Nearly there...

Book three - I'm so close to finishing I can almost feel it!
I'm getting ready to finish that book, have a wee cry and smash a glass into the fire ala Kathleen Turner in "Romancing the Stone" (except that we cant light a fire due to a collapsing chimney incident and I can't drink at the moment). Pouring a half drunk glass of Diet Coke down the sink doesn't have the same class does it? Even if I am crying into the kitchen roll while I do it.
I promise I'll post more once I have that bloody thing finished - honestly.

So while we're waiting for normal service to resume, here's a book MeMe...

1) Which book do you irrationally cringe away from reading, despite seeing only positive reviews?
The new Cecelia Ahern - sorry Cecelia. I just disliked the last book so much I can't bring myself to try again. i'm assured "PS I Love You" is brilliant though and I might try it one of these days.

2) If you could bring three characters to life for a social event (afternoon tea, a night of clubbing, perhaps a world cruise), who would they be and what would the event be?
Rachel from Rachel's Holiday, Auntie Anna from my next book 'Feels Like Maybe' and Mags from Sharon Owens "Revenge of the Wedding Planner" and we would all have a liquid lunch in a nice city centre bar and laugh til we peed.

3) (Borrowing shamelessly from the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde): you are told you can’t die until you read the most boring novel on the planet. While this immortality is great for a while, eventually you realise it’s past time to die. Which book would you expect to get you a nice grave?
Oooh this is a tough one. (Always mildly in awe of anyone who has written a book) but shamed as I am to admit it, because I've read it and think it is the most overrated book of all time it would have to be "Catcher in the Rye". Oprah recommended it and I bought it thinking Oprah could do no wrong. Turns out she can. It's rubbish and Holden Caulfield needs a good slap.

4) Come on, we’ve all been there. Which book have you pretended, or at least hinted, that you’ve read, when in fact you’ve been nowhere near it?
I tend to be honest about what I've read, or not, but I have a huge "to read" pile building up.

5) You’re interviewing for the post of Official Book Advisor to some VIP (who’s not a big reader). What’s the first book you’d recommend and why?
Well, duh, Rainy Days and Tuesdays. One more reader always helps.

6) A mischievous fairy comes and says that you must choose one book that you will reread once a year for the rest of your life (you can read other books as well). Which book would you pick?
Rachel's Holiday, by Marian Keyes - the only book I've been able to reread over and over.

8) That good fairy is back for one final visit. Now, she’s granting you your dream library! Describe it. Is everything leather bound? Is it full of first edition hardcovers? Pristine trade paperbacks? Perhaps a few favourite authors have inscribed their works? Go ahead-let your imagination run free.
I have had this dream! It's a pale blue room in an old house with huge bay sash windows, the frames painted white. I have floor to ceiling shelves in dark wood along one wall, filled with my favourite reads (and yes, I love Trade Paperbacks, so let's go with that!). On the opposite wall, there is an old fashioned fire place and decorating that wall are framed posters advertising my books.
There is a dark leather seat and footstool - just the one - where I sit and read and a music system is piped in. The room gets the light in the evening and no one else in the whole world is ever allowed in.
*sigh*

Summer, summer where for art thou summer?

It's raining again, but I've developed a bizarre stubborness against it.

I REFUSE to wear a coat. It's very childish and not at all helfpful but damn it, it's July. I reserve the right to leave my jacket in the car even if it does mean I'm walking into the office like a drowned rat.

My hair, which was cut and then straightened beautifully on Saturday has now gone into a poodle head formation not unlike that sported by Gail Platt in Coronation Street.

My feet, in my new silver pumps designed not to send me running for the chiropractor every three seconds, are saturated and squish when I walk.
It's JULY people. JULY. Just a dry day! It doesn't have to be particularly warm. It doesn't have to be hot. But for the love of God people can we get some dry? Just a little?

You know how people have their dirty little secrets...

Mine is that as a teenager I was obsessed.. and I mean obsessed... with Bros. Not as much as Keris was, in fairness but that's only because she lived closer and could take her stalking to a whole new level.
I just admired from a far, and it was the saddest regret of my teenage years that I never saw them in concert.
Now, however, it seems as if my dreams could come true.
I received this email from a friend today..

We've had the return of New Kids On The Block, Take That and Boyzone - and now a Bros comeback could be on the cards.Former lead singer Matt Goss has revealed the three members of the former boyband have been discussing a reunion tour: "Being in a band is like being a politician, you've got to make sure everyone is happy. But Luke, Craig and definitely myself - we're all up for it."Speaking at the premiere of his twin brother Luke's latest film Hellboy II: The Golden Army, Matt explained it's mainly a question of getting everyone's schedules in sync: "If we can make the numbers work and the venues work, then we're all up for it."The group had 11 Top 40 singles and three Top 20 albums in the UK, with songs including I Owe You Nothing, When Will I Be Famous? and Cat Among Pigeons - and Matt reckons it'd be fun to play the songs live again."I had the best time," he revealed. "I think everyone that went to see Bros gigs had the best time and that's the one reason we all agreed it'd be a good laugh if we did it."He added that their army of passionate teenage fans may have grown up now, but they aren't any less crazy."They're still pretty insane," he said. "They weren't too cool for the room, they knew how to have a good time. That's the way I feel."

So Penelope, I see your Neil Diamond obsession and I raise you two bottle tops and a paisley patterned bandana.
I'm practising my husky "oooooaaaaahhhss" as we speak.

Apologies for the lack of posting

You know how sometimes you reach the stage where even though you aren't actually saying anything out loud your brain is going into overdrive all the time so it feels as if you are chatting nine to the dozen?
It's been one of those weeks so even though I've not been blogging as much as usual it feels very much as if I have gabbing non-stop to you all and filling you in on all the useless little details of life chez Allan.
Anyway, we bade (bid? Bidded?) the nursery school a fond farewell on Friday. It was a highly charged moment, saying goodbye to the teachers. His key worker hugged both me and him and then started to cry, which started me to crying all the same.
I'd like to think her tears were of sadness at saying goodbye rather than relief.
I'm now trying to explain to the boy what it means to have eight weeks of summer holidays where he won't have to go to school once. He doesn't get it. He is all set for P1 on Monday - it's going to be a long eight weeks.
I'm now counting down til the start of next week when I go to bonny Scotland for two days to see my gorgeous friend Vicki. I am stupidly excited, but mildly dreading the faff that is Ryanair. I tell you cheap flights are a thing of the past. The boy is going with me, and is also very excited - because Vicki is the owner of a surly cat. The boy likes all animals - surly or not - which is probably why he gets along so well with me.
Anyway, sorry this is boring, and random and all - but as soon as the voices in my head shut up, I'll tell you my potentially very exciting news in glorious technicolour.

Just when I thought life was getting too tough...

I discovered that my local Sainsbury's sell the answers to all my prayers.

While in there today perusing the aisles for suitable gifts for the boy's teachers I happened upon the chocolate aisle.

While I was getting dizzily excited at the big old boxes of Green and Blacks, I found this little beauty staring out at me.

Now I've posted before about how Wednesday afternoon is a bit nuts around my workplace, so this was the perfect thing to bring back.

I'll let you know how long it lasts...

So anyway.... back at the ranch

The damned fireman song is still stuck in my head - on a very annoying loop of NEENAWS. I don't even know all the words. I just make them up and the boy looks at me with a strange - and mildly disappointed - look as if I really should know better.
I went home from work last night after vay vay stressful day (will tell you all about it when I'm done with Therapy and written my bestselling book 'The Journal Years - How to Stay Sane in the Workplace').
You know that old sign you see in dodgy taxi offices and greasy spoon cafes which states "You Don't Have to Be Crazy To Work Here, But It Helps..." - well that's really, really true here.
Anyway - sorry have done Billy Connolly style tangent thang there - I went home from work yesterday to the smell (read that as stench) of sick. The boy clambered on my knee and told me he had a wee bug in his tummy which had climbed up and out of his mouth and he wanted only his "mama" to watch him. The boy does this you see, reverts to baby status when he is ill. He wants only his "mama" and he puts on a pathetic little voice with occasional whimpering and barking. (He refers to himself as the puppy, or pupster - should I be worried?).
I was delighted when he eventually went to bed but was less delighted when two hours last he puked all over his bed - and I mean ALL OVER his bed.
Now, I'm not good with puke. I don't handle it well, but since becoming a mum I've developed a little more of a tolerance. Generally I can manage to clean up the vilest smelling vomit without retching my guts out - last night?...Not so much.
I had to beg the husband to deal with situation while I tended to the child. It was him who had to (don't read on if you are of a sensitive disposition) shake the lumps off the bedsheets and sort the washing machine out. I was grateful beyond words to him - although he has quite rightly developed the hump over it. I may have to ply him with beer and expensive cuts of meat.
So today the pupster said he was okay to go to school, so I took him. There have been no reports of mass vomitings since. Although I do still feel quite queasy at the thought.

