Hello there, my word, so much has happened since we last chatted, I barely know where to begin. Right, okay, umm, let’s do this in order, first things first, the Halloween Party. When I ended last time, I was about to wander the charity shops in search of a costume. We have a fancy dress and accessories shop in town, so I went there first to get an idea of what they had and the prices. The theme of the party was Zombie Saturday Night Fever, so basically 1970s glam with zombie makeup effects. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy finding genuine 1970s clothing. Let’s face it, much as I like to fool myself that the seventies were only thirty years ago, they’re not, they’re fifty years ago. Any clothing from that era either fell apart years ago or is in vintage shops with hefty price tags on them. No, it was going to have to be 1970s-inspired clothing. I went to Dance Crazy. They had a couple of ABBA outfits, but they were (a) expensive and (b) horrible nasty PVC-looking stuff. I was not paying nearly £50 for cheap-looking tat that I would be wearing just once.

I set off on my quest around the numerous charity shops — and believe me, Bury has a LOT of charity shops — but by the sixth shop, I was beginning to despair. Anyway, I hit the final shop and at the door hesitated about going in. It’s a small and cramped shop and it was packed with people. My heart sank. Could I honestly be bothered going in? Then on the rack closest to the door, I spotted a flash of green chiffon and what looked like black velvet appliqued peacocks. I edged in. It was a lovely scarf. It wouldn’t do for the fancy dress outfit, but it would be perfect for using in promo images for The Book of Eve and on my stall as a backdrop to the book. I picked it up. £4.50. Yes, I was going to buy that. It was unique. I’d never seen anything quite like it before. The intricate design of the peacocks was beautiful. I turned and saw on the end of the dress rail opposite a sparkly black catsuit. All-in-one, slightly flared loose trousers, a fitted bodice with a plunging neckline and spaghetti straps. Think Shirley Bassey. I looked at the label. Size 10. Ho hum. Been a long time since I was a size ten. I held it against me. The length was perfect, being only 5ft I struggle with trouser length. The material was quite stretchy, so I decided to take a chance and try it on. I took it into the changing room, stripped off my boots and jeans and looked for a zip or buttons. There weren’t any. It was wiggle into it and hope you don’t hear a ripping sound. Holding my breath, I began to wiggle. It went over the knees, over the childbearing hips, and it fitted to my waist at least. I took off my coat and jumper, now fully committed to trying the whole thing on. It slipped over the chest and the straps fitted snugly. It was on. It looked fine. It was rather flattering. It flattened things that look better flatter and boosted things that look better boosted. It showed a lot of my bra, but I’d been thinking for a while I needed a new one so could treat myself to a plunge bra with thin straps.

I wiggled back out of it and looked at the label. It was from Selfridges originally. Ooh. I took it to the till. The lady couldn’t find a code for it so in the end only charged me £4 for it. Bargain. I then went back to Dance Crazy to see about buying zombie makeup and maybe a feather boa to complete my outfit. They had both these things, but I was not paying £15 for a boa with mange, and I certainly wasn’t paying £15 for a tiny pack with some white, black, and red makeup and a couple of bits of sponge in. I decided to look online. By this point, I was late for drinks at friends so hurried there and proudly showed them the fruits of my foraging, saying I would buy a black feather boa to complete the look. I have one you can have, my friend announced. She ran upstairs and re-emerged with a bagful of old boas which she tipped out in a sea of purple feathers as one had completely disintegrated in the bag. Shame it’s not nesting season, otherwise the birds in their garden would have had the bougiest nest boxes in town.

So funny, I staggered home later and went to bed. I must have tipped the bag out to get the catsuit out and hang it up because when I awoke the next day, it looked like a crow had been molested on my bedroom floor. Black feathers everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE! I also went on Amazon and found a complete zombie makeup kit with fake blood and latex for £5.99 delivered. So, I was all set up. Great original costume for £10. As the catsuit was a bit revealing up top and I’m of the age where upper arms are best not left to dangle free, I found a little black shrug in my cupboard to wear over the top.

My hours at work are thankfully back to normal. Working a couple of 40-hour weeks has made me realise I just can’t do that anymore. When I was young, sure, no problem, but I get so tired now and I have other things I want to do rather than work. So, it was work on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday, I had a lot of running around to do. Shopping, visiting my parents, sorting out my car ready for the long road trip the following week, buying birthday cards and wrapping up Rys’s birthday presents — I would be taking both mine and my parents with me the following week, so I had to run my parent’s presents out to them, they wrapped them, and then I brought them back home — all ready to pack. I also had a prescription to pick up and a doctor’s appointment to keep.

I didn’t mention it, but a week before I’d had what I can only put down to an extreme allergic reaction to something. It was a stir fry I’d made for dinner. I normally make my sauce, but because I was working until 6pm I stopped at the local shop and bought a sachet of ready-made sweet chilli and garlic sauce. I fried up noodles, beansprouts, carrots, mangetout, mushrooms, prawns and this sauce. I began to eat. Halfway through the meal I realised something was very wrong. My throat was swelling, my eyes and nose were streaming, my soft palette was in shreds, my tongue was blistered and swollen, my lips were swollen and buzzing with pain, and my face was bright red and swollen. Alarmed, I took an antihistamine and drank lots of water. It helped a little, but not a lot. (Ten days later my throat still felt scalded and raw.) I fished the packet of sauce out of the bin and read the ingredients. Rapeseed oil was the first one listed. Now, I used to have issues with rapeseed plants when I suffered from extreme hay fever. Bury is surrounded by bright yellow fields of the stuff and every spring when they were in flower and in the autumn when they were harvesting it, I would be in agony with weeping and swollen eyes and a scratchy throat. After sunflower oil became expensive because of the Ukraine war and a lot of manufacturers replaced it with rapeseed oil, I found there were certain brands of crisps that I could no longer eat because they left my mouth and tongue sore and blistered. So, when I saw rapeseed oil was the main ingredient, I wondered if it was that, but I thought I better see a doctor. Allergic reactions only get progressively worse and as I live alone, the last thing I want is my airways to close in an attack.

So, I made a doctor’s appointment — that was an issue in itself — my surgery has introduced this stupid new online system where you can’t simply book an appointment for your next day off work, you can only book for the same day. If there are no appointments for that day, you must wait for your next day off and try again. Absolutely ludicrous. Anyway, I managed to get an appointment for late Wednesday afternoon, so after lunch at my parent’s house, I picked up my Tesco shop on the way back into town, filled up with diesel, went home and unpacked, did a few chores, then walked to the surgery. There were major roadworks on the main artery road connecting one side of town to the other shut. It was quicker to walk than pick my way around the convoluted detours.

The doctor listened to my tale of woe and looked at my throat. I can see inflammation, she said, it’s almost like it’s been burnt. She recommended antiacid liquid medication, told me to leave a urine sample, and book in at the hospital for a blood test. She would also send a letter to the allergy clinic. On the way home, I bought my new bra ready for the party, bought Gavaston (an antiacid medication) and picked up something for dinner. I then went online to book a blood test. The next available appointments are on Friday, the website told me. Okay, that’s fine. I booked 11.05 as a nicely convenient time.

Thursday was another busy day of editing my two hardback books — yes, that is still ongoing, but more on that later — and catching up with laundry and housework. On Friday, I set out on the twenty-minute walk to the hospital. It was a lovely bright autumnal day and as the walk was through the local water meadows it was very pleasant. I reached the hospital with time to spare, made my way to the blood testing department and tried to log in. It told me I didn’t exist. A receptionist came to help.

Do you have either the text or emailed confirmation?

I have both, I replied and pulled out my phone.

We both looked at the email. Sure enough, it confirmed my appointment for 11.05am on Friday the 8^th of November. Which was fine. Except. It was the 2^nd of November. I was a week early.

Oh, bugger.

She looked around. It was very quiet in the department. She looked at the nurse standing in one of the cubicles.

Can you squeeze this lady in? She’s accidentally come a week early.

That depends, replied the nurse.

On what? I asked.

On whether you’re a screamer or a fusser.

I am neither, I assured her, stripping off my coat, rolling my sleeve up and thrusting my arm at her. Just stick the needle in and let’s do this.

She stuck the needle in. We did it. Four minutes later I was walking home again.

Saturday was the day of the party. I worked all day on my books. It was my turn to clean, but I thought I better leave the bathroom until AFTER I’d done my zombie makeup. I had a feeling I might make a bit of a mess.

I allowed plenty of time. I’ve never tried to do zombie makeup before and despite watching a couple of YouTube videos that made it look as easy as falling off a log, I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be. I was right. I tried. I despaired. I smudged and wiped and smeared it around. I stuck on latex. I didn’t realise how long it took to dry, and I tried to make convincing scars before it was firm enough. Lots of mess. I looked at myself in the mirror and wasn’t sure. I applied lots of fake blood. In the end, I video-called Franki. She visibly recoiled when she answered. Maybe I should have prepared her first. She inspected me thoroughly and pronounced my makeup suitably zombie-like, assured me I looked fine — well, as fine as an undead creature CAN look — and told me to go to the party and have fun. I wiggled into my catsuit. The boa I left in a plastic bag planning not to put it on until I got to the party owing to its tendency to moult everywhere. I was driving to the party and then walking home.

It was a fun party, although a lot of people seem to have either got only the zombie part of the dress code right or the seventies part. Not many seemed to have done both.

Slight hangover the next day, but not too bad, I worked some more on the books and cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom — it had been a good call not to clean before the great makeup session as I’d left the bathroom looking like a clown had been slaughtered in there — and I walked to retrieve the car.

On Monday, I went to work for one day. Normally, I work Tuesdays as well but because I was driving up north ready for the graduation, the lady I job share with was covering my shift that day. It’s the first time I’ve asked her to do that, and I am always covering her shifts, so I didn’t feel bad about it other than the fact I am losing a day’s pay.

I was not looking forward to the journey. A final plan had been settled on. I was driving to Reading on the Tuesday morning taking up everything Franki and Rys had left at mine, including a 6ft pink Christmas tree called Boris. I would have lunch with them, then we’d drive together to Chester. I waited until 9.40 to leave home, hoping I would avoid the work and school traffic. The journey there was not too bad. It took me 2.5 hours as the roads were reasonably clear. We left at 2pm to head to Chester and that journey was not so great. It’s a four-hour drive, all motorway, and it was dark by the time we reached Chester and were trying to find our Airbnb. There was a public car park opposite, which was handy, but it meant I would have to be up before 7 each morning to repark the car and put another ticket on.

