The Opposite of Easy Like Sunday Morning


I am in a spa.
I am in a spa in beautiful countryside, sitting in a heated outdoor jacuzzi, sipping champagne.
Even though it’s freezing outside, I am so warm, and relaxed, sipping champagne as the sun sets.

I hear a noise.
I tense.
What could that noise be?
I am in a spa.
There are no loud noises in a spa.
The noise gets louder.
Oh wait.
Wait a moment.
I’m not in a spa.

I am at home, in bed and that noise is my baby, in his cot.
It’s 3am.
The noise is only going to get louder.
If I’m lucky, it may stop; a bad dream. He rolls over and goes back to sleep.
If not; if it’s his teeth, he will cry louder and louder and I will go to him and he will reach up for me, still crying.
I will bring him into our bed, and begin a balancing act on the very edge of the bed, as he stretches out next to his daddy.
And they snore.
As relaxing spa experiences go, I will not be recommending this one on Trip Advisor.

All change

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Last weekend we were at Embankment with some friends who were visiting from home. For the first time in ten years, I pointed to the magnificent building with the clock face overlooking the Thames and said ‘That’s where I used to work.’

What I didn’t say, was that for the last ten years, that building has been one of the most important places in my life. Inside that building are some of the most talented, funniest, kindest and warmest people I could ever have had the fortune to work with. Inside that building are some people whom I will be friends with for the rest of my life. ‘Colleagues’ doesn’t even come in to it. Inside that building are books, books everywhere, the corridors are an explosion of colour and imagination and stories. There are rows of black and white photos of some of the most iconic and beloved authors in the world. Inside that building, I spent hours reading brand new manuscripts and writing about them and thinking and talking about stories and reading and writing all day long. For someone who loves books, it was a magical place to be.

But all good things must come to an end.  It’s important to try new things and I tried to be a full time working mum. I tried so hard. To sum it up quite simply; it’s not for me. In four months Zee will be two years old. I will never get this time back. It’s not that I don’t want to work; far from it. I am now freelance, he will still go to nursery; I will work. I will continue to do what I love and earn money and be independent and have a life for myself outside of being a mum. But I am lucky enough to do a job that allows me to work from anywhere, at any time. And now I am in charge of my time and I will decide how much time I spend with my son.

So even though I miss that place and those people, this change is good. It isn’t a sacrifice. I am currently reading the excellent How to be a Woman by Caitlin Moran, one of the funniest, bravest, most intelligent books I’ve ever read. Last night I read page 227 of the chapter ‘Why You Should Have Children’ over and over again and then I read it out loud to H and as I got to the end I had to stop for a deep breath. What I love about this piece of writing is how she concentrates on the positive side of being a mother. It’s so easy to talk about how tired you are ALL THE TIME, how you can’t go out at night without it being a military operation to plan and execute; how honestly – sometimes you just don’t even want to. The mess, the washing, the stuff, so much stuff, everywhere. The tiredness, the tiredness, the tiredness.

Pic5But here Caitlin Moran talks about being ‘high on ridiculous love’, about being ‘mugged by Cupid’ and how ‘You, in turn, observe yourself from a distance, simply astonished by the quantities of love you manufacture.’ Yes, yes and yes. She concludes by talking about how it all comes down to the simplest of things. ‘All you ever want to know – the only question that ever really matters – is: are the children all right? Are they happy? Are they safe? And so long as the answer is ‘Yes’, nothing, ultimately, matters.’ Thank you Caitlin Moran for articulating what I have been thinking for so long. I think I love you too.

So now we are alright. Looking back on the time when I was preparing to go back to work, I wasn’t alright. I wasn’t alright about it at all. It broke my heart. But it was a good experience, all in, and now I am proud to have made the changes I needed to and to have the freedom to be with my cheeky, mischievous, grinning, funny, noisy, sweet, kind little boy when I choose.

In that building I had a Word of the Day board. Today’s word? Lucky. In big, bold, thick green felt tip pen. LUCKY.