So everyone join in... NEENAW, NEENAW, NEENAW, down the pole we go...

Random things stuck in my head

I am a firefighter
I wear a yellow hat
And when I hear the alarm bell ring
I know there's a fire to put out
So I down the pole I slide so fast
And into my engine I go
Driving through the traffic with my siren going so..
NEENAW NEENAW NEENAW, down the pole I go
NEENAW NEENAW NEENAW, up the ladder I go
NEENAW NEENAW NEENAW, spray the water on
Rescue all the people, until the fire's gone.


I may be losing my mind. So if you see me, muttering to myself today, or rocking gently - don't worry. I'm just singing my song.

Slow down, you're moving too fast

I went into the boy's nursery this morning and they were packing up.
We have five days left and yet they were handing out the spare changes of clothes, toothbrushes and library bags and telling us to take them away on home with ourselves.
Do they not know it is emotional enough for us parents? (See how I'm thinking of us and not the kids - who seem most non-bothered by the whole thing).

Fasten your seatbelts blogland, we're in for a bumpy week.

Moving on

On Wednesday of this week I sat through my son’s farewell concert at Nursery School and left feeling not only immensely proud of him but also immensely proud of myself.

I didn’t cry, or gurn, or make a complete eejit of myself and I had been quite seriously concerned that I would. For the last year I have dropped him off each morning trusting the staff will care for him, educate him, treat him with respect and - if I’m honest - love him.

Letting your child take the first faltering steps into any school setting is daunting - especially when you are a control freak like me. From the minute and hour he was born I was able to, more or less, control his environment.

I looked after him the way I wanted him looked after and when I went back to work I made sure there was someone I trusted implicitly to shower him with as much love as I had.So when it came to choosing a school - picking teachers who would start him on his road to big school - I was utterly daunted.

You see, you can’t really interview a teacher. You can’t send them buckets of information on your child and then test them to see how much they remember before you offer them the gig. Yes, you can have a look around the school and talk to a few different parents but all the while a small voice in your head is shouting “but they’ve never looked after my child before”. I sat night after night and thought of all his quirks and wondered how could they ever know just how to soothe him, reassure him and encourage him the way I do.

A very sick and selfish part of me wanted them to fail - wanted him to cling to my legs and tell me that he wanted me and only me because no one looked after him as well as I did. And while I was glad that particular (and very, very small) wish didn’t come true it took a degree of restraint on the day I left him there for the first time - and watched him run through the doors without glancing back - to stop me from running after him and clinging to his legs instead.

The day my child started nursery was the day I realised he doesn’t need me quite so much as I need him.

That stung a bit and it took a leap of faith to leave him in the care of relative strangers. I was in serious danger of coming over all Gollum-like and cradling him to me whispering “my precious” over and over again in a creepy voice.

But he started to thrive there - he loved almost everything about it and would get annoyed at weekends because there was no school. (Yet again another blow to the fragile maternal ego). He would come home and explain his day to me and if I’m honest teach me a few things too.When I dropped him off in the mornings the teachers would talk to me and keep me informed as to how he was getting on.

They would laugh at his little quirks (Joseph has a habit of speaking ever so politely when he doesn’t want to do something eg: “No thanks, I don’t think I’ll bother with that today.”) and constantly ask me if I had any questions or concerns. I had a sense all the time that they did actually love him, and the rest of the 56 children in the school.So fast forward a year and it’s time to say goodbye.

I’ve been stupidly emotional about it, just as I have been about him starting “big school”. I have already, to my shame, cried at his induction meeting and had a mild meltdown buying his school jumper and tie.IndependentThis was all made that little bit more emotional when I met with his nursery teachers to discuss his progress over the year. It dawned on me, as they spoke, that he has learned a myriad of things over the past year and not only the educational basics like how to hold a pencil and how to count to 10.

He has learned how to be a more independent, caring and confident little boy. He is far removed now from the babyish, slightly spoiled, wee boy who walked in the doors of Galliagh Nursery School in September.I feel confident that he will move on and excel in his new school just as much - but parting is not easy, and again I think in many ways it will harder for me than for him. I have an urge to cling to the legs of his teachers and beg them to keep looking after him. I’ve got used to walking in the gates every morning and chatting with the other mummies.

Over the year I’ve learned how every toy in the place has an educational purpose and every activity has been pushing him on.When his teacher told me that letting go is difficult from their side too - that they in many ways like they have been gifted your child for a year - I was a lost cause.

My other half had to mop me out of the school car park and assure me it will all be fine.I never realised before how moving schools could be just as emotional for the parent as for the child. It’s fair to say that for me too it has been a steep learning curve, but I’ll always be grateful to the staff of Galliagh Nursery School for how they cared for that which is most precious to me. And I just hope his new school will do the same.

It's time to bring Ouiser out again

Meet Ouiser. Ouiser is the woman I'm going to be in 30 years. Heck, today I AM Ouiser.

She is that very famous character from Steel Magnolias who said "I'm not crazy, I've just been in a bad mood for the last 60 years" (Or whatever that figure is, can't remember and can't be arsed to check because I'm in a Ouiser mood).

When I'm in one of these moods everything irritates me - and I mean everything. People breathe too loud. They talk rubbish when I just want some quiet. The price of petrol irritates me, as does the fact that the air conditioning is shite in my workplace. Keira fecking Knightly irritates me with all that "I'm not sick, this is my natural frame" bollocks. It is no-one's natural frame to look as if they might actually snap in two at a moment's notice. Eat some fecking Ben and Jerry's love - you can afford it.

It's almost Friday - House is on the telly tonight as is Gray's Anatomy but I'm so bubbling over with mad GRRRRRness I don't care.

I think I might just have to stop off at the off-licence on the way home, and some chocolate and maybe a chippy tea. Feck the diet - Ouiser would.

The saga of the chicken continues...

So last night I finished work at a more Christian hour and decided it would be the night for marinading the damn chicken. I set to work toasting my coriander seeds and crushing them, all the while wondering I couldn't just use damned coriander powder and save myself the trauma of hot, smelly seeds bouncing all over my kitchen.
Marinade made, and chicken soaking nicely, I put the boy to bed and set about preparing the rest of the meal. Himself was much impressed with the smell of it, but looked dubious about the physical appearance.
He was even more dubious when he saw the diet sized portion of rice I was offering him.
My "made for two" portion was smaller than his usual single effort.
After much toiling and using every utensil in the house I sat down to eat my dinner.

It was horrible.

Back to the drawing board.

Do you ever get one of those days?

When you just didn't know what to write about?
My brain is just so all over the place in a completely floopy stylee that no matter how hard I've tried to think of a witty and interesting blog post - it's just not happening.
I think I might be weak from the lack of food (see chicken rissotto experience below). Either that or I just have to admit to myself that my life is actually very boring and nothing much happens on a day to basis.
I could write what last night entailed, but honestly you would shed tears of sheer boredom. More likely though I'm in the end stages of book three and it's just about all my brain can contemplate at the moment - yesterday I was obsessed with linear structure, even though I'm not entirely sure what that means.
But the book is wrapping up and all four characters are dancing around in my head like mad things shouting "my turn, my turn, my turn" while I'm sitting with my hands over my ears shouting "la la la la la, can't hear you" over and over again.
Normal service will resume shortly - I promise.

A healthy eating rant for today...

Yesterday I went back to my GI roots. I've been reading The Amazing Adventures of Diet Girl and have been inspired to start treating my body nicely.
I've been fairly good the last few weeks but now, well, it's serious.
So last night I was armed with all the necessary ingredients to make the Tesco Diets approved Spicy Chicken and Rice. It was 7pm and I was STARVING. (Although not actually starving - just very hungry. Am always telling Joseph he is not "starving" and starving is much, much worse than not having eaten in five hours...)
So weigh out my ingredients, chop my onion, get my cumin and coriander out and a variety of pots and pans.
It's 7.10 now.
Read instructions (or constructions as my niece calls them) - yadda yadda make sauce, yadda yadda marinade chicken in sauce for ONE HOUR!
There was no way my tummy was waiting one hour, plus cooking time for raw chicken, for dinner.
Scrap that.
It's 7.15.
Decide to cook Chicken stuffed with Mozarella - put away Spicy chicken ingredients and start to sort out new ingredients- quickly realise have no fresh basil. The basil that sat on my windowsill has long since withered and died.
Scrap that.
Now have pile of dishes of ingredients which need packed away, cleaned etc. So do dishes.
Start again.
It's 7.25pm.
Realise (Hurrah!) I have all the necessary ingredients to make chicken rissotto in low fat stylee - including fancy Arborio rice. In our house rice usually comes in either white or brown.
Start cooking - gently heat onions, garlic, thyme and then chicken - brown it nicely.
Then start with the stock.
Pouring a small measure (let's call it a spit) at a time into the pan until it is absorbed in the rice.
Am not convinced it is being absorbed at all - believe it is simply evaporating despite pan being on a low heat.
Whole process should (that's *should*) take 15 minutes.
It's 8.10pm.
It's still not ready.
My spicy chicken would have been marinaded by now.
Meanwhile the child is going wild on You Tube watching Ben 10 videos - one of which I discover is named "Ben 10 porn". Have to, between stirring in the spit of stock, encourage him to watch Cbeebies or play with his toys while woefully neglecting our "quality time".
8.20 - it's ready.
Is Arborio rice supposed to be mildly crunchy? Perhaps it is. Am philistine and only know that white and brown is not crunchy. Actually don't care any more. Have started to eye up raw chicken with a fervently hungry glint.
Serve it onto plate... one of the boy's little eeny Thomas the Tank Engine Plates under the misguided notion that a fuller small plate is more psychologically rewarding than a empty bigger plate.
Plate is still empty - there is a small (about half a plate) lump of crunchy, browny, gloop staring back at me.
Eat it anyway.

