For a woman who spends a great deal of time writing books which nestle in the romantic fiction section, I hadn’t really considered myself to be an actual real-life romantic. However, I have come to realise that I’ve never properly considered what the term actually means. It’s a broad one, that’s for sure, often misinterpreted or occasionally used in a derogatory fashion (how rude).

I thought it would therefore be useful to reconsider the term and its relevance to me. You’ll be impressed to learn, reader chums that I have taken the bold step of looking it up in a dictionary (an actual booky one too for I am all about the research). I can report that the definition of a romantic is,

‘.. given to romance, imaginative, emotional, remote from experience, visionary.’

Well okay then. Thanks for that. I think I might be all of the above sometimes and none of them at other times. Where does this leave me?

If I look back to my childhood, I suppose the first foray into romance would have been through fairy tales. I liked fairy tales but I can’t remember loving one more than another. I seem to recall Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood being favourites but being equally enthralled by Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. Still, fairy tales aren’t all about romance either. They’re actually darker than the inside of Stephen King’s brain so often inconclusive as a gauge on the romantic scale.

I do remember however, that I preferred bears to dolls, loved reading Tintin and was obsessed with the Indiana Jones films. I loved the action and adventure scenes but I would also watch the kissing at the end through my fingers in an intrigued but disgusted way, not uncommon among ten-year-old girls.

Book-wise I grew up on a diet of Adrian Mole, PG Wodehouse and Jane Austen, a mixed bag you might say but underneath it all, comedy reigned supreme. To my shame, between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, I read largely what my school told me to read. I forgot how to enjoy books for their own sake. This only began again properly after university when I worked in a bookshop and discovered magical realism.

Instead, comedy was my meat and drink. I watched every episode of Victoria Wood on TV, Fry & Laurie, Blackadder and countless other late-80s and early-90s gems at least fifty times. I knew every line and word. I wanted to join Footlights, be best friends with Emma Thompson, marry Hugh Laurie and live funnily ever after.

Romantic notions had little space in my brain. I liked to make people laugh and met lots of Blackadder and Victoria Wood devotees as a result. Laughter was all I craved.

Then I went to university to study German. I wasn’t over-keen on Goethe, preferring twentieth century history and literature (little romance here) and like a lot of other students, allowed cynicism to reign supreme.

I think it may have been the perfect storm of marriage, children and the films of Richard Curtis that defrosted my frozen cynical heart. Like all bolshy teenage girls, I thought I was tough. I realise now that I’m not. I cry at anything sad relating to children, old people, young people, middle-aged people, basically anything sad. Tell me a sob story and I am a blubbering wreck. On the tick-list of romantic requirements, there’s a big ‘x’ for me next to ‘emotion.’

Since becoming a writer, I have also learnt a great deal about what makes a good story and how best to keep your readers hooked. In my first book, I originally left the ending quite ambiguous. I thought this was edgy and cool. Let the reader decide, let their brain do the work. This was until my really rather clever editor pointed out something very interesting. It went something like this:

‘The reader has invested time in your story. By this stage of the book they are rooting for the main character. You have to give them something satisfying. Not obvious but satisfying. You don’t want them to feel cheated.’

This comment has stayed with me. As writers we’re always trying to think of ways not to state the bleedin’ obvious. We don’t want our readers guessing the ending by the final page of chapter one. However, I also don’t like things to be too signed, sealed and delivered. That can be irritating to the reader too. It’s a tricky balance. So I suppose this shows that I write romance but don’t necessarily stick to the ‘remote from experience’ aspect. I like everything I write to be believable and grounded in reality because these are the kind of books that I enjoy reading.

On a different note, this year I realised that I had begun to let a little more romantic feeling into my life when I watched Poldark. Now I know I’m among a cast of millions here when I confess that I completely gave into this. During one early intense scene between Ross and Demelza, I could almost hear the women (and a few men) around the country bellowing, ‘Just bloody kiss her!’ at the screen. It was Sunday night TV heaven.

Taking all of the above into account, I have reached a landmark conclusion.

I am definitely a romantic realist.

Or a realistic romantic.

Whatever.