Counting to three


Dear Patience,

I know I’ve been testing you lately; there’s been lots of loud sighs at my desk and eye-rolling on the train. There’s been counting to ten and back again when I leave the house in the morning, looking as if a tiny little Tasmanian devil just ran through every room with windmill arms, getting into everything in sight. Oh wait – that’s because he did. There’s been near rage as I’ve battled with trying to collapse the damned pushchair for the millionth time. Why won’t it fold? Why can’t I make it work? Why don’t the makers of these things remember who their audience is? Tired busy people who just don’t have enough of you, Patience, to stand here fighting with a wretched contraption and OH GOD DAMMIT, I’ve trapped my finger again. Why did I buy him this little toy plastic pushchair anyway?

And Patience, I know that lately I’ve pushed you so far, with this juggling act of working full time and being a mum and playing house. The boxes remain upstairs, unpacked, I’m sort of used to them now. When it comes to Zee, it takes five attempts to dress him each morning. He flings and flails in my arms, he whinges and whines, he lies prostrate on the floor screaming, red-faced, because I’m so mean I want him to wear a nappy and clothes outside and I will NOT let him play with the plug sockets or venture down the hard wooden staircase yet on his own.

But Patience the thing is, you and me, we’re okay. Because even in the midst of the stress and tiredness and untidiness, when all’s said and done, it comes back down to the Only’s.

ZgardenIt’s only work.
It’s only mess.
It’s only a toy.
It’s only a tantrum.
It’s only a plate of fruit thrown onto the kitchen floor as one chubby hand is thrust into his pocket and he gazes at me, challenging me with his enormous, beautiful eyes. And Patience, it was his gaze that did it. You came back. I sigh, and I pick up the fruit and put it back on his plate. I work out he’s been trying to tell me he’s thirsty, he doesn’t want strawberries.

He can’t talk yet, he’s frustrated too, when I don’t understand what he’s trying to tell me. Sometimes I don’t recognise the points or the grunts or the whines. But then he smiles, and his gorgeous face,so perfect to me, lights up. He is cheeky and I adore him. He reaches for my hand, we go into the garden and kick the ball. He scampers away and I idly stand there, looking into the house, at the mess, a hundred thoughts run through my mind of the jobs that await and where have I put the keys and . . . oh. His little hand is in mine again.

He walks me to the steps.
‘Up, up, up!’ he cries.
We walk back down the steps.
‘Up, up, up!’ he cries.
He smiles at me again, and toddles off towards his ball.

‘MaMA!’ he cries. ‘MaMA!’
He wants to play again.

And this is where you make everything alright, Patience.
This I have lots of you for.

Though when I remember the washing, the tidying, the myriad boxes, the mess.
This I have less of you for.

Show me the way to go home

RT2You know that feeling when you get a little bit lost, but it’s okay because you’re not really lost, just a bit disorientated and if you keep going a bit further you’ll end up where you’re supposed to?

Well, it’s safe to say this theory doesn’t apply to driving in South East London late on a Saturday afternoon, when your Sat Nav is broken and your sense of direction is worse than that of a goldfish. We arrived home from a lovely week by the sea with my family yesterday, and I took it upon myself to go straight to the supermarket with Zee, whilst H tackled the remaining jungle-esque parts of the garden. Halfway to the car I remembered the Sat Nav problem. I’ve been to the shops in our new neighbourhood about six times now, yet I still stood on the pavement with a gormless expression as I tried to remember how to get there. I couldn’t. This should have been a sign of things to come. But H reminded me it was essentially left then right and straight down one road, so off we went and if only I’d remembered those instructions in reverse for the return journey.

Only I didn’t, I went left instead of right and three, yes THREE hours later, following a rescue mission by H, Zee and I got home. It went a little something like:

5.15pm ish – Leave supermarket. Turn left onto main road instead of right. ERROR.

5.30pm – Hmmm I’m sure the Sat Nav normally takes me off down one of these side roads, but maybe not, will just keep driving. Ooh, George Ezra on the radio, will just keep singing.

5.45 – These roads all look THE SAME. I definitely recognise all of them but not sure which road leads to ours. Will just keep driving.