The house looked tiny from the outside, but when we went in it assumed TARDIS-like dimensions and went back into a huge kitchen and shower room extension which took up the whole of what would have been their garden. As Airbnb’s go it was fine. There was a large bedroom on the ground floor, with a pull-out double sofa bed in a lounge/diner, a kitchen, and a shower room at the back.

Upstairs there were two more large bedrooms with super king beds and simply ginormous TVs on the wall. Seriously, 62” TVs. Why? Who on earth needs such a large TV in an Airbnb bedroom. But every bedroom had the giant telly, whilst the one in the lounge was only 42”. Weird.

We chose our bedrooms, settled in, and waited for the others to arrive. A Chinese takeaway was planned. I was exhausted. It had been a long day with lots of motorway driving which I always find draining. It’s having to concentrate so much; it leaves me hollowed out. After a big meal and a couple of glasses of wine, I was ready to fall asleep, but the others wanted to play games and got out an incredibly complicated and convoluted game about building shops and buying potions and spells for your dragons. I had no clue what was going on. I think I fell asleep at the table at one point. To my surprise, I came second. No idea how that happened.

I didn’t sleep very well. For once, the mattress was okay and wasn’t too firm. Regular readers will remember all the issues I’ve had with concrete-like mattresses in various hotels and Airbnb’s in the past, No, this time it was because I didn’t take enough water to bed and couldn’t get up to get more because one of Rys’s sisters was asleep on the sofa bed in the lounge and I didn’t want to wake her, and because something beeped every four minutes throughout the night. No idea what it was. All I know it was bloody annoying, especially as no one else heard it.

The next day was the day of the graduation. I was up, showered, car reparked and drinking tea by 7.15. The ceremony started at 9 so we had to be at the cathedral by 8.40. The service was lovely and mercifully a lot shorter than last year, so we had time to return to the accommodation for coffee and cake before making our lunch reservation at Pizza Express for 1pm.

I am being very careful about what I eat until I get a diagnosis, and, in my mind anyway, I am convinced it is rapeseed oil I have an issue with. I asked for the allergy menu. Every single thing cooked or prepared in Pizza Express has rapeseed oil in it. At first, it appeared I wouldn’t be able to have anything. On closer examination, I found the only things I could have were the gluten-free dough balls with garlic butter and the cannelloni. Seriously, that was it. I had those, and they were very tasty, but it would have been nice to have a choice. I’m only beginning to realise that if I do have a rapeseed oil allergy it is going to majorly impact my life, especially if I want to eat out or get a takeaway. Everything is cooked in it now.

That evening, we played games and ate the big cheeseboard I had taken with me. I slept better that night because I made sure I took a large bottle of water to bed with me. I could still hear that bloody beeping though.

I overslept the next day and rolled out of bed at 7.05am. Panicking about getting a parking ticket or paying a big fine, I rolled out of bed, pulled a coat over my PJs, pulled on my boots and charged across to the car park. It was contactless payment only and wouldn’t take my bloody card no matter how many times I tapped it. Card declined, it spitefully told me, which was worrying, but I figured I may have reached my tap limit. Luckily, I had the card for my little author account, and it did accept that. I drove out of the car park and drove back in. As I pulled into another parking space I heard a loud crunch. Getting out of the car, I found a small bottle of instant coffee powder had been smashed on the ground and I had driven over all the big chunks of broken glass. Just great. So, that was me, crouched in a Chester car park in my PJs, picking up bits of glass and trying to examine my tyres.

We all had breakfast. Check-out was by ten at the latest. Since we last spoke about it a new plan had been hatched. I would drop Franki and Rys at Stafford train station on the way home. Stafford is a one-hour drive from Chester and only ten minutes off the M6. It’s a direct train line to Reading and would only take them a couple of hours. We had thoughts of many solutions — I drive them to Reading and then drive home, not tempting — when we were originally making graduation plans in the summer, I hadn’t yet done the drive. I was naïve about geography and stupidly thought that Reading was on route to Chester. It’s only on route in the same way that Portugal is on route to Russia! Then we thought maybe Rys’s sister who lives in London might be able to give them a lift back, but she had decided to go straight to North Wales to stay with their mum. Then it was thought maybe Rys’s other sister could drop them off at Newport train station on her way back to South Wales, but that would involve a three-hour, complicated train journey with quite a few changes. Franki and Rys coming back to Suffolk with me, staying a few days, and taking the train from Bury to Reading was also discussed.

Then, last week, an old friend I hadn’t seen in ages asked if she could come and stay for a couple of days. She wanted to come the same day I got home from Chester (Thursday) and go home Saturday afternoon. Now, call me selfish, but the moment I learnt that she was coming to stay I wanted to come home alone and have a few days with my old friend, just us.

When I went to have a drink with friends after scouring the charity shops for my fancy dress outfit, I mentioned the dilemma and that’s when my friend’s husband suggested Stafford station as a viable option. I sent a message to Franki, they checked out the logistics, realised it could work, and so that plan was settled on.

And it worked beautifully. Franki booked their tickets for 12.20 leaving Stafford. We had to leave Chester at ten so reached the station at just gone eleven but there was a large Tesco store behind the station, so we parked there, used the facilities, and then Franki bought food for them to eat on the station waiting for their train. I also took the chance to fill up with diesel at the Tesco garage. As I expected, the machine made me put my card and PIN in, so I was correct, I had reached the tap limit, and it was nothing more sinister than that. I dropped them off at the station, hugged them goodbye, then climbed wearily back into the car for the last time and set off for home. It was a reasonable drive, and I reached home at 2.15pm, giving me just enough time to unpack and settle in before my friend arrived from the 3pm train. She had initially suggested we go out for dinner, but I knew I’d be wiped from the trip, so I suggested cooking something at home. In between arriving home and her arrival, I took a bag of cherries from the freezer to defrost, whipped up a sweet batter mix and put it in the fridge ready to make cherry clafoutis for dessert. I also lit the fire in the dining room.

After a quick cup of tea and a catch-up, we wandered to Waitrose and bought a couple of beautiful steaks for dinner, along with green beans and some mascarpone to go with the cherry clafoutis. I already had beer-battered onion rings, homemade braised red cabbage, and Norfolk potatoes to roast in butter and salt and pepper. We put music on, opened a bottle of wine, and cooked dinner together, and it was lovely. The lodger arrived home, shared a glass of wine with us and when chatting with my friend, discovered that he had gone to school with her older sister. It’s such a small world. He disappeared whilst we ate our steaks, but I invited him to come back an hour later and share dessert with us. I had brought home the remains of the large cheeseboard I took to Chester, so I laid that out with grapes and crackers, and we sat and ate and chatted and drank wine by firelight and candlelight, with Fleet Foxes and Clannard softly playing in the background. It was so relaxing, and I didn’t have to worry if there was rapeseed oil in anything because I knew there wasn’t.

Friday morning, we had fat sausages and fried eggs and crusty rolls and butter for breakfast, then my friend went to visit her father, and I caught up with laundry and phoned the doctor for the results of the reply from the allergy clinic. They were sorry, but they didn’t think my reaction was serious enough to warrant further investigation. Okay, so my throat closing, my mouth swelling, my face puffing up, and my tongue and throat still being sore and blistered two weeks after the attack isn’t serious enough!? Do I have to die before they think it’s serious enough then? Oh, and please could I keep a detailed food diary for a month to discover any common causes of reaction. In other words, save them time and money and do the job for them.

I was so annoyed, that I grabbed one of the leftover sausages from the fridge for a quick lunch, bit into it, crunched on something, and found a part of my front bottom tooth had snapped off. Oh, just great. It’s right where my tongue naturally rests and feels the size of the Grand Canyon. So, that’s a big blister forming on the end of my tongue and me trying to get a dentist appointment.

When my friend returned at three, we went for a long walk down to the local park and around town, culminating in a drink at Wetherspoons, and then a wander home. We had a freshen-up and then wandered back uptown for a light dinner and a cheeky carafe of wine at a local French restaurant that was lit by candles and was beautiful. As it was still early when we got home, we watched a Jane Austin film, Persuasion, before heading to bed.

I slept like a log. I stumbled downstairs at 7.30, made a cup of tea and went back to bed. We had arranged to meet another old friend at 10.30 at a local restaurant that does very good brunches. I asked the waitress what on the menu was cooked in rapeseed oil. Almost everything. I was able to have Eggs Benedict, which was nice, and we all had coffee and a Mimosa each, then a bit later had more coffee and Danish pastries. It was wonderful to be with these women who have been my friends for over thirty years, and there was a lot of “Do you remember” and “Whatever happened to so-and-so?” and it was almost one when we emerged blinking into the daylight.

We said goodbye to our friend and then wandered through the market. A simply superb pair of musicians were playing a harp and a cello in the centre of town, attracting a large, appreciative audience with their sheer talent and exuberance. We browsed an old bookstall, then visited Moyse’s Hall, a local museum. The fruit and veg stall outside the museum was selling Fen black celery, which my friend fell on with cries of delight and bought some to take home. I don’t care for celery much, and Fen celery certainly is far too bitter for me, but whatever makes you happy. Home again, for a quick cup of tea, and then I ran my friend to the train station.

And for the past two hours, I have been chatting with you. I plan a quiet evening. As I’m still reasonably full of brunch, I will have a light tea and watch some TV. As you’ve probably gathered, the diet has been put on hold this week. I’ll start again on Monday and start keeping my food diary then. Will be interesting to see which foods trigger the reaction. I’ll keep you all posted.

I have one more day off before it’s back to work, and tomorrow is earmarked for uploading what I hope will be the last, last, absolutely buggery last drafts of the books to Book Vault. Despite sticking rigorously to the templates provided by them, the margins were too narrow and in the centre of the Blackwood Family Saga book two rogue blank pages appeared. Hopefully, these issues have been addressed, but I will still order final proof copies just to check before the books are sent to have the printed edges embedded in the pdf and I can finally publish.

I am still hopeful they will be available for Christmas or that I can at least order my author copies for the Christmas markets coming up. We shall see, fingers crossed.

Anyway, this blog is double the length of my normal ones so well done for sticking with me. Take care and I will speak to you soon.

