Random Conversations with the Boy

We were driving to school this morning. I should say the car is where the vast majority of these brilliant conversations take place. Joseph was telling me how Christmas was Jesus' birthday and so on.
There was a short pause and then he asked:
J: "Mammy, what do you think Jesus dressed up as for Halloween?"
M: "Don't know, Joseph. What do you think?"
J: (with a nod of the head) "He would definitely have dressed up as something scary. Like a Frankenstein or something..."

Random Conversations with the Boy - phonetics strike again

Pointing to his legs on the way to school...

J: "Is this where your keanies are?"
M: "Your what?"
J: "You're keanies. There are on your legs."
M: "Knees, Joseph. Knees."

Random conversations with the boy

"Mummy, why is your tummy so fat?"

That's me for Weight Watchers then.

She shoots - she scores!

Donegal lass Cara McCarthy has always been a tomboy type of girl, who wouldn’t care how to spell Versace, let alone have any desire to wear it.

On a career break in London, she lands a job as a cleaner which is right up her street just then. Her new boss is Sophia Brannigan – the fashionista girlfriend of gorgeous Fulton FC Premiership star, Dylan Summers, and her new place of work is their luxurious home, Summer Manor.
Cara is determined to stay in the background, but life has other plans. Before she can say ‘Manolo’, she finds herself plunged in at the deep end of high fashion and posh parties. With a friendly father figure in gardener Sam and a delightful new arrival called Lola, Cara’s new life is set to be both fun and challenging.
But as Sophia’s hunger for celebrity grows, so does Cara’s bond with Dylan Summers and soon everything she does at Summer Manor seems destined to land her deeper and deeper into trouble ...

I've just finished reading 'Playing the Field' by fellow Poolbeg author and all round glamour puss Emma Heatherington.
This is Emma's third book - her first 'Crazy for You' was published by Dodder in 2007, her second 'Beyond Sin' (under the pen name Emma Louise Jordan) was published by Poolbeg Crimson earlier this year. Yes, earlier this year. The woman is without a doubt one of the hardest working, fastest writing people I know. And she has three kids. She needs an award - seriously.
But with all her busy-ness (she runs her own PR company and is heavily involved in the local theatre scene as - you guessed it - a writer among other things) does the quality of her books suffer?
If Playing the Field is anything to go by - then absolutely and categorically no.
It is, from the very outset, a witty, fast paced, funny and aspirational read. Set in the impressive world of Wagdom - with all the luxury trimmings thrown in - it is a fun, lighthearted and impressive read which is, without a doubt, Emma's best book to date.
Her characters are warm, likeable and well drawn. Her settings give an absolute sense of place - so much so that I can truly imagine myself in the kitchen at Summer Manor or sitting on Priscilla Presley at Graceland (read the book to find out more).
I can't give too much away without ruining the book - but with a wonderful festive ending Playing the Field would be a real treat in anyone's stocking this Christmas.
Fun, flirty and absolutely fabulous.
5/5

I very muchly love this song and it makes me smile

Viva la Diva

One of this things I admire most about Mariah Carey is that she is, unashamedly, mad as a box of frogs.

The singer has been in the news this week and last for her extraordinary Diva-style behaviour while in the UK for TV appearances to promote her new single ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’. (And for the record I actually quite liked it until the final high notes made my ears bleed. Mariah - less is more love, less is more...).

She kept the crew of ‘This Morning’ waiting for more than two hours for an interview with her, prompting host Philip Schofield to post on Twitter about her behaviour. When she appeared on the X-factor, one of the requirements on her rider (the list of requirements made by celebs before public appearances) was that butterfly shaped confetti be supplied in her dressing room. When she appeared with Lorraine Kelly on GMTV she had two assistants lower her onto the famous sofa - just in case she creased her dress.

This is the same woman who, if reports are to be believed, wears her Manolo Blahnik shoes while exercising on her treadmill at home as she “doesn’t do flat shoes”. Apparantly her feet “repel them”.

While there is a big part of me that tends to think “Who the hell does she think she is?” there is a smaller - but equally vocal - part of me that is really quite jealous of her brazenness.

Yes, she might not live in the real world but you know, sometimes the real world is a little overrated these days. What I wouldn’t give for a day or two of some full on ego pampering - not to mention the actual really, really pampering.

I’ve made a few TV appearances in my time. I can assure you that I have never had a rider and if I even tried to submit one I would be laughed out of the TV studio.

When I’ve done TV it hasn’t exactly been high glam - although I’m willing to accept the studios of UTV or TV3 may just not have the same budget thrown behind them as the X-Factor. Forget butterfly confetti and bottled water - I’ve had to content myself with a glass of the tap variety. I was offered a chocolate Muffin when i went to TV3 - but with my slot in front of the camera still to come I didn’t want to risk the muffin-stuck-in-your-teeth-country-bumpkin look.

I have had my make up done by proper make up artist people but when the hosts of the show came in looking for some pressed powder, my needs were pushed aside. Martin King, I’m pointing my finger at you. (Lovely and all as you were).

There were no chaffeur driven limousines sent to pick me up from a plush hotel. It was me, my battered car and my nerves of steal barrelling around the M50 in Dublin with not a notion as to where I was going. And when the show was over, were there post production drinkies complete with canapes? No. I barrelled back up to Derry in my trusty car stopping only at Monaghan for a quick sandwich and a top up of petrol.

But if I could demand my heart’s desires - what would I ask for? It is one of my guilty pleasures to think about this. Forget all that bowl of M&Ms with all the yellow ones taken out nonsense - I would be more sophisticated than that.

I would opt for opulant white candles glowing on ever surface and a chaise longue drapped with cool silks and satins for me to swoon on while sipping my cold Pinot Grigio and being fed grapes by a George Clooney lookalike (or Martin King, he’ll do...).

I’d have another minion/ man slave/ lacky to sit by me with my laptop while I dictate whatever passage of my latest novel springs to mind. He can deal with the fact the keys need properly battered to register almost every letter - I wouldn’t want to risk a broken nail.

I’d have a masseuse to do one of those Indian Head thingies and then a hairdresser to rescue my mop afterwards. I would have a make up artist who saw to my needs and only my needs and I’d have Gok Wan onside to be my personal wardrobe consultant. However he would be banned from making any reference to bangers - mine or anyone elses.

A string quartet would be playing music softly in the background, lulling me into a deep state of relaxation and I would have my very own cinematographer on hand to make sure no unflattering camera angles were filmed. (I believe Mariah Carey does indeed have such a person in her entourage - which is genius if you ask me).

As it stands though I think I’ll have to lump it with my tap water and the only soothing music I’ll get to listen to is Today FM on the long drive to Dublin.

In honesty I don’t really mind. I’m still at the stage were I spend my time in any TV studio thinking “Oh flip me. I’m going to be on the telly” and hyperventilating with excitement every time any vaguely recognisable TV presenter or newsreader walks past. You should have see the cut of me the first time I had a chat with Julian “off of UTV”. I almost asked him to do one of those Corrie intros.

But still, maybe one day I’ll get my butterfly confetti and when I do I’m sure I wont mind at all if anyone thinks I’m mad as a box of frogs.

Dear Marian.... (a review)

The residents of 66 Star Street in Dublin are all being watched… but by what? Maeve and Matt seem happy enough to anybody looking in, but behind the facade is a truth that neither of them wants to be made public. Katie and Conall have a love/hate relationship, but how will the arrival of TVgardener Fionn affect their relationship? Lydia lives with Polish men Andrei and Jan, but can’t stand either of them… not to mention the problems Lydia is having with her own mother as well. And Jemima lives with her lovely dog Gurudge, but is sure she feels the presence of something hanging around the house of 66 Star Street. Just what, or who, is watching these people? And will the secrets that bind them ever come out?