6pm – Panic starts to set in. Where are we? Will just pull into side road and check map on phone. DOOM! Blue dot on phone says we are 3.9 miles and 20 minutes away from home. Why? Why has this happened? Will just phone H. And cry. And get more confused. He offers helpful solutions which do not correspond to the blue dot. H mentions names of places we have driven past about 50 times but I cannot picture in my mind.

Meanwhile Zee is babbling away in the back of the car and grinning at me in the mirror. Thank goodness he is so chilled.

6.15pm – Declare to H that I can work it out and we’ll be back soon. Decide, inexplicably, to reverse the car and drive home via a back street. In fact the only back street I know is the American boy-now-man band and this situation is most definitely not alright.

6.30pm – Still driving. The blue dot is edging further away from home. WHY am I still not on the right road? Petrol is dangerously low. ‘E’ does not stand for ‘Enough’.

6.40pm – Find a petrol station. Phew. I definitely know where I am. Refuel. Buy chocolate (obviously). It’s all going to be fine.

6.50pm – Except it’s NOT because now I’ve taken another wrong turning at a very confusing roundabout and ended up at the back of an estate. Why is this still happening? Z remains content and smiling. Phew.

7pm – Suddenly we are in Greenwich. I have only ever been to Greenwich by boat. My phone has 6% battery. H rings again to say I am to find somewhere to park and he is going to come and get us. I try and explain it’s fine and I just need to follow the right signs although my phone battery (complete with the impossible-to-follow blue dot) is about to die. H points out I am now even further away from when I first rang him and he’d really rather I don’t end up lost at night with our baby and no phone, and so I admit defeat.

7-7.45pm ish – Every minor disaster can have a happy ending if a picnic is involved. Remembering the boot is full of food and drink, I give Zee a sandwich and fruit and juice for his tea, change his nappy and could even have made him a bottle if necessary. I put the milk on ice (!) and am about to go on What’sApp until I remember my 2% battery might be needed for slightly more urgent communications given the situation.It soon turns out a parked car is a very happy place for a toddler to play, on account of all the switches and buttons to press, wheels to turn and seatbelts to pull.

H then appears as if by magic and Zee goes to him, and I hear H say to Zee ‘Poor mummy, are you both okay?’ and I promptly burst into tears. He couldn’t have said a nicer thing at that moment, given how stupid I was feeling.

8pm – Arrive home. It still resembles a camp site but we got home in the end. If there’d been slightly less battery on my phone we might still be out there, roaming the streets, so near yet so far in the car. But at least we wouldn’t have gone hungry. And so the moral of the story is, don’t go left when you should go right. And buy a new Sat Nav in the morning.

Can someone send a grown-up in to help us now? Many thanks

IMG_9716It’s August (observation skills 10/10) and since the last time I blogged I have:

Bought a house
Moved into said house
Been on holiday with friends, to amazing Morzine
Turned 28 (again)
Found a new nursery for Zee to start in September
Masterminded a hen-do
Finished writing a second children’s book
Been on holiday with H’s family to the sunny Alps
Continued to work full-time and commute into central London every day with Z in a sling. A seven mile journey each way. In a heat wave.

Phew. Busy times.

It started with a text from H in April, informing me our then landlady was moving back from Dubai and would like us to leave, please. By the end of June. At first we didn’t know what to do so we panicked. Then we panicked some more as we tried to puzzle it all out. Zee’s wonderful nursery was below our flat, we had the easiest nursery drop-off and pick-up ever and I had the best walk to work anyone could have if you happen to like Albert Embankment and the South Bank, which I do, a lot. It’s been a while now so the whole process has become a bit of a blur, but it was horrible stressful. Or, because we’re not in the East End, horribly stressful. We didn’t want to move into another rented place only to move out when we’d found somewhere to buy, so we decided to do the second most grown-up thing we could do after becoming parents and Buy A House. Looking back on it now we’ve been extremely lucky because it’s all happened quickly, but at the time all the uncertainty was stomach-churning and only added to the sleepless nights I was already having with Master Zee.

