Hello there. How are you all on this last day of August? What a crazy, nonstop month it has been for me. As you know, most of the month was a frantic whirl of return trips to Reading, several trips to Cambridge, endless trips to the recycling centre, working overtime, a book fair, car shenanigans, and somehow trying to squeeze in normal home duties, writing, and sleeping.

Anyway, since we last spoke, have things calmed down a bit? No. Am I any clearer about what I am doing regarding getting my book published before NorCon at the end of September? Yes. I have reluctantly decided it’s not going to happen. There’s no time. I haven’t even finished writing the damn thing. One of my beta readers has kindly gone through what I have written so far. Another beta reader has done the first ten chapters, but there’s still too much to do to have any hope of it being out by then. I’ve had to accept. Let it go. Breathe a sigh of relief and shift the target to before Christmas. That is doable. I hope. So long as nothing else comes along to jump all over my plans.

How about the work situation? If you remember, last time we spoke, I explained about the lady I job-share with retiring and the vast reduction in wages that will cause me. I went for a job interview at the local vets, which would have been perfect. If you remember, I said I felt a shift in attitude in the interview the moment I said I couldn’t do Monday or Tuesday every week. Well, I was right. I received an email from them last week saying I hadn’t got the job. Oh, well.

Since then, I have applied for several other things, but nothing has panned out. In the meantime, I sat down last Saturday and completed five online training courses for the home carer position. But I am increasingly sure it’s not what I want. It’s all too much. I am only looking for a side hustle to run alongside my current job, not a complete career change. To be honest, at almost sixty, I simply don’t want it. And being a carer for the elderly is HARD. It’s all intimate care, catheter bags, and medication. Do I really want that? No. I don’t think I do. But there was nothing else around, and I was getting desperate. They sent me a contract last Monday, which I reluctantly signed on Wednesday.

Then on Thursday, I saw an ad on Indeed for flexible cleaners in private houses. Choose your own day and your own hours, it stated. Hmm. How flexible does flexible mean? I applied and, in the box, put 5-6 hours, Wednesday. They called me the next day, and I had a long chat with a lovely lady called Jo. It’s a local agency that places cleaners with clients. She asked me a few questions about what I was looking for and said 5-6 hours on a Wednesday was doable. It will probably mean I have two clients, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. They will be local to me, maybe even walking distance, which will be fab. I will have the same people I do every week. I also agreed that the agency can let me know if there are any holiday, sick, or absence cover jobs up for grabs, and I am free to say yes or no as it suits me.

It is self-employed, but my current job is self-employed, so that’s fine. It’s £14 an hour, which is more than I’m getting now. It’s funny. Only £12.50 an hour for a prestigious office job where I use my brain, yet £14 an hour to clean someone’s house. Apparently, there are more people needing cleaners than there are cleaners, so I get to interview my prospective clients in their homes and choose which ones I want. Is being a cleaner the way I saw my life going? No. But it’s work I can do. It’s convenient and well paid. It will be local, so not much commuting. It’s honest, physical work I can just do, then go home. And quite frankly, I need the money. So, it is what it is. Jo is coming for a home inspection next week. I guess they want to check the standards in my home before letting me loose in someone else’s. My home is always very tidy and relatively clean, but this weekend I’m cleaning mirrors, cobwebs, washing the dining room window, and just generally making sure my house sparkles.

As I said last time, after my marathon second return trip to Reading to retrieve the rest of Franki and Rys’s belongings and my epic 12-hour sleep, I did almost nothing on the day after. It was fortunate that my shifts had been changed from Monday and Tuesday to Thursday and Friday. I played catch-up on those two days. Housework, the garden, correspondence, sleep, and just resting in general.

Then on Wednesday I had a blood test in the morning — that reminds me, I need to phone for the results — and dentist and hygienist appointments in the afternoon. I was in there precisely 25 minutes, and it cost me more than a day’s wages.