I still love Indiana Jones, Blackadder and PG Wodehouse but Richard Curtis, TV weepfests and Ross Poldark all have a place in my heart too.

I call that a pretty good mix or maybe it’s just the perfect ‘happy ever after’.

Either way, it’s all good.

Today I am happier than a dog sticking its head out of a car window on a long journey and not just because it’s Friday.

For my wonderful publishers Carina have just this minute revealed the frankly gorgeous cover for my new book, Life or Something Like It.

And here it is!

Beauteous or what?

The book comes out on 13th July and tells the story of Cat Nightingale, who is something of a reluctant heroine. She is at the peak of her career in PR., happily single and resolutely child-free. She loves her life and considers herself to be sorted. When a PR launch goes disastrously wrong, she is forced to take a step back from her job. This coincides with her brother facing a crisis at home and asking her to look after his ten-year-old son and six-year-old daughter. She agrees, convinced that it will be a temporary arrangement before she skips back to her old world. She isn’t prepared for how it will change her life forever.

I hope you love the cover as much as I do and enjoy the book if you decide to read.

Happy Friday all!

 

 

Last week I finished the final checks on my new book and I as I pressed ‘send’, pinging my beloved word-baby back to my editor, I was struck with two unexpected emotions.

The first was sheer panic. This is the fourth work of fiction I will publish so I am used to this but it never seems to lessen. My panic stems from the worry that

a) it is crap and all readers will hate it,

b) I have left a litany of typos for reviewers to pounce upon and use as mean review ammunition and

c) I have accidentally and inexplicably typed a big swear word during a key moment in the action.

Yes, I am aware that I think, worry and fantasise too much. I think it comes with the job.

The other, more unexpected emotion was sadness. I suddenly realised how much I am going to miss Cat Nightingale. I have lived with this character for the best part of a year. I gave birth to her (okay, bit weird – let’s say I dreamt her up), got to know her and actually, got to love her too. We had a laugh, shed a good many tears and put a few things in order.

So it feels strange that I won’t be hanging out with her anymore, working out what she’ll say or do next and watching how she’ll sort those conundrums and conflicts I threw her way. I miss her but I know it’s time for her be unleashed on the world. I’ve done my bit and it’s time for other people to read and hopefully enjoy her story.

I am therefore delighted to announce that Cat Nightingale will be with you soon. Her story is told in Life or Something Like It, which will be published by Carina on 13^th July.

I hope you’ll grow to love her as much as I do.

 

Last week we took our children to Disneyland Paris for a short break. I had wanted to do this for many years but was waiting for the right time.

And by ‘time’ I really mean age. This is not a place for babies, toddlers or anyone who can’t stand unaided for seven hours at a stretch. At the age of ten and seven, our children were just the right age, although my husband did need to go for a little nap in the car at one stage.

For the uninitiated, Disneyland is tiring. There’s a lot of music. And smiling. And dancing. And queuing. It’s like a sugar-coated marathon wearing children as leg-irons. It’s not for the faint of heart or cynical of mind. I have my cynical moments – who doesn’t? But there’s no place for it in the Magic Kingdom. We started off being all London and cool about it.

Yeah, we love Pixar but everyone knows that Disney’s a bit plastic.

My daughter is the sweetest one in the family and as soon as she breathed out a ‘Wow’ at the sight of the Sleeping Beauty castle, I was gone too. My son took a bit longer to crack. He stood with arms folded as fairies and princesses spun by during a parade. When Captain Hook and Buzz Lightyear appeared, he became three years old again, jumping up and down with excitement. When Mary Poppins and cast paused to say hello, his voice went a bit quivery as he exclaimed, ‘I just high-fived a penguin!’ My husband and I exchanged glances and the last trace of cynicism was washed away.

By day three we had even developed our own dance-move when the four of us would spontaneously pirouette at the sound of a catchy waltz. Don’t judge until you’ve tried it. It’s surprisingly liberating.

We became swept up in the magic and we didn’t care. I relished my children’s delight and saw the world as they did; bright and shiny and very happy.

It was on our last morning that it hit me.

I don’t want them to grow up. I want them to stay like this forever. I want them to be excited when they meet Mickey Mouse or entranced by a ride over Neverland. I don’t want this bit of my life to end.

