This post is taken from a prompt on social media from my wonderful coach, Nicola Washington @toomuchsocial, as part of a seven day share for authors in the process of writing a book.

Just a little video of me being very silly!

You know that lovely heart-vibrating feeling you get when go somewhere and feel a sense of belonging, a sense of connection, of deep resonance? I always get that feeling when I arrive in Spain. I’ll literally get off the plane and feel the twitch of a smile.

Elsewhere, I might get it when I see something beautiful, or when I’m alone, sitting quietly with my thoughts, and a warm tingling floods my body, like a massive wave of clarity and wonder. I might get a few tears, or goosebumps, or butterflies, or feel thoroughly warm and fuzzy.

I wrote Just Like a Movie at a difficult time of my life. To cope with all the heavy stuff that was happening around me, I’d retreat into my office. I’d put on a Café del Mar CD, turn on the computer and escape to Ibiza to have fun with Gemma and her wonderful girlfriends, joining them on all kinds of crazy, hilarious adventures. I based the character of Emilio Caliente on my own pop idol, Ricky Martin.

When I realised on Saturday morning that any big business was looking a little risky, I decided to see if our friendly neighbours might have a couple of loo rolls to spare. As luck had it, they’d just made a big Waitrose order and had accidentally ordered two packets of Andrex’s softest, so we were more than welcome to take one of them.

I plopped an exhausted finger onto the remote control and was instantly zapped back to life by a young man with a gasp-inducing combination of cheeky-angelic good looks, enviable hip-mobility, and an ability to flirt with the camera that probably taught the Supermodels of the time a thing or two.

Ricky and I have been on a first name basis ever since.

What a morning! There is a big literary festival taking place in Morges, a lakeside town not far from where I live. I’ve never had the opportunity to go before, but I was free today and had seen on the program that there were many incredible authors there signing books, including Joyce Maynard and Jonathan Coe. And since it was the most gorgeous, warm, blue and yellow, day, I drove over after breakfast, while listening to  the first two chapters of Joyce Maynard’s latest book, The Bird Hotel.

If “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word” comes on the radio, where are you? Who does it remind you of? Me, I’m sixteen years old, self-combusting at the wonder of being asked to slow dance by the boy I’ve had a crush on for months. Oh, listen, now it’s “Hotel California”! What emotions do you associate with this legendary song?

Just Like a Movie. Oh, what a fun title! But…which movie? What kind of movie? I made a little video to give you a flavour of the book…

“SOS!” I yelped at the shop assistant, pulling on my ABBA tee-shirt. “My daughter is getting married in three hours and I have nothing to wear but this.” She blinked at me, clearly flummoxed by such shopping inadequacy in the face of such a monumental occasion.

the last time I heard the whoosh of a shooting star was circa 1983 at the Esalen Institute hot tubs in Big Sur, California... but I hadn't been drinking herbal tea and eating ice cream back then. I'm guessing the 2023 soundtrack is pretty similar if you partake in what it takes. At least I like to think so.

And then the driver, a man, reached an arm over his door and flicked a cigarette butt onto the road.

What the….?

There are times in life when we need to reinvent ourselves. It’s never straightforward, and it’s often painful.

On my back way down, I saw a beautiful fox strolling through a freshly cut wheat field and once again paused, watching him, even attempting to take a couple of photos with my phone. Then I stood quietly, taking in all the different colours and patterns merging into each other: the prickly golden stubs of cut wheat, the deep green of the elegant cornfield, the trees and the mountains and the crazy clouds in a schizophrenic sky.

This is for all the Supermamas out there. The struggle is real and I remember it well. You deserve awards and medals for all that you do!

Probably the craziest idea I had this week (and possibly, depending on the outcome, the worst ever) was to turn the shower cabinet at the top of the house into a greenhouse for starting off basil, courgettes and tomatoes! Nobody ever uses the upstairs shower, and we don’t have an outside greenhouse, and I can’t just go to a garden centre and buy plants, so I figured I’d try something different.  I ordered seeds online, and then planted the seeds in old plastic trays from previous trips to the garden centre. There’s a window over the shower cabinet up here so there’s plenty of light. I don’t know whether it will work, but I thought it was worth a try. I just have to be extra careful that the drain doesn’t get clogged with soil. Can you imagine? That would suck!!!! 

My son Greg said something the other day that made Cedric and I laugh. He said that when he wakes up in the morning, he enjoys a couple of blissful seconds of normality before reality kicks in: “Oh yeah. Coronavirus. Shit!” Of course, it was the way he said it, in a deep, growly voice that made us laugh, because it really isn’t funny at all. Life right now is like a horror version of  “Groundhog Day”, the film made years ago starring Bill Murray. It’s “Coronavirus Day”, day in, day out, no respite. I liked the version with Bill and the cute furry animal much better.

Nevertheless, whenever I think about the moment when Greg said “Oh yeah. Coronavirus. Shit!”, it makes me smile just a little.

So potent was this combination of words and ironing, that once I’d emptied the basket, I went into the bathroom and pulled all the towels and bath rugs out of the cupboard. Then I spent time folding them all identically, sorted them into categories, and put them away again, all neat and tidy and perfect.

I don’t think anyone in our household has noticed this remarkable event yet, but when they do I think someone might come after me brandishing a thermometer. 

 Later, quietly contented by the satisfying sight of an empty ironing basket, I sat in the living room, enjoying the silence, watching the ducks pootle around the pond. A local heron paid us a visit and spent hours majestically paddling around at the far end, taking gourmet liberties with the poor goldfish. Cedric channelled his inner David Attenborough, finding the best angles to film these aquatic antics. It’s rare to see the heron in our garden, especially for prolonged periods of time, and I’m certain his presence is directly related to the virtual absence of outside human activity. There’s also far less noise pollution than usual; fewer cars on the roads, fewer trains. Flights in and out of nearby Geneva airport have practically ceased. It’s wild.

It was mayhem. People with masks, people with gloves, people with no masks, no gloves. The people with gloves definitely couldn’t give a toss about anyone else, acting like warlords and gladiators as they ran around, swerving, ramming, grabbing. I sucked in my tummy, rounded my shoulders, and tried to stay out of the way while still being rapidly efficient. In  case you’re wondering, there was no toilet paper, but that didn’t matter as we’ve got plenty. What sucked was that there were practically no cleaning products left, and I’m out of bleach. Oh well. I settled for an extra serving of dish-washing tabs.