It's 8.30.

Who said healthy eating was easy?

Back from a short break...

Sorry for not blogging on Friday - I was doing something very exciting. (Not that blogging isn't exciting, ya know... but drinking and having a night off from being a mummy is marginally more exciting).
On Friday I travelled to Belfast to meet with some writer friends. These are the ladies I've been chatting to through the Write On Irish Girls site, Write Words and just on email and we had been promising for a long time together for food and drink.
And indeed there was food and drink (and lots of both).
End result is that on Saturday I was reduced to a snoring heap trying to wake up and not eat my body weight in Kentucky Fried Chicken. (I resisted - hurrah!).
It was deeply refreshing and lovely to get together with girls who chatted about all the same things I did - who's eyes didn't glaze over at the mention of edits and POVs. And while writing took up a lot of our conversation time, we also just had a damn good giggle.
Which was good really because I'm not very giggly today. I'm not all floored with depression either - just feeling mildly emotional as I've just bought the boy's school uniform. Surely he is too young? Much, much too young?

In other news I've written my "About the Author" for Feels Like Maybe... which will be released in two months!

Claire Allan was born and raised in Derry, where she still lives with her husband Neil and their four year old son Joseph. She is a self confessed homebird and spends more time with her parents than is normal for a grown woman.
She has worked as a reporter with the Derry Journal since 1999.
In her (very limited) spare time she loves reading, watching films with happy endings and drinking cold wine with friends.
Claire remains addicted to buying inexpensive handbags and shoes from Tesco and Next. She is actively seeking a 12 step programme to deal with her chocolate addiction.
Feels Like Maybe' is her second novel. You can visit her website at www.claireallan.com

Don't I just sound lovely?

Ranty meme

Shamelessly stolen from Keris - this one is easy (esp when I'm in a grump already) - list your pet peeves... I'm going to enjoy this one!

1) People who do not use their indicators when driving. This especially relates to people driving Volkswagon Passats who seem to think that they own the road and that all other drivers (especially nervous almost 32 year old Corsa drivers) are psychic. If I pull out in front of you because you have NOT indicated that you were coming my way then do not beep your horn at me. YOU MADE THE MISTAKE, BOYO!

2) Now this is a good one - the whole bottlefeeding is poison issue. Stop ranting about ads on TV for follow-on milk. They are not bad and evil and the work of satan. They are advertising baby food. Not everyone wants to or can breastfeed. Fair play to you if can. I sincerely from the bottom of my heart am delighted for you. Breastfeed until your child is 23 for all I care, but shut the feckity feck up about how bottlefeeding is wrong. It's not perfect but it's NOT WRONG. Phew!

3) People who use the phrase "depressed" when they are just feeling a little down. For example "The Apprentice is over, I'm so depressed". No you are not depressed. You are fed up maybe, or a little sad. You are not depressed. Your misuse of the word depression devalues the seriousness of the actual condition and Lord forbid you are ever actually really depressed in your life - because then you would be... well.... depressed!
(I know I'm verging on not making any sense here, but that's what ranting is about).

4) Similarly anyone below a size 14 who complains of being "so fat". It's never just fat, it's "so fat". Get a grip.

5) People who do not say thank you when you hold open a door for them. Now I'm not expecting anyone to bow down before me and shower me with their gratitude - but please just a short "thanks". You don't even have to make eye contact. Just acknowledge that I'm not an employee of any shopping centre/ restaurant/ train station and I'm doing you a favour.

6) People who say "Everyone has a book in them". Like it's the easiest thing in the whole world to write a book. It's not. That's like saying "everyone could win Wimbledon", or "everyone has the cure for cancer" in them. Some people just don't. Accept it and move on.

7) Bank charges.

8) People who say "it could be worse" or "cheer up" or the double whammy "cheer up, it could be worse". You deserve a smack - or several of them. How do you know that it's not already worse?

9) The Daily Mail and the people who comment on the Daily Mail website.

10) Ditto the right wing eejits who comment on the BBC news website and bleat on about Gordon Broon and Rip Off Britain. Shut up and get on with it.

11) Jimmy Carr - go away.

12) Ditto the presenters of T4. You are trying too hard to be funny. You are fooling no one.

Now, that feels better...

Whatever gets you through the day

Thursdays are my busiest day of the week and sometimes when you are up to your eyes in designing pages, writing copy and planning your weekend (which is going to be REALLY good this week... will report later) you have to take a few steps to keep you sane.
For me that is plugging my earphones into my computer and listening to the selection of cheesy songs I have saved onto the system.
When it comes to Thursdays, this is my favourite. Just have to stop myself from singing along tunelessly around the office.

Happy birthday VBF!

*Before I start quick disclaimer - the photo above was taken last year before I lost weight. Yes, I know I'm a bloater in it. Yes, I know it's shocking. Yes, I was the fattest bridesmaid in Derry.. etc.

BUT that aside...

Today is my VBF's birthday. Her name is Vicki and she's Scottish. (Hence my knowledge of certain Glaswegian turns of phrases in RD&T)
Now I "met" Vicki four and some years ago when I was pregnant and she was also pregnant with her third child. (I know, she doesn't look old enough to have one never mind three!). We "met" on an internet forum and quickly clicked. She was very lovely when I was a snottery awful mess after having Joseph and then I was lovely when she was getting used to baby Dylan after only having previous experience of little girls.
We met proper that summer and we try to meet up several times a year. I go to Scotland or she comes to Ireland, or we both go to England.
She is the one person in this world who knows me inside out. She can make me laugh til I want to puke, but will hold my hand when all I want to do is cry. She understands when I just want to have some time to myself and there are no pretences. Even when we have done our Bert and Ernie impressions in twin beds in hotels, I feel comfortable enough that I can just have a wee lie down while she reads or vice versa. That doesn't sound very rock and roll but the fact that I can relax, entirely and without reservation, in her company means so much to me.
She is my cheerleader, my counsellor, my personal comedienne and I feel utterly, utterly bless to have her in my life.
When I have been going through the ringer with depression she has hauled me back out again. It is fair to say she has saved my life.
So Vicki - here's to you - my VBF. I glad fate brought us together. Happy birthday chick.
xxx

Well that was a disaster...

Just back from the school.

Almost too traumatised to speak.

Visit fine.

School grand. Little F was a star and little F's mummy assured me that she is not child prodigy and my child a dunce. My child is fine. Little F just older.

Escaped unscathed.

Left J back at my aunts.

Tantrum commenced.

Hysterical, snottery "mammydon'tgobacktoworkIloveyouandwantogotoworkwithyouandpleasedon'tleaveme" tantrum.

Aunt peeled child off me and I drove away... slightly snottery myself.

I don't know who's more nervous

Well, actually I lie. I'm more nervous. I'm as a nervous as a nervous thing on annual nervous day.
Today at 1.30 I will stroll with my son into his big primary one classroom for the first time and introduce him to the teacher who will guide him through his first year at big school.
He'll be asked to draw a picture and write his name. He's not particularly good at writing his name - his writing is hugely big and the s is always backwards and the e looks a little mental so I'll be mentally weighing up his ability in comparison to the other kids in his class. And I know for a fact that little F from his nursery is going there too and her writing is amazing (seriously, I think she must get extra lessons)...
But of course what I should be doing is reminding myself he is FOUR - and a young four at that. He can read all his letters and numbers. He can read small words, recognise names of all his classmates and count really well. He can even do basic math. He is obsessed with books, and trains and cars. He can identify the make of a car at 50 yards. He is articulate, sensitive, loving, dramatic and hilariously funny. He is a great dancer, a brilliant wee cyclist and loves to sing. He has a remarkable imagination.
And yet here I am, nutty mum, obsessing about a backwards s. It's as if that backwards s symbolises to the entire world that I am a BAD MUM. And of course, I'm a working mum. (Even though F's mummy is also a working mum - we do that working mum's smile of solidarity at the school gates every morning).
So am I afraid of the teacher judging Joseph or the teacher judging me - I think probably the latter

Monday funny

Donna at Barefoot in the Country always posts something funny on a Monday because, let's face it girls... Mondays are shite. (*Edited to remove dodgy apostrophe... sorry! It's a Monday).