Julia Blake

It’s Friday morning. I managed to sleep for over eight hours. I have coffee and the weather is lashing up into a gale outside. How are you? How has life been treating you since we last spoke? When we last chatted, I was facing a weekend of back-to-back events, so, how did they go? Well, the YA Literature Festival in Stowmarket Library went very well. Despite a brief wobble first thing when the library’s car park proved tricky to find, we arrived in plenty of time, and it was nice having Franki there to help me unload and transport my things into the library.

The library staff were wonderful. Very friendly and helpful and brimming over with enthusiasm. We set up our stalls and waited for the event to begin. Two traditionally published authors, Annaliese Avery and Pam Smy, were there and we chatted to them. Both lovely ladies, I think it might have been their first live event. Anyway, Franki was given the task of looking after their stalls when they were on the panels and generally helping them where necessary. The event started and over a dozen teens wandered in to show their tickets and collect their goodie bags. Unsurprisingly, they were all female. I know there must be some teenage boys who read but it is predominantly girls. The mayor of Stowmarket cut the ribbon and declared the event open, and it swung into the first panel.

It was a fun day. To begin with, the teens were desperately shy and would barely mutter a word, but as the day wore on their confidence grew and they chatted with the authors, looked at our books, asked questions, and occasionally even bought one. In the end, I sold eight books which isn’t too bad for a small event. We had a Battle of the Baddies, and the extract I read from Erinsmore where Lorcan has Ruby trapped in his tower and spells out his dastardly plans for her went down well. To my delight, my luscious Lorcan was voted the Baddest Baddy in Badsville, and I sold a few copies of Erinsmore off the back of that.

After the event, Franki and I went home, where I unpacked and re-packed my boxes, loaded the car for Leiston the next morning, and then we had dinner, watched some mindless TV and in the morning, I was up early and off. It’s never a great drive to Leiston. It’s mostly through tiny villages and on twisty narrow country lanes. There’s always a road closed and a diversion somewhere which leaves me driving blind in the middle of nowhere and almost late for the fair.

Again, I didn’t do too badly at Leiston. I sold nine books in all and the jury is still out on whether it is worth doing or not. On the stall next to me were a couple selling handcrafted stuff who hail from a village quite close to Bury. I mentioned how awful the roads were getting here, and they told me to go the A12 instead, over the Orwell Bridge and then straight home on the A14.

Getting into my car at 3pm to come home, I set the route into Google Maps Lady, and she automatically selected the twisty country lane option and told me I’d be home at 4:05pm. Hmm, I thought, we’ll see about that. Leaving my mobile data on so she could update as we went, I drove out of the village and turned onto the A12. Google Maps Lady sputtered in indignation and ordered me to turn around and go the way she was suggesting. I ignored her and kept going. Plaintively, she kept trying to make me take a route other than the A12, but I was determined. Fired up on the advice of the couple, I soon found myself on the approach to the Orwell Bridge and that’s when the trouble began.

Regular readers of my little blog will remember the last time that Franki and I went to Felixstowe we got stuck in traffic coming back because the Orwell Bridge was down to single land traffic for some mysterious reason. Yeah, I really should have remembered that, or not assumed it would have been cleared four days later. I got stuck in traffic big time! Inching along, my speed either dead slow or stop, I ground my teeth when Google Maps Lady smugly told me that there was heavy traffic ahead. You don’t say? As 4pm came and went — the time I would have been home if I’d gone cross county — I sat there listening to the news on the radio, damning the eyes of that ever-so-helpful couple.

I finally got home at 5pm. Unloaded the car. Then dropped Franki off at the train station to collect Rys whilst I whizzed around to the garage because my fuel light was blinking, and I guessed (luckily correctly) that 6pm on a Sunday would be a good time to hit the garage. We got home, Rys unpacked and settled in whilst Franki put dinner together and then Rys told us all about their canal trip. I’m afraid it still isn’t my idea of a holiday but each to their own.

I was at work the next two days, so they had some quality time alone but unfortunately, Rys came back from the canal boat with a stinking cold and a high fever. Franki didn’t catch it, but it seemed to trigger a resurgence of my whooping cough which rears its ugly head now and then, and I was busy coughing up a lung. Wednesday and Thursday they were busy packing while I tried to get well. I was dreading the move up to Reading. I don’t like driving on the roads around London, I don’t like driving in places I’m unfamiliar with, and I don’t like doing both these things on my own, which I was going to have to do when I drove home from Reading on Saturday.

The plan was this. Rys’s sister was coming down by train on Friday evening. We were having a Chinese takeaway. She would stay the night. Then at 8am on Saturday, she and Rys would go to collect the hire van, whilst Franki and I loaded all their stuff from the house into my car and took it to the storage locker. We would start bringing everything down from the locker on trolleys and the van would rock up as soon as it could.

Good plan we thought. They packed up everything of theirs in the house. I looked at it.

This is not all going to fit in my car, I said.

They looked at it. Are you sure?

Yep. I have Yaris. There’s no way this is all going to fit in.

A new plan was hatched. We stuffed the bags of bedding that were light but bulky into my car and drove to the storage locker Thursday morning and threw them into the locker. We collected the box for their air fryer whilst we were there, and the old guitar that usually stands in the spare bedroom. We had put them both in storage at the beginning of the summer to create more space in the house. We drove home and they packed away their air fryer. I then spent hours making Chicken Kievs from scratch with a very cheesy garlicky potato gratin for dinner that night.

On Friday I made up the spare bed for Rys’s sister. I had already stripped and washed the bedding and made the bed whilst Rys was away, but then Rys slept in there when they were ill because they didn’t want to disturb Franki or infect them. Their fever broke in the night and every scrap of bedding — right down to the pillow protectors and mattress topper — had to be laundered again. Sigh. I also thoroughly scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen. All this while I’m coughing for Britain, burning up, and generally feeling very poorly indeed.

We collected Rys’s sister from the eight o’clock train and went home to eat. She is lovely and I was very grateful to her for volunteering to drive the van. I’ve never driven one before and didn’t want my first time to be on the M25 in busy London traffic. We all had a reasonably early night, and we were up, had breakfast, and were off by 8am. Rys and her sister to walk the two minutes to the van hire place, and Franki and I to drive to the storage locker. We grabbed two trolleys — is it honestly that hard to make trolleys that steer in a straight line? — and loaded them both high with all the big and heavy boxes first, figuring it made sense for them to go in the van first. We took the trolleys down and I left Franki waiting with them by the car, whilst I took another trolley up and started loading it. By the time I got that one down, the van had arrived, and Rys and her sister started loading it whilst Franki and I took another two trolleys up to the locker and loaded them. We transferred everything from the car to the van. The University had been quite adamant only one vehicle would be allowed near the accommodation and that extra vehicles would be required to park on the other side of the block. Having no idea what distance that was, we did not want to be lugging too much. All that we took in the car with us was the cool bag with all the food they’d taken from the fridge and lunch for the four of us, plus a bag with all the cleaning products in it. This was in case the flat needed cleaning before we could put stuff away.

We were on the road by nine. Franki was in the car with me and Rys in the van with their sister. We knew that we’d get there before the van, so it was arranged Franki would register and get the keys to the flat so we could get in, suss out the cleanliness situation, and complete the inventory.

The trip wasn’t there too bad. It felt long, and there were a lot of roads to take. When they were at university up north it was A14, M6, and A500, and they were easy transactions. This time it was a confusing nightmare of junctions and roundabouts and road swapping, and I was not looking forward to doing this alone later in the day.

We reached the university just about within their move-in slot. We were told to park the car in the front car park and walk to check-in. We were also told that technically we only had 45 minutes, but then the man squinted sympathetically and whispered — look, no one is checking, the car park isn’t crowded, you’re not in the way, so if you need to leave it longer it’ll be fine.

Franki registered and got the keys to the flat. In rising excitement, we followed the directions to the residential block and found the door. There was a problem getting the key to work, so Franki ran back to reception and the girl we’d spoken to came back and showed us the knack for getting it to work. And then we were in. It’s a lovely big flat on the ground floor with a big bay window in the lounge overlooking the campus grounds. It was very clean, so that was good. It was also very sparsely furnished, which I was surprised by, but then, thinking about it, people doing their Masters tend to be more mature students going back after being in employment for a while. They presumably bring furniture with them. The layout was a little odd and I did wonder if once upon a time it had been separate rooms which had then been reconfigured into a flat. The first thing you see when you walk in the front door is a wall of safety glass windows and a door leading into the kitchen, which is odd. In fact, when we had the door propped open ferrying boxes in, someone did try to go in thinking it was the communal kitchen.

The fridge and freezer were already plugged in, so we unpacked the cool box and put everything away. We put the cleaning products in the cupboard under the sink and Franki started on the inventory. There was a lot to check and a lot of inconsistencies to note.

Condition of the toilet brush in the shower room? Condition is missing.

Condition of the smoke detector in the lounge? There’s something stuck on it. (It was, in fact, a condom that had been put over the detector so the previous occupants could smoke without setting it off. Smoking is strictly prohibited on campus but luckily the flat didn’t smell).

And so on and so on.

Franki was not going to bother reporting all the missing or defective items, but I advised her to. At the end of the year when they are moving out and the inventory is taken, they do not want to be responsible for those missing or damaged items.

The van turned up as we were finishing the inventory and then it was all hands on deck to unload and get everything in. Luckily there were handy trolleys to use — and no, they didn’t steer in a straight line either — and less than an hour later everything was in. We stopped to eat lunch. We were hot, sweaty, thirsty, hungry, and exhausted by this point. Rys’s sister then took the van and left. There is a branch of the rental company at the end of the road where she lives in London, so she was going to drop it off there.

Franki and Rys went to register Rys. Whilst they were gone, I located the bags with the bedding and made their bed. I always think when you move anywhere, the first thing you should do — after switching on the fridge and freezer — is make your bed. Otherwise, it will be forgotten about and then it’s late at night, you’re exhausted, but you must make the bed from scratch. Nope, not fun, make it straight away and then it’s done.

They came back. They examined the flat properly and looked at what furniture they had. Essential things were missing, like there was only one bedside cabinet. Luckily, they had a small plastic four-drawer unit which would do. There was nowhere to stand their TV, PlayStation, and all their DVDs and games. There was a large empty wall in the lounge with nothing in it. There was a sofa, but it was tiny, barely room for one person to sit on. This was going to be their home for a year, they needed an armchair. There wasn’t a single shelf or bookcase in the whole flat. Although they both now had Kindles so had left most of their books in Suffolk, they are students doing an intense course. They needed somewhere to put textbooks and just … stuff. Finally, and it may sound silly, there was no occasional table in the lounge. This is one of those things you don’t think you need, but you do. When you’re sitting there in the evening you need somewhere to stand your drinks, the remotes, and your book. Somewhere to stand a lamp as the overhead lights were a bit brutal. I mean seriously, oops no retinas bright.