I then worked Thursday and Friday. Saturday was another catch-up, write book reviews, make social media posts, and spend almost the whole day doing five online courses for the carer’s job.

Sunday. I collected my niece at midday, and we set off the Cambridge. Franki had no idea she was coming, as we planned it as a nice surprise. My niece is unable to attend the housewarming party on the 13^th, and I know Franki was keen for her to see the house. My car was loaded again with stuff going from my home to Franki’s new one. Franki wanted some artwork that belonged to her, a couple of large canvases — their removal has left gaping holes on the walls. There was also the entire collection of Star Trek Lego to carefully bubble wrap and transport.

Honestly, looking around after Franki had taken all her books, artwork, ornaments, clothes, candles, and kitchen stuff, it looked like my house had been burgled.

Anyway, we arrived. Franki was surprised. My niece had a tour of the house, and we had coffee and cake, before bundling back in the car and driving back to Bury. Once parked, we trotted across to Waitrose and bought goodies for Franki’s birthday dinner that evening. It was a gorgeous day, so we sat in the garden, played games, had drinks and snacks, and then had a lovely charcuterie board for dinner. My niece was collected by her fiancé at ten, we cleared up and went to bed.

The next day was a bank holiday in the UK, so no work. Instead, I took Franki and Rys to Dunelm because they had accidentally bought the wrong size duvet cover the last time they were there, so they needed to exchange it for the right size. Although when they were there, they spotted a gorgeous, vivid bedspread in a deep yellow patterned with exotic birds, so they got that instead of a duvet cover. They bought a couple of other bits and bobs for the house.

I ran them home, did a few chores around the house for them, then drove home and had an early night as I had to work the next day. Only one day, though. I was utterly discombobulated about what day it was. Tuesday felt like Monday, so it was a nice surprise to realise, as I walked home Tuesday evening, that I would have the next five days off. Franki and Rys had come back to Bury by train late afternoon, so I collected fish and chips for us all on the way home. Very nice. Just what we all needed.

The next day, Wednesday, Franki had a dentist appointment first thing, then an appointment at the opticians. The dentist was fine, no problems. Sadly, the optician was not so fine. The sight in both eyes had deteriorated to the point that they needed new glasses. Even with choosing the cheapest frames they could, it still cost them almost £250, which they absolutely did not need on top of all the other expenses they’ve had. It’s so unfair that they must pay out so much money to be able to see.

We were meeting friends for an early dinner at Damson & Wilde, and this time, no one was ill, so we didn’t have to cancel, and it was a lovely evening. It poured with rain just as our dinner was served, but even though we were eating in the garden, it didn’t matter. They have these amazing shutters that cover the entire garden and keep us all dry. We only had drinks and a main course there, then, as it had stopped raining, we dashed to the Old Cannon (which also has a fabulous covered and heated garden), ordered drinks and desserts, and signed up to do their notoriously hard pub quiz. It’s very popular, so there were at least 20 teams, if not more. To our pride, we came fourth, so no prize except the glory. In all, it was a lovely evening. Franki and Rys stayed the night, then the next morning I ran us out to my parents’ house, where Mum’s mobile hairdresser was waiting to give us both haircuts. Then, as we were already halfway to Cambridge, I ran them home.

I must tell you all about the toilet seat.

When they moved in, they realised the toilet seat was broken. Well, the actual seat was fine, apart from being old and disgusting, but the lid was missing. We later found that lying in the garden in three pieces. Not sure what the story is there … but anyway. So, we bought a smart new grey toilet seat to replace the old one. Franki has been raised by me to understand that there’s a reason why all toilets should have a lid. Fun fact, when you flush a toilet, whatever you have put down it finely mists the whole bathroom up to eight feet. Think of the nasty things that go down a loo all over your towels, the taps. Think about it on your toothbrush. It’s the biggest reason why illnesses spread. It’s disgusting. We always, ALWAYS, put the lid down before flushing.