‘Leaky eyes?’ asked my ever-understanding husband as he found me hiding in the bathroom, having a little weep.

‘A bit,’ I sniffed. ‘I just like them how they are now. I don’t want them to grow up.’

He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. ‘You’ve said that almost every year since they were born.’

He’s right of course. The baby years were a bit intense for me but ever since my children could walk and talk, I’ve been conscious of time speeding past like a white rabbit on the way to Wonderland as I struggle to keep up.

And now it feels as if the teenage years are waiting in the wings and the small children years are almost done. That weekend felt particularly special and significant and not just because our two became little children again. We did too. We were kids altogether existing in our own private Neverland.

And of course I got to meet Buzz Lightyear and kiss Mickey Mouse. To be honest, I was more excited than the children.

Maybe I am Peter Pan and maybe none of us needs to grow up after all. We just need to park the cynicism bus every so often and get ready to high-five the penguins.

Two and a half years ago I nearly gave up. I had tried for years to find a publisher for my first book. I knew it was a long shot. First books don’t get published. They remain hidden on hard drives; little dreams tucked away in digital boxes.

But then again. Sometimes dreams do become reality.

I’ve told the story of how ‘Not Quite Perfect’ came to be (see my post from 2nd March for a story with a happy ending). I still can’t believe that something I began to scribble at a creative writing group in a dingy south-east London classroom went on to become a number one bestseller.

Well the news gets better and better, because today is the day my first-born book (she’s all grown up – sniff!) is published in French!

I know.

It is now available as an actual French book with real French words inside (I’ve checked).

Merci beaucoup Harlequin France and well done for not asking me to translate it.

I am delighted to share this moment with you, my friends. Today, the Darcy sisters are off on a French adventure and I just know they’re going to have a ball.

As I grow older, I have become acutely aware of my limitations. For instance, three years ago, I finally resolved myself to the fact that I am never going to win Wimbledon (apparently beating your husband at beach tennis does not automatically mean you’re in with a shot). Equally, I am unlikely ever to headline Glastonbury (‘Adele has a throat infection and you need me to perform my moving rendition of Hometown Glory? Send a car at once!’) and of course, George Clooney and I are now officially through.

On a more grounded note, I have given up pretending to like rollercoasters, wearing shoes which bruise my toe-nails and thoughts of becoming a plumber. On the plus side I have realised that I can and will become a better writer, swimmer and baker of sponge-cakes.

However, there is one thing at which I will always fall short and it relates to writing. Sadly and with much regret, I am absolutely rubbish at coming up with book titles and it drives me potty.

I can create characters, settings and plots.  I can introduce hooks, cliff-hangers and dramatic tension. I can make readers laugh and cry and drift off into another world for a bit (at least, that’s what some kindly reviewers have said).

But titles? Man, I struggle. I think I go through a similar process to when I’m confronted with a crossword clue.

‘”Plot”. Four letters,’ my husband might say.

‘Er, plot?’

‘Yes, that’s the clue. “Plot” Four letters.’

‘Dunno. I can only think of “plot”.’

Not helpful is it?

I have a similar issue with my books. My first novel had a working title of, ‘The Editor’s Choice’, because one of the female lead characters was an editor and had some choices to make. You see what I did there?

But it wasn’t right, partly because her sister was an integral part of the story too but more importantly, it just didn’t fit. It was like calling your baby Brian when all the time his name was Dave. Wrong, all wrong, my friends.

Luckily my publisher is really good at titles. When they took me under their wing, they immediately wracked their wordy brains (they have all the words and brains at Carina) and came up with, ‘Far From Perfect.’

I could immediately see that they’d hit on something there. However, my prime concern was that this was a title, which less than generous reviewers could use to beat me over the head.

I e-mailed it to my husband, who has occasional moments of genius (don’t tell him I said this – we’ll never hear the end of it) and happily he was having a good day.

‘What about, ‘Not Quite Perfect’?

And that was the moment. He said the three little words I’d been longing to hear without even realising it. From that day onwards, everything seemed to fall into place. My publisher loved this tweaked title and produced one of the most brilliant covers I’ve ever seen to go with it.

