My pièce de résistance is probably a toss-up between tuna pasta and stew. We have only been lying low for a couple of weeks, but I have already received a few pointed comments wrapped in sarcasm and drizzled with a little innuendo.
I have more cookery books than I have ever cooked anything sensational, so I’ve no excuse, and I am making an effort.
During my supine week, the fug in my head made it difficult to process most things, let alone finish the edit. I did still retain the brainpower to operate the TV remote, but everything I watched made me cry.
As the cogs start to turn and 2019 rolls into 2020, changes are afoot here at Lost Blogs. It will be a new chapter in the life of this pantser-style blog, as its creator evolves into the Plotter she always knew she should be.
My parents always celebrated Bonfire Night with much enthusiasm, and I’ve been terrified of fireworks all my life. So I can’t think they repeatedly kept the tradition going for my benefit, but I seem to remember enjoying the Parkin though.
I think we might have celebrated Halloween a boarding school but there are no memories of carving pumpkins ingrained in my mind. The dormitories were housed in a building first erected in the 16th Century. As with most creepy old houses, well-crafted stories of ghouls and ghosties roaming around the corridors at night probably put us off celebrating Halloween, as it might have felt a bit too close to home.
I am grateful to Word Press for introducing me to Grammarly.
I have been resisting the temptation to buy it and download it onto my Mac, having successfully convinced myself that I would buy it as some sort of reward after I
a) Got shortlisted for a competition or
b) Found myself an agent
I’ve been stockpiling again, but not in anticipation of a no-deal Brexit, which may, or may not, happen in 10 days’ time. At 7.30p.m last night, a lorry load of our annual supply of perfectly dry logs was offloaded outside our garage.
We have been benefitting from this arrangement for about five years and have always taken a cavalier approach to the storing and stacking of the logs, which we always do as soon as the load arrives and involves a considerable amount of physical exertion.
And when you reach that woman of a certain age status, you’re body is hijacked by menopausal madness. Suddenly you’re itchy, bitchy, sweaty, sleepy, bloated and psycho as your oestrogen levels plummet.
I’m part way through Ruby Wax’s book How To Be Human and many things have already resonated with me, apart from enjoying the fluid, funny and fulfilling way she writes when tackling sensitive subjects. Chapter 3, Emotions has really drawn me in. I have always been fascinated by our emotions Continue Reading
Whilst on safari, I lost weight fairly quickly and it wasn’t just to do with the heat. After enjoying a sundowner watching impala gambol happily in the bush, we would return to camp to find them on the dinner menu, which was just too hard to swallow. The only time I have ever been offered a gin and tonic for breakfast at 5.00a.m. was on safari and it was the only time I have ever refused one, sensibly realising I was getting enough quinine in my anti-malarial tablets.
It was hot and steamy on the makeshift dance floor as I swilled what I thought was a lot of bitter lemon with a little gin, but the bitter lemon disguised a lethal cocktail of various spirits. With my sound system set to max volume, Tina Turner’s Nutbush City Limits began to sound hollow and distant as my surroundings blurred and my speech slurred. I managed to make it upstairs to the bathroom where, kneeling in front of the lavatory, I projectile vomited the fermenting brew inside my stomach.
What was going on in my teenage brain is unfathomable to me now. I was driven by the overwhelming desire to be expelled so I could spend more time with my dog and my horse.The only teacher that had any control over me was my English teacher, but only from the day, he asked us to write a poem. I wrote hundreds, then moved on to short stories which he helped me get published and I became more focused and a little less defiant.
By the time I was twelve, I had been at boarding school for a year and had become a bit of a comedienne. I was the classroom joker, not the brightest thing to be, but I was fuelled by an inner rebellion, which I seemed unable to subdue. So, I took my anger out on the system.
Memories of scooping up deceased rodents in the past are ingrained in my olfactory memory banks. Still in my pyjamas, I retch my way to the field, the final resting place of the victims of my killer cat(s).
A crackling log fire reminds me of many things. Loved-up evenings on the sofa in front of a crackling fire binge watching box sets and eating a ridiculous amount of chocolate, without realising it. My childhood, growing up in an age before Social Media, playing cards in front of the fire during long winter evenings; my big brother and parents always let me win. As someone who functions much better during the summer months, a burning fire makes the winter bearable, it is the pumping heart of a home.
My father met my mother outside the pub during a meet of the foxhounds and the rest, as they say, including me, is history.
I’m in the process of editing the fifth re-write of my novel in progress so there is no better time to give it a kick up the plotline and I cannot think of any better way to stimulate my creative juices than to spend a day in the company of:
It was love, not lust, because I missed him every second we were apart. Counting the days and hours until he returned every weekend. I spent a year in that dreamy lovesick state of mind, until I found out from a friend that the love of my life was living with someone else during the week.
Cassie The Blog Dog and I have just been for a walk. Cassie to burn off some her exuberant joie de vivre and me to burn off the calories and the after effects of last night’s plummy little Merlot. The sun was out, albeit a watery glow in the sky. I walked and she tore through the fields like a gazelle about to go into orbit. She is a joy to watch and I wish I had an nth of her va va voom.
Jersey – the island I know and love as home – with its foggy reputation.
Pumped up by the blitz spirit solidarity shared with my fellow Strandees over the last 3 hours, I start throwing my defiant weight around and making myself generally unpopular with the airport staff, who are doing their best, given that there are other passengers still hanging around whose flights were cancelled a couple of hours before ours.
From my Life to Date and How I’ve Survived It Collection of Stories A few years ago one of my Australian cousins spent some considerable time tracing my father’s side of the family back to 860. I’m not quite sure how she managed to establish that we are all descendants of Continue Reading