Anyway, I got this tagged onto an email from my friend Fionnuala this morning and it did make me snort very loudly.

A recent scientific study found that women find different male faces attractive depending on where they are in their menstrual cycle.
For example, when a woman is ovulating she will prefer a man with rugged, masculine features.
However when she is menstruating, she prefers a man doused in petrol and set on fire, with scissors stuck in his eye and a cricket stump shoved up his backside.

Three random things..

From my house that make me happy....

1: My "Sunshine on my Shoulders" book - based on the John Denver song of the same name. My daddy bought this for me when I was pregnant (well, it was for the baby too) and it has pride of place on the shelf in his room. The song is so simply beautiful, it makes me cry.

2) My sister frame. That's my big sister on the left and me on the right. I think I was about four then and she would have been five. She gave me that frame on my hen weekend seven years ago. We've been through some ups and downs (living together as adults was a BAD idea) but we are best friends now.

3) My "Mummy You're So Beautiful" wall hanging. From the boy (via my sister) and since I've never (not even on my wedding day) considered myself beautiful, I like to remind myself that someone loves me unconditionally.

Anyone want to share?

(I know these are lazy blog posts by the way but my copy editing brain can cope with no more...)

Cliched in the city

Okay- hands up, I'm a walking cliche.
I went to see Sex and the City last night and I loved it. Predictable? Moi? Of course.
But then what is not to love? It's a story of four friends growing up and getting on with life. And there are nice shoes and gorgeous wedding dresses (some rotten wedding dresses too, and some dodgy shoes while we are it - but what the hey?)
I laughed - I cried - I laughed some more - and I cried some more and I felt utterly, utterly empowered as a woman as I walked out because even though there was Big, Harry, Steve and Smith - the primary relationship in all these girls lives was still their friends.
And the friendship made me bawl and I wanted to call up my bestest girl friends and tell them I loved them. I wanted to get on a plane and fly to see my VBF and tell her I loved her and laugh til we nearly pee. (One month til I see her woohooo!).
It was the ultimate feel good movie and today I feel good. So good in fact I might just go and see it again - with my friends.

Wordcount woohooo!

90,000 words of current WIP (called Jumping in Puddles - so JIP if you prefer) are now written.
Actually it's closer to 91,000 if we are being picky and it's all getting very exciting.
I'm sure I've blogged about this book before and what it is about but it has without a doubt been the toughest journey I've taken as a writer. I've loved it, but God it has been a challenge and one which, I hope, I've met with gusto.

Anyway, the WIP that is JIP deals with four lone parents in a small coastal village in Donegal.
They are brought together when the mysterious Bernie sets up a support group for them and they meet each Tuesday night in the musty community centre for tea, letter writing and chocolate biscuits.
Our parents are

1) Niamh - a widowed yummy mummy of two twins. She lived the picture perfect life - big house, flash car, designer shoes until her husband crashed his car into a ditch and died. Stupid bastard. As she tries to piece her life back together she uncovers a secret that will change her forever.

2) Ruth is a definitely not yummy mummy of three. She married young and remained devoted to her husband - despite his violent tendencies and general arse-wipeness- until he ran off with Laura Cunningham.

3) Liam Cunningham is the husband of the aforementioned Laura Cunningham and is utterly devastated that the love of his life has run off leaving him heartbroken and with sole care of their 10 year old daughter Poppy. He's determined to do everything he can to get her back - but is this a case of rose tinted glasses?

4) Ciara is a teenage mum who refuses to tell anyone in the village who the father of her baby is. Will she find the strength to speak up, clear her name and take the shine off the village's golden boy (and the smirk off her boss' face!).

So yes, book three - quite the challenge (and here is the writer speak bit) four POVs, all third person (not done that before) including a man and a teenager - trying to make sure all the strands work together while trying to do justice to the issues of grief and domestic violence and still trying to be funny.

Random Conversations from a Newspaper Office

So we're sitting doing our work and it's all gone a bit Wednesday afternoon-ish. (We go to press on a Thursday - Wednesday afternoon is when things start to get interesting... cue hysteria, laughter and slightly manic banter).
From out of of nowhere we hear a blood curdling scream.
Of course, being cutting edge journalists we should investigate but a colleague just pipes up

"Where on earth is that coming from?"
to which my other colleague replies...

"So that's real? I thought that was just the voice inside my head".

Genius.

My desk

I'm such a copy cat, I've stolen this from Donna and Penelope and I'm sorry but you don't get the full impact of the desk as I was taking this in my break at work and didn't want people to think I was a total loon - but I feel I have captured the essence of me.
I would show you my home desk except that himself has hijacked it entirely and most of my writing is now done on my laptop, on the sofa in my living room, propped up by cushions.

Anyway behold, the hub of my work.
You see before you, from left to right, my purse. I have no idea why it is sat on my desk except that I was at the shop earlier and was probably too lazy to put it back in my bag. It is sat on the top of an envelope which contained a press release which as you can see has been filed under "sit there for a week" as I'm in a lazy mode.
Behind that is my phone. I love my phone. It makes me feel very professional and important. Yes, I am that sad.
Now beside the phone is the obligatory "I love my mummy" photo frame - a necessary accessory for all working mothers to either heap on the guilt or remind us why we are working depending on our mood. I like to think of the episode of the Simpsons where Homer makes a little shrine in Maggie in his work to remind himself he is doing it for her.
In front of the obligatory frame is my Willow Tree woman - who represents courage. My colleage Erin bought her to me when I got my book deal. It means an awful lot.
And then we have the Diet Coke can. Yes, I'm addicted. I'm trying to cut down for caffeine over load reasons - honestly I am.
And then we have my work computer.. complete with model butterfly made by my gorgeous niece and two stones to represent the two stone I've lost (although I've put some of that back on - but hush... say nothing).
What you can't see is a pile of newspapers, a mug with my name on, a Matalan press pack, a copy holder crammed with press releases, books, sellotape and a spork and a signed note from an author friend. Nor can you see my sunglasses folded neatly beside my Primrose doll, some Clarins handcream (free sample!) and some of that Forehead stuff for tension headaches.

I'm having a day off...

Generally I'm a very chatty person. I love email, gabbing on the phone, sending texts, blogging whatever.
But occasionally, about once a month if truth be told, I retreat into myself and say nothing. I don't answer emails the way I should, I don't reply to texts and if you get me to answer the phone you are onto something.
And it's not that I don't care/ have something better to do / am an ignorant baggage - it's just that once a month I lose my belief in my ability to say anything at all worthwhile.
So I shut up.
Today I'm shutting up.

*Steam from ears*

Okay, in the words of Primrose from Fifi and the Flowertots, "I'm not having a very good day" (I have that wee doll on my desk in work, by the way... to remind me to laugh at myself when I'm being overly dramatic... which I am a lot).

Anyway..Took a sickie from work as I literally am wheezing like a fecker and went to the docs convinced I had a chest infection/ TB/ cancer and was told I most probably have hay fever!!! HAY FEVER for feck sake! I'm almost 32!

Who gets hay fever for the first time at 32?
Anyway I've enough pills and sprays to make me rattle and I'm home feeling like a gom for taking a day off sick with hay fever, but in fairness walk any further than the length of myself and I'm huffing like an old woman in an iron lung.

To top it off have discovered the boy wants to be an ancient egyptian and has created hieroglyphic drawings all up my (freshly painted) stair walls! They have great artistic merit, but holy Jesus! I can' t be coping.

And THEN we have the chimney sweep come out because oil is getting so damned dear who can afford it, and he tells us the fecking chimney is blocked with bricks and brings two of the feckers down for us to look at.

Hubby didn't think to ask does that now make our chimney structurally unsound (we paid to have the damn thing rebuilt 5 years ago) and the chimney sweep boy seems to think the house would require major surgery to fix.

Have just eaten three medicinal caramel squares to cope with it all (and ranted to the lovely Sharon Owens who didn't tell me I was cracked and should feck off).

And even though I'm now sprayed, medicined and anti-histamined up to my forehead I'm still wheezing and sneezing because of all the crap cleaned out of the chimney. (Clean job these days... my arse!)

Tag, I'm it!

I've been tagged by the lovely Karen at Fresh as a Daisy to fill in this author me me. (Have you seen the logo on her site - gorgeous. I'm not a bit creative so vay jealous!).

1. Who is your all-time favourite author, and why?
Anyone who reads this blog regularly will already know the answer. Marian Keyes is my favourite author. Her books inspired me to start writing again and made me see chick lit in a whole new light. However I do also have some emerging favourites and having actually written the guts of three books myself I now have admiration for ANYONE who puts pen to paper.


2. Who was your first favourite author, and why? Do you still consider him or her among your favourites?
My answer is basically the same as Karens. When we were growing up we were raised on a diet of Roald Dahl. The first book I bought with my very own money was 'Fantastic Mr Fox'. Roald Dahl could fire the imagination of children like no one else - and he was always able to bring you to the edge of disgust and then haul you right back. My boy is four now and it won't be long til we start reading Roald Dahl as a bedtime story.