The summer of 2013 was surreal and wonderful as we watched, ‘Not Quite Perfect’ climb into the top ten Kindle bestsellers and reach number one in the Romance Charts.

Heady days indeed but when you set your benchmark high, you also set yourself a challenge for the future.

Last year, my second book, ‘Dear Lizzie,’ was published and the title seemed to fit a novel which told the story of the twelve letters left to Lizzie by her sister, Bea after her death. It was more emotional and a departure from, ‘Not Quite Perfect’. In the words of a popular creosoting advert, ‘it did exactly what it said on the tin.’ Or, ‘book’ in this case.

In July my third book will be published and it is back in, ‘Not Quite Perfect’, territory so the stakes are high. So far, it’s had two titles but neither is quite right. In fact, every time I come up with a title and suggest it to my husband, he finds it very amusing to say, ‘that’s good but it’s not quite perfect.’ Cushions have been thrown.

This week I’m determined to sort it though. It needs to be short, snappy and light.  It needs to engage and stimulate. It needs to be brilliant and original. I am determined and I’m sure it will come to me. I’m sure they’ll be a flash of lightning, a moment’s revelation and the right words will just pop into my brain. I just need to get ‘not quite perfect’ out of my mind first.

Wish me luck.

 

Since Not Quite Perfect was published nearly two years ago, I have become resigned to the fact that my life mirrors the title of this book with frightening accuracy. Indeed the phrase has become widely used by all members of my family; whilst appraising an overcooked but still edible dinner for example, or my husband’s courageous attempts at DIY, of which more later.

Regular readers of this blog may remember that my family and I recently moved to a house which we refer to as, ‘the money-pit’. In six months it has required re-wiring, new gutters, fences, loft insulation and quite a bit of plumbing. It still needs new windows, damp-proofing, a new kitchen and bathroom. But it will just have to learn to be patient. We’re not made of money.

One of the best things about the house (apart from the wide-faced, grumpy black cat who thinks he owns our garden) is my writing room. I realise I am ridiculously lucky to have an actual writing room and I cherish it but as you can see, it needs work.

Firstly, it needs to be re-painted. I can only imagine from the bogey-green, midnight-sky walls with their wavy blue border and Buzz Lightyear stickers that a small person once inhabited this space. The colours are as over-stimulating as a Candy Crush Sugar Rush. In lots of ways it kick-starts my brain into gear every morning but in other (more important) ways, it doesn’t feel right for me.

Beyond this space, I am a woman possessed. As many of you know, a life revolving around the needs of children is not a straightforward one. It seems to involve a series of opposites for me; drop-off, pick-up, load, unload, pack, unpack; all done at optimum speed.

As a result I need calm within these four walls. I need a space that says, ‘this is where you create stuff, where you can think and just be.’

Re-decorating is fundamental to this and will probably involve discussions about ‘egg-shell’ and ‘duck-egg’ and possibly eggs in general.

Secondly, I need a new desk. As you can see my laptop balances precariously on two German dictionaries (I knew that degree wouldn’t be wasted). The desk is a computer desk for computers and is only as big as a computer. The clue’s in the name.

This is fine when I’m writing a first draft but when it comes to revisions, I like to spread out. I like to use my dictionary (given to me by my Dad in 1989; the words are pretty much the same – I’ve checked), my thesaurus and my Oxford Guide to English Grammar. But you need space to do this. Perching them on top of the paper shredder just isn’t the same.

I would also like an armchair; a fat squashy cast-off, in which to curl up and read. In my head, I am an organised writer. I drop my children at school, skip home (so far as you can skip in a Skoda Octavia), make coffee and write all morning. After a light lunch (move away from the fish fingers, lady), I will digest the morning’s work, answer correspondence and settle down to read. In my heart, I know I will probably never be that person (I like fish fingers too much) but a big old armchair might make it possible at least once a week.