We considered our options. Franki googled furniture shops locally. There was an IKEA twenty minutes away. There was nothing for it. We’d have to go there.

IKEA.

On a Saturday afternoon.

On admittance day of one of the largest universities in the country.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that’s the fifth level of hell or is it the fourth? Franki has never been to IKEA, I’ve only been once and vowed never again. I don’t think Rys had ever been either. We got in the car and drove there. Through heavy traffic. With me coughing up a lung and Franki bellowing instructions at me.

We found it. Parked in the crammed multi-storey car park and went into the store. It was as you would expect. Heaving. Noisy. Confusing. It was full of dead-eyed teenagers following perky parents pushing trolleys with rugs, plastic plants, and cookware piled high. We took a deep breath and plunged in. We looked at TV stands. They were lovely, but expensive. Then I spotted a little white chunky two-shelf unit that would be perfect. It was £15. Franki took a picture of the label. I found a five-shelf metal shelving unit that looked sturdy and was very reasonable at £15. Then we saw a steel basket with a stout plastic lid that would serve as storage for throws and pillows and an occasional table, £19. That was the basics. We looked at armchairs. All lovely, and reasonable at £150+ but way out of their budget. They talked about beanbags, but a year is a long time to not be comfortable. We looked again at the chairs. I spotted a sturdy wooden armchair with a high back and a cushion. We sat on it. It was insanely comfortable. It was £80. We had a conflab. Yes, it was pricey, but they had saved so much money going cheap on everything else. It was important to have comfortable seating, and they could always take it with them when they moved. They decided to buy it. We picked up a box of wine glasses as they didn’t have any and went to figure out how to find the items they wanted in the monstrous self-serve warehouse. It was quite efficient how it worked. You decided what you wanted and entered the product name or code into one of the various consoles dotted all around the shop. It would tell you if the item was in stock and which aisle and bay number it would be found in.

They had plenty of the TV stand and shelving unit, so we added them to our virtual basket. The storage basket/table that Franki wanted with the black lid was out of stock, but they had loads with the dark green lid, so they settled for that. The chair came with a selection of different coloured cushions, and they wanted the mustard one, BUT, add a coloured cushion and it bumped the price up by £30. Only the basic black and beige cushions were included in the £80. They looked at one another.

£30 for having the same cushion but in a different colour is a bit much, I said. Go for the black or the beige and save your money. After all, you have various throws and cushions you’ll be putting on it and having a neutral colour may not be a bad thing.

They went for the beige. We found our items in the bays, piled them on our trolley and went through the self-scan checkout. I don’t think they did too badly. A TV stand, a large bookcase, a storage side table, an armchair, and four wine glasses for £144. And it’s not like they are cheap and nasty. The items look lovely and will last them for the year and beyond.

We wedged everything into the car. All a bit “rabbit in headlights” by now, we still had to brave the hypermarket for their first big shop. They’d made a list. I trailed around after them feeling not well at all. I’m exhausted. The stress of the day was beginning to tell on me. I couldn’t stop coughing and people were looking and giving me a wide berth — which suited me just fine. We crammed their simply enormous shop into the car and drove back to the university.

This time I drove straight to the back car park close to the flat. Sod it, I thought, we are not lugging this lot all that way. It was by now pouring with rain. If anyone said anything to me, I was ready to go toe to toe with them. We grabbed a trolley and ferried everything into the flat. I helped them put away all the groceries and then had a coffee as Franki unpacked the TV stand and set to work putting it together. Very excited to be using the smart electric screwdriver I’d bought them for their birthday.

I watched and drank my coffee, glad to be sitting down, in a bit of a mind fog, and with no idea what time it was.

I’m not rushing you or anything, said Franki, but what time are you planning on heading home?

I looked out the window, it was getting dark outside, and the rain was heavier. I DID NOT want to get in that car and make that horrible drive home but had no choice. I finished my coffee, had some water, used the bathroom, hugged them goodbye, set the route in Google Maps Lady and wearily climbed into the car.

Reading is quite a big city. It was 5:30pm, bang on rush hour. I have no idea where I am or where I’m going. I’m exhausted and not at all well. The journey home is hell. It’s dark and pouring with rain. There’s so much traffic. Cars racing along, all seeming to know exactly where they’re going. I go around a couple of roundabouts twice because I miss my turning. It’s all a blur of roads and lights and cars. A404, M4, North Orbital Road, A40, M40, M25, A505. Normally I can kinda see I’m heading in the right direction from the map on my phone. But Google Maps Lady had gone into stealth mode and the map was just black squares.

Please don’t stop giving me directions, I begged.

Luckily, she didn’t, and I had to blindly follow her orders as she took me on and off roads in a bewildering mess of junctions, roundabouts, and turnings. The only comfort I had was the ETA countdown on my phone. At least as the minutes until I reached home kept ticking down, I reassured myself, I must be heading in the right direction.

I couldn’t stop coughing. My head hurt. I had a piercing pain in one eye. My nose was swollen and blocked up. I coughed really hard. Something popped in my nose and suddenly there’s a gushing tap situation. I have no tissues, nothing to mop with. I can’t stop. I can’t fumble in my handbag on the passenger seat. All I can do is dab with my hands and sleeves and figure I’ll clean up when I get home.

There’s something wrong with the A14 so Google Maps Lady avoids it and brings me in on the A505. I don’t know this road at all. It’s a never-ending single carriageway across open fields with a constant burn of overbright headlights coming at me. I want to be home so badly I’m almost in tears. It feels like this journey will never end. That I’m stuck in a Twilight Zone going round and round the same roads.

Eventually, on the other side of Newmarket, I pop out onto the A14 and know where I am. The scent of home is in my nose, and I perk up and try to pay attention. I know most accidents happen within ten miles of home, so I drive extra carefully.

Finally, at 8:30pm, three hours after leaving Reading, I get home. I have never been so relieved in all my life. I fall out of the car, stiff and sore. I almost kiss the pavement, like the Pope landing in a new country. I drag my sorry carcase into the dark house. I’m immediately attacked by the cat complaining her dinner is four hours late and threatening to leave a bad review on TripAdvisor. I fight my way by her and into the bathroom. I switch on the light and look in the mirror. It’s like that scene from Carrie when the bucket of pigs’ blood is tipped over her. It must have been a nosebleed not just a runny nose and now it’s all over me. It’s the last straw. I have never wanted to curl up in a ball and howl so much in all my life.

I clean up, get changed, and feed the cat. There’s leftover Chinese and leftover wine for dinner. I eat. Fall asleep on the sofa. Wake up. Go to bed and sleep until ten the next morning. I had already made the decision earlier in the week that getting up at the crack of dawn to go to Stonham Barns Craft Fair was probably A Really Bad Idea, so told the group I wasn’t going. Plus, my books were delayed so weren’t coming until Sunday and I didn’t want £250 worth of books being dumped on my doorstep and sitting there all day in the rain. Also, I really wasn’t well.

When I awoke at nine on Sunday morning, I was very very relieved I’d been a grown-up and done the sensible thing because. OMG, I felt grim. I spent the day resting and eating up all the naughty food left in the house. It was back to the diet the next day with some serious damage control to do so I figured I might as well remove all temptations.

When I went back to work, I felt better for my lazy day but still not great. I made sure I had early nights on Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday was a quiet day of rest to try and shake the cough,

I had a friend come for lunch on Thursday, which was lovely, except I stupidly left my bag at home when I went to pick her up and realised as I parked outside my house that I had no key. Mild panic. Luckily, I had my phone so called my lodger, found out where he was and walked to his place of work to borrow his key. I’ve never done that before. Ever.

And now it’s Friday. Because I’m going to be at the Norwich Comic-Con all weekend I must finish and schedule this blog today ready for Sunday. I must sort through all my books and pack up the car ready for an early start in the morning. I also need to pack a lunch as food at these events is always so expensive.

Later today there’s a little charity event happening on my road to raise money for the MacMillian Cancer Charity. We’re having a tombola and raising money for it. I won’t stay long though. I’ll just show my face and buy a ticket because I need to have an early dinner, make sure everything is ready, and get to bed at a reasonable hour.

I love the Norwich Comic-Con. I think it’s one of my favourite events. I will take lots of pictures and share them with you next time.

And that’s it. Gosh, this is a simply mahoosive blog, double the normal length. I hope you made it all the way through. Have a great couple of weeks and I look forward to chatting with you next time.

Julia Blake

The last time we spoke, it was the eve of the Legends Comic-Con at Stonham Barns. We had high hopes for this event because last year had been so good, despite or maybe even because of the shockingly bad weather. Surely, we thought, because the weather this year is going to be gorgeous, we will do as good, if not better. Sadly, this wasn’t the case.

Yes, it was a beautiful weekend but there simply wasn’t the footfall. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I sold enough books to cover my costs and gain a small profit, but some of the other authors weren’t so lucky. I’m not sure why, but the people didn’t come and those that did were keeping their purses shut.

Was it because it was such a nice weekend people went elsewhere? Did we clash with another major event, or two? Or, and I think this is more likely, a year deeper into the cost-of-living crisis people simply can’t afford to go out anymore. Yes, it was only £10 to get in, but if you’re a typical family of four that’s £40 already. There was a cosplay competition but that was the only free thing. There were no exhibits or demonstrations or star panels or anything that wasn’t someone trying to sell you something. I can quite understand that people saved their £40 and went to the coast for the day or went somewhere where £40 not only paid for entry but entertainment for bored children.

There were also more of us this year. Last year there were four of us tucked away in the corner. We were a novelty and because of the nonstop rain people talked to us about our books and then bought one or more. This year there were eight of us, all in a row. That’s a lot of authors all doing their best to flog their books. There was only so much spending money walking through the gates and it was being split between more of us. None of the other traders did very well either. Some of them didn’t bother coming back on Sunday and we had a large space behind us that day.

Don’t get me wrong, it was still a fun weekend and it’s always nice hanging out with other authors and we certainly had a laugh. Will I do it next year? I will need to think long and hard about that one.