Dear Queen Marian of Keyes,
I write this with blood shot eyes and a thumping headache. I didn't get to sleep until very, very late last night you see. Because I was reading your book - that one, there in the picture.
I had bought it as soon as it was released, just as I have done every time one of your books has been published since I discovered you when Rachel's Holiday was out. That was a long time ago Marian. A lot has happened since then. I've grown up into proper adulthood reading your books. I have been inspired by you. I even started to write books myself because of you.
And now well, I have my very own publishing deal and books of my own. In a completely non-stalkerish way, I feel like I know you.
So I feel we can sit down and talk - woman to woman, author to author.
The thing that I loved so much about your books in the past is that they could make me laugh out loud and not give a damn. Sitting on a ferry to Holyhead? Didn't care. It was too funny to hold in.
Sitting in a room at a party where I was being very unsociable? Didn't care. Needed to find out what happened next.
I loved your books. When I grew up I wanted to write like you. I almost wet my knickers with excitement when it was rumoured Rachel's Holiday was going to be made into a film. Jimmy Nesbitt, for the record, would make an excellent Luke.
But you see, a couple of books back you changed. And it kind of threw me. How could you change Marian? After all we had been through? How you start writing about more serious things (not that addiction and depression and all aren't serious but you wrote about them in a way that didn't feel serious... Brilliant, educational but not dark..)
I devoured This Charming Man - loved it. (Had a few reservations about the diary style writing) but declared it your best book ever. And then I sat back and it troubled me a little because it didn't feel like it was a Marian book. Yes - it was perceptive as always. Yes - it was witty and near the knuckle and not afraid to  deal with dodgy subjects.
I liked that. (Although, between us, there was a fair amount of gnashing of teeth because I was just putting the finishing touches to a book that had a domestic violence storyline weaved into it and well, ya know people will insist on trying to say I'm the new you and accuse me of being a copycat and all. For the record I'm not. I'm the first me. You are the only you.)
But it was definitely grittier, and that damn serious word.
So anyway, I waited with baited breath for 'The Brightest Star in the Sky' - and it intrigued me. From the outset I wondered who these people were and was I supposed to care for them? I liked Maeve and Matt - just so as you know. And Katie too. Lydia I liked, but she would scare the shite out of me if I ever met her in real life.
By about page 200 I was hooked (sorry to say it did take me a while) but I had a sinking feeling, Marian because I knew something big and, well, serious, was going to happen.
And it did.
And it was perhaps the most powerful piece of writing I have ever read.
I felt physically sick. I felt shocked me to my core. I felt I wanted to make it better. I felt I wanted a glimmer of hope and then, you see, you did it. It gave us that hope - that new beginning.
And this is perhaps the crux of the matter. Your writing, the last few books, have been a sort of new beginning - an evolvement of your writing. You grew up - as did I and it was unfair of me to expect otherwise.
I'm glad you did. I loved the book - and it's one that will stay with me for a very, very long time.
My verdict to any of your readers who just aren't sure about whether or not to read this? Go for it. Just expect more than you have before and open your eyes to the power of a story which will touch your heart beyond words.
Marian, I am sorry I ever doubted you.

5/5
Claire

So it is done and I'm reading through

And dealing with a few minor inconsistencies here and there until - 50 pages from the end - I discover an extra Friday.
There we have it, my characters enjoy one perfectly fine Friday and then wake up the next day and do Friday all over again.
Balls.
So much happens in those last few chapters that I don't know how I'm going to rework it to make it work and my head hurts a lot.
Oh I realise I've given another character just two weeks to fall in love. TWO WEEKS? Maybe because I wrote the fecking book over the course 14 long and painful months it felt like a helluva lot longer than two weeks.
Does anyone fall in love in two weeks anymore?
If you did - lemme know!

Oh Happy Day....

I did it. I typed those magical words.
THE END.

Yay!!!
And Jumping in Puddles got a corking review in Ulster Tatler. Hurrah!! x 1000000000000

No ...no.... no...

It's not finished.
I've written 112,000 words.
That's 2000 in excess of targetted word count.
But it seems my characters don't want to give up just yet.
I'm hoping it will be finished tonight or tomorrow. I cannot describe how much I need to type the words "The End". I have loved writing this book. I have been more daring with it, and had more fun with it than any of my other three. I have lived in my characters' lives for a year - I have spent more time with them than with my new baby daughter. I am more excited about this book than any other - but I NEED for it to be done now.
Madzers R Us.

Save Our Friends... shameless plugging!

I've recently heard about a very fabulous organisation who  make big cuddly toys (really big, the blue Whale is mahoosive) and well, everyone loves cuddly toys - don't they? Especially at this time of the year and all.
Even better everything is produced under Fair Trade conditions, which is fab because child labour (outside of me getting boy to tidy his own room) is a Very Bad Thing.
They have four sub-categories of toys - Polar Friends, African Friends, Rainforest Friends and Ocean Friends. (Sadly they don't have "Mammy's favourite drink Friends... cuddly bottle of wine anyone?)
 Everytime one is sold, Save Our Friends makes a donation to a wildlife conservation charity, these being The World Land Trust, The Marine Conservation Society and Born Free, so it's really a charity gift that you can cuddle. Champion.
The big deal at the moment is that they are giving away one toy a week for the next four weeks.  So what's the catch, I hear you scream? Well, it's only wee you know - all you have to do to be entered into the draw is to become a fan  on Facebook, and then get yours friends to become fans. And then the new fan posts a message on the wall saying 'Hi, I became a fan, Claire Allan referred me' (Or indeed they use your name, otherwise I'll be entered in the draw a jillion times).
Both referrer and referree are then entered into a draw and one lucky bugger wins a toy. As the very annoying Meerkat says in the ad "Simples".

So here is linkage for easier use
SAVE OUR FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK

Merci beaucoup (although officially I'm now very against speaking 'en francais' because of that incident)

The disgrace that is Rebecca Stevenson

I have never claimed to be a perfect mother. In fact I doubt such a thing exists. Most of us are just chugging along trying our damndest to get through the day.


I sometimes lose the head. I have been known to let a roar on the odd occasion. On other occasions I have praised the Lord when bedtime has rolled around and I have been able to sit down, head in my hands and sob quietly into a glass of wine - grateful that we have all made it through another day.

I have surveyed the destruction in my house and remembered the days pre-children when the floors were clean and the sofa was not held together with toast crumbs and yoghurt.

There have been long darks nights when I have contemplated leaving the husband to it and walking out so that I could check myself into a nice hotel for just one night’s uninterrupted sleep. Oh the thought of no five year climbing on top of me to tell me his dreams at five in the morning or a baby deciding to wake me with her dulcet babbling at three. Bliss!

Long gone are my day dreams of a romantic dinner a deux with George Clooney in a quaint Parisian cafe. My biggest dream these days is being able to go to the toilet without an audience of inquisitive children who do not understand the concept of personal space.

Let’s face it, being a mother may bring untold joy but it is also hard work. We all know that going into it. But when we decide to be parents we must also decide, on some level, to take our oil.

Sure we can whinge if we wish about the lack of privacy and lack of sleep we must endure but when we choose to become parents we choose to take on certain responsibilities and there is no excuse for neglecting them - no matter how stressful the day or how worn out we are.

I write this in a fit of rage after reading about mum-of-four Rebecca Stevenson who left her children - all under the age of four - while she went out on a 24 hour drink and drugs binge.

Police were only alerted to the children’s predicament when a neighbour saw the eldest child (just four years old) shouting from a window “Where’s mummy?”.

Her youngest child - just three months old - was lying in a soiled nappy, covered in his own sick in a urine soaked travel cot with not even a blanket around him. His four year old sister had tried to mix a bottle of baby formula to feed him to stop his cries.

This scene absolutely breaks my heart. And it’s not from any sense of smugness that I’m a better mammy than she is, or from any failure on my part to understand how difficult being a parent can be.

I know it can be tough, and exhausting and stressful. I know what post natal depressions feels like. I know what it is like to experience full on panic attacks at the responsibility of it all. I know what it feels like to forget just that little bit who you are any more and long, just that wee bit, for life outside of mammyhood.

But what I don’t understand is how any mother can walk away and leave four babies (because in my book four is still a baby in the grand scheme of things) to fend for themselves. My five year old goes into mad hysterics if he hasn’t noticed I’ve gone up the stairs and he can’t find me for all of 30 seconds (hence me always having an audience in the loo) - never mind if me and his daddy were to bugger off for 24 hours leaving him to tend to his own needs and the needs of his baby sister.

I don’t even want to think about how scared those children must have been. The thought of a three month old crying in hunger and distress for hours on end with no comfort makes me feel physically sick.

What sickens me most of all however is that for this crime Stevenson received only a 20 week suspended prison sentence. Loathe as I am to come over all Daily Mail, that sentence is simply not strong enough.

Regardless of what may have been going on in Stevenson’s life at that time there was no excuse for her actions. There is never an excuse for a wilful neglect of children so that a parent can drink themselves into a stupour - knocking back shots of Sambucca - while their children scream out for attention.

When she left those innocent children to fend for themselves, she forfeited her right to freedom and she should have been locked up - and yes of course given the appropriate support to rebuild her life. But her rehabilitation seems to have been given more weight than her punishment and in a case where four young childrens’ lives were put at risk this is beyond acceptable.

Her children, like all children, deserve to be loved and looked after. They deserve to feel safe and secure. They deserve to have their basic needs of food on the table and clean clothes on their backs met. How dare Stevenson shirk this responsibility?

Tonight when I go home I’ll probably still be thankful when it is bedtime and I can have some me time with the husband and a glass of wine but I’ll be even more thankful for the fact that my children have parents and extended family who love and care for them so deeply.

How did this happen so fast?