Finally, I need a new blind. My room overlooks the garden and beyond that is a sports ground. On Sunday mornings, there are often men swearing at the bottom of the garden whilst attempting to play football. My son thinks this is fantastic but has been told never to repeat anything he hears to Grandma. The rest of the week, it’s fairly peaceful apart from the odd dog-walker or the groundsman, who drives his tractor up and down the pitches like Lewis Hamilton after one too many Fruit Shoot. It is also south-facing and therefore I get a lot of sun. This is lovely unless you’re trying to write or avoid retinal damage. The windows were bare when we moved in. I managed to lasso an old curtain around the existing rail for the first week or two, but a blind was added to the list for one epic visit to Ikea.

I appreciate there are no other types of visit to Ikea. I could probably start a whole blog about our ill-fated trips to Ikea so I’ll spare the details and just say that we bought a blind; the cheapest one we could find because by that stage we were so fed-up, we were close to buying a bath-towel and super-gluing it round the window.

(Regular readers will know how good I am with super-glue – for the uninitiated, follow this link to a post from March for further evidence… https://annielyons.com/2015/03/30/the-day-i-superglued-my-trousers-to-my-leg/)

The following weekend my husband announced that he was going to put up all the blinds and curtains and possibly some pictures too. This was before he realised that the walls were harder than Vinnie Jones. Being a kind and decent man, he started with my blind. Three hours later, after a lot of swearing and several broken drill bits, the blind was up. He looked jubilant and I was grateful for his efforts. The alarm bells sounded when I realised that there was no pully chain thing at the side.

‘How does it go up and down?’ I asked, keeping my voice light in order to mask the concern.

My husband pulled the tab in the middle of the blind. The whole thing unravelled to the floor. We looked at each other. I could see that his sense of humour level was dangerously low.

‘It’s fine!’ I trilled. ‘Let’s just have a look at the instructions.’ We stared at the piece of paper for a good three minutes. As you may know, the level of detail in instructions is directly proportional to the amount you paid for your item. Therefore, our cheap (and not very cheerful) blind had instructions which were as useful as a marshmallow frying pan. Happily, my husband speaks word-for-word translated Swedish and managed to work out how to roll the blind up and then attempt to lock it into place. Unfortunately it ended up being locked half way down the window and to this day, we have no clue how to release it. This is perfect when it’s sunny but means that I need the light on for most of the year. A new, possibly more expensive blind is now required.

So, my writing space mirrors my not quite perfect life and maybe it’s time to change that.

Maybe it’s time to establish the calm, spread out a little and let the light in.

On the one hand I should end up with a more creative writing space but equally, it’ll give me a veritable bounty of blogging material whilst I work towards it.

And the first thing I need to decide is whether Buzz stays or goes…

There’s a quiet group of book-lovers, of which I’m proud to be one. We have no regular meeting time and no fixed forum at which to express our feelings. This particular book club works in a different way. I’ll give you a recent example.

I swim twice a week at my local pool. Over the years I have got to know a few of the regulars. Last week I was chatting to one female acquaintance about her reading group.

I would love to be a member of a reading group. There is nothing I enjoy more than talking about books (You too? We should become friends at once) but sadly, I am the world’s slowest reader. If there was a book group that met once every three months then I might just be able to keep up.

Also, I don’t really like being told what to read. Or do.

It’s a good job I work alone.

But I digress. My swimming friend was telling me about her group’s most recent choice (The Aftermath by Rhidian Brook, which I had read and loved). She then asked me what I was reading. I told her that I’d recently finished Anne Tyler’s new book.

‘Oh I love Anne Tyler,’ she exclaimed. ‘She’s absolutely brilliant. Do you know? I suggested that my book group read one of her titles and some of my friends hadn’t even heard of her.’

We exchanged a glance and shook our heads, shadows of sympathy and judgemental disappointment clouding our faces.

And that was the moment. Another two members of the Anne Tyler book club had made a connection and a literary friendship was established.

Now I’m not an evangelical sort of person. Heaven knows, the world is full of people trying to impose their will on others. Live and let live, say I and I know every book-lover has their favourite. However for me, a life without Anne Tyler would be a poorer one.

I have never read a writer whose words resonated with me more. She expresses inner feelings, thoughts, moods and life with near perfection.

I have to pause sometimes when reading her books to tell myself to slow down because these are words to be relished and savoured.

I’ll give you an example from her latest novel, A Spool of Blue Thread. One of the main characters, Abby is reflecting on how she feels about her grandchildren.