Opposite my stall was a lady selling t-shirts, denim jackets and other accessories. They were all pastel shades with appliqued Pokemon and anime images. They were pretty but not my cup of tea and then I saw THE t-shirt hanging all by itself above the other merchandise. It was plain back, with a gorgeous red appliqued serpent down the front and the word reputation embroidered above it in white, medieval script. All day Saturday, I eyed up that t-shirt. There was something about it that I liked. I don’t know what it was, but I wanted to buy it for Franki for their 21^st birthday. But … I had already spent quite a lot of money on presents and I had bought several T-shirts for them over the years with varying degrees of success.

When I went back on Sunday, the jury was still out as to whether I was going to buy it or not. Before the gates opened to the public, I wandered over and felt the shirt. It was silky soft and nice quality. You could feel it was not a cheap T-shirt. The stallholder glanced up at me.

HER: Ah, so are you a Taylor Swift fan, then?

ME: Taylor Swift? Wait. What? This is a Taylor Swift t-shirt?

HER: Yes, it’s the cover from her album reputation.

ME: Ooh, yes, I remember hearing about it.

HER: We did Wembley a couple of weeks ago and had a stall of Taylor Swift-related t-shirts. We sold out, or I thought we had, but when I was sorting stock for this weekend, I found this lone one tucked away in a box. I bought it along even though it doesn’t go with anything else.

ME: It’s gorgeous (fingering the material longingly). It’s my daughter’s 21^st in a couple of weeks and she’s a huge Taylor Swift fan. I have already bought all her presents, but …

HER: Tell you what, they were selling for £35 but because it’s the last one and you’re a trader I’ll let you have it for £15.

ME: Sold. Thank you.

She wrapped it up, gave me the care instructions and threw in a Taylor Swift sticker as well. Thrilled, I took it back to my stall and showed it off to the others. If Franki didn’t want it, I decided, I would have it because I loved it.

The day ticked by. It was quiet, so quiet. As I said, many of the traders didn’t bother coming back on Sunday. At lunch time I wandered out to get something to eat. I normally take my own supplies to save money, but I hadn’t, and I was hungry, and a little bit bored. I didn’t want a burger as everyone was saying they were greasy and not worth the money. A wood-fired pizza truck was just outside the trader’s barn, so I wandered over to see what they had on offer. It smelt amazing and there was a nice selection of toppings. It was £6 for a small pizza so not too horrendous.

I scanned the toppings.

Normally I’m not a great pizza lover, but this was wood-fired so not your usual supermarket cardboard fare, and the toppings looked fresh and appetising. I chose the ham and pineapple one. Yes, yes, I know to some that’s the devil’s own food, but I happen to think it’s delicious, especially when I could see the pineapple being cut up fresh and the ham being torn in chunks from a large ham-on-the-bone.

Whilst I waited, I chatted with the vendor. He was not a happy bunny. It had cost him £175 for his pitch just for the one day. Add to that the cost of the ingredients plus travelling, and he would have to sell a lot of £6 pizzas to break even. With footfall even lower on Sunday than it had been the day before he wasn’t anticipating a very successful day.

I took my pizza back to my stall. It was hands down the best pizza I’ve ever had. I made lots of appreciative noises which I think encouraged everyone else to go and buy a pizza. Two of the authors were gluten-free, I sent them anyway as I felt sure he was offering a gluten-free option for the base. They came back gleefully clutching boxes of delicious, gluten-free pizza. Anyone who stopped to chat with us, we recommended they go and buy pizza. I’m not sure how much difference we made, but hopefully, the poor guy sold enough pizzas to make a profit.

This year has very much been all about taking a pasta approach to live events, in that we’re throwing everything at the wall and seeing what sticks.

I have another live event on Sunday. This time it’s a Comic-Con taking place in the UEA Sports Park in Norwich. It’s only a one-day event and it’s another new to us thing so we’ll see if this one sticks. If you’re in the area why not come along.

The weather remains gorgeous, some days reaching mid-thirty degrees centigrade. People are moaning that it’s too hot but I’m not. I made a promise to myself during miserable May and just as bloody horrible June, that if the summer ever did arrive, I would not complain about the heat — no matter how hot it got. I’m enjoying having doors and windows open, not having to wrap up warmly, being able to hang laundry outside and I’m appreciating not having to put the heating on.

I believe I told you last time that the three of us would be taking a trip to a nearby large garden centre to finally buy new plants for my newly repainted garden. Well, we went last Saturday. It was so tempting to go off plan, but I was determined to stick to the brief — shrubs, summer-long flowering, all white flowers — I received about £100 in cash for my birthday to go towards them -but ended up spending £250 as I bought well-established large specimens to achieve instant impact. Thank heavens for my tax rebate and large pay packet at the end of July, that’s all I’m going to say.

We carried our acquisitions home and positioned them in the garden where I thought they would go, gave everything a good drink, and then went out to meet with a friend for dinner and then onto my first drag night. We were going to have dinner at Wetherspoons as Franki gets a staff discount. Although I’ve had a couple of drinks there since Franki started working for them, I’ve never eaten there. I’d been told the food was cheap and cheerful so wasn’t anticipating anything too amazing. Franki wanted me to try a glass of the wine on tap — wine on tap, yes, you did read that right — as she wanted to know what it was like but doesn’t like red wine. There was an offer for two large glasses of any of the four wines available on tap for only £5.90. Now, that is ridiculously cheap. With prices rocketing over the last few years, a glass of so-so red wine can cost up to £9 in a pub, so I was prepared to be generously inclined towards the wine, whatever it tasted like, at that price. I had a glass of Merlot, and my friend had the rosé. And the verdict? Not bad, not bad at all. Let’s just say, I’ve had far worse and paid a lot more for it.

And the food? I had the steak with a hickory sauce, a jacket potato, and salad. The others had chicken strips, chips, and a noodle bowl. We had another round of drinks. The final bill was under £45. Even allowing that some of that was due to Franki’s staff discount it is still incredibly cheap and the food was okay. Not 5 Michelin star standard obviously, but equally as good, if not better, than meals I’ve eaten elsewhere and paid four times the price for.

And then onto the drag night. Well. What can I say? What a riot that turned out to be. We laughed and sang ourselves hoarse. The audience was relaxed and there to have a good time. We were a real mix of ages, sexes, genders, and classes, but everyone was there to have fun.

I was surprised by how long it went on and when we left at almost midnight, Franki and Rys said they were tired and wanted to go home — weaklings — but my friend and I wanted to go dancing. So, we let the youngsters go home to bed and we rocked up at the Gym Bar where I used to go dancing back in the day. I had no idea if they still played music until late on a Saturday and it wasn’t packed, but there was music playing, and a good vibe, the tunes were all dance floor fillers from the 70s, 80s, 90s, and 00s, and soon everyone was jumping about like mad things and singing their hearts out. Honestly, my throat the next day felt like I’d been gargling razor blades.

We staggered home at 2.30am. My friend’s very patient and obliging boyfriend picked her up from mine and I crept into the house and went to bed.

The next day I waited for the hangover. It didn’t come. There had obviously been a cock-up in the hangover department and the memo that I was owed a seriously banging one went somewhere else. I was tired and, like I said, had a sore throat, but other than that I was fine. Much to the disappointment of Franki and Rys who I’m sure had planned to laugh cruelly at my misery.

Nice to know I’ve still got it at 57. Speaking of, to the younger lads who tried to chat me up on Saturday night. Lads, thanks, you boosted this old lady’s ego but honestly, I’m old enough to be your mum and possibly even your gran, so thanks for the dance and the attention, but no thanks.

This summer is whizzing by. This year is whizzing by. My life is whizzing by. It was Franki’s 21^st birthday on Wednesday. How is that possible? How can it be 21 years since I held that tiny scrap in my arms, looked into those beautiful innocent blue eyes and fell in love? Those eyes are still blue, although maybe not so innocent, and I still love my kid. Although some days I do struggle to remember why,

Franki didn’t want to do too much — work and lack of funds hindering any plans for a large celebration — so we had a Taylor Swift-inspired cocktail evening. This comprised watching the Eras Tour and drinking a cocktail per era. When I enquired about what food would be desired, I was told that a charcuterie board or a “picky tea” would be very much appreciated.

The weather remained beautiful on the day, and I ran to the shop very early to get sweet pastries for breakfast before Franki opened presents. Luckily, the Taylor Swift t-shirt got a thumbs-up of approval, as did everything else I’d bought for her. We wandered across to Waitrose later in the morning and indulged in the nicest form of food shopping which is picking up treats for a celebratory cold dinner. I even treated us to a bottle of champagne — not prosecco — and a tiny pot of caviar.

Once everything had been put away, we drove to my parent’s house to have cake with them and for Franki to open their main present from me, Rys, and my parents. We had all clubbed together to buy a Kindle Paperwhite, plus the cover, the screen protector, and a £30 Amazon gift card to load the Kindle up with eBooks.

Home again, I quickly laid up a fabulous spread, our guest arrived, and the evening got underway. Again, I did not get a hangover. Do not know why. Perhaps all the food I ate absorbed it. As you’ve probably gathered, the diet has gone a bit astray the last month — what with two birthdays so close together and various trips and treats, it’s been too hard to keep it up regularly. Never mind, I’ll get back on it and I know it works.

And now it’s Saturday morning. Another gloriously sunny day. I will be busy preparing for the show tomorrow. It’s the first time we’ve done this one so have no idea if it will be a success or not. I hope it’s busy, that footfall is high, and that people come prepared to at least talk to us about our books. Even if they don’t want to buy on the day but merely take our cards, you never know. Maybe a seed has been planted that will eventually grow into a sale later down the line.

So, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, have a wonderful Sunday. By the time you read this I will be on the road to Norwich, maybe even there and setting up.

Take care everyone.

Julia Blake

Okay, the last time we spoke it was the eve of CapCon, the large festival in Trinity Park in Ipswich. So, how did it go? For a start, it was hot. A sweltering, sweaty, sunny day, brought the visitors out but left me a damp exhausted mess with swollen ankles. Arriving at the park there was the usual event chaos. Some numb nuts had decided to pull up and unload their large van at the entrance to the trader’s car park thus blocking it so no one else could get in. The queue stretched, the sun scorched down, exhaust pipes rattled and throbbed, patience wore thin, and tempers began to fray. Eventually, a big burly bloke in a large tatty van behind me went to have a little “chat” with the owner of the offending van. I’m not sure what was said, but the van was moved pronto, and we all streamed into the car park.