No, it's not finished yet

You know how every now and again I go a little mad. And that, true to the name of this blog sometimes I am a bit of a madzer. (Which is my new favourite word thanks to Marian Keyes’ ‘Brighest Star in the Sky’ gdansk...)
Well some days I’m more mad than others. And sometimes that madness is simply just feeling a bit hopeless and down and wanting to crawl into a wee ball until the prozac starts working again.

Other days this involves wanting to drink a substantial quantity of white wine while talking random shite on Twitter.
On other days I get into a whole “what’s the effing point?” frame of mind. And by that I don’t mean I’m for the bridge (as we would say in Derry) or the like just more that I think I could quite happily live out my days in a wee two roomed hut (one general living area, one toilet facility) in the wilds of Donegal with no internet access, no phone and not a single mention of a deadline or a novel.
I would happily go properly nutso. I wouldn’t cut my hair or shave my legs. I probably wouldn’t even wash. I’d lie in my pit all day and stare at the sky and count the clouds or something equally untaxing. I’d eat nothing but toast and drinking nothing but the aforementioned wine, which the boldest child in the village will have to bring to the mad woman in the woods as his punishment. He or she would quake in their wellies as I proferred a gnarled hand out of my hut towards him or her.
I’d uncork the fecker with my teeth and drink it through a straw to be cosmopolitan.

I’d only venture to the big smoke once a year to buy a new cardigan and some Jimmy Choos (see, proper madzer) during which outing I would speak only in an Italian accent.

Everyone who would listen would be told of the time I wrote books - and people actually bought them and my children would deny they ever knew me.

Ah, good times.

Can you tell this book is getting to me?

Anyone for a bestseller?

My very lovely and supportive friend Fiona Cassidy (real name Fionnuala McGoldrick) has not only had her first novel publishing by Poolbeg this month she has only gone and secured the number 6 spot in the Irish Mass Market fiction chart!

Go on ya girl ye! As we would say up North.

I was lucky enough to get a sneak preview of the book before publication when I was asked by the lovely people at Poolbeg to read it and provide a cover quote if I so desired (I did desire, as it happens).
Anyone For Seconds? is a quirky, moving and wickedly funny read about the trials and tribulations of a step family. Very loosely based on Fiona's own unique family set up with the lovely Philip (seriously, he's lovely and tres, tres supportive), it is a MUST READ and while you are it, JUMPING IN PUDDLES  (which I actually just mistyped as HUMPING IN PUDDLES which is a whole different kind of a book) by yours truly is still out there and looking for a home!

There comes a stage...

... towards the end of every book, when you almost completely lose the will to live.
I liken this stage - when you are a mere coupla thousand words from the end - to transition (that delightful stage in the labouring process when you want to lie on the floor and cry while screaming "I can't do it.... I just CAN'T do it").
Because you know the next bit is tough. You know in the next bit you really have to push yourself. But you can't push yourself too hard. You have to be measured. Rushing the next bit leads to an unhappy ending (in literary terms a disappointing finish/ in childbirthing terms a few tears and the need for a stitch in your fandango).
I'm at that stage with book 4. I am tantalisinglg close to holding my new baby in my arms and marvelling that I made it all my own self and isn't it just the most beautiful book you ever, ever saw?
But in being tantalisingly close I am also at the stage where I want it to just to go away. Whose stupid idea was it to write a book anyway? If I ever, ever mention writing another book you are to kill me. No words are ever allowed near me again. EVER.
If only there was a literary equivalent to an epidural....

Random conversations with The Husband

It's not hard to see where the Boy gets his sense of humour from.
This morning I received the following text:

Have I upset you? Have I done something to annoy you? Please tell me what I have done. Is it really that bad? Do you not love me anymore? Tell me what I can do to make it right again.

I phoned him wondering what on jebus he was on about.
Turns out he thought I hadn't bought him any Ginger Nuts yesterday.
I had. They were just hiding.

Random conversations with the boy

This one came from the boy's Auntie Emma.
The boy's latest obsession is WW1 and WW" following any and all discussion of Remembrance Day etc.

So they were chatting.
"My daddy was telling me all about the big ship which the captain sank to stop it getting captured," Joseph said.
"Which ship was that?" Auntie Emma asked.
"The battleship Primark," Joseph answered

Sssh! It's only 6 weeks 'til Christmas

Much as I want to bury my head in the sand and deny it, the evidence is there for all to see.
The decorations are going up in the shops. The jingly jangly exceptionally annoying music is starting to blast out from instore speakers. The queue to get into Smyths car park is not for the faint hearted and the television is filled with a thousand and one ads about making this Christmas extra special.
Bah humbug - I guess I’m going to have to try and get in the spirit of the festive season then.
The thing is, in my head it is still June or July. My brain refuses to acknowledge that we are actually in mid-November and that the big date with Santa is hurtling ever closer.
Joseph repeatedly asks me how many days are left to Christmas, or how long it will be til we go and see Santa in the Richmond Centre and i wave him away. Sure, we have ages yet. There is no way we are on a six week countdown. No way at all. The schools have only gone back for the love of God.
When a friend told me in early September that she had all her presents bought and wrapped and even the wains’ Christmas clothes in I scoffed. I thought she was perhaps off her rocker and come December when the children inevitably changed their mind about their Santa lists she would left with a mountain of useless toys and headache the like of which would render her unable to function on any level other than crying in a corner and mainlining gin and tonic.
Now I’m a little bit jealous of her forward planning.
The season of goodwill? No, I don’t think so. For the majority of us mere mortals out there the next six weeks will be a manic, headspinningly busy series of disasters and stressful situations.
It’s a rare woman who can keep her head while all around are losing their’s - especially when that losing it occurs in Smyths over the last Ben 10 Alien Force Voice Changer. or in Sainsbury’s over the last turkey in the deep freezer.
We will spend the next few weeks trying to eek out from our children what they want from Santa while issuing a loop of “If you don’t behave you’ll get a bag of ashes” warnings as they work themselves up into an increasing frenzy of excitement.
We will then spend the following weeks trying to remind them of what they asked for and assure them that they do actually still want it and no they don’t actually want the shiny new toy which has just caught their eye. We will come up with elaborate reasons as to why they absolutely can’t change their mind. (Mine is that Santa took pre-orders this year so had everything in mega early).
Then we will try and clean the house so that it is fit to house a sparkly tree which will drive us demented within three days of going up.
We will try and make it to school Christmas shows, parent teacher meetings and Christmas parties all the while looking interested and trying to not at all look harassed. (Last year I mucked that one up entirely and showed up for the parent teacher meeting a whole week early. The teacher must have thought there wasn’t a chance for the boy after that).
And we’ll organise presents for kith and kin - spending money on things no one actually wants or needs for the sake of handing something over on the big day and not looking like a stingy fecker.
The more organised out there will home-bake some Christmas treats - maybe mince pies and Christmas cake. Me? I’ll buy some in Tesco, but not too early. I don’t want to make the annual mistake of getting the Mince Pies and the Celebrations in at the end of November and then having to buy a whole new set come the middle of December.
And believe my my most hated tasks of all the Christmas tasks is the pre-Christmas grocery shop. It is never pleasant. In fact, in most cases it is down right ugly. It might be a little cliched to talk about fighting over the last stalk of broccoli or the last bag of potatoes but I have seen it happen. The world goes mad with gluttony and greed and the whole peace and goodwill to all men notion goes flying out of the window. People forget year in and year out that the shops no longer close for a few days. There are shops open on Christmas day itself. There is no need for anyone to assault anyone else with a carrot and a bag of brussels.
It is worth it though, I suppose. I have to tell myself that. And when, in six weeks time, I’m sat in front of the fire, glass of wine in hand and enjoying the quiet after the storm, I’ll feel content and pleased with myself. Then I’ll promise to be just like my friend and have it all done and dusted by next September.

I'm an auntie (again)

Hopefully I'll post a picture later but the latest addition to our extended family arrived at 10am this morning.
Darcy Georgia Bo - pure gorgeousness - was delivered at home by her very brave mummy this morning.
I cannot say how emotional I feel. I knew going out this morning that the baby was most likely on the way and I was like a cat on a hot tin roof in work - so much so that I had to leave. Every fibre of my being was telling me I needed to be with my sister so I drove home, opened her front door and just at that very moment Miss Bo was born.
She is precious. So very precious. And now my own girlchild looks like a gigantic monster.
But I'm delighted to welcome beautiful Darcy to our family.

Who Wants it all? Not me!