IMG_9215In summary, buying a house involves a LOT of work and research and info gathering (at which H excelled himself). Followed by a lot of ‘He Says She Says’ as you deal with banks and lawyers and estate agents, all juggling dates and logistics, culminating in the most stressful week I’ve had in ages when it all came down to Will The Funds Be Exchanged by Moving Date – or will we have to pitch Z’s toy tent and live in it on the South Bank for the foreseeable? Luckily, it did all work out and we are in and it is our home and it is in London and we love it. We keep walking in and out of our very own dining room and lounge and kitchen and up and down the stairs (we have stairs!?), hardly able to believe it’s ours. This is the house I burst into tears upon leaving after our viewing, so convinced was I that we’d never get it and we’d probably end up with the house we viewed with the terracotta walls, where one of the residents had left the bathwater in the bath before vacating it for the viewing. How happy I am to be wrong and to be in the place that feels like home despite the fact it currently resembles a camp site. On account of not being able to spend any time in there so far, due to the holidaying, henning and having to go to work. Life and good times sure can get in the way of painting and decorating.

And speaking of which, can someone just tell us how to do everything we need to do in the house and garden, or maybe just do it for us, so it looks exactly how I imagine it should look in my head but without me having to crack open a tin of paint? In ten years of renting I’ve never painted a wall, never needed to. Gulp. It feels like we’re playing house. During a hungover trip to Homebase last weekend we spent 10 minutes looking at curtain rails instead of bathroom shower rails before realising we needed to be in an entirely different section. This is going to be a very interesting time.

Although the more I play on Pinterest and seek advice from family and friends, the more I reckon we probably can work it all out for ourselves, in time. And time is what we have; there will be no one giving us notice on this place this time. We do keep referring to the previous owners as the owners though. But that would be us. Lucky us.

Reasons to be cheerful

Over the past couple of months I’ve noticed a certain hash tag cropping up on Facebook and Twitter, a little something called #100happydays. Friends started posting about beaches or chocolate or flowers alongside this tag, and I idly wondered what it’s all about (though it’s pretty darn obvious) but I kept forgetting to look into it properly. This is because my memory seems to be getting worse these days instead of better. I just *slightly* flooded the kitchen on account of leaving the tap running whilst also trying on a new dress and doing a lot of mirror-twirling, until suddenly shrieking ‘Arrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhh!’ and solving the problem by throwing three giant towels at it. Phew.

So I kept seeing this #100happydays popping up and feeling mildly irritated by it. Not because of my dislike of hash tags, but I couldn’t understand this desire to try and single out one daily thing to be happy about for only 100 days. I have a problem with taking everything literally and at total face value. A few summers ago we lived near Tooting Bec Lido. I went for my first swim there, and when I got home I told H I’d enjoyed it but hadn’t expected it to be so freezing; I thought it was heated and jumped straight in and had never been SO cold, I didn’t want to go again. He said ‘Next time you go to the lido why don’t you wear a wetsuit?’

And I did. When I got home I told him how much better it had been swimming in the wetsuit, but that next time I’d change into the wetsuit when I arrived, as I’d been SO hot in it on the way there.
He looked at me aghast.
‘You didn’t . . . walk to the lido WEARING the wetsuit?’
‘I did,’ I nodded. ‘You said ”Next time you go to the lido why don’t you wear a wetsuit?”. And it was really hot so I won’t do it again.’
Much teasing ensued, in fact still ensues to this day from friends who like to check I’m suitably attired if we are meeting at a pool of any description.

I digress. My issue with 100 happy days was because 2013 was something of a terrible year, aside from one truly wonderful thing; the arrival of Zee, the very best thing that has ever happened to me and H. 2013 showed us that sometimes awful things happen, which cause anguish and devastation and even though life goes on, because that is all it can do, the impact of an accident or a death is deep-rooted and perspective changing.