We were in a small trading hall that had the potential to turn into a sweat box, but luckily the organisers had the wisdom to open all the windows and the doors on all sides so a breeze could gust through. It would have been unbearable otherwise.

We set up. This was a new-to-us event, so we had no idea what was going to happen. Three authors were sharing two tables, so a tape measure was produced to equally measure individual zones and tablecloths were shaken out and carefully placed to the nearest millimetre. We set out our wares. As it was a fantasy and sci-fi event I’d taken only Black Ice, The Forest, Lifesong, Erinsmore and Mage Quest.

The event began and people trickled in. It was a good morning. People were happy to be there and happy that it was a dry and beautiful day. After the rubbish start to the summer, I think we’re all grateful for every day of proper summer that we get. We chatted and handed out cards and sold books. It was a good morning for all of us but after lunch trade slowed right down. I didn’t sell any books in the afternoon, but events were happening outside and when I went to buy something for lunch, I heard a Taylor Swift tribute act going on. Kids were dancing and people were singing. It was a lovely family event.

Sunday. After the relative success of Saturday, I simply wasn’t feeling it for the second day. I hadn’t slept well — laying awake listening for the sound of Franki coming home after working late (more on this later) — meant when my alarm went off at 6:30am on Sunday, I groaned and lay there contemplating not going. But, never let it be said that Julia is one to shirk responsibility. Muttering curses, I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled downstairs.

Arriving at the park, I found the gateway to the trader’s car park firmly shut — despite the fact it’s supposed to stay open until 9 and it was now only 8:40. Annoyed, I drove all the way around to the visitor’s car park and then stomped across to the trader’s hall to find out what I was supposed to do.

There’s another way through, I was told. Just squeeze between the exhibit halls and you can get through. I stomped back to the car and went where directed. Sure enough, I could just about get my little Yaris through, although if I’d been in a van I might have removed my wing mirrors. As I drove into the trader’s car park, I saw that the gates had now been re-opened. Ugh, typical.

Expecting the same level of trade as the previous day, we awaited the first visitors eagerly — well, the others were eager, I was merely there, still not feeling it — but hardly anyone came to the trader’s hall — and those that did were as grumpy as me and disinclined to even talk to us about books, let alone buy any.

The day wore on. I bought a burger to cheer myself up. It was a very good burger. Pulled pork with two slices of cheese and wonderfully caramelised onions. It wasn’t particularly thick, but it was juicy and flavoursome, and I did feel better after having it.

The afternoon dragged on. All the traders looked fed up and some were muttering about packing up early, then suddenly, mid-afternoon, with only a couple more hours left until it closed, people flooded into the hall and began to buy. I’m not sure what it was. Was it because they suddenly realised that time was ticking by so if they wanted something it had to be bought pronto, or maybe they had done everything outside and had pennies to spare, or maybe they’d been thinking about it and decided they did want that Chewbacca t-shirt, Stranger Things Funko, useless bit of fantasy tat or even a book by a local author after all. Whatever the reason, we were grateful for it.

By the end of Sunday, I had sold more than I had on Saturday with a final total of 28 books sold in all. This was good and covered the pitch fee, the diesel, the cost of books, incidentals and left a healthy profit — which was mostly spent on restocking my inventory for the next big event, the Legends Comic-Con this weekend — so it was a worthwhile endeavour after all. It’s a shame they won’t be running it anymore, apparently, it simply didn’t make enough money.

I might have told you that Franki had applied for several jobs over the summer and was taken on at our local Wetherspoons. For non-Brit readers, it’s a large chain of pubs that are famous for cheap and cheerful drinks and food. Anyway, Franki was taken on to work behind the bar with a promise of between twenty and thirty hours of work a week. The pay is not bad, Franki likes their colleagues, and the work is relatively easy, it’s the hours that can be a bit naughty. Sometimes, their shift doesn’t end until one in the morning, and then there’s all the clearing away and the glasses to wash and stack. This can take up to two hours, meaning the staff don’t leave until three in the morning. It’s only a five-minute walk home but, of course, I worry about Franki walking home alone at that time of night. So far, there has always been someone to walk home with, but I still worry and don’t go to sleep properly until I hear them come in the front door. And then my alarm goes off at 6am and I must be up and either going to work or to an all-day live event. No wonder I am existing in a state of permanent exhaustion.

Work has been work. Long and busy days but being so busy the days do whizz by. I enjoy my job which is a very good thing for my mental well-being, and at least my hours have gone back to normal. I did find the three weeks where I was doing 39 hours were quite exhausting. And yes, I know many people work more than that but most of them are not 57 with thyroid issues, running a home single-handedly, dealing with houseguests for the summer, doing live events, trying to write and maintain an author career at the same time. I was utterly pooped. I don’t have any overtime at all during August so although the extra money is nice, it will equally be nice to have a bit more time at home, especially as Franki will turn 21 this month.

Speaking of money, I had a brown envelope arrive in the post last week with an HMR&C stamp on it. Now, letters from H.M. Revenue & Customs do not usually bear good tidings so I opened it with trepidation. But, to my delight, this one was good news. I was owed a tax refund of £468. Wait. What? Really? Yippee. If you do nothing, the letter stated, the refund will be sent to you as a cheque in approximately 10-12 weeks. If you go online, it continued, then it will take 4-5 working days. Oh, guess I’ll do that then. So, on my next day off I sat down at the computer and picked my way through all the security questions. Some of it was blind guessing and frantically adding up the years on my fingers. Luckily, I must have given all the right answers because they let me in, and I applied for my refund — which I received four days ago directly into my bank account — so yippee indeed.

I’ve also applied for my passport. And no, don’t get excited, I’m not going abroad on holiday. I need to register with HHRC to be self-employed for tax and I need to do it soon. My new job isn’t a PAYE one, I work for the practice on a self-employed basis. Yes, it’s a little bit risky in that I don’t get any sick or holiday pay, and they could get rid of me with no notice at all, but I wanted the job so felt the benefits outweighed this. But it does mean I need to do tax returns from now on. When I tried to register with the tax people, I found to my disbelief that I don’t have enough forms of ID to prove I am a UK citizen who can pay taxes. The fact I was born here, have lived here all my life, paid tax and National Insurance since the age of 17, own property, have received tax benefits, etc etc, apparently means diddly squat. I looked at the list of IDs they would accept. Driving licence, okay, yes, I do have one of them. All the rest were things like right to work in the UK visas, immigration certificates and stuff like that.

They would accept a P60 which I did get from my last employment with the bed store, but like most things in life, it was only accessible to me online. And yes, before you all shout at me, I did download it — onto my old laptop which then developed computer dementia and lost everything. By this point, I was no longer working for the bed store so I emailed them asking ever so politely if I could have a copy of my last P60 emailed to me. Like a petulant jilted ex-lover refusing to return stuff left in their house, they denied my request, sending me a rather sniffy reply stating that as I no longer worked for them there was no legal obligation for them to do any such thing. Okay. Calm your panties, dear.

This left me rather stuck. To prove I am a UK citizen I needed an ID that wasn’t accessible to me. I checked the list again; they would accept a British passport. So, to be able to register as self-employed to be able to fill in a tax return showing that I do not need to pay any tax because I am not earning enough, I had to pay £13 for a proper passport photo and another £88 for the passport itself when I have no plans to be leaving the country anytime soon. I applied for the passport last week and sent them my old passport plus my old marriage certificate showing the reason for the change of name. I had an email yesterday saying they received the documents safely and that they were being processed. Oh good, so now I wait.

Anyway, what with the tax refund and all the overtime pay plus the little bit of rent money that Franki is paying me and the rent money from the lodger, things will be a little easier this month. I did spend some of it though on a decent tower fan for the room where Franki and Rys are sleeping. It reached 32 degrees centigrade in there on Wednesday night which is ridiculously hot and stopped them from sleeping. The fan arrived yesterday and worked just fine last night, so that’s good.

It is astonishing though, the amount of laundry having them home is generating plus the sheer amount of food we are buying. Usually, a box of laundry tabs lasts me months, now we’re getting through a box in a couple of weeks. The dishwasher normally goes on every 2 to 3 days when it’s just me and the lodger — he doesn’t eat at home, so his little cup and cereal bowl don’t take up much space — and I’m having soup for dinner every other day. It’s now going on at least once a day, sometimes twice. And as for the fridge … it’s like a Christmas fridge, you know, food piled up, things buried and crammed in any old how. Getting something out is like a game of Jenga. It doesn’t help that the new fridge I bought last summer is just that much narrower than my old one. It also doesn’t have an undershelf bottle rack or cheese box. I had no idea how much I would miss those. Bottles roll about on glass shelves, clanking dangerously every time we try to get something out. Cheese gets shoved to the back of the fridge where it gets lost, only to be found a week later after I’ve bought more because I didn’t think we had any. I got so fed up with the situation that I ordered a bottle rack and a storage box. They are supposed to be universal will-fit-any-fridge (we shall see) and they hook onto the shelf above. This will keep the bottles up and out of the way and all the cheese contained in one place. We are very much a cheese of any description family. It also creates more space in the fridge because things can go underneath as well. They’re arriving tomorrow.

Since we last spoke, when I was happy that the weather was glorious for my birthday, the days have continued sunny and warm. I love it. I made a vow when we had that shit May and were still having to put the heating on in June, that if we did get a summer, I would not complain it was too hot. I love being able to have all the doors and windows open and eating outside. This week we’ve had breakfast in the garden and dinner a couple of times, which was lovely.

Speaking of gardens, a day has been selected to go to a garden centre/nursery a forty-minute drive away to select the new plants for my garden. It’s a huge place, with a massive selection of plants, plus a nice restaurant, and homestyle department. We’ll spend most of the day there, then, in the evening, I’m being taken to my first drag show that’s happening in town.

In the last week, we’ve all had haircuts. Oh, and I had the results of my blood test. They indicate that my medication is doing what it should so if I’m still feeling tired all the time it’s my fault. Okaaaay. I wonder if it’s because I’m always on the go and usually run on only six hours of broken sleep a night. Nah, couldn’t possibly be that.