I quite like the cut of Kirstie Allsopp’s jib. In another life I would have quite fancied having her job - and it’s not only because she gets to work alongside the rather handsome Phil Spencer who I have a bit of a crush on.
She’s sensible. She’s successful. She’s really very good at what she does - from selling houses to decorating rooms very nicely indeed. She wears stylish clothes and she’s not a size 8. In short, she is the kind of woman I think I could be friends with without feeling intimidated. We’d go for lunch somewhere fancy with china plates and a distinct lack of straws and paper napkins and she’d tell me where she buys her clothes and then she would help me transform my house into something with an ounce of style.
Of course, the fact that she might introduce me to the lovely Phil Spencer would be but a mere bonus to the equation.
And then we would sit back, all talk of ‘Location, Location, Location’ cast aside, and talk about what we women really want to talk about. How the promise that we women can have it all is a big, fat, stupid lie which is responsible for making a generation of women demented with feelings of inadequacy and depression.
Speaking to Closer magazine this week the mum of two (she has a three year old and a one year old) said that many women struggle to raise children while pursuing a career.
She added: “I resent women in the public eye who look glam, do glamorous jobs and try to pretend they have it all when they don't. You can't have it all without help.'
'It puts pressure on all mums. Even as a 'celebrity mum' myself, there is now a huge expectation that you'll have a natural birth, get your figure back immediately, take naturally to motherhood and continue a successful career. It's rubbish.'
As a woman not in the public eye I have to say it’s not just celeb mums who feel these pressures, Me - and those friends of mine with children - all feel it. There is no sport in this world more competitive than motherhood.
I doubt there is a mother in this world who has not been made to feel as if she has to justify her parenting or lifestyle choices. Stay at Home Mammies immediately get wound up if someone dares to suggest they don’t work for a living. Working mums feel their heckles rise if someone suggests they shouldn’t have had children if they weren’t going to look after them themselves.
Competition starts right from the moment of conception. Morning sickness is these days seen as a sign of weakness. When I was puking my anatomy several time a day while battling hyperemesis with my last pregnancy, I even had it suggested to me that I must have not wanted my baby and my sickness was a reaction to an unwanted pregnancy!
I’ve been told I didn’t have a natural birth because I had a shot of pethidine while in labour. Some women like to boast that they managed to get through the experience without so much as a suck on the gas and air as if it somehow makes them superior to any woman who required more help.
I even saw one eejit argue that taking pain relief in labour was akin to injecting your baby with heroin and that “if it hurt you must be doing it wrong”. No matter how “right” you do labour, I have yet to meet a woman who said it didn’t hurt.
And then we go home - no week spent resting and recuperating in the hospital any more - and we get on with life. We are expected to host visitors, make them tea, have home cooked meals on the table every night and have a house fit for the poshest relations to drop in unexpectedly.
Our children are expected to be seen and not heard - yes, even in these modern days you will get many a disapproving look if your infant lets our a roar in Tesco.
Going back to work (for those of us who do) is a further minefield - one where you have to plan your days with military precision, where you have to keep track of appointments and milestones and plans for birthday parties as well as put on a professional exterior appearance and try not to call anyone “honey” or “sweetpea” down the phone or, worse still speak in a babyish voice.
You become almost schizophrenic with exhaustion - trying to remember if today is a mammy day or a work day and all the while wondering when on earth you are going to find the time to clean the skirting boards this side of Christmas. My wains have nothing to fear from the Swine Flu they have been exposed to more deadly substances just crawling around the living room floor.
Kirstie Allsopp is lucky though - she has employed a nanny and a cleaner. I have a very accommodating aunty for childminding duties and a husband who isn’t too bad with a mop - when pushed. But most of the time I’m just trying to get through the day and thinking that I don’t want it all. What I have, right now, is more than enough for any mere mortal to contend with.

The laptop is dead, long live the laptop

It's official. There will no Lazarus style ressurection. She is dead. Defunct. No more.
How I shall miss her with her unworking up page key and her slow whirring and taking three and a half years to load anything. How I shall miss that well worn mouse pad, the keys which were actually starting to lose their letters.
How I will recall first editing RD&T on it, then writing FLM and JiP and most of book four on it.
*Sigh*
But the book was saved, so that's a plus point.

In other news I have just been exceptionally busy. Press and publicity is still the order of the day and I'm been working like a maddun in the background trying to get stuff organised. I even had a photoshoot last night for The Mirror. I had my hair done, fake nails applied and even false eyelashes - which I fear may have creeped up my face at one stage. My children were involved and dutifully dressed in their Sunday best - except the baby is teething again (two teethies and counting!) and had drool all down her top. The boy just flapped around like a seal.
Should be gorgeous. Claire "four lashes" Allan and her children, Drool and Nutcase.

I'm also packaging up books to send out - for review and other things. I'm donating my entire back catalogue to http://www.camillesappeal.co.uk/ Visit if you can, leave a quid or two even.

And I'm working...
And cleaning my house.
And generally doing a very good impression of a headless chicken.

Four eyelashes are the least of my worries.

They say it comes in threes....

So first my laptop died.
My laptop with the new book on it.
It is still dead. And the book is still on it. And it was supposed to be finished by now - but I can't even remember where I left off to write on, and even if I did I have no computer on which to do so.
So I will write during my lunchbreak in work.

Then my landing window started leaking water - in perhaps the heaviest rain of the year so far. So we have phoned a repair man and are awaiting his call back. I'm not good with waiting. You may have figured that out about me by now.

And then this morning the husband (who does exist) drew my attention to the strange burning aroma coming from our kettle. So, we're gonna have to get a new one of those (which I would do in my lunch break, but ya know, the writing thing gets in the way).

So no more. Thank you. Nothing else is allowed to break for at least a year and longer if at all possible.

How I knocked the mad mammy into touch!

http://www.herald.ie/lifestyle/health-beauty/how-i-got-through-the-baby-blues-1929428.html

RIP - Lappy the laptop

Although technically, she's not dead yet.
Just on life support.
Awaiting a brain transplant (please God).
But I fear she is gone. And I'll have to get a new one. I do remember hearing of one author who burnt out a laptop with every book - this one has served me three novels.
And I'm going to miss her.
And scream if I can't get my book off the harddrive.

Lesson for the day: Back up. Back up. Back up.

Another cracking review!

"Claire Allan is just getting better and better"
http://chicklitreviews.com/2009/10/27/book-review-jumping-in-puddles-by-claire-allan/#comments

Is it wrong....

That I'm eating a delicious salad for lunch and contemplating what chocolate bar I might treat myself to later?
All that and I'm preparing to interview Donna Hazelton who won 'Musicality' on Channel 4 several years back. I have interviewed Donna before and made an eejit of myself as I was a huge fan of the Channel 4 show. So I have to try and not do that "ohmygodiamtalkingtothatladyoffofthetelly" thing that did last time.
Maybe I'll eat the chocolate after.

She doesn't sleep

Ever.
I mean. EVER.
She is awake. Always.
And chatting.
And I'm very, very proud that she can say da da da da da da and blow raspberries and just about manage to clap her hands together.
But I would love her to sleep.
Just a little.
And not say dadadadadadadada at 3 in the morning and keep saying it until it is time to get up.
I am very tired.
VERY. VERY. TIRED.

Random conversations with the boy - the dangers of a silent letter...

Joseph: "Mammy, what's a Hoor?"
Me: (stunned) "A what?"
J: "No, not a hoor....(thinking) What's the word?"
Me: (momentary sigh of relief)
J: "No, not a hoor. A whore. Mammy, what's a whore?"
Me: "Where on earth did you hear that word?"
J: (with a roll of the eyes) "Everyone uses it Mammy. It's an American word."
Me: "Well, it's a very, very bad word. And you aren't to use it."
J: (Rolling eyes again) "It's not a bad word Mammy. It just means an hour later..."
Me: (penny dropping - the boy is learning to read... phonetically) "The H is silent Joseph. It's just pronounced Hour."

Hubby (who does exist) quite rightly pointed out that it could be worse. Joseph could well have told his teacher we were all getting an extra hoor in our beds this weekend.

