The day begins with wake up call number one as the cat's wet nose finds its way onto my face. Cat is shoved gracelessly to the floor. An hour later, wake up call number two provides a familiar feeling of disorientation brought on by a dream in which I finally figured out my much-needed Amazing Plot Twist. Sense of almost being able to recollect it shattered by piercing cry from the nursery as Baby telepathically realises I'm thinking about something other than honing Excellent Parenting Skills.
At eight thirty, I realise I am running late. I am due in London to meet disturbingly talented writing pals and haven't so much as entertained the notion of a shower for three days. Shove hair into ponytail in hope of fooling all of London into thinking I'm making an excellent fashion statement instead of hiding the butternut squash and pea purée lovingly mangled in by overly excited Baby last night whilst I was paying too much attention to Eastenders.
Lovely to join you here, Candy! Thank you for your kind words. I fear the reality is a little less impressive. For instance, I’ve actually written a book a year, rather than all three at once; the house is so messy that my dog’s furballs have their own furballs; there are still unpacked boxes in my study and no pictures on the walls (though I finally got round to getting bookcases put in – priorities, people!); and I’m a *smidge* late on my Foxcraft 3 edits.