‘She loved them so much that she felt a kind of hollowness on the inner surface of her arms whenever she looked at them – an ache of longing to pull them close and hold them tight against her.’

I feel exactly the same way about my own children. I’ve just never been able to express it with such simple brilliance.

Three years ago, Anne Tyler came to England to attend the Oxford Literary Festival. She was to receive The Sunday Times Award for Literary Excellence (what else?) and give a rare interview.

As I booked tickets for my husband and me, I experienced that jittery panic you feel when you are going to meet someone that you’ve admired for so long. Will they live up to expectations? What if you don’t like them? What if you meet them and you say something stupid? Or burp? Or fart? Or all three?

Yeah, I know. I worry too much.

The interview took place at the Sheldonian Theatre in the centre of Oxford. We arrived early and whilst waiting outside, a small group of people walked past. Among them was a tall willowy lady with wispy grey hair scooped up into a bun. I nudged my husband.

‘That’s Anne Tyler!’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes! It’s Anne Tyler!’

If I had reached out my hand, I could have touched her. I could have grasped her arm and pulled her into a clumsy embrace. I could have hugged her and told her that she had changed my life; that her words had made me want to write, that she expressed everything I felt and did it bloody brilliantly. I could have then been carted off, shouting like a crazy lady and missed the talk.

Happily reader chums, I merely watched her being escorted into the building and felt a pang of sadness that I’m am not a bit more impulsive.

Still, it meant that we could follow the hoard of other Anne Tyler devotees into the building to find our seats and saved my husband considerable embarrassment.

The Sheldonian Theatre is a large dome-topped building, rather like a church with seats on ground level and encircling it on three sides. We opted to sit high up for a better view and as Anne Tyler and her interviewer, Peter Kemp, made their way onto the stage in front of us, a reverent hush descended.

As the interview began, there were issues with sound but I didn’t care. I leaned in closer to make sure I could hear every word. As Anne Tyler answered each question with wry wit and intelligence, you could feel the room breathe a sigh of relief and swoon.

This woman, who wrote so perfectly and beautifully was everything we wanted her to be and more.

My favourite answer came when she was asked what her idea of heaven might be. This is an excellent question for a writer who deals with mortality in so many of her books.

She told us with a knowing smile that she would be half-way through writing a book, have an eleven-year-old daughter and a new puppy. Who could argue with that?

After the interview, Anne remained behind to sign one book per audience member. We waited in line for an hour and when I met her, I did my best not to gibber like a crazy lady as I told her that she had inspired me to write.

She smiled at me in a no-nonsense, kind way, like a favourite aunt. ‘Wonderful. How many books have you written?’

‘Two,’ I squeaked, doing my best to stop thinking about the fact that Anne Tyler was talking to me. To me!  ‘Not quite as many as you,’ I added, feeling immediately ridiculous for stating the bleedin’ obvious.

‘Well keep going and good luck with your writing,’ she told me as she handed back my signed book.

‘Thank you,’ I smiled, heading for the door but longing to stay.

Benediction received, book signed, I walked out into bright sunlight and immediately burst into tears. My husband, who understands me like no-one else said nothing. He simply put an arm round my shoulder and led me to the nearest cake shop.

So yes, I am proud to be a member of the Anne Tyler Book Club and I was overwhelmed to have the chance to listen to her alongside my fellow club members. We are an unassuming, friendly group and if you decide to join our club, you’ll have a lifetime friend in me.

Anne & Annie, 1st April 2012 shortly before I burst into tears.

I’ve never really been on-trend. I’ve never been off trend to be honest. I’m not a person who spots things before they happen or really notices them when they have.

I sometimes think that I’ve spotted something really new and exciting but usually find out it’s been done before, as in the time I started reading this amazing book full of magic mingled convincingly with real life and thought I’d stumbled upon a whole new genre. I had. It’s called magical realism and I was approximately fifty years too late.

I hear about new things, things I don’t understand; the YOLOs and ROFLs and other acronyms I either can’t decipher or don’t have a ten-year-old around to explain for me. I then file it away for later research, dismiss or forget.

Actually often I forget.