I'm a viewer, get me out of here

I’m disturbed people. Very disturbed. It seems you see Ireland is getting a bad run of it lately.
As a nation of (supposed) singers and scholars, we seem to be letting ourselves down on a huge scale these days
And by that I mean that we have, to our eternal national shame, inflicted the walking parody that is John and Edward on the viewing public.
It was bad enough when we came up with the concept that was B*witched (really dodgy 90s girl group, for those who have locked that particular memory in the dark recesses of their mind) and put that bloody turkey through for the Eurovision. As if that weren’t enough to eternally mortify us as a nation and question the very foundations on which our cultural heritage stands we just had to push it that one, sad, unbelievable step further and let John and Edward out of the country and on to the public stage.
I’d like to say that they are probably nice boys who never did anyone any harm - but that could not be further from the truth.
They have harmed every one of us - because each and every Saturday night, internet forums, Twitter and Facebook go into overdrive with utter indignation that these two eejits have been allowed airtime on perhaps the highest rated show on television at the moment.
And of course judge Louis Walsh gets the blame because he is Irish (and he put them through) and there are shouts of favouritism a plenty. I can guarantee if John and Edward (who I do have nicknames for but which cannot be repeated in a family newspaper) were from the South of lovely England, Louis wouldn’t have wanted to know and would have laughed them off the stage with the rest of us.
So, the result of their ongoing “success” (and believe me I do use that word very loosely) is that we are damned by association. If they are the very best that this country has to offer in terms of singing talent you can only imagination - with a sickening sense of dread and humiliation - just how bad the worst we had to offer would be.
It is not only their serious lack of talent that has shamed us so, but their staggeringly overinflated sense of self importance. These are two young men who think the world owes them a living. They truly believe that they are talented - that they can sing and dance and perform on a world stage along with the best of them.
Their mammy has obviously never done them the very real favour of telling them to catch themselves on and concentrate on getting a day job (or at the very least not getting a thump for being perhaps two of the most annoying creatures on the planet).
You would have thought at the very least their mammy would have sorted out their hair. Which again brings me to the point that the UK’s viewing public - by dint of X-Factor and nothing else - now must believe we are all walking around this island with hairdos which make us look like demented Tellytubbies but for this, I also point the finger most firmly at Eoghan Quigg. Him and his £15 ‘Quiggy’ cut did us no favours, make no mistake.
Now I know the Xfactor is supposed to really be no more than a bit of craic, and that every year we know to expect one or two jokers in the pack. But one has to wonder why these jokers need to be Irish?
These baffoons may have the comedy factor but that is at odds with that the competition is supposed to be about - and that is finding real musical talent. I’m sure that John and Edward don’t consider themselves the big joke everyone else does - I’m sure they are skating along on their own wee planet congratulating themselves on making it to week three. I’m sure they were deeply proud of their absolutely cringe-inducing performance of ‘Oops I did it Again’ on Saturday night - complete with over-acted Titanic moment. It is perhaps unfair that at the age of 18 these youngsters are being thrown to the wolves like this - but then that would require me to feel sorry for them. And believe me, I don’t.
To me, and many, many others, the joke is just simply not funny. It never was. It was mildly amusing in a “look-at-the-state-of-that” way, but that was all.
These young men should have more self awareness. They should listen to themselves, look at themselves and catch themselves on.
And then they should do the exceptionally honourable thing by bowing out of the XFactor, signing up for a panto somewhere close to home and leaving the rest of us to get on with trying to save our reputations.

Random conversations with the boy

J: Mammy, am I a vegeman?
Me: A vegeman? What do you mean.
J: (frustrated) You know, a vegeman. My teacher is a vegeman. She told us at dinner.
Me: (doing some quick thinking) Do you mean a vegetarian?
J: Yes, that's it.
Me: Well a vegetarian is a person who only eats vegetables. (Wrong I know... but it was the end of a long day).
J: Well I eat vegetables, so that means I'm a vegeman.
Me: But you eat meat too.
J: Okay, well I'm a half a vegeman then.

Writing, writing, writing

In the final chapters of book 4.
Obsessed with it.
Talking to the characters in my head at all times.
Plotting scenes.
Getting inspiration.
Trying to get finished.

Blogging from the newsroom

I forget how to write news.
I'm staring at an article of approximately 350 words which is absolutely perfect length for a newspaper article and yet it feels too short.
Where is the mystery?
Where is the story arch?
Where is the key revelation in the last quarter?
Where is the love interest?
Am I doing too much telling and not showing?
Am I supposed to tell and not show? Or show and not tell? I forget.
Must write in really short and concise sentences.
Must not say feck. Or arse. Or other dodgy words.
Must not make witty observations about serious matters - not actually in the paper anyway.

I have been a journalist for 12 years and a writer of booky type things for 3 years. How can I not know this stuff? Pah!

Saturday night ponderings.

Sometimes I look at my son - and his wee legs which just dangle off the sofa cushions and no more and I feel exceptionally soppy
Does anything look as cute as tiny pair of trainers sat at the end of wee jeans while a boy draws brilliant pictures on a magnadoodle?

New review from author Mary Malone

And another lovely review for Jumping in Puddles is in!
Courtesy of author and reviewer, Mary Malone

Detta O’Neill returns to the Donegal Village of Rathinch, determined to help others in her hometown and make her existence matter. Guarding personal secrets closely, she sets up a support group for Lone Parents. Despite the chagrin and tut-tutting of nosey villagers, Detta’s weekly meetings become an escape for four people who, despite their differing circumstances, take solace in each other and share their innermost concerns.
Niamh Quigley is the envy of many. Her house is the biggest and fanciest in the parish, her two children are perfect miniatures of their parents and her kitchen – particularly her island which plays a significant part in her story – is to die for. But an unfortunate accident kills her husband, Sean, and Niamh is left numb and at variance with the world. Cleaning out her husband’s office forces her to look beyond the image Sean had portrayed and for the first time ever, she sees him for what he truly was – a lying, double-crossing cheat.
Ruth Byrne’s husband has run off with a much younger woman, leaving her to cope alone with three squabbling teenagers. But it’s not all bad and a small part of Ruth is relieved he’s gone. Joining the group for some adult conversation, she’s shocked to see ‘the younger woman’s’ husband is also in need of comfort and unlikely as it is, the two become firm friends.
Liam Dougherty’s mother is suffocating him ever since his wife left him and their daughter. Using the lone parents’ group as a means of weekly escape, he finds it difficult at first to divulge his feelings. He’s determined to win his wife back, seeing her affair as a temporary lapse. But spending time in the company of others shows him another side of life and makes him question the relationship he’d shared with his wife. For the first time in quite a while, Liam is contented.
Ciara Boyle is the youngest of the group. A single Mum at seventeen, she has kept the name of her baby’s father secret – even from her mum. Working in the local shop and serving her friends after school reminds Ciara about the choices her pregnancy forced her to make. And even though she finds it very tough going, she knows in her heart that her baby is worth every sacrifice. Meeting up with other single parents gives Ciara a purpose each week and she finds it easier to open up and take advice in the group environment.
All four and Detta find their lives become more and more entwined and soon the boundaries between group meetings and real friendship blur and their support goes to a much deeper level, dangerously close for a certain few.
Jumping In Puddles is a story tinged with personal grievance and sadness but Claire Allen’s natural ability to inject an appropriate amount of humour into the story - without undermining the seriousness of the trials of single parenting - adds warmth and enjoyment to every page.

We're oh so tired...

Everyone in the Allan household seems to be going through a serious bout of exhaustion just now.
By the time I finished work today I was as ratty as a bag of cats from tiredness and when I got to my mum's to pick up the children, they were also ratty. The husband (who does exist) was also grumblesome when we got home.
So the boy had a meltdown and I got him to bed promising to do his homework with him in the morning, while the girl has not even stirred since she went down which is very unlike here. I've had a shower and put my PJs on and am watching True Blood before hitting the hay myself.
So if I'm quiet, it's because I'm sleeping, or working or wanting to sleep at work.
Anyone have any hints for staying awake?

I started back to work today

And it was tough going.
It was one of those things that simply had to be done and I love my career, honestly.
But I don't think there is every anything as hard as walking away from your baby knowing that your precious devoted time together is over. Chances are - as I am definitely not planning on any more children - that there will never again be any prolonged time when I'm home with the girl and her brother.
Now it is devoting what time I can after work to them and today was tough. The wee woman (a complete nosey madam) refused to sleep for her auntie today so when hubby (who does exist) picked her up she was almost comatose. By the time I came home she was asleep and woke only very briefly for a quick cuddle before passing out again.
Quality time my hoop.


Anyway - I'm very tired and emotional about it all so will post no more. But they say the first day is the worst. Let's hope "they" are right.

The boy's latest obsession...

is with Star Wars. Here he is as a Jedi, in the Millennium Falcon. Thanks to his Uncle Peter for photoshopping skills.

The mystery of the baby socks

We all know that socks like to go missing. That's pretty much a truth universally acknowledged - Cecelia Ahern even wrote a book about it (in a kind of roundabout way) - but baby socks - they take this disappearing craic to a whole new level.
Since the girl was born seven months ago I have about approximately 26000 pairs of pink/frilly/patterned socks. By my reckoning she should have the best dressed feet in the Northern Hemisphere and yet this morning can I find a single matching pair?
No.
And I've emptied the washing machine, tumble drier and laundry hamper and hunted under the beds, and the cot and the bags of baby clothes she has already outgrown.
But there are none to be found. And it's a cold day.
And the baby is going to be barefooted - and cold.
And I'm going to have to spend yet more of my hard earned cash on socks.

I have a theory that when we eventually move out of this house - and empty it of all our possessions I will find 26000 socks somewhere having a party and looking at me like "What? We were here all the time, for the love of God woman."

Oh my God .... what an amazing review!

I'm actually in tears after reading this....from The Evening Herald (Dublin's biggest daily..)


I need a box of chocs and a girly story.
Look no further: a box of Lily O'Brien's best and Jumping in Puddles, the story of a group of lone parents in a Donegal village putting their lives back together.