Yesterday, was another live event. This time the Galactic Kidsfest which I and two other local authors had been invited to attend. It was quite a drive away, almost an hour, but it was only £10 for the pitch fee. As it was for kids and YA, I could only take Black Ice, Erinsmore, and Mage Quest. How was it? About what I expected. A village hall in a pretty village in the middle of buttfeck nowhere with minimal promotion, signage or advertising. Footfall was low. I think there were more traders and professional cosplayers in attendance than actual punters. Queen Elsa and Princess Anna whom we met at the Christmas Fair at Stonham Barns were there, so it was nice catching up with their highnesses who are the most delightful girls. It was stuffy and hot in the hall with no WiFi signal at all. We packed up early and I was home by four having sold only five books. It is what it is. I just about covered my costs. It was supposed to be a soup day, but I was tired, fed up and hungry so I blew all my takings on a Chinese for us all. Oh well, as they say, easy come, easy go.

Today (Friday) is a day of catching up on chores and writing my blog as I will be busy at the Legends Comic-Con at Stonham Barns all weekend. This was a very successful event for us last year — despite, or maybe because of the torrential rain — so it will be interesting to see how we do this year. There will be more of us, and the weather forecast is for a lovely weekend. It’s a general Comic-Con so I can take the books I didn’t sell yesterday, as well as The Forest and Lifesong. Hoping for a healthy footfall and lots of lovely readers to buy our books.

And then I’ll be back to work and the whole cycle will start again. Have I written anything lately? Nope. There’s been no time and I’m never alone in the house anymore. I find it very hard to write when there’s noise and distraction and people popping in and out of the room. I cannot understand those authors who can write in coffee shops. I just couldn’t. Aside from all the noise and distraction, coffee is expensive, and most cafes would be annoyed if you took up an entire table for the day for the price of one coffee. Also, I’m notoriously expressive when I write. I talk out loud, act out the dialogue, flail my hands about seeking for the right word — that would be a latte all over my keyboard straight away, and possibly all over the table next to me — and what about when you need the loo? Do you leave everything on your table and trust it will still be there when you get back? Or try and take it with you into the bathroom? No, it’s safer, cheaper, and ultimately more productive to write safely at home.

As usual, I have a book sale running. Hide & Seek is the last book I published and the latest in my action romance Blackwood Family Saga. It’s a fun and fast-paced read which can be yours for only 99p in eBook or £6.99 for the paperback — or local currency equivalent — click on the universal link below which will take you to the book’s listing on your local Amazon site.

https://mybook.to/HideANDSeek

Anyhoo, that’s it for now guys. Have a wonderful weekend and if you’re anywhere near Stonham Barns on Sunday why not come along to the Comic-Con? It’s a fabulous day out for the whole family with lots of things to do and see, including eight local authors selling a variety of fantasy and sci-fi books for all tastes and ages.

May the sun be shining on your little corner of the world.

Best wishes.

Julia Blake

Hello everyone. I remembered after I posted my blog last time that I forgot to tell you about the bird. It happened the first Monday that Franki and Rys were home. I was up early and ready to leave for work when Franki came downstairs and said that something was scuttling about behind the wall in their bedroom. I went upstairs to have a listen. Sure enough, I could hear rustling and scratching noises coming from the old chimney stack in the corner of the room. This chimney once upon a time would have gone right through into the kitchen below when it was the original bakehouse. When it was converted into the kitchen whoever did it was lazy and didn’t remove the whole of the chimney stack. Instead, they removed only the portion in the kitchen and blocked it off at floor level in the bedroom.

The noises were coming from inside the chimney. I was panicking that it might be mice. So did not want an infestation of rodents in the house. There was a loose board covering the bottom of the stack, so we shone a light in and saw that it was a bird of some kind. It had fallen down the chimney and was flapping around in panic trying to get out. The stack wasn’t wide enough though for it to open its wings properly and fly back up.

A hammer and screwdriver were fetched and at that point, I went to work. Twenty minutes later my phone buzzed, and a picture of a rather stressed-looking pigeon dropped into my inbox. A second later it was followed by a picture of another pigeon that hadn’t been so lucky. They threw the pigeon out of the window, and it flew away, so clearly hadn’t sustained any major injuries to its wings.

The chimney also survived the experience.

What else has happened? Well, I’ve been very busy at work with overtime and working a Saturday. My boss moved house, so I had to relocate almost thirty appointments elsewhere. Although I managed to fill gaps where people had cancelled appointments, we still had to open from 8am to midday on Saturday to accommodate the rest. It made me appreciate how much I love having my weekends off now. When I was employed by the bed store I worked almost every weekend. At the time I just accepted it, but looking back I realise how much I resented it.

The overtime is at an end for now and I will appreciate the extra pay at the end of the month, but it will be nice to go back to my regular hours. I feel since they came home three weeks ago, I’ve done nothing but rush around — I’ve certainly done nothing but laundry! Honestly, I do not understand how two people can generate so much dirty laundry. I’m washing stuff I never see them wear. Normally the washing machine goes on a couple of times a week, it’s now going on almost every day!

I’ve had no time to write anything and my current work in progress is still sitting at the 30,000 words mark. I might get a chance to add to it this summer, but with the speed with which it’s flying past, I probably won’t.

The main thing that has happened since we last spoke is my birthday. Yep, I’ve now reached Level 57 of this game we call life.

I placed an order for at least two days of nice weather ages ago, but as the days ticked by with each one being more cold and wet than the one before, I despaired a little that my order would arrive. My birthday was on a Wednesday this year, luckily the day that the practice isn’t open. I was originally down to work overtime the two days after it, but then the lady I job-share with decided she would be returning from holiday a couple of days earlier than planned so I was off the hook. Traditionally, I go to lunch with whichever of my friends are available and regular readers will remember how last year we were washed out by rain of biblical proportions when we attempted to watch Shakespeare in the local park. I did not want a repeat performance.

A few weeks ago, I sent messages to all my friends. Were they available for lunch on the 18^th? They are all busy people with busy lives so I was anticipating that at least one of them wouldn’t be able to make it but to my utter joy, they could all come. I booked a table at a local restaurant.

Anxiously, I watched the weather forecast. Wednesday was going to be a day of celebration with my family and the next day was reserved for friends. Monday and Tuesday were awful. Intermittent and persistent rain showers with temperatures barely making it to double digits. Have faith, the long-range weather forecast promised, better weather is coming. I crossed my fingers and hoped.

The day of my birthday dawned sunny and bright. The temperature climbed to the mid-20s which was perfect. Balmy and warm enough to wear summer clothes but not so hot that you want to peel your skin off.

Franki had to work that day, so I was treated to brunch in a local restaurant before their shift began at 11.30. Then Rys and I walked through the park to pick up my spare key from the garage — the plastic buttons had fallen out of it, so they had sent it away to be repaired for me. On the way home we did a little shopping and then we went to the cinema. We went to see Inside Out 2 which was fun and entertaining. Being the middle of a working day and because the schools hadn’t yet broken up for the summer, the cinema was practically empty other than a couple of mums with a gaggle of very young, but surprisingly quiet and well-behaved children, and four teenagers.

Our seats were at the top of the aisle on the back row. The teenagers were sitting two each at either end of the same row. The ads were running when we sat down. One of the teenagers — a girl wearing a worryingly short skirt — got up and pushed past us to go and talk to the teenagers sitting at the other end of the row. Obligingly, we pulled our feet in. And then again when she went back to her seat. A minute later, she was up again and left the cinema. We pulled in our feet. A moment later, the boy she’d been sitting next to got up and stomped down the row. We pulled in our feet. He went and sat with the other two. Short skirt girl came back and went to talk to the three others. I hoped they would all stay there. Nope. They both stomped back down the row to their original seats. We pulled our feet in.

This happened repeatedly as they got up and traded ends, left the cinema, came back, and swapped ends again. In the end, we were both seriously ticked off by this and I felt like screaming just pick a bloody side at them.

The film was about to start, and we decided to shift forward a row. If they were planning on doing this all through the movie then we felt it was best that we removed ourselves from their flightpath. Halfway through the film, they all got up and left. Umm. Okay. Not sure what that was all about.

When the film ended, we walked to the bar where Franki had managed to get temporary employment and sat and had a cocktail waiting for them to finish their shift. Back home, there was just time for a quick freshen-up before my parents arrived and we all went for an early dinner.

And that was my birthday.

The next day I was up early and tidying up the garden in anticipation of being able to sit outside and have drinks. The weather was perfect, even hotter than the day before, and the garden was a cool and shady oasis. We cleaned the bird poop off the chairs and washed down the table. My cherry tree came into fruit a couple of weeks ago. The tree in general didn’t look healthy, there was sticky sap oozing from the bark and the leaves were yellow or spotty. As I was picking the cherries I thought that they didn’t look appetising, and they were covered in little white dots. I took the bowl inside and filled it with water and watched to see if my suspicions were correct. Sure enough, a few minutes later tons of tiny white worms wiggled out of the cherries and swam to the surface of the water. I Googled it. Turns out my tree is not the only one infested with these disgusting worms. They are the larvae of a new species of predatory fly that invaded the UK a couple of years ago. They are devastating our cherry trees and have no natural predators here. I looked to see how to get rid of them. I can’t unless I wish to use industrial-grade pesticides that will kill all the other insects in my garden. I don’t want to do that. Reluctantly, I’ve decided that the tree needs to go. It is a shame, but on the bright side, it will mean I can grow more plants and flowers in that bed. I also won’t have purple bird poo splattered everywhere each time the cherries are out. No more playing Russian Roulette every time I hang my washing out. The line runs under the cherry tree and the number of times I’ve gone to get it in to find it covered with nasty offerings from the birds.

I won’t be able to make cherry vodka anymore — although my mum’s freezer is full of cherries from last year’s harvest so I’ll be good for this year — but I can make flavoured vodka from anything.

Once the garden was fit to receive guests, I dashed out to grab coffee and pastries for us all for breakfast. The first of my friends wasn’t arriving until 11:30 so I took my time getting ready as it got steadily hotter. I had changed my booking at the restaurant from an indoor table to an outdoor one, but I’ve eaten in the garden of this restaurant before and knew it was shaded by a large awning. Two of my friends were meeting us there and were waiting when the rest of us — already a couple of glasses of prosecco to the wind — rocked up.

It was a lovely meal. We all chatted and laughed and told stories and it was just amazing. The ages ranged from 29 to 57 but everyone got along wonderfully. I had whitebait, steak, and then a great cheeseboard. We got through a couple of bottles of rose between the four drinkers and a glass of port each. We didn’t leave the restaurant until gone four and wandered back to mine to sit in the garden and have more prosecco.

I should have a hangover, but I don’t, which is weird because I certainly deserve one.