In truth though, these things aren’t meant for me. They’re not aimed at my generation. I look at my daughter as we sing along companionably to Taylor Swift or boogie (okay possibly showing my age there) together to Bruno Mars, and there’s something in her eyes that says,

‘This song is written for me, Mum. It’s about me discovering the world, fresh and new and full of youngsters with lip-curling attitude and sassy indifference to anyone over the age of thirty. Move over old lady, you’ve had your turn.’

And it’s true. It really is but it makes me a little sad and at the same time it makes me wonder, is this where a mid-life crisis begins?

When I was a kid, a mid-life crisis was a joke on a 70s sitcom and therefore probably didn’t exist. The trouble is, I think I should have done more lip-curling, given a bit more cheek to adults and truth be told, shaken my booty at a few more men.

I reached the age of forty last year.  People above that age react to this news by crying,

‘Is that all?’ to which I reply,

‘Yes thank you.’

People below that age are largely indifferent because provided you’re under thirty five, it’s never going to happen, right?

Wrong. It will happen. Even on my birthday I was clinging to my thirties by telling anyone who would listen that I wasn’t born until 6 pm so it was all fine. By 6 pm I was too drunk to care. The next day I felt fine (apart from the hangover). People were right.  It was just a number. I’m no different to the person I was last year.

However, I am starting to notice subtle changes. I get creaky back pains, my limbs click a little more than they used to and I positively rattle with vitamins. I visit an osteopath regularly. I’ve started doing Pilates. I’ve got a mild to serious obsession with death (‘Half way through, I’m half way through!’) and I try to do a crossword on a semi-regular basis in order to preserve the brain cells that I have.

At a weekend get-together for one of my university friends’ fortieth birthdays we found ourselves politely sipping Prosecco and discussing electric toothbrushes. I know. It pains me to type the words.

But my brain’s not ready to comply. My brain still thinks it’s seventeen (it should be eighteen but you can’t tell my brain). I want to be pre-university, ready to face the world, full of energy and vital limbs and a liver than can still cope with an alcoholic pounding.

At a recent wedding I bought one of my first pairs of proper heels and did my best to walk in them without resembling a newly born giraffe. It was tough. My feet were bruised. I was four inches taller than my husband.  I lost a toe nail. Did I care? Not a jot.

I want to learn to dance. Properly. To be whirled and shimmied and spun around the floor like that fairytale princess us feminists are not supposed to hanker after. Oh please Germaine, just one dance, we’re only human.

I want to laugh like I did when I was a teenager; about nothing and everything. Pure unbridled, unflinching glee.

So maybe that is a mid-life crisis. The slight panic about being half way, the realisation that time is precious and there’s still so much to do. And in a way, it’s a good thing. It’s a necessary thing. I like it.

And possibly the best thing about being forty? People can afford the best surprises. Which is why my husband took me to New York and do you know what we did? Did we party until dawn every night, dance at the hippest clubs, eat at the flashest restaurants and drink Cosmopolitans until we fell over?

Did we buffalo.

We ate bagels (none of your pretend English pap), cheesecake (almost the best I’ve ever tasted), knishes (disgusting) and the best Italian pizza and stir-fried shrimp I’ve ever eaten. We took in a brilliant Broadway show (Carole King’s Beautiful), visited the best art gallery in New York (The Frick Collection), walked the High-Line and took the Staten Island Ferry. We sang ‘Manhattan’ wherever we went. We walked hand in hand, talked and laughed like in the pre-children days. We even stayed up until 3 am having seen the brilliant Louis C.K. at the Comedy Cellar.

We took Manhattan and we loved it and the best thing?

We faced our trip with the enthusiasm of the teenagers we once were but with the well-researched Trip Advisor tips and comfortable Fitflop trainers of the fortysomethings we now are.

We’re not stupid.

We know how to live and live we shall with the impulsive note of a teenager mingled with the experience of age.  We just might live it a bit more slowly and wear comfortable shoes.

If this is mid-life crisis, I’m ready for it.

 

This post first appeared last year on the brilliant Katie Oliver’s website. If you haven’t already discovered her fantastic’Mr Darcy’ books, you’re in for a treat. Read more about her here http://katieoliver.com/ko/

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.