3. Who’s the most recent addition to your list of favourite authors, and why?
There are a few. I really can't get enough of Melissa Hill at the moment and having read two of her books and finding "Revenge of the Wedding Planner" pant wettingly funny I have to say Sharon Owens.

4. If someone asked you who your favourite authors were right now, which authors would first pop out of your mouth? Are there any you’d add on a moment of further reflection?
Pretty similar to the above, Melissa Hill, Sharon Owens. Also Josie Lloyd and Emlyn Hughes - esp the "Come Together" trilogy. Have also recently read Carole Matthews 'Chocolate Lover" books and thoroughly enjoyed them. Oh and Kate Long's "Queen Mum" is amazing.

5. Tagged
Rules: Link to the person that tagged you, post the rules somewhere in your meme, answer the Author questions, tag some people in your post, let the tagees know they’ve been chosen by leaving a comment on their blog, let the tagger know your entry is posted.
Here are my tagees…

Keris at Keris Stainton
Fionnuala at Manic Muse
Penelope at It's Me Penelope

*splutter*

It's Friday so it's cold day.
*cough*
The Seven Dwarves of the Apocalypse are out in full - Sneezy, Wheezy, Queasy, Coughy, Achey, Whiney and Bleurgh.
*Sneeze*
Of course being a woman I'll batter on. I'm at work and in 15 minutes (yes, it's half day Friday!) I'll go and pick the boy up from Nursery and set about my Friday tasks and despite looking and feeling like I've had a fight with a ten tonne truck and lost I'll even go swimming with the boy this afternoon.
*cough, splutter*
Because that is what mammies do. We don't lie down under our illnesses. Yes, we might complain about them - blog about them even - but we get on with it. At least until the children go to bed and then we collapse in a sobbing heap and phone our own mammies for moral support.
*aaaaacchhoooooo*
I wonder what the medicinal properties of a good glass of Sauvignon Blanc are?

The Battle of the Boybands

There was something mildly disturbing about the picture of Boyzone on the front of ‘The Mirror’ this week. The one-time heart- throbs - who nowadays wouldn’t look out of place on a building site, with their jeans sagging and a chipped mug of tea in their hands - have recreated the famous final scene from ‘The Full Monty’ in preparation for their reunion tour.
But despite their toned abs and plethora of tough-man tattoos they just look a little, well, desperate. I’m not a big fan of these boy band reunion tours - especially when you can’t help but feel they are only in it for the money and they don’t actually like each other anymore.
This is like the Spice Girls all over again - only without the high end production values and glitzy costumes. Now I wasn’t opposed to Boyzone back in the day. I wouldn’t have classed myself as a fan - but they didn’t really offend me.
Some of their songs were quite good, I suppose. “No Matter What” was a decent enough tune but if I’m honest I had to use the powers of Google to remember their other hits - especially the ones that weren’t covers. But they were never really a serious musical ensemble.
I just saw them as a bit of craic - the Tesco Value version of Take That.
Ronan Keating has done well for himself but his voice always sounds a little strained to me. Sad as it may be to admit I much prefer the vocal tunings of Westlife. At least they look the part as well. There’s not a member of the Westlife team who looks like they would be better suited to pouring tarmac on a country road.
Of course there are hundreds of one time Boyzone fans who have crowded to the Odyssey to see them back on stage - even if they are older, wrinklier and smacking just that little bit more of needing the money. So while I sit here being rather freaked out by Ronan Keating’s six pack, which has the look of the airbrush about it, I suppose I shouldn’t judge. Because the sad truth is if the boy band of my youth were to reform and come to the Odyssey, I’d be there quicker than you could Bros jump off a high platform and shout “ooooarrrrh” in a ‘Drop the Boy’ style.
In my formative years it was the Goss brothers - most notably Matt - who was the object of my affection. I was obsessed in a 13 year old stalkery kind of style. I wrote letter after letter to ‘Going Live’ declaring my affection and sent Valentine’s Cards to the Bros fan club.
I had floor to ceiling poster coverage of the boys and had every single, tape and video on the market. Not to mention I loved to dress in my faded ripped jeans, white t-shirt and red and white bandana. Yes, I was a geek. But if you are going to fall in love for the first time, there is no safer way to do it than to fall for the singer in a band. You know all the time that you are never really going to marry them and live happily ever after. Sure you might daydream that they will pick you out of the crowd at one of their concerts and - being so overwhelmed by your dedication to them - decide there and then they want you for their wife; but you know it won’t ever really happen.
Nonetheless you get to fall for them - to play out your love affair - safe that you will never truly get hurt. Until the band breaks up, that is. And then you feel as if you might actually combust with pain. I remember the day Bros broke up very clearly - just as I remember how I cried hysterically (and rather over-dramatically) all over my bed.
I pleaded with my dad to take me see my best friend who was equally as bereft. I felt almost as if we should have been holding some kind of wake. I was all set for making the egg and onion sarnies and brewing an urn of tea. Now all that happened a very, very long time ago. And I know from using the power of Google again that both the brothers’ Goss are no longer in their prime. Matt has gone a bit bald - and more than a little pretentious - while Luke now prefers to spend his time acting.
But still I know if there was a chance to relive the heydey of my teenage years screaming like a good ‘un and singing cheesy 80s pop at the top of my lungs I would do it in a heartbeat. You simply can’t beat a good dose of nostalgia.
However I’d like to think that if the Bros boys reformed they would do it with a little dignity. There’s no need to be stripping off and flashing their pecs. Just sing the songs and bring us back to those more innocent days. There’s nothing innocent about standing greased up like a turkey at Christmas with nothing more than a hat covering your lad.
And surely what it is all about the music - remembering how you danced at the schoool disco to “I Owe You Nothing” or insisted on singing the Bros lyrics to “Silent Night” when everyone else was singing the traditional words. So Boyzone take note - sometimes less is more - except when it comes to clothes.

Remember, remember the 29th of May

This day, five years ago, I peed on a stick and found out I was pregnant with the boy.
This day, 11 years ago, I finished my final exam at uni got on a bus back to Derry and went on my first date with the husband.

Today always makes me smile.

Random Conversations with the boy, Part 12

The school photographer is coming today so the children were asked to "dress smart".

J: I want to wear my Thomas train driver outfit today.

M: Why sweetie?

J: We have to dress smart. I want to wear a jacket.

M: This wee outfit is lovely too. It's really cool.

J: But is it smart enough for the botocleooor to take my picture?

M: Oh yes sweetie, the botocleoor will think you are a very handsome boy.

Five minutes later -unrelated but worth sharing - "Mummy you look very beautiful in your clothes today".

ooooh... OCD break through!

Housework done last night
1) Dishes washed.
2) Whites wash loaded into the machine.
3) Floors brushed.

Housework not done last night
1) Bathroom cleaned - and it needs it!
2) Kitchen windows washed - and they so need it too.
3) Sorting of clothes into work/ casual/ too big/ too small piles as promised.
4) Random decluttering of things which I've been doing for the last two weeks.

Word written: 600!
Of which I am happy with about 400.

My word count for Jumping in Puddles is now at just short of 88,000 words and it's all kicking off.

Things I'm not going to do anymore...

1: Beat myself up for not sticking to my GI diet after hitting the two stone off mark.
2: Drink quite so much Diet Coke - it is melting my brain.
3: "Forget" to take my Vitamin B supplements and wondering why my mood is swinging like a pendulum.
4: Decide I want a chippy tea when there is perfectly nice/ healthy/ nutritious food in the house. (Also related to GI diet issue).
5: Complain so much about my weight.

Things I AM going to do
1:Be careful with my food again.
2:Read 'The Amazing Adventures of Diet Girl' to inspire me.
3:Drink more water/ cranberry juice
4: Don't give in to the caffeine cravings just because I have a headache.

How much is that doggy in the window...

My sisters went to the farm yesterday with the boy and came back with this little fur ball... (They came back with the boy too - I hasten to add. It wasn't a swap).
He's a ten week old Jack Russell who as yet has no name.
I think I might be in love.

Broken magic...

... I'm broken. I can't write any more.
It's not so much writer's block as writer's meltdown.
I did manage 300 painfully drawn out words last night but I wasn't feeling the flow...
*sigh*

Happy anniversary - I've a slight twitch in my eye

So anyway, this day 7 years ago I was a blushing bride (and three stone lighter... let's not sweat the small stuff).
Last night me and the husband went out for our dinner to celebrate and had a nice night together. When we came home I asked him had he noticed all the effort me and my mock OCD had gone to gut the house.
Seriously I've deep cleaned everything - decluttered and kept on top of little chores like bringing the washed towels up to the hot press (airing cupboard for you non N. Irish wans) etc instead of piling them in a washing basket in the kitchen til they almost reach the ceiling.