I couldn’t relate to a concept of only 100 happy days because these days I feel lucky and glad to simply be able to live my life. My charmed, happy, filled-with-love life. My life with my kind and gorgeous husband and beautiful and cheeky baby, whom I love so much it takes my breath away. My life with my family whom I adore and my friends whom I could not be without. This may sound corny and trite but when you see a beloved friend suffering, it makes you wish with all your heart and soul that you could fix everything for them, it makes you say ‘if only’ a thousand times a day.

But #100happydays is more than a hash tag or a fad. I finally looked it up tonight. It’s an amazing idea. It challenges you to just stop and enjoy the moment. The greatest thing I read on the site is that participants say it makes them ‘realise how lucky they are to have the life they have’, which is something I have been pretty fixated on recently.

I’m not going to do #100happydays because these days I feel grateful and happy every day. To quote a line about happiness from Charlotte in the Sex & the City film, ‘Not all day, every day, but every day.’

I would, however, like to write myself a little list of things I want to look back on and remember from the last few months, things that really have made me smile. On account of my sieve-brain, just a few things I don’t want to forget.

1 – Doing a recce for a work event and seeing Willy Wonka and Charlie Bucket rehearsing in a flying great glass elevator. No, I haven’t been drinking. This happened.
2 – London in bloom – back in April walking through Embankment gardens was like being in Amsterdam. So pretty.
3 – Zee’s new trick of running at me with a giant gap-toothed smile, clattering into me and wrapping his arms tight around my neck, burying his face into my cheek. Bliss.
4 – Walking through London at night. It happens so rarely these days, but when it does, I love this city a little bit more every time.
5 – Seeing two friends get married and so clearly having the happiest day of their life – their smiles were mega-watt, the love was everywhere, it was pure joy.
6 – Sunshine, spending all day every day with Zee, being with great friends and their scrumptious girl, G&T’s overlooking a stunning beach, morning runs, evening BBQ’s, mojitos in a bar built in a cliff-face, moonlit beach walks, Pilates with the sea as a backdrop – the perfect holiday that was Menorca 2014. No, I didn’t wear my wetsuit.
7 – Sitting down on the Embankment with H and Zee, sipping smoothies and kicking a ball, Big Ben chiming six pm and signalling teatime.
8- ‘Kicking a ball, kicking a ball, that’s surely the purpose of life after all.’ No I’m not THAT excited about the World Cup, but I am a bit in love with Allan Ahlberg’s genius new book.
9- A bouncy castle and a family party for my niece’s 6th birthday party. There was magic, there was Frozen, there were the best party bags I’ve ever seen.
10 – Afternoon tea for three at The Savoy. Not the first destination you think of for an outing with a toddler, but Zee charmed everyone whilst we sipped champagne and enjoyed being in such swellegant surroundings. And on the way home we found his lost shoe, left for us by a kind person on a wall, I was overjoyed; his first pair of shoes are little feet-shaped treasures.
11 – Outdoor cinema in Vauxhall. Deckchairs, friends, popcorn, gin, Best in Show. Nothing more to say.

The Liebster award

liebster-awardThe German word ‘Liebster’ has several definitions, including kind, lovely, pleasant and valued. The Liebster Award was apparently created ‘to recognise and/or discover new bloggers and welcome them to the blogosphere.’ This certainly seems like a kind and pleasant thing to do, and thank you to the very lovely Lindsey over at the brilliant for my nomination.

So it works like this:

1. Post the award on your blog.

2. Thank the blogger who presented this award and link back to their blog.

3. Write 11 random facts about yourself.

4. Nominate 5-11 bloggers who you feel deserve this award and who have less than 200 followers.

5. Answer 11 questions posted by the presenter and ask your nominees 11 questions.

Here goes – 11 Random Facts:

1. I have big hair. I mean really big. On hot days my curls are like corkscrews and it’s kind of amazing, the volume of it, but I am massively self-conscious about it. So until I learn to embrace the curl (or move to a really hot country), my GHD’s will remain my prized possession.
2. Birds indoors freak me out. The very idea of a bird flying into a room I am in makes me want to scream.
3. Barnacles. Ewwwwww. So clingy.
4. I know every single word to the ‘Heinz Builds Brits’ song.
5. I know that Dr Karl Kennedy’s full name is Dr Karl Raymond Marx Kennedy.
6. I was once in the same room as George Clooney. Sorry, sorry. George Swooney.
7. My most favourite book in the world is Roald Dahl’s The BFG.
8. I once made my brother a ham and savoy cabbage sandwich, mistaking the cabbage for lettuce.
9. My favourite joke of all time is ‘What do you call a man in a paper suit? Russell!’ *sniggers*
10. I can light a lighter using my feet.
11. My favourite quote is ‘Don’t take yourself so seriously. No one else does’ – Anon.

Next up – 5 bloggers who may currently have less than 200 followers:

Four under three
Common Sense Mum
Yet another blogging mummy
Glimmer of Hope
Little Reader Book Reviews & More

Now for my questions from Lindsey:

1. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
I am already lucky enough to live in my most favourite place in the world, but for somewhere new I’d choose Melbourne.

2. Do you have any pets?

3. Facebook or twitter?

4.What is your favourite food?
Currently risotto. Sometimes sausage rolls (the shame!)

5.Where did you last go on holiday?
Cala Galdana, Menorca

6. Best childhood memory?
Too many to choose from, which makes me very lucky

7. What’s your favourite movie?

8. Which celebrity would you most like to have dinner with?
Ron Burgundy

9. What was the last thing you ate?

10. If you lived in a different decade which would you choose?
This is tough – errrrm maybe the 80’s so my giant hair would be acceptable?!

11.How long have you been blogging?
Since the birth of my gorgeous Zee in 2013

And finally, my questions to the bloggers I nominated:

1. What is your favourite power ballad?
2. What book are you reading right now?
3. What is your favourite joke?
4. What are your favourite three words?
5. Which three words would you use to describe yourself?
6. Sweet or savoury?
7. Have you ever lived abroad/would you like to?
8. What is your earliest childhood memory?
9. Do you have a favourite musical?
10. Top 3 songs that make you really happy?
11. Coffee or tea?

Thank you for reading and thank you Lindsey!

The story behind the story

Vintage-typewriterimagecreditTheMapleTeaHouseA few years ago I wrote a children’s book. I had been pondering writing one for a while but I am a massive procrastinator and generally thought there was no point because what if it was rubbish and no one liked it and nobody wanted to read it so what was the point anyway? Until a stern talking to from H made me realise if you don’t try you’ll never know and what’s the point in not trying just because it might not be any good?

I remember writing the opening paragraph as if it was yesterday and not five years ago. I have no idea where it came from – well, my brain, obviously, but the opening line just popped into my head and I wrote it down and then over the next few weeks and months I kept on writing until I had told my story and had something resembling a children’s book. I’m not going to pretend it was an easy, flowing process. I read and write about children’s books day in, day out. I am constantly thinking and talking about other people’s books. So when it comes to sitting down and writing my own, I can get stuck. I have to really be in the right place to do it. But I did do it. And I was proud of it. H was my very first reader and he was nothing but encouraging from the start. He doesn’t mince his words, he is blunt and straight to the point, which is why I was so encouraged by his reaction. It was fun to share with him and he gave me some great ideas and even the name for the baddy. I then shared it with one of my very good friends, whom I knew would be honest too. Her opinion mattered to me and her feedback also encouraged me that maybe I could achieve this after all. One of the best parts of it was sharing it with my parents, who were so enthusiastic and excited by it from the very beginning, again sharing ideas and making helpful suggestions and making me believe in it. To the point I knew it was time to get serious and see if anything could actually come of it.

I have been in the publishing industry for ten years now; I wanted to do this properly. I sought no advice from colleagues from the sheer anxiety they would think it was terrible – I am a copywriter after all, the shame would be too much. I got myself a copy of the Children’s Writers and Artists Handbook, I printed many sets of the first three chapters, I posted them to children’s literary agents far and wide. I felt sick. I waited for the rejections to arrive. And so they did, some by return of post, with the standard rejection slips I’d anticipated. But then a while later, I forget how long, I received an email from an agent thanking me for my chapters, with kind words about how much they’d enjoyed it and had laughed. Unfortunately they had a similar title on their list so couldn’t take me on. But I didn’t mind, it was so nice to know they liked what they saw. So imagine how I felt a few days later when I received another email from an agent not only saying how much they’d enjoyed the first three chapters, but requesting to see the rest of my manuscript.