Village full of gossip?
You have no idea. Ciara is 17 and won't tell anyone her baby's father's name -- not even her mam, who's helping her bring up the sprog. She has left school to work in the village shop, run by the local dragon.

Worst thing I can imagine.

Maybe, maybe not. Niamh is mourning her perfect husband. He's left her rich and living in their dream home, but she's shattered. And she is about to be more so.

And no one to talk to?

Until Niamh and Ciara -- and Ruth and Liam -- join Detta O'Neill's support group for lone parents, to the fascinated delight of the village. Ruth and Liam's spouses have run off with each other, by the way.

Yikes!

Liam is dead solid, an old-fashioned Irishman who likes his fried breakfast and his traditional values. All he wants is Laura back and his life the way it used to be.
Know the feeling.

Socially ambitious Laura and bossy bank official James, Ruth's ex, seem perfectly suited. But there's more to James than meets the eye. Ruth is a weepy, downtrodden type who's bullied by her bold strap of a teenage daughter, and worried about her sons.

Kids? These poor souls have kids?

The kids are the centre of the story -- the Loony Lone Parents (as they nickname themselves) grow into a strong group who help each other with their children and their changing lives.


Rattling good yarn?
If RTE has any sense, it will buy this and turn it into a fab series and sell it internationally.

Today I went shopping...

... and I'm trying not to feel guilty about buying some things for myself.
I do shop quite well - I'm quite the bargain hunter and have no problem at all buying stuff for my family or my house - but for me? Not so much.
However having just had some unexpected money come my way (just a wee touch mind...) I decided to treat myself to some things.
So I bought the new Melissa Hill novel and the new novel by Sharon Owens, which I can't wait to read. And then I bought a Kimmidoll which is a gorgeous wee thing which is very girly and not at all useful but she is said to promote self belief. And I love the notion of treating myself to something like this - my writer friend Keris treats herself to something similar for every book. So, this doll represents Jumping in Puddles.
And then I bought a lovely purple dress. Which makes me look about 6 months pregnant - but considering I look 8 months pregnant in everything else that's no bad thing.

Ah Strictly....

Yes, I have a favourite already... *swoon*

And just another plug...

For those who haven't bought Jumping in Puddles - here is the blurb

When Detta O'Neill returns to Rathinch - a village in Donegal - she is determined to make a difference. Bringing together four lone parents for a support group which has the old biddies of the village scandalised, she tries her best to build bridges and forge friendships among her charges.
Niamh Quigley's dream of a perfect life in the country was cut cruelly short with the death of her husband Seán. A woman on the verge of meltdown but with a kitchen island you might just kill for she has to find her way again without the man she never thought could hurt her.
Ruth Byrne was left high and dry when her husband ran off with a younger woman. But could his desertion have been a blessing in disguise for Ruth and her children?
Liam Dougherty doesn't think so. His wife is the younger woman in question and he would do anything to win her back ... or would he?
Which leaves teen mum Ciara Boyle. Everyone is just dying to know who the father of her child is, but does she have a good reason for keeping her secret to herself? Apart from being parents, can the group find anything in common? Can they find happiness and confidence again? And can Detta really make the difference she wants to make?

It's been a crazy few days

And I'm very, very tired and trying to plot ways to give my house a face lift before Christmas on a very limited budget.
I wish I had the interior design skills of Aoife and Beth from Feels Like Maybe - but I'm just a wannabe.

That said, my big task for the next few days is to try and clear out the boy's toys that he no longer plays with and give them to the charity shop or the dump - but of course I made the fatal mistake of telling him about this plan. Even though he now thinks Bob the Builder is for "bibbies" he does not want to part with his precious toys - and now he will watching them like a hawk.
I'm going to have to be extra, extra sneaky methinks.

Yer wan off the telly...

Just so y'all know I'll be on TV3 on Wednesday, October 7 at 11am on The Morning Show.

Non-Irish fans/ readers/ nose-bags can view it online after 12 noon on the Watch Again link at
www.tv3.ie/themorningshow

I don't think I could love them more if I tried

I know it's early to say this.... but book 4

All Annie Delaney really wants is her happy ever after. A big dress. A big day. A big commitment. She even has a scrap book filled to bursting with ideas for her dream day, her dream home and – of course – her dream man.



Only problem is, the current man on her arm isn’t so much of a dream as a nightmare and as for the man currently in her bed… that’s a whole other disaster in the making.


With her relationship, and her life, heading into a tailspin Annie realises she has re-examine just what can make her happy, while trying (and failing) not to make things worse.


But it’s never going to be easy – especially when she sees her friend Fionn heading straight towards her own big day with her Mr Right. But then Annie misjudges the difficulties Fionn faces with Mr Right’s very own Little Miss, not to mention the ex waiting in the wings.


Turning to her sister, Darcy, for support Annie has her eyes opened to just what can make you happy – or indeed make you sad. And she ponders that age old question – is there such a thing as the perfect relationship?

The universe says nice things to me...

Today's pearl

You're ready, Claire, to take this show wherever your heart desires.

Damn right I am!

Go forth and feel guilty...

So in less than two weeks time I will officially be re-entering the world of full time working - my maternity leave drawing to a swift close.
I've been off work for 8 months but working, in some capacity, for most of that - be it writing my column, writing my novels or trying to generate publicity. (And contrary to the beliefs of the husband who does actually exist - it is in fact 'work' - not a hobby, or an interest. It doesn't stop being work just because I enjoy it...)
But in two weeks time I'm back to the 9-5 (or the 9-6) and that means, if you believe all you read in the papers  my darling children are hooped. I might as well buy them extra large clothes just now and start stocking up on supplies of insulin and burgers (or something).
Now, this is where I get annoyed. And I know there are those out there who say that the article is actually useful research and will maybe prompt the government to accept that mothers have a valuable role to play in the home (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha..... yes, I thought that was funny too) but the truth is it just feels like another stick to beat working mothers with.
We do our best. I have to work, if I'm to put any food (healthy or otherwise) on my childrens' table. If I want to pay for football club or swimming lessons, or buy a new bike or scooter then I HAVE TO WORK. If I want my child to benefit from such basics as a roof over his/her head, clean clothes and shoes that fit then I HAVE TO WORK.
And I have to work long hours. The industry I work in is not famed for its family friendly approach to working - and while my bosses are as accommodating as possible, I still have to work round deadlines and publication slots and such things and that means I can't walk to school in the mornings. (I chose a school close to my work so I could be there for my son if he needed me during the day - and that means school is 5 miles from our house so not the average morning stroll anyway). It means I can't be home at 4.30 to prepare an organic feast and that I'm not always available for a trip to the park for a run-a-round.
But I (and the husband who does exist) do the best we can to provide a healthy and well rounded upbringing for our children.
So how about these researchers turn their attentions away from working mothers for a change and instead research the impact of a government which does not financially support the right of a mother (or father) to stay at home and parent their children?

Following on from an email I had from a reader...

I'm very, very sorry if my use of the word "feck" offended you. I promise I will try harder.
But thank you for reading and letting me know what you thought - and indeed that you liked the book apart from that.

But it did remind me of this... if I can be so bold...

Random conversations with the boy - part a jillion

So the boy pulled a muscle in his neck this morning and couldn't move his head without screaming out in pain. My heart was breaking into a million pieces for him as there was nothing I could but offer Calpol and some heat to the muscle.
He steadfastly refused both and started to dose off again, only to wake and say

J: "Mammy, mammy, I want some pasta."
Me: "Pasta? Are you sure?"
J: "No, no, not pasta. That other thing.... Calpol..."

So ....eep! The scariness gets scarier

I'm more scared of how JiP will do than I was about any of my other books. I think with RD&T I had no expectations at all. I wanted FLM to just do as good as RD&T (and it did a little better) but with this one, I just want it to do something.
I am acutely aware of how competitive the market is out there and I hope my last two books have given me enough of a readership for Jumping in Puddles to make an impact.
It's not about money, or fame - just about being read and enjoyed and maybe a chart position.
Prozac at the ready folks.. a double dose.

I survived Dublin

And I didn't throw up. Which was good. It was definitely much better than this time last year....
And I signed lots of books and smiled and talked the talk and walked the walk, and ate in a very nice restaurant in Malahide (which I now only hear in my head in a big Dublin accent).
Jumping in Puddles is selling well in it's first week - the first review is in and it's lovely and things are getting set for the rest of my career.
One lovely bookseller (Helen in Easons at one of the M50 stores) even very kindly told me I was already a big name.Which I thought was very kind of her indeed.
And then I came home - and my boy almost imploded with excitement at seeing me. The girl, on the other hand. seems set on making me suffer for daring to leave her. It's gonna be a long 18 years.