Husband said: "Not really".

As I said, twitch in my eye.
The seven year twitch.

Well, another OCD day here

I know, I should probably clean more than I do anyway so some of you will be thinking "what the heck is she on?" but still - it's like I'm nesting without being pregnant. (Unless it's one of those freaky still get your periods, don't put on weight, don't know anything about it until you think you need a big poo and deliver a baby into the toilet type of pregnancies...)
I threw out bags and I mean BAGS of stuff yesterday which I hadn't looked at in months. I was either intending to look at it forever or charity shop it or whatever but realised I just wanted it out of my house and on it went.
And then I cleaned - cupboards and everything! - and then hit the bathroom throwing out half used bubble baths and soaks and things that are probably well over their 12 month use by date/
I feel mildy purified but my hands smell of bleach.

It has also dawned on me though that all this could be creative avoidance. I'm coming to the end of book three and I always get a little nutso coming to the end of a book. It's somewhere between wanting never to end it and being dying to finish the fecker off. Result is I usually have a week or two of brain freeze where I'm convinced I would be better off to bin the whole lot and start again.

Words written in the last two days = 0. Upside - I don't have to worry about the quality.

Parenting, working and so-called choices

Sometimes I do feel as if I’m repeating myself, but this past week the old issue of working mums versus Stay At Home Mums (SAHMs, if you are down with internet lingo) has reared it’s head again.
Apparantly now fewer mums than ever before in history are staying at home to raise their children. Less than one in eight - a major national newspaper tells us - are in the SAHM camp.
The rest of us are out doing the 9-5, or the 9 -1, or the 2-4 or whatever. That means of course we have a generation of latch key children growing up who are being raised by their teachers, their Wiis and a hodge podge of child care professionals. These children, also, obviously (and believe my my tongue is so firmly lodged in my cheek right now I look like I’m chewing a golf ball) are growing up feeling unloved, neglected and without even have the very skills to get them through a day at nursery school. (Five year olds still in nappies? Blame the mums (not the dads mind...) for not ‘taking the time’ to toilet train their little darlings. Child unable to use a fork and knife - mummy’s fault for being in work earning money to buy the knife and fork in the first place).
As you can probably tell my cage has been well and truly rattled on this one - and there are two reasons why this old, played out, anti-working mummy claptrap annoys me so much.
The first is that there are very few mothers out there with a choice as to whether or not they work. In reality to be a SAHM these days you either have to be on benefits (not ideal), or marry (or live with) an extremely wealthy partner (not all that likely).
It is no longer the case that mummy goes out to work for some extra pocket money, to pay for the family holiday or treats for the kids. These days with the whole credit crunch/ rising costs of everything from eggs to oil means that mums work to meet the basic bills.
And yes, we are are crippled with guilt for putting bread on the table and a roof over our wains’ heads.
But unless the government starts to value a woman’s role as a mother (or a man’s role as a father, come to think of it) and start pouring money into paying mothers to raise their own children things aren’t going to change. It seems all the government wants to do is pour money into subsidised childcare and then commission reports on how we are damaging our children by sending them into childcare in the first instance. The logic baffles me.
The icing on the cake however is that it seems that things are going to get worse rather than get better. There are plans, in the not too distant future, to cut benefits for parents with children at school to encourage them back into the workforce. Whatever way you look at it, the government may want a 1950s ideal of mammies raising their children and instilling in them 101 different virtues and values but they have yet to put their money where their mouths are.
The second reason all this annoys the bejaysus out of me is that is is simply not true. Us working mothers are not slacking on our parenting skills. A working mother will put her own needs to the very bottom of the list to make sure that her child has all the attention, love and support he or she will need.
We are the ones who do housework into the middle of the night so that we get to spend our few precious evening hours with our children doing “quality time” activities.
We’ve taken annual leave to do the potty training week. We’ve dashed out in our lunch break to see a school play, or give reassurance to a fretful child. We use our annual holidays to care for sick children, and when the weekend’s arrive we cram in as much as possible even if we are knackered from a week’s work.
If anything the modern working mother tries doubly hard at everything so that no-one can cast apersions on her parenting skills because she isn’t there all the time.
Now to put all this in perspective. Let’s look at the figures again. Seven out of every eight mothers now works. The vast majority of us are out there earning a crust - and yet we are still made to feel as if we are in some evil, selfish little minority.
It was said to me recently that no-one can make you feel guilty but yourself. If I get het up over the issue of working mothers being painted as evil creatures it is, apparantly, because somewhere in my subconscious I must believe I am doing the wrong thing.
What utter poppycock. (I would use a stronger word, but am very aware this is a family newspaper and want to retain my job even if it means spending less time with the boy).
What person out there, being barraged by reams and reams of information about how their choices are potentially damaging the one person in the world most utterly precious to them, could not feel weighed down by a certain portion of guilt? Especially if your “choice” isn’t really a choice in the first place.
That’s not even to mention there are many, many women out there who enjoy work - who know they can balance parenthood with holding down a career. Yes, it might be tiring, and you might wish for an extra week off somewhere, but it is not impossible to combine the two.
What this all comes down too, as with so many of the great debates of the moment, is respecting each other’s choices and putting in place mechanisms so that we all do genuinely have the chance to make the best choice for us and our families.
And it would be worth remembering - all you anti-working parent pundits out there - the old adage that any decent parent will have taught you - if can’t say anything nice, say nothing at all.

And the answers are....

Well done to Fionnuala, Katie and Karen for your answers.
The full results are as follows...

1: She's a five foot ten, with catsuit and bambi eyes.
Westlife - When You're Looking Like That - guilty pleasure.

2: Every now and then I get a little bit helpless and I'm lying like a child in your arms
Bonnie Tyler - Total Eclipse of the Heart - although I'm partial to the Westlife version. When Shane sings the line above I get a warm feeling in my special place.

3: Life is old there, older than the trees. Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze
John Denver- Country Roads - theme music of my childhood.

4: Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin strong,You dont wanna save me, sad is my song.
Stevie Wonder- Superstition - theme music of my university years.

5: I don't wanna hurt anymore. Stay in my arms if you dare. Or must I imagine you there.
Whitney Houston - I have Nothing - best sung drunk when no one else in the house.


6: Tomorrow we can drive around this town, And let the cops chase us around. The past is gone but something might be found to take its place...
Gin Blossoms - Hey Jealousy - fabulous, fabulous song which reminds me of happy early twenties. (And yes, very obscure, sorry.)

7: My friend assures me it's all or nothing. I am not worried- I am not overly concerned
Counting Crows - Anna Begins - theme music of bus journeys from home to uni - reminds of VBSF (very best school friend) Amanda.

8: I ain't no psychiatrist. I ain't no doctor with degrees. But it don't take too much high I.Q. to see what you're doin' to me.
Aretha Franklin - Think - sing it sister!

9: You've been the only thing that's right, in all I've done.
Snow Patrol or Leona Lewis - Run. Makes me cry!

10: I remember that time that you told me, you said, love is touching souls. Surely you touched mine. Cause part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.
Joni Mitchell or Brian Kennedy, A Case of You - my song to the boy when he was little.

Sing... sing a song!

Busy day today so I'm doing a shameless steal from Fionnuala, who has challenged her Blog readers to identify 10 songs which she loves to sing along too.
I'm going to offer you the same challenge - please no comments on my pish poor taste in music. I make no apologies for it at all.

1: She's a five foot ten, with catsuit and bambi eyes.

2: Every now and then I get a little bit helpless and I'm lying like a child in your arms

3: Life is old there, older than the trees. Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze

4: Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin strong,You dont wanna save me, sad is my song.

5: I don't wanna hurt anymore. Stay in my arms if you dare. Or must I imagine you there.

6: Tomorrow we can drive around this town, And let the cops chase us around. The past is gone but something might be found to take its place...

7: My friend assures me it's all or nothing. I am not worried- I am not overly concerned

8: I ain't no psychiatrist. I ain't no doctor with degrees. But it don't take too much high I.Q. to see what you're doin' to me.

9: You've been the only thing that's right, in all I've done.

10: I remember that time that you told me, you said, love is touching souls. Surely you touched mine. Cause part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.

Random Conversations from a Newspaper office

Last week the paper I work ran this story about an alleged UFO sighting on the outskirts of the city.
It garnered us our highest ever web traffic and started debate here and there about whether or not it was genuine.
Now whether or not you believe in UFOs is a matter for another day, but today while we were discussing the case one of my colleagues piped up.

"Well I believed him because I've been watching The X-Files for years."

Oh well, that explains it then.

Random Conversations with the Boy, Part 10

Picture the scene - driving home today - got out of work early (time off for good behaviour). Have picked the boy up and we are making our home past a row of shops. Figure as I'm out of work early might as well cook proper, nutritious dinner instead of potato "wobbles", fishy fingers and peas.
And here it goes...

