And sometimes, just for fun, I have a go at writing poetry. This came in a few minutes from a prompt proposed by Beth Kempton.

This particular excerpt is special to me because, although nothing in this book is based on my parents’ life, whenever I think of it I feel a tightening in my chest. I suppose it could be the father’s (Nikos) speech patterns, or possibly subconscious memories of my Italian grandparents. I had no intention of digging it out of my hard-drive today because I was busy working on my current WIP. But somehow I got side-tracked, sucked into it, and ended up fiddling with old words for a couple of hours. Which is probably just a waste of time, really. Nevertheless, I’m glad I did, because it brought me a wonderfully soothing feeling of nostalgia. Signorina Giuseppina is not the title of the manuscript, just the name of one of the minor characters in the story who nevertheless plays an important role. I had set out to write a sweeping, epic, romantic love story set between England, Sicily and Ithaca, Greece. The manuscript currently lives in a drawer. Once I’ve finished my current WIP I might go back to it… I don’t know.

Maybe you’ll enjoy this excerpt. Let me know.

I don’t know if I’ve been living under a rock or spending too much time making up fibs on the computer, or I’m totally losing touch with the wonderful world of beauty products, and somehow missed the launch of this Cicaplast Serum… but I had to leave the keyboard today to go and buy some deyellowifying shampoo and conditioner as banana yellow is not a good color on me. Is the ozone layer killing my highlights, or are the baddies putting curry in the chem-trails?!

The last time I saw “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific” advertised was probably 1975, while flicking through the pages of a copy of Seventeen magazine that I’d pinched from one of the cool American girls who’d forgotten it in the senior lounge, located on the right-hand side of the hallway just after the main entrance to the school cafeteria.

The walk from S’Agaro to Sa Conca, and a little poem.

“ A chubby bee boogies

Into pink winter nectar.

Happy to just be.”

Just think about it. Consider the preparations. All that bulky skiwear, all those sweaters, that thermal underwear, those heavy shoes and boots you have to cart around, and that’s before you start wrestling with skis, poles and snowboards.

Yep, I got run over by the Covid bus late last Wednesday morning after swaggering around my poorly husband, declaring that since I’d never had it, I was clearly Covid immune.

My son’s 18th was beyond epic, with pukey Magalie defiling my Ugg slippers while I was wearing them, and inebriated Ivan standing on the toilet in the bathroom on the lower-ground floor, opening the narrow window and propelling himself upwards and outwards into the garden with the brusque, scissoring leg movements usually reserved for underwater activities. As a result, Ivan kicked a massive hole in the toilet bowl. Moments later, not-so-smart Alex felt an urgent need to use said toilet, flushed it, and stood there like a stoned dumbass as a mixture of water and soggy toilet paper shot out of the broken bowl, inundating the bathroom as well as a good portion of the hallway.

A story about hot pink mules, writing, an old Sicilian lady, and second chances

Last night, as I lay under my duvet waiting for my sleep-aid supplement to take effect, I came across an article in The Guardian about a TikTok trend aimed at teaching people how to structure their days. It appears that some people don’t really know what to do when they first wake up, or maybe need a little cutely presented guidance about how they might set up a daily routine. Maybe there are people out there right now, gazing helplessly at their screens, eagerly awaiting instructions from some gorgeous young Influencer who is currently experiencing a glitch on her scheduled publication of how to fold a tea-towel.

When I wrote Just Like a Movie I didn’t just set out to write a romance. Sure, I had my Ricky Martin crush thing going on, and Ricky inspired the gorgeous Emilio Caliente, a dream character to write. But I also wrote the book as an ode to some of my best friends. I wanted to give back to some of the women who have had a positive influence in my life, who are always there for me, with whom I never feel judged. These women are precious. They shine for me. They know who they are.

Book Review: Mr Wilder and Me, by Jonathan Coe

Mr Wilder and Me is a quirky, engaging read about the life of Hollywood film director Billie Wilder. Brimming with humanity, it touches on friendships, the dreams of youth, finding purpose in life, and remaining curious and relevant in a world obsessed with youth. It is about kindness, regret, about coping with hardship without becoming bitter, and finding pleasure in simple things. There is heartbreak, and revenge, too, when Wilder, no longer deemed bankable by Hollywood, finally secures German financing to make “Fedora”, a film nobody believes in. Wilder’s Holocaust survival and Jewish heritage is revisited in the novel.

About twelve years ago I split my head open, and over time developed a large calcified lump right in the centre of my forehead. I joked I was turning into a unicorn, or a rhinoceros, but I was horribly self-conscious, and hated being photographed.

I finally had a surgery to remove the lump last Friday, and I’m pleased to report that I am no longer a unicorn.

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.