My last guests went home at almost midnight, and I fell into bed and slept until six. I should feel tired, but I don’t. Maybe it will all hit me later.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a weird text from the NHS telling me to schedule a blood test for my drug assessment. Drugs? Did they think I was snorting coke or something? Deciding it was more likely something to do with my thyroid medication, I kept meaning to sort it out, but I was working all the time and even when I wasn’t, I was busy. Then I had a missed call from my doctor’s surgery on my birthday. They left a voicemail advising me to contact them asap. I phoned them yesterday. It is to do with my thyroid medication. Book a blood test, I was told, we need to check it’s doing what it should. Franki went onto the online booking service for me and managed to get me the last appointment left for today. I’m at an event all weekend and then back to work Monday so I wanted to get it done sooner rather than later. I’m booked in for 12:20 and will walk to the hospital. It’s a gentle twenty-minute stroll away and trying to find a parking space at the hospital is a frustrating, stressful and expensive procedure, I’d rather walk. I’ve had so many blood tests now that they hold no fear. I can come back via Waitrose, pick up yet more shopping, and get myself a free coffee as a reward.

As I said, this weekend I am at the CapCon Summer of Love Festival at Trinity Park in Ipswich. It looks like being an amazing event so if you’re in the area why not come along and say hello? There’s a whole host of events and attractions with something to please everyone. The weather is also looking wonderful.

I’ve packed all my books ready but as I will be gone for both days, I have chores that must be sorted today — including writing my blog.

That’s why I’m afraid it’s not such a long blog this week. As usual, I have a book sale running and this week it’s for Rambling Rose, the epic conclusion to the Perennials Trilogy. This chunky read can be yours as an eBook for half price and there’s even a couple of bucks off the paperback. There’s a universal purchase link on the books page and the sale will run until midnight on Friday the 26^th of July.

And that’s it. Until next time, take care and I look forward to chatting with you again.

Julia Blake

I know, I know, I know. I’m late, so very late. Look, I’m sorry, but … life … you know. I do try to take one day at a time but just lately several days have been ganging up on me at once. I was going to write my blog on Saturday (yesterday). I worked double shifts last week so didn’t have the time to do anything else. Then Saturday kind of got taken over with other stuff. I’m afraid this will be a brief blog explaining why this is a brief blog.

Did I finish the garden in time? Yes. Did the girls like it? Yes, they loved it. Have we been able to use it at all in the week they’ve been home? No. It’s been too frigging wet and cold. Honestly. Where has summer gone? We’ve had the odd few days here and there where it’s reluctantly crawled into the twenties, but mostly it’s been cold and damp. I’m still wearing three layers and boots to work. The dream of eating dinner in our beautiful new garden sadly hasn’t happened.

They moved out of university with mixed emotions. Sorry to be leaving their home of three years and such a beautiful campus but looking forward to the next stage in their lives. My wonderful brother made the killer driver in his large van to go and get them. I am beyond grateful to him for doing that. I have never driven a van before and certainly didn’t want my first time to be on the M6 in rush hour traffic. If he hadn’t been able to help, I guess I would have ended up doing several trips in my little Toyota Yarris. I had Wednesday and Thursday off work, but I wasn’t very well Tuesday night. I’m not sure why, but I felt sick and queasy all night. I wasn’t sick but kept waking up feeling like I was about to, which is probably worse. Consequently, on Wednesday I was woozy and sluggish and struggled to get anything done. I felt better on Thursday so rushed about doing all the shopping and cleaning to prepare for their arrival later that day.

In anticipation of hot weather (ha) I picked up a tower fan from Home Bargains for only £20. I had been considering getting them a Dyson but as they cost upwards of £300 it was something that needed much thought. So, when I saw this one, I thought it was worth a punt. I brought it home and set it up. I switched it on. Cools a whole room in minutes — the box proudly stated — hmm, well unless the room is only six inches square, no it doesn’t. Honestly, I could cool a room better with a paper fan than that useless thing. It was also loud. Really loud. It would be like sleeping with a jet engine in the room. It was obviously going to have to be returned.

Franki phoned to let me know they were ten minutes out. I jumped in the car and set off to meet them at the storage locker. It was four o’clock. So, school and college kicking out time. I hadn’t factored in that the storage unit was behind the local college, university and sixth form, and next to an upper school. It was chaos. Kids, cars and buses choked the roads. By the time I got there, they were pulling up in the storage unit’s car park.

We found an assistant and they showed us to our locker. It was huge. Mahoosive. The girl’s stuff barely filled a corner. We drove back to mine and unloaded my brother’s van of all the stuff the girls needed for the summer. So much stuff! It was dumped in the lounge so he could get going. I went to sort out dinner whilst they ferried it upstairs and made a start putting things away.

We were all hot from the long day and it was an okay evening, so I laid the table outside for dinner and waited for them to come down so I could show them the new, incredible garden. They made all the right noises and seemed to love it. Then we ate massive platefuls of slow-braised beef in red wine, roast potatoes, and fresh veg, followed by Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. It started to cool down, so much that we moved indoors for the ice cream.

Early night for us all and the next day I was up and gone before they were stirring as I had a day’s overtime at work. The following day (Saturday) I was at another book fair. This time it was all the way out in a tiny village called Darsham which was a good hour and twenty minutes’ drive away. I was giving another author a lift, so I picked her up just before eight and off we went, very much relying on Google Maps Lady. She gave me intricate details of how to get out of town (thanks for that), got us off the A14 where necessary, got us into the middle of butt-feck nowhere and then went silent. Whether we hit a mobile dead zone, or she had a strop or developed a case of cyber laryngitis, I don’t know, but for thirty minutes we were on our own in the middle of banjo country.

The route was still showing on the phone on my dashboard but from my angle and with the sun shining on it I couldn’t see it. Luckily, the other author could just about make out what it was saying from her position in the passenger’s seat so was calling out directions to me. We drove through a ravishingly pretty chocolate-box village when Google Maps Lady suddenly came to life and bellowed out instructions making us jump and nearly crap ourselves.

Where the f**k have you been? I shouted.

I began to feel this never-ending journey was never going to end when suddenly we were turning into the car park of a new-looking and very neat village hall. We were there. We set up our tables and greeted authors we knew from other events and introduced ourselves to authors we hadn’t yet met or perhaps only knew from social media. I was right next to the refreshments stand run by the lovely WI who were busy piling out amazing-looking cakes and savouries. Mmm, that might prove to be an issue.

It had been Dad’s birthday on the day the girls came home and of course, I’d been at work the next day, so we hadn’t yet had a chance to see him and give him our cards and presents. I’d honestly had no idea what to get him. What do you give a man in his eighties who has everything? Mum had been supremely unhelpful.

What does Dad want for his birthday?

A new car.

Right, I’ll get him one of those then.

I then had a brainwave. Dad likes going to his local pub on a Friday afternoon and catching up with all his old cronies. I spoke to my brother and Mum about getting him a bar tab. They thought it was a brilliant idea. Mum and Dad went to a village event in the pub garden Sunday afternoon, so when Mum went indoors to go to the loo, she sneakily spoke to the publican who thought it was a grand idea and agreed to do a sheet of vouchers for Dad’s favourite tipple up to the value of £50. I’d done some shopping and ordered things off Amazon for Mum, and she already owed me £55 so she paid for the tab. That reminds me, Mum, you still owe me £5. It was busy, so the publican didn’t have time to sort the vouchers then and there but said he would give them to my brother when he popped in during the week. My brother would give them to me on Thursday. We had all been invited to a big barbecue at his house on Saturday evening to celebrate Dad’s birthday.

Anyway, back to the book sale. Was it a success? Well, it was a fun day. It is always wonderful meeting other authors. It was a lovely venue. The sun, for once, was shining down out of a brilliant blue sky. Was it financially viable? No, not really. It was such a long way to go. A three-hour round trip through deepest darkest Suffolk on roads that were in such shocking condition they would rip the suspension out of your car. I sold six books. Better than some there, but still not enough to cover expenses. We had all packed up and were on the road heading for home by four. I knew Dad was collecting us all at 5.30 so I was going to be pushing it to get home, unpack the car, freshen up, and be out the door by then.

I made it home with ten minutes to spare. Tossing the car keys to the girls, I told them to unpack and lock the car whilst I shot into the bathroom to freshen up and change. I only realised when I got to the barbecue that my jeans flies were still down such was my haste to get ready.

The barbecue was awesome. My bro is a true maestro when it comes to cooking meat outdoors. He had two barbecues on the go and was moving things around, so everything was cooked at the same time. Lovely sausages, fat burgers, two racks of ribs, and chicken pieces cooked in the juices. It was all good. I was hungry so stuffed my face. My niece and her boyfriend were giving us a lift home so I could relax.

Sunday. My one day off. We had to take the fan back. Pick up a few bits and pieces that the girls wanted. We needed to call at Tesco to do yet more shopping. There was stuff that had been brought to the house that they’d now decided needed to go into storage. We were on the go pretty much all day.

Then this week I worked 8-6 on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Wednesday and Saturday were filled with chores and rushing about. I kept saying I must sit down and write my blog but suddenly it was almost midnight yesterday and there was no way it was happening. So, that’s why I am sitting here early Sunday morning with a cup of tea chatting with you now.

Next week is weird workwise. I’m working 8-6 on Monday, then my boss is moving house on Tuesday (that was another thing, I spent most of Thursday and Friday trying to rearrange all the appointments for that day) so I have Tuesday and Wednesday off. I’m then working 8-6 on Thursday and Friday, and 8-12 on Saturday. We’re opening Saturday morning because I had to move some of the patients’ appointments there as we are fully booked up now until Christmas.

It’s going to be another long and hectic week. After that, the overtime will end as my co-worker will be back from her holidays, but it’s my birthday week and it’s already crammed with diary events. Ho hum, maybe we will get the weather and the time to relax in the garden sometime, but I’m thinking it won’t be this month.

Anyway, that’s it for now. I need to go shopping for more milk and laundry detergent — we seem to be going through both at an alarming rate of knots — and then I’ve promised myself a big brunch and coffee. Chat later guys and I’m sorry this is such a short catch-up.

Oh, and the book sale this week is for Kiss & Tell. Book four in the Blackwood Family Saga is a fun and fast-paced read and features the awesome kickass Isabella Santorini as she reconnects with her first love and wonders if Nick is still the man he was or a person to fear. The link is on the books page and the eBook is only 99p until midnight next Friday, there’s also £2 off the paperback.

Take care.

Julia Blake