I very nearly fell off my chair.

And when I composed myself, I replied, grinning from ear to ear and in a delighted daze. And then, a few days later when she replied saying she really liked my book (my book!) and would like to take it to London Book Fair (LONDON BOOK FAIR!) to pitch it to all the publishers, I pinched myself (it hurt) and tried very hard to stay calm (I failed). I still look back on the phone calls to H and my family to say I Had Found Myself An Agent with very fond memories of what a hugely exciting time it was. The anticipation of it all, the excitement of what this could be. And when it transpired that approximately ten publishers wanted to see the manuscript following my agent’s LBF pitch, I probably ran around in small circles with glee.

What followed next was a blur of Will They Won’t They Will They Won’t They; a nerve-wracking waiting game. To cut a long story short (groan), I got some genuinely brilliant feedback from some of the most respected editors in publishing today. It was so encouraging, and I took their advice and did lots of editing and then one publisher was this close to saying yes and making an offer. But at the last minute they had a change of heart. It was crushingly disappointing. Despite all that, I still feel like it was an amazingly positive experience. I have an agent, for goodness sake. That is something to be proud of.

And so I put it all to the back of my mind as something that Wasn’t Meant To Be, and every now and again I’d re-read the positive feedback and feel sad I hadn’t quite made it. Then last summer as Zee was napping I came across my feedback document once again and felt upset. Disappointed that my princess and pirate and two mischievous princes and the good ship Goodship and Claude I’m Bored and Annabel Caramel were simply living in a word document on my laptop. Destined to spend their days as black and white words on a page, instead of living and breathing characters on Jamboree Island inside the imaginations of young readers. That’s when I realised it was no longer 2010 but 2013 and if I wanted to publish my book then, quite simply, I would. I did some research on self-publishing eBooks (it’s too expensive to print physical copies myself); I could do this. But first, I’d need a cover. Oh. Foiled again. But I thought some more and remembered that my wonderfully talented illustrator friend had read the book a while back as she’d wanted to practise her illustrations for young fiction. So I emailed her to see if she could design me a cover as a freelance project, and was hugely touched and grateful when she said she would love to design a cover, not as a freelancer, but for free, for me. All the original excitement came flooding back. With a little help from my friend, I could make this happen. Even if it was just going to become something I self-published so I could proudly show Zee when he’s older, it was going to happen.

TPATP_COVER DEC 13.JPGAnd when Hannah sent me her first cover roughs I cried. There they were. My Princess Sophie and Lancelot the Pirate exactly as I imagined them in my head. It was great fun seeing Hannah’s designs going from black and white into colour and again sharing with family and friends and receiving their feedback. I paid to have the manuscript professionally formatted. Then, when the words and Hannah’s stunning black and white illustrations for the insides were ready, Amazon Kindle couldn’t have made it an easier process to upload and put my book right out there, available for download on Kindle or the Amazon Kindle app for mobile phones or tablets. Such a thrill. And via targeted emails, Facebook and Twitter, my family and friends helped me spread the word; it’s highest chart position was No.25 in Books-Fiction-Humour and No.48 in the Kindle Store Children’s eBooks. By January it had nearly 1000 downloads – mostly free following a Christmas promotion – but as Jessie J once sang, it’s not about the money.

Sometimes, if I sit and think about it for a while, as I guess I’ve just done here, I do feel really glad this happened. H was right. Life is too short to not do something just in case it doesn’t work out. I didn’t get my dream publishing deal, but I did get lots of support and positive encouragement and had so much fun along the way. I have a sequel to write though I’m currently trying to finish a story of genies and wizards and jam jars. But I am well and truly stuck on the ending, which is so tedious. Every time I try and write it, my mind goes blank. But I’ll get there. The idea of having something new to send to my agent is too exciting not to achieve. My productivity rate is sooooooo slow. No excuses, no reasons, that’s just how it is. But I’m looking forward to seeing what might be . . .

And when we were up we were very high up


Last Mother’s Day weekend I cried. I cried with exhaustion because Zee was only about six weeks old. I cried because H had a stag do in London that evening, so we drove from Chichester to Oxford to drop him off and I (still exhausted) then had to drive onwards to the sanctuary of my parents’. I cried because it was my first ever Mother’s Day as a mum, and it was amazing to be with my mum with my very own baby, even though I was half-mad with tiredness and probably spent a lot of time glassy-eyed and unable to finish sentences. Such sparkling form in those days. Such value I brought to the party! I was so FUN!

This Mother’s Day was a combination of sunshine and literal highs and then crashing lows. H had been very smiley and proud of himself all week, proclaiming that he had arranged a surprise I would love and think he is even more amazing than I already do . . . I am his number one fan after all. I was intrigued and excited; we had brunch with an old friend planned in the morning followed by H’s surprise in the afternoon. Until, that is, Zee awoke howling at 5.30 on the Saturday morning. He had been sick. We were half asleep and puzzled. We brought him into our bed, he was sick everywhere. He was crying his eyes out and bewildered and we were now very much awake and stripping off his clothes and bed clothes and not knowing what was going on. By 9am poor little Zee had been changed into five different sleep suits and I had been puked on several times. It got to the point that if he was feeling sick but was sitting with his daddy, he would somehow make it over to me, chubby little arms outstretched and proceed to be sick in and on my arms. I was the chosen one, it seemed. Ahh, the joys.

And when he became listless really quickly, I dialled 111 (the new NHS Direct), and they were so helpful and thorough and didn’t even snigger when at one point I described Zee as ‘just lying in his dad’s arms, frowning’, cue laughter from H. But it’s true, he was frowning and I was trying to give as much detail as I could. Frowning doesn’t appear to be a very serious symptom of illness though, because a doctor called back and said it sounded like a gastro bug, to keep sipping him water and it should pass quickly. But not quickly enough to be in time for H’s surprise . . .

Which is where our good friends Audrey and Nev stepped in (up) – it turned out H’s surprise was indeed amazing; afternoon tea on the London Eye. It was a blue-sky-and-sunshine day, so Audrey and I went off leaving the men to look after Zee for a couple of hours whilst we got to enjoy the stunning views across London with a glass of champagne in one hand and canapés and cakes galore in the other. I raised a glass to my own lovely mum from high in the sky in the general direction of the Isle of Man where they were away for a few days. Actually that’s a total lie. I have no idea where the Isle of Man is. I just raised a glass in a general direction, towards Big Ben. But the thought was there.

Weirdly, and happily, Zee was completely fine by bedtime, as if we’d totally imagined the hours of vomiting and frowning that had gone before – except we had the duvet at the dry cleaners and rows of drying sleep suits and bedding to prove it. The next day, Mother’s Day itself, we had a trip to Brighton planned to see some friends. We left early, arrived in good time, but as we searched for a car parking space I started to feel . . . sick. I told myself it was travel sickness.

Wishful thinking. To cut a lovely afternoon picnic on Brighton beach short, we had to make a very hasty departure as I realised I could no longer deny this bug that was taking me over. I was sick into a plastic bag down an empty Brighton side street, oh the shame. ‘Low point, low point!’ H exclaimed. It was about to get lower. A two and a half hour car journey and two very useful plastic bags later, I crawled into bed, shivering from head to toe, feeling woeful and sick and very, very feeble. Happy Mother’s Day to me! I cried.

Looking back on it now and feeling absolutely fine, I just feel sorry that Zee was poorly, happy about the gorgeous afternoon on the Eye, sad that H missed it and horrified re the bags. One day H is going to plan a London surprise for us all and it won’t be scuppered by sickness. Third time lucky and all.