Things that I have learned today

• That I can drive to Dublin without the aid of a Sat Nav and only get lost once - which is half the amount of times I got lost when I drove with the Sat Nav.
• That I really, really can't sing.
• That James Taylor's 'Fire and Rain' has mucho two many key changes and I sound particularly bad when singing it.
• That Natasha Beddingfield's 'Unwritten' remains the perfect song to listen to when on the book promo trail.
• That I can forget an inordinate amount of things in my car and have to go back to said car (in the bowels of a big car park, far away from my room) at least three times.
• That my agent is still a big fan. (Thank feck for that.)
• That hopefully other people will be big fans too.
• That I actually have no understanding of the value of a Euro and could be very easily ripped off and not know.
• That even fat calf boots are not entirely wide enough for my fat calves.
• That hotel hairdryers are shite - which is only compensated for by the joy of a power shower.

This is the scary part

... Knowing that the book is "out there" and waiting to see if people like it.
It's the same kind of feeling I get every day when the boy goes to school and I wait patiently to see if he has behaved for the teacher and done all the work he should.
It's not a nice feeling. It's a kind of sick feeling.
Through everything - housework, baby-looking-after, planning for my trip to Dublin, I am paralysed by the thought that somebody, somewhere just might be reading it. I want to visit them all, and knock on their door and explain the bits they don't get, or nod when they say a bit made them cry, or just beg them to like it.(bribery is not out of the question).
Eek!

In other news - my washing machine is allegedly fixed. We didn't get a new one but from what the repair man said, he basically replaced every part of it apart from one screw or something...but it's still only a repair.
We shall see - I have yet to build up the courage to switch the thing on and leave the room. It could be a long winter spent in the kitchen watching the washing machine...

Smile - you're on not so candid camera

So yesterday, in our first move for a new publicity campaign championing the very best of Northern Irish writing talent I went to the village of Donaghmore for a photoshoot with fellow authors Emma Heatherington and Fiona Cassidy.
I'm not who is comfortable in front of the camera - the fact that both the other girls are short and thinner than me (Emma is a total vamp, seriously... gorgeous) didn't help. In fact I felt like the BFG in their company.
But the craic was good - we laughed, we talked publishing, we teased each other about our books (Mine is bigger than theirs, just so as you know) and I learned the best lesson of the day.
The photographer was a very lovely man called Jim Hamill and as I tried to suck in my (considerable) belly and complained of same he looked at me, straight faced and said "At the end of the day, it's not about the belly" - and I'm making that my motto from now on, just so as you know.

Anyway - the pics are fab and we Northern girls are ready to take on the world.
Watch this space!

A surreal day

Today was the official day that Jumping in Puddles was release - of course that doesn't actually mean it is in every shop - just that today is the day it was released from a warehouse in Baldoyle to make its merry way into the book shops around the country.
Release days are strange - you wake feeling all excited and then the day pans out pretty much as other days do. Except today will always go down in history as the day my book came out and my (new) washing machine almost caught on fire.
Now before I launch into a rant about my new washing machine and its combustibility (is that a word?) I should say I am grateful that I'm okay - that we are all okay because it could have gone very, very wrong.
This morning I loaded the machine at 4am. I do this sometimes in a fit of OCD insomnia but for some reason I decided not to switch it on - which I normally would and had planned to do so that I could hang the towels out first thing.
Instead I went back to bed and didn't put the machine on til 11. I pottered about, thinking about book launches and such things, and looking after the baby before taking her upstairs for her midday nap.
Now normally, if I can, I would have a wee lie down beside her for this nap and close my eyes but I knew I had things to do so I lay with her til she fell asleep before making my way downstairs.
Which was filled with steam - belching out of my machine. While there was also a foul and mysterious (rubber burning, laundry detergent, dampy icky) odour and when I touched the machine I almost  burned the hand off myself.
This was NOT GOOD. I was pretty sure this was not meant to happen. And when I touched the detergent drawer and it felt off in my hands - kind of melted and warped and all out of shape I kind of freaked.
The whole thing was turned off - just as the water boiled (yes actually bubbled) in front of the wee glass door and I phoned the machine company to rant.
They are sending an engineer. And engineer will be feck all use when it comes to remoulding plastic and I do not trust the machine any more because if I had switched the fecker on at 4am we could have been burned in our beds. If I had gone to sleep beside the baby, as I normally do, we could have been burned in our beds.
Burned in our beds is not my idea of a nice time.
In fact if I were to make a list of things I never ever want to do, I would say being burned in my bed would be right up there.
I fear a battle brewing ...

And when I went into town later, my book wasn't in the shops yet.

70,000 words down

Phew!

So this week I HAVE A NEW BOOK OUT!!!

Yes, the release of Jumping in Puddles has been brought forward and it will be starting its arrival into the shops from this weekend.
I got my author copies on Monday and what a thing of beauty they were. I actually think it's the "best looking" book of my three and I would read it if I picked it up (of course, I would say that, wouldn't I?).

Anyway, it really is very good so if you want to read please do so!
Thanking you kindly.

What a swell party that was

So on Friday night I went out. Like proper out. To a place that was not A) A school or B) a baby clinic.
I went out with a proper handbag. It is shiny and purple and gorgeous and I felt all enamoured with myself because it didn't even have one nappy in it. Not one. And no dummies, or bibs, or jars of  mush or random Lego figures or Ben Ten toys.
It had  a purse, some keys, some lip gloss (I remember lip gloss!) and a mobile phone. If someone had stolen it there would have been not one clue that I'm a mammy. Instead I was just a woman. Wearing lipgloss.
And clothes which didn't smell of baby sick.
I went to restaurant with my mum, my aunts and my lovely granny whose birthday it was. And I ate lovely food (tobacco onions, yum!) and had the craic and then I went to my aunt's house where my cousin was celebrating her engagement and I sat there until ..... wait for it..... 3.30am!
Yes, I was awake to 3.30 in the morning AND IT WASN'T BECAUSE A BABY WAS MAKING ME STAY AWAKE!
I was drinking (wine, wine and fizzy wine) and having yet more craic and talking with my cousin's intended who wasn't one bit (obviously) bored by my wittering on about writing and then. because my husband (who does exist) is lovely I was allowed a "dirty stop out" pass and I went back to my mum's where I slept in her spare room and woke up when I wanted to and not at all just because a baby was going meh wah meh wah at 3am (when I was slightly three sheets to the wind anyway).
So I'm delighted to announce that I am in effect still a human being and not just a mammy. And while I love the mammydom- I love the purple handbag wearing, lipgloss slicking on, wine drinking, stop-outing me perhaps as much.

It has come to my attention...

That some people are not actually sure whether or not I have a husband as I don't mention him all that often.
Now, for the record, I do. I've been married for eight years to a man who puts up with all my madness, is a great daddy to our two kids and who works very hard to provide for his family.
He has been my rock over the last year through a very difficult pregnancy and early days with the wee woman.
From the moment I saw him, 12 years ago, I knew he would be someone special to me and he is.
Sure we have our disagreements but we are together and going strong.

The reason the Mr doesn't get mentioned all that much here is that he's a shy sort. And I used to talk about him a lot - which prompted his friends/ family etc to phone him up and rib him no end. So I kind of don't talk about him too much (apart from a recent article for the Belfast Telegraph in which he is mentioned in perhaps too intimate a detail).
But yes, I'm married. And he's lovely. And I love him.

Reasons why you shouldn't blog while sligthtly tipsy

• You will most likely have a few typos
• You have to have to keep re-reading your psot post to correct mistakes (or not... spot the deliberate error)
• You will wonder why the V and the B key on your keyboard have decided to swap places..
• You will worry that that what you are saying is a pile o'shite
• It probably is
• At least you aren't gusging huushing gushing about your wains/ husband/ friends/ lovely people at Poolbey Poolbeg
• You will forget why ou syous you started this in the first place
• You will lose all inhibitions (Bum, arse, feck, boob).
• You will regret it in the morning

It's oh so freezing...

Lovely and sunny here in Derry but by crunchie, it's cold.
I'm sat here curled up in my big cardi usually only worn outside and there are icicles forming on my fingers as I type.
I've packed away my summery sandals and am back in sensible boots and warm socks and I'm on the hunt for the perfect winter coat and long boots to wear with tights and heavy skirts and scarves.
I'll be getting the gloves out soon too for driving - if only I could remember where they are.

Ah Autumn.... don'tcha just love it?

Stolen from Sharon - a few of my favourite things

Band: I don't think I have a favourite. I have reached that age where I no longer know what is cool.

Song: Stevie Wonder - Signed, Sealed, Delivered.

Pop Quote: "Yours is the first face that I saw. I think I was blind before I met you." from Bright Eyes - either that or that Bluffin with my Muffin line from Lady Gaga for the comedy value.

Live Act: I know this is cringeworthy, but Westlife. (I know, you no longer respect me, do you?)

Celebs I fancy: Hugh Laurie, and of the men folk in Grey's Anatomy or Private Practice - esp McDreamy, Dermot 'the eyebrow' Murnaghan.