Obviously, Franki was grossed out by the missing loo lid and was keen to get the new one fitted. Now, I have changed a lot of toilet seats in my time. It’s an easy enough, if a bit of a disgusting job. Undo the bolts underneath, take off the old one, position and install the new one. I was confident I could do it. But this toilet was weird. When I put my hands around the back, I discovered that instead of the bolts being nice and easy to reach, they were up narrow channels in the porcelain surround that I could only just get my hands up. I could feel what I assumed were the bolts, but they felt plastic, and there was nothing to get hold of and undo.

I tried everything. Pliers, mole grips, brute force. I even tried hacksawing through the chrome caps on the top of the toilet. Nothing worked. My wrists were ringed with large bruises from wrenching away at the bolts in the confined, narrow channels they were in. We were getting desperate and beginning to think we’d have to pay someone a fortune to come and do it. When I took them back on Thursday, I went armed with spanners and wrenches and a stubborn determination that that bloody seat WAS coming off. One way or another.

I jammed a knife under the chrome cap. With Rys pulling and twisting on the seat, we managed to get the mole grips underneath. We yanked and pulled and twisted and heaved on the damn thing. Franki came to help. We were bracing the toilet in place, frightened we were going to yank it off the wall, whilst Rys heaved and sweated and twisted on the seat.

If anyone was eavesdropping, they would have heard us shouting — That’s it! Harder. Pull it harder! Twist it! Twist it! That’s it, I’m almost there. Careful! Careful! Don’t be too violent, you might pull the whole bloody thing off. Steady on! Almost there. YESSSS!!!

With one final, almighty yank, Rys wrenched one of the fixings out. No wonder we couldn’t undo the bloody thing. It wasn’t a bolt at all but some kind of plastic fixing with prongs that snapped out once it had been inserted into the fitting.

Then we had to do the other one. This was not a job we could stop halfway. We had started, so we had to finish. Long, exhausting minutes later, the other one popped free, and the damn thing was finally off. We cleaned the loo. Then fitted the new seat easily. The old one went in the bin, and then we all thoroughly scrubbed our hands.

But it was done. The shiny new clean loo seat with a fully working lid was in place, and very smart it looked too.

And now it’s the weekend. Today I have been cleaning windows and mirrors and chasing down cobwebs. All the things that tend to get missed. I do not want to fail my home visit from the cleaning agency because of cobwebs or smeary windows. I’ve also been to the Pride Event that took place in town this afternoon. A fellow author had taken 8 copies of Black Ice to sell but said Why didn’t I pop down lunchtime to sell and sign myself. When I got there, only one copy had been sold, but over the next hour, I managed to sell the other seven copies and could have sold more if I’d had any. I gave out cards, though, and people were very excited to look the book up on my website and hopefully buy a copy and maybe look at my other books whilst they were there.

And that’s you all up to date. Hopefully, life will now settle down. Franki and Rys are comfortably installed in their lovely new home. I have done all the trips to Cambridge that I need to make for the foreseeable future. I think my job situation is sorted. All that is left to do is email the carer agency tomorrow and tell them I won’t be taking the job after all. I’m not looking forward to that, as they’ve been so kind and were very keen to have me. But it is too much. It’s all overwhelming and so much more than I wanted. I’m not looking for another career at 58. I just want a simple job that won’t tax me mentally. One that I can go and do and not take home with me. The cleaning job is also an excellent safety net. If, for any reason, I lose my job at the podiatry practice, I can take on other cleaning jobs through the agency to tide me over.

I know people might look down their noses at my being a cleaner, but we all do what we must to survive, and after all, I will be paid a lot more than my “proper” job, so there’s that.

Anyway, that’s it for now. I’ll let you know next time how things are going.

All the best.

Julia Blake

Has it only been two weeks since we last chatted? So much has happened that it feels like months. Where did I leave you? Oