Towards the end of last year we moved house. It’s a lovely late 1920s
semi-detached house in a leafy corner of Kent. It has a big overgrown garden, cracks in the walls and what estate agents describe as ‘potential’, which is code for, ‘you basically need to re-build it.’ My husband and I lovingly refer to it as, ‘the money-pit.’

So, we knew when we moved in that it would be a bit of a project and that we were in it for the long-term. We winced as we shelled out a princely wage on new guttering, updated electrics and bought a gigantic curtain to close off the drafty conservatory over the winter. The staff at Ikea began to greet us by name and my husband sustained many injuries whilst trying to drive nails into the rock-solid walls.

We were sad to leave our old house (at least the children and I were) but we weren’t prepared for the fact that nearly all of our electrical goods would share in this grief. First, the tumble drier died, then the dishwasher packed up; the fridge started to leak, the kettle blew up and the coffee machine (and this really was bad because as you know if you’ve read anything about me, reader friends, I am basically 90 % caffeine) gave out a final rasping hiss before refusing to brew another cup. It was white goods Armageddon and by Christmas we were exhausted and poor.

Over the festive season, we took a much-needed break from DIY. We decked the halls and fa la la-ed our way through it all, buying a ridiculously large Christmas tree, which dominated our living room like a chubby aunt. It was a wonderful fortnight but during this time, one of the light bulbs in the bathroom went the same way as most of our other electrical items.

Now you may wonder at this. A light bulb, you say? ‘Tis but the work of moments to change a light bulb and you would be right. However, this particular light bulb was an integral part of the aged bathroom mirror, which we had inherited from the previous owners. It was also one of two light bulbs within said mirror and as the other one was still working, we gave ourselves permission to ignore it for a while.

As Christmas gave way to New Year and January thankfully buggered off and became February, I turned to my husband.

‘We really should change that light bulb in the bathroom. It’s been two months.’

‘Mhmm,’ he agreed through a mouthful of Saturday morning toast. ‘I’ll sort it this morning.’

Excellent, I thought. Job delegated and therefore done.

An hour later, I was sorting washing. ‘Could you give me a hand please?’ came a voice from upstairs. I paired six more socks before joining him in the bathroom. He had lifted the mirror from the wall and was peering at its dust-covered back. ‘It’s very heavy,’ he observed. ‘Could you try and get the light bulb out?’

‘I might just clean off some of this dust first,’ I said, reaching for a bathroom wipe.

‘It’s very heavy,’ he repeated, with emphasis.

‘O-kay. It won’t take a sec.’ I gave it a cursory wipe, achieving very little. ‘There. And now for the lightbulb.’ I found what I guessed to be the fitting with a switch, which I slid towards me, expecting to simply lift it from the back. ‘It won’t move.’

My husband frowned. ‘Could you hold this while I have a go?’

I rolled my eyes at his apparent disbelief. ‘Fine,’ I said, taking hold of the mirror and grimacing under its weight. ‘But be quick. It’s very heavy.’

He moved towards the fitting and fiddled a bit. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘It won’t move.’

‘Can I have that in writing please?’

‘If only we could use your sarcasm to solve this problem,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, at least we know where it’s made,’ he added pointing to the label. ‘We can google it.’

It turned out to be a very expensive mirror from a very exclusive company and on telephoning them, a beautifully well-spoken lady told me that if I
e-mailed them a picture of the mirror, she would send me the instructions of how to change the light bulb. I did as I was told and received the document within minutes.

‘Right,’ I said to my husband, with some determination. ‘We have two degrees and an MA between us.’

‘Does that make us the Three Degrees?’ he quipped.

I gave him my best Paddington Bear stare. ‘We can do this,’ I declared.

We needed a full set of screwdrivers, a spanner, the muscles of Hercules and a lot of patience (which we don’t have) but half an hour later we had managed to remove the light fitting. The bulb remained trapped in a plastic prison. We couldn’t find a way to free it.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I declared. ‘I don’t even like that bloody mirror.’

My husband now had a face like thunder. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘There’s only one thing for it.’ He left the house shortly afterwards, roaring off in the car like a man possessed. He returned a while later looking refreshed and jubilant. ‘Ta da!’ he cried, holding up the fitting with a new light bulb in place.

‘How did you do that?’

‘I took it to the Electricals shop in town to a real professional,’ he admitted.

‘Oh well done,’ I smiled.

He practically skipped up to the bathroom. ‘And now we shall have light!’ he cried. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and waited. The children joined me looking worried. There was a pause. ‘Oh,’ he said.

I darted up the stairs. ‘What is it? Doesn’t it work?’ I asked, joining him in the bathroom. He pointed at the mirror. On the left a pool of cool white light shone and on the right, from the new lightbulb, a ray of sickly orange.

‘It’s a different colour,’ I said rather obviously.

We looked at each other for a moment as our children joined us.

‘Cool!’ proclaimed my son. ‘It’s a different colour!’

I turned to my husband. ‘I like it. It’s quirky.’

He nodded his agreement. ‘Me too. Now how about mending that cupboard door in the spare room?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Tomorrow?’ I offered.

‘Tomorrow,’ he smiled, turning off the light.

Today my friends, I am going to give you one excellent piece of advice.

If you walk into a coffee shop and happen upon me sitting alone, innocently sipping a Skinny Latte with an extra shot (easy on the froth), do not under any circumstances sit anywhere near me.

There. I’ve said it. You’re welcome.

Don’t worry, this isn’t for any medical reason and I showered recently so it has nothing to do with hygiene. No, the reason I say this is because if you do sit near me and I happen to hear your conversation, there is a small chance that it will end up in a book.

I know. I apologise.

Actually I don’t.

It’s a perk of my job.

For I am a sticky beak, a nosey parker or more charitably, a people watcher. I have lost count of the number of impatient frowns I have attracted from my husband because I am listening to someone else’s conversation instead of his.

‘But darling, I’m working,’ just does seem to cut it. Funny that.

I even have my favourite haunts. There is a coffee shop in a nearby town with a big room at the back. The acoustics are excellent for eavesdropping. When I am in need of a little creative inspiration, I head there, order a coffee and settle down with my notebook.

I love watching people, their minute gestures and unconscious behaviours. I don’t do it for too long and I never stare. I’m not a weirdo. I just find human behaviour fascinating and really rather inspiring.

So you have been warned. Avoid me at all costs.

Unless you like the idea of featuring in a book. In which case, come and sit by me, say something interesting and you just might.

 

 

Firstly, I would like to thank Helen Phifer (my shelf buddy) for nominating me. It’s the third award I’ve been nominated for during my forty one years on the planet. The first was in the category, ‘Person most likely to become a Blue Peter presenter’ (I neither won the award nor went on to become Helen Skelton). The second was for my second book, ‘Dear Lizzie’ in the ‘Best eBook’ category at last year’s Festival of Romantic Fiction. I didn’t win this one either but I had a lovely evening laughing and chatting with lots of fellow authors.

This leads me on neatly to what I like about this award. It’s about supporting and encouraging fellow female writers, having a giggle along the way, sharing our thoughts and acknowledging this unique pool of creative talent.

Sisters, I salute you!

Here are my answers to lovely Helen’s questions:

What is your dream job?

I’ve always wanted to work at John Lewis, marry George Clooney and eat chocolate for a living so perhaps I could be Mr. Clooney’s personal chocolate shopper at John Lewis?

What do you mean that’s not a real job?

What could you not live without?

My children, my husband, gin.

Who inspires/motivates you?

My children, my husband, gin.

What do you mean gin’s not a person?

Where is you ideal holiday destination?

Southwold in Suffolk. There’s a long beach with candy-coloured beach huts nestled along the promenade, a pier and a brewery in the town. It’s basically heaven by the sea.

If you could arrange a meeting with anyone alive or dead who would it be?

My father-in-law, Bob, who died five years ago. I want him to see how wonderful his grandchildren are now.

What advice do you wish someone had given you when you were younger?

It will all be okay.

 

I would like to nominate Katie Oliver, Rebecca Raisin, Jill Steeples, Samantha Tonge, Holly Martin, Karen Aldous and Kerry Barrett to answer the following questions:

Have you had a ‘sliding doors’ moment and what would have happened if you’d followed the other path?

Who is your favourite writer and why?

What was the last thing you ate?

Which historical period do you wish you’d lived in?

Tea or coffee?

What’s the best advice you’ve ever been given?

What’s your greatest ambition?

Over to you, blogging sisters!

 

 

The school holidays are upon me so writing is taking a happy back-seat for a week or two (Writing likes sitting in the back – the views are better). I have therefore ransacked my photographic archive and am proud to present the next best thing for you, reader friends – a squirrel eating an ice-cream.

You’re welcome.

I wish you a happy Easter/spring/early April depending on your viewpoint. Normal service should be resumed next week.