M: Joseph, what would you like for dinner? Would you like potatoes and vegetables and gravy?
J: I don't like vegetables.
M: Yes you do, you like broccoli and carrots.
J: Yes, I do. I like those, but I don't like vegetables.
M: Mmmm, will be stop at the butchers and get something nice for dinner?
J: S'not the butchers mummy. It's the bitchers.
M: (Thinking I'd misheard) - The what Joseph? The BUTCHers?
J: No mummy. It's not the butchers. It's the BITCHers.
M: That's a whole different kind of a shop, Joseph.

A lucky mummy

I have, ashamedly, been avoiding a lot of the news coverage of the earthquake in China but last night I caught footage on ITV news of the quake and immediate aftermath in Beichuan.
Among all the footage there was a segment where children, trapped in a collapsed school, were calling for help - calling for their mothers.
The children were so high up that rescuers could not easily get to them and parents were arriving at the school hoping their children would still be alive.
For every child the reporter saw alive, he said, there were three dead inside.

When I left my boy off at nursery school this morning and looked at all his little friends that statistic played through my mind again. For every one alive, three are dead.
And there are children calling out to their mothers and their mothers are unable to reach them.

It's worth thinking about.

Surely I'm not the only person who cried watching this?

I just think Niamh has that certain something..

I've got the key...

I blogged last week how a very lovely writer friend sent me a thoughtful gift last week. Now I thought it was about time I shared that that gift was something very similar (but prettier) than the beautiful key charm pictured here.
My lovely new friend sent me the necklace as a reminder that I have the key to my success in my own possession and to wish me every success with my career as it progresses.
Given than I'm trying to be very zen about things - and failing - and given that for the last week I've had a complete crisis of confidence over the third book the gift was not only extremely appreciated (who says no to bling?) but also perfectly timed.
I've been wearing my lucky charm since and reminding myself that it is in my power to achieve what I want. Yes, wearing a necklace isnt going to start a bidding war on my latest MS but it does remind me that what is most important is being true to me, as a writer, and producing work I can be exceptionally proud of.
Wrote 1000 words at the weekend. No chocolate doodahs, but the words were flowing onto the page almost effortlessly and I found myself caught up in a different world where the characters were back to being people I knew so very well.
Perhaps all I needed all along was to remember that success lies within and if I keep believing in myself good things will happen.
So once again, thank you dear writer friend, you have made a big impact!

Random conversations with the boy, part 9

J: Mummy, mummy. Abby took the water off me and I couldn't make sense!
Me: What? Make sense? How do you make sense?
J: (With a roll of the eyes as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.) You get a bottle of water and you put a minty sweet in and that is how you make sense."
M: Right, very good.
J: But Abby drank the water and now I make no sense at all.

You said it, boyo!

Sure as eggs is eggs...

Come about 11am on a Friday morning, when there is a mere two hours to a weekend of freedom, I will start to feel my throat getting scratchy and my head getting sore and a weekend of feeling "meh" coming.
Am feeling a bit foot stampy in a "S'not fair" kind of a way.
I blame the air conditioning and the fact I've obviously not been cleaning my house thoroughly enough to rid it of dodgy wee bugs and dustmites and that kind thing.
Fear I may become woman obsessed with bleach.

In other news received very gorgeous and most thoughtful gift from writer friend (who shall remain anonymous). I know she pops in here occasionally so thank you, you super star!

ETA: Wrote 200 words. House was on. Was lost in contemplating embrace with House Vs Wilson or indeed House/ Wilson combo fantasy so mind was not on writing. The 200 words did reference sex though... more on a chocolate doodah theme.

THE COVER!

After the lovely girls at Trashionista had the exclusive, I can now, here, reveal the cover for Feels Like Maybe.
It will be tweaked a little - a cover quote perhaps or the word "Bestselling".. but here it is in all it's pink glory.

Starting to worry...

Further to yesterday's post...
Last night I cleaned my front door. My FRONT DOOR. Like Nora Batty with my bucket of soapy water and cleaning cloth, I polished the darn thing til it gleamed.
At 8pm - after work. And then, I tidied my garden, cleaning the garden furniture and when that was done I had the polish out and cleaned the living room and mopped all the floors.

It won't end well, I tell you.

(ETA: Wrote 300 words. Some of them good. Even a funny line about a chocolate doodah)

Getting a bit OCD

*not intended to offend people who actually do have OCD - realise it is not laughing matter. Still must be nice to have a clean house...

I'm starting to get a bit nutty about things. Last night I tidied my laptop - purging it of old photo files and dodgy half written stories and drafts of drafts of other books. And then I hit my gmail - labelling, filing and and archiving.
Tonight I might even tackle my taxes (eek - me no like taxes. Taxes v.v.v. bad even though VBF's husband is accountant. They still make me come out in cold sweat and become convinced I'm going to be done for fraud because I've lost a receipt for a sheaf of paper or something. (Am very panicky these days... not good quality... coupled with OCD-like tendencies have become a barrel of laughs to live with... not).

Also have found that since reading Marian Keyes' 'This Charming Man' have inability to write emails/ blog posts etc without slipping into diary style conversation. V. annoying. Fodder once again for those who say am Marian Keyes copy cat. Am not Marian Keyes copy-cat. Am just me... in panicky/ OCD phase.

Zen phase not doing very well. Still taking the B-Vitamins though. Dirty big horse pills of things which smell horrible and stick in your throat. Mood not swinging as much though - pretty much settled on "pants".

Still, found I wrote 1000 words yesterday. This was good and made me smile. And there are small words in there too. Not all are spelled correckly (Ha! see what I did there! Smiling at own weak use of humour), but there are 1000 of them all the same.

Now if only I could get OCD re: writing. Would be churning book out a week in Barbara Cartland fashion and would get minion to type it up for me while I lay on my hoop eating Galaxy chocolate and growing to size of a house. Wouldn't care though - would have pink make up and fluffy slippers and minion would be hunky Clooney-alike.

*sigh* A girl can dream.

How time flies

I was surfing about You Tube tonight looking at a video a colleague of mine took of his son singing 'How Much is that Doggie in the Window' when I found a video I uploaded some time ago of the boy and his cousin singing "I can Sing a Rainbow". Now I know she learned that song at nursery so it was two summer's ago, and he would have been only two.
But I was totally freaked by how babyish he looks compared to now. And I wanted to turn back time and cuddle his wee babyness to me for just a little and remind myself of how gorgeous he was then. (And I love how he sings orange and "purpur" and baloooooo)

That love/ hate thing

I'm reaching the end of writing my third book - a lovely book called 'Jumping in Puddles' set in a fictional Donegal village where four lone parents come together to get their lives back on track.
Except at the moment I don't think it is lovely. I think it is a pain in the bum. Writing is not all about sitting down at the keyboard and seeing the words flow forth faster than your fingers can keep up. Sometimes it is about writing the same sentence 15 times and still not getting it right. Some times it is about trying to inject humour but finding it all smacks of trying too hard. Some times you feel as if you know your characters as well as if they lived in your house and ate your biscuits and other times you struggle to relate.
Now I could just batter the rest of this book out - one word after the other - but unless it is honest, and funny and as good as it can be, I'm not interested.
So while I think it is probably the best book I've written, it has also been the toughest writing challenge to date.
Still, 28,000 words to go...(x 15 for the rewrites). Shouldn't take too long??