Secret pop song I love: Shocked by Kylie Minogue

Song that makes me cry: Too many, but Sharon's answer reminded me of  Don't Give Up by Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush

Clothes: Jeans, heels, tailoured T-shirts and nice jewellery

Colour: Purple

Handbag: My new purple one which my sister bought me for my return to work.

Magazine: What else but Tik a Brik?

Perfume: Thierry Mugler's Alien or Chanel Number 5

Drink: Pinot Grigio

Actor: What the hell, you no longer respect me after Westlife, so I admit it's Sandra Bullock.

Food: Hot buttered plain bread toast

TV: House, Grey's, Private Practice, Desperate Housewives, Secret Millionaire, Strictly.

TV Character: Lynette in Desperate Housewives - so resourceful and grounded. Phoebe in Friends - free spirited. And Blacche in Corris is hilarious.

Tea or Coffee: Tea.

Biscuits: Chocolate hobnobs.

Crisps: Tayto Cheese and Onion - the crisp that keeps on giving.

Weirdest Dream: I have a recurring dream that I find out I never cancelled the lease on my old flat/ house and owe 13 years of rent - but the flat/ house has all my old belongings still in it and I get to discover them again. Would love to know what the hell that's about.

And it goes a little something like this...

• 2am: Baby wakes. I get up, replace dummy, stumble back to bed.
• 4am: Baby wakes. I nudge the husband. He gets up, replaces dummy, stumbles back to bed.
• 6am: Am paralysed by notion that this is my last hour of sleep. Therefore cannot sleep. Every snuffle from the baby makes me more awake. Lift pillows, leave room and crawl in beside the boy while trying to make sure I wake up before the alarm so that it doesn't wake the baby.
• 7ish: Get up as I'm physically, if not mentally, now wide awake.
• 7.30ish: Get the boy up and start the morning "Please, please, please just get ready for school routine" while hubby feeds the baby and does early morning nappy duty (which usually saves me from the first poop of the day).
• 8.30: Leave house for school run. Takes too long. Get wet in inevitable 9am downpour. You could set your watch by it.
• 9.15: Get home, clean - bottles, washing, hoovering (baby is napping at this stage... I envy her).
• 10.15: Sit down to write.
• 10.20am: Baby wakes up. Needs fed. And changed. And entertained. And encouraged to sit upright and learn new skills.
• 12noon: Baby becomes tired and cranky but it's too close to lunchtime for her to give into sleep without being fed so I dole out some home cooked mush and heat it, hoping she won't turn her little cute nose up at it or move her head in such a manner that her nose is blocked with all the mush.
• 12.45pm Clean mush out of screaming baby's nose.
• 1pm: Try to convince over tired baby to GO TO SLEEP!
• 1.15pm: Sit down to write.
• 1.20pm: Start fielding calls from family members wanting to order a taxi from Claire's Taxis/
• 2.30pm: Baby wakes, taxi gets loaded, messages are done.
• 5pm: Load baby with more mush - and toast, which I then have to pick up in soggy lumps from around her high chair. Then go and collect the boy and do his homework and make sure he is fed - not mush, thankfully.
• 7pm: Try to encourage the husband to take break from work to help with the tag-team bed/ bath routine. Start to feel twitchy and crave some wine.
• 8pm. The Girl sleeps!
• 8.30pm: Read 'The Wobbly Jelly Hunt' for the 25000 time... and then the boy sleeps.
• 8.55pm: Dishes, washing, hoovering, packing lunches, ironing school uniform.
• 9.45pm: Sit down to write. Remember have not actually eaten anything since lunch time. Too tired to cook so eat unhealthy chocolatey thingummy. Write 6 words. Pat self on back. Collapse in coma.

Random Conversations with the Boy - continued

Let it be a lesson to you all - never point out your grey hairs to a five year old with a death obsession.

"Mammy, is this is the start of you getting to be a very old woman? Are you just an ordinary old woman now? I don't like that. Your face will start to look scary and I'll have to move out."

Oh how I love this moment

There comes a time in the writing of each book when the last line pops into my head.
I always kind of know what I want my characters to achieve but I don't always know how I'm going to get them there. I've been crucified with writers' block (which sounds like a bad dose of constipation) for the last few days and my usual tactic of going for a wee lie down and a think hasn't been working - mostly because I keep falling asleep as soon as my head hits a pillow.
But this morning as I wrote, it became clear and it's going to be fab. And the last line is just waiting to be written (in approximately 44,000 words time... eep!)  but now at least I know exactly where Annie is going and there are going to be more than a few laughs along the way.
I don't think I have enjoyed writing a book as much as this one!

And on another note - many thanks and a big hello to all the new readers of this blog! Nice to see you!

So the clinic...

... is a very strange place indeed. I arrived just before 10 and was led to a small room mostly filled with men, which worried me a little as it very definitely the breast clinic.
Shortly thereafter I was invited through to another room where I was given a very fetching hideous blue gown to wear. I had strip to my waist, let the puppies hang free and put the gown on backwards for easy access.
I was then directed to yet another waiting room - this time with no other men but loads, and I mean loads, of women all wearing the same blue gown. This made me feel incredibly sad. Playing the simple statistics someone in that room was going to get bad news - it was like a really dodgy version of Deal or No Deal, except with boobs... and no money.
I looked around at each woman and wondered what her story was. There were women of every age, every boob size and each had a vaguely terrified look on their face though we tried to cover it all up by laughing along with the Jeremy Kyle show on the telly.
I watched as each woman was called one after the other and led away into smaller rooms before coming back, or leaving. It seemed the more times you came back to the room, the more tests you were likely to have.
I was called out, and led to a small room where a kind doctor with thankfully warm hands was waiting to examine me. He asked a few questions, had a quick feel and said that while it was probably hormonal I would maybe want to have a mammogram.
And while I didn't really want to have my breasts squashed in a vice like X-ray machine, I did want to leave the clinic with a definitive answer.
So I went back to the waiting room, and waited and then was called to a side room where a very lovely little nurse squished my boobs into all sorts of weird shapes until they hurt and took X-rays.
And it was back to the waiting room.
Of course being the drama drawers that I am, I then convinced myself that even if the lump I had felt was nothing to be concerned about that there might be something more sinister lurking out of my immediate reach. (I read far too much Tik a Brik, you see... where people always fine something more sinister lurking out of their immediate reach).
Ten minutes, which felt a little like ten hours, passed before I was called in and told I was all clear. Yes, there is thickening of the breast tissue. No, it isn't anything serious. No, it doesn't require treatment and yes, I could go home with my mind at rest.
I degowned, dressed, cast one last look at the women still waiting and offered a wee prayer for them and then I walked outside and burst into tears.
I'm okay and I am beyond grateful for that.

A day early but.... Happy Half Birthday Baby Girl!

Dear gorgeous precious baby girl,
You have turned my life around. From the moment I first touched the top of your head as you were being born you had me entirely.
From the second you were placed in my arms I knew that I would do anything and everything to protect you, care for you, love you and raise you to be a strong, confident and happy young woman.
You were born into a family filled with love - a mammy and daddy who adore you, a brother who worships you and a host of aunties, uncles, grandparents and cousins who see you only as the gorgeous angel that you are.

I have never known a baby to be so happy - to smile so constantly. I have also never known one so young to talk so much - you have been babbling from just a few weeks old and it's constant (and loud) stream of chatter from morning to night.

One look at you brings on a smile that would light up the world - I hope you never forget that my darling, how your smile can change things for the better.

And when you sleep, your wee hands pressed together as if you are saying your prayers, you make my heart swell with love and pride.

It has been a joy to get to know you these last six months - and I can't wait for happens next - to see your personality grow, your chatter turn into proper little words, your smile grow more beautiful.

Thank you for being my most precious little princess.
Love always,

Mammy

x

There's a reason I love this fugly photo

First of all there is a thumb in the corner.

And I have at least three chins.

And a very, very, VERY fat face.

It is not a flattering photo - even though it was taken on the one day this year when I was full on glammed up for my sister's wedding.

It is, in fact, on first glance an ugly picture.

But I'm smiling the person who took the photo and I can see the love and joy in my eyes and the warmth of my smile for the photographer.

And the photographer, whose thumb you see at the corner of the picture, is my boy. And I hope he sees that smile (but not the chins) every time he looks at me.

Well, the appointment is on Friday

I'm to bring a friend, and allow two hours for various procedures and tests.
I do not like the word "procedure". I have a sinking feeling it will involve my right boob, a squishy mammogram machine, perhaps a needle and maybe some gentle prodding.
Now I'm all for gentle prodding in the right circumstances... but not by a stranger wearing latex gloves and staring at me intently. (And yes, I am fully aware that there are people out there who would pay for that.)

I have a calmness around me now. I know that things will most likely be just fine.
And I will be drinking the largest bottle of wine on Friday night to get over it all.