing her own life, the heartbreak that lead her to move to France and the peace she found there with her beloved Claude


As the women find each letter, Betty's secrets are uncovered one by one with lifechanging results. Can Ava find her self confidence again? Can Hope let go of the love of her life? Can either of them ever be the same again?


If Only You Knew is a heartwarming story of secrets, love, loss, longing and purple shoes

Normal service should resume soon

I'm almost there with yet another edit.
Almost... almost.... almost.

And then, like Arnie, I will be back - until that is I realise the deadline for the next book now looms.

Random conversations with the girl

We're in the car... she's singing having only recently found her voice and enjoying experimenting with sounds and lyrics...

"Baa Baa black sheep... have you any wool? Yes Yes (she leaves out the sir... that's just how she rolls...)
three bags full.
One for the monster
One for the monster dame (I do not understand it either..)
One for the little girl who lives down the lane.