Laughter is the best medicine

I’m on a new mission this week to be very zen about things.
I’m trying, as the multitude of self help books on my shelves tell me to not sweat the small stuff, feel the fear and do it anyway and get the life I want, and want the life I have... or something.
After a week in the sun (which was deliciously relaxing) I came home determined to be an overall much calmer person.
If my computer crashes in work - which it does, a lot - I’ve vowed not to swear at the top of my lungs like a fishwife. If a bill lands in the door that I’ve not been expecting, I’ve vowed to take a deep breath and tell myself it will all be okay before going into an immediate panic attack about the credit crunch. (Am I the only person who hates the expression credit crunch? Makes me get all nervy and think we are heading for a 1930s style great depression where we all be forced to decamp to a shanty town on the old Fort George site and live on stale bread and cornflakes.)
I’ve also made a solemn vow to be more of a new-agey smiley happy mammy and try to adopt an altogether more relaxed attitude to parenting so that I’m again not doing my fishwife impression quite so often - regardless of how often I have to watch Fireman Sam or The Mr Men Show.
So far I’ve been doing okay - despite certain levels of severe provocation such as some wee so and so stealing the wing mirror off my car at the weekend, and my computer in work going into uber meltdown mode on Monday. (It didn’t want to work a Bank Holiday almost as much as I didn’t want to work a Bank Holiday).
But it hasn’t been easy. I’ve always been a little on the highly strung side. Now, I’m not an out and out public-display-of-hysteria kind of a gal but it’s a fair bet that on any given day there will generally be a wee bubble of anxiety clawing away in my stomach over anything and everything. I am the Queen of free floating anxiety and, having had a chance to step back from it while on holiday, I realised just how unhealthy it is to feel that way for the lion share of your waking hours. (Generally I sleep okay, which is a blessing, but given that I can’t sleep 24 hours a day and still lead any sort of productive life, we’ll rule that out from the start).
Now I’m very lucky in that in recent months and years I’ve met some lovely people who seem to have a delightfully calming effect on me. They listen when I ramble insanely about my latest worry and don’t laugh at how seemingly inconsequential they are. But more than offering a listening ear, they also offer support and practical advice to get my through the day. And it works. The mantras, the breathing techniques and the B vitamins are becoming my best friends.
But what works above all that is having a good old laugh - and my friends can dole those out in spades. There’s no doubt that life generally has got busier and more stressful. It seems that people are working harder and longer to make ends meet and I’ve no doubt that there is an extra pressure on people to have it all - regardless of whether or not they can afford it.
The rising costs of everything from petrol, to home heating oil to food, to clothes to mortgages is a killer. Between tighter profit margins in the workplace, increased reports (on an almost daily basis it seems) that almost everything you will ever do in your whole life is likely to cause you an early death/ cause your children to be obese or contribute to a global warming catastrophe, it’s hard not to feel a little down from time to time. (Especially if like me, worry is your middle name).
It feels to me that people have generally forgotten how to relax and appreciate the small things in life. We’ve forgotten how to have craic and laugh at stupid things. People generally seem grumpier and less friendly and it is hard to make new friends - especially when you’re a grown up with children and a limited (read that as non-existant) social life. It’s very easy to fall into a pattern where you have a good moan rather than a giggle and I’ll readily put my hand up and admit that I have a tendency towards the whiney - but there is no doubt in my mind at all that it’s something that can be changed.
My very best friend in the whole world is a great one for letting me cry on her shoulder - and I return the favour when necessary - but her overall philosophy in life is that a belly laugh beats a good cry any day of the week. So I’m going to try and laugh a little more, keep taking my B-vitamins and saying my silly little mantras until I’m laughing more and gurning less. There will always be things to worry about - but I think it’s someone else’s turn now. I’ve done my bit.

One of the loveliest emails I've ever received...

From a reader... made me get all sniffy and emotional at my desk.

Just finished it and was sobbing my heart out at the end, especially at Grace's intro to her piece and about if you feel you're life is crap then try and do something about it. Really one of the best books I have ever read, I love it soooooooooo much and can't recommend it enough

This made me smile today

Still busybusybusybusybusy but I got this line in an email today and it made me smile. It's so simple and yet so gorgeous.

'When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.'

busybusybusybusybusy

Is it just me or have we lost an hour somewhere? I think I left an extra hour in Spain because since I've been back I've not be able to catch my breath.

I'm finding I don't get sitting down til gone 9 - writing is virtually non-existant (and it's driving me nuts) and I'm so tired yet can't seem to get to bed before 11.30.

Can we just slow down please - even just a little bit - I'm getting out of puff and I've gone a very unattractive bright red around the face and I'm sweating more than usual.

Thank you.

Back to Life - Part 3 - Water Baby

Finally, after the books were read and just before I feared my skin would fuse with the sofa in freak heat/ cellulite / squished by child accident, we made it outside.

My son is a waterbaby. He first went swimming at the age of three months and has loved it since. He has taken to the water like a duck to, erm, water.

Sadly the swimming pool attached to our apartment hadn't quite heated up just yet. The boy didn't mind - he doesn't fear icy temperatures but I only managed to get in past my knees on one occasion - and even then it took me half an hour of creeping in inch by inch, waiting for suitable intervals between each toe dipping until the covered area of my body was suitably numb. I tried jumping in once and my neck disappeared into my shoulders for an hour - swear to God. I'm just about defrosted now.

But this picture is my favourite from my hols. We had just arrived (before we met the blue sofa of doom) and Joseph was so excited to see the sea he ran straight in, fully clothed, and let the waves crash over him.

He's the (water) baby - gotta love him.

Back to Life - Part Two - Holiday reading

When I went on holiday this year I was most of all looking forward to reading the new Marian Keyes book 'This Charming Man'.
Having looked forward to it for years, literally (I think it is just over two years since 'Anybody Out There' hit the shelves) I was almost delirious with excitement about it.
When I saw it was released and in the shops a few days early I made it my mission to get my mits on a copy and then had to put it in my suitcase straight away to resist the urge to read it there and then.
The thing is though, the book is big - really big - and didn't fit in my wee handbag so I popped Sharon Owens' 'The Trouble With Weddings' in my bag instead. (Now released in the UK as 'Revenge of the Wedding Planner').
I started reading it on the plane and it was, truly, one of the funniest, warmest books I've read in many a long year. It was chatty, warm, oozed delicious dresses, decadent interiors and a house on Eglantine Avenue which I covet with all my heart. (In her book 'It Must Be Love' Sharon wrote about my dream kitchen... the two of us should get together and create dream houses, honest).
It had laugh out loud moments, risque love scenes, a sexy bar man, wedding cake dilemmas and a very funny series of twists and turns. And yet at the heart of it there was a serious message about love, forgiveness, friendship and family.
It was delightful, entirely.
And it was only then, when it was done that I moved on to Ms Keyes.
There is so much I want and need to say about this book - because just so much happens in it. It is hard to know where to start, so I figure a list of pros and cons probably works best.

(And I'll start with the negatives so we finish on a highnote. Will try not to spoil it, so this will be safe to read if you've not started/ finished yet).

Cons:

• Size 14 is not fat. Dear Marian, that annoyed me. I wanted to hunt you down and feed you chocolate and Dominoes Pizza. Size 14 is fine. And people who weigh 18 stone are not quite that obese they need to lifted from their houses by a crane.


• Lola - perhaps the funniest chapters in the book but - shorthand got little bit annoying by end - esp in dialogue with Considine. Wanted small words. Missed small words. But realised book was behemoth of thing anyway and small words would have made it twice as long. Had baggage limitations on flight - so fair enough.


• Alicia - we could have heard more from her. Wasn't really sure of her story or motivation.

Pros:

• This is perhaps Marian's best book. Although my heart will always belong to Rachel's Holiday - you never forget your first time.


• The scenes of domestic violence were hard hitting (no pun intended) and powerful and wonderfully drawn.


• The portrayal of Marnie's depression and drink problem was amazing - not easy reading (and I imagine not easy writing) but helped me understand alcoholism and helped me feel less alone as regards depression.


• The funny bits are very funny. (Not as laugh out loud funny as Sharon Owens, but funny nonetheless)


• The clothes are fabulous - and I do want Molichino hair.

Next on my reading list was 'The Memory Keepers' Daughter' by Kim Edwards - made me realise why I love chicklit so. It was an okay book - over written and overly flowery and made me want to throw it across the room several times - but also gave me new love for the name Norah. So not all bad then.

Back to Life - Part One - Sofa Arrest

Hola Mes Amigoes*

Well I'm back from my holliers but it was so eventful (even if absolutely nothing happened) that I'm breaking it down in a few pieces.

The first thing I should say is that holidaying with a four year old is a whole new experience. Forget lounging all day reading, and then drinking into the wee hours. Forget sun, sea, sand and sex - we had sun, sea, sand and Sofa Arrest.

Our first day on holiday was a long one. We had to get up at 3am and drive to the airport, not arriving at our destination until 4pm (Spain Time) so 12 hours in all. The boy, by that stage was so hyped up on being in sunny Spain that he refused to sleep despite my plying him with Medised, buying a neck cushion for travelling and wrapping him in a wee blanket. He was hyper as a box of frogs.

So it was then 10pm (Spain time) before he went to sleep - which was officially a shocking 18 hours since he woke up. We hoped he would sleep til 12 the nesxt day or some other such miracle, but no, at 8am he was jumping around demanding the pool.

By lunch time however the travel, the heat and the lack of sleep had caught up with him and so arrived the rocketing temperature, the tantrums and the desire to sit on the sofa - only on the sofa - do not pass go, do not lounge in the sun, do not do anything other than watch fecking CBeebies in an airconditioned apartment. (Oh to pay ££££s to do the same thing in Spain as we would at home. I was a picture of joy).

So began a week of sofa arrest as Joseph was not only obsessed with lying on the sofa, I had to be there with him - not daddy - only mummy. So I sat, glued to a child for two days. We smiled some times - see picture - but by the end of day three in the Sofa Arrest House I was going slightly mad.I now know I could never do a summer in the Big Brother House... I would turn slightly mental(er) and need heavy duty medication by the end of the first week.

Thankfully by day four he had recovered enough to allow an hour or two at a time in the sun and we got to enjoy ourselves... but still we always ended up back on the sofa.

Yes, it was nice to get snuggles a plenty... but if you want to know the reason for my palour after a week on the Costa Blanca, there you go...

* Don't know if Hola Mes Amigoes is correct use of language. Have realised am hopelessly, embarrassingly shit at Spanish. Joseph was amusing though... we taught him to say Por Favour (excuse spelling) which he pronounced as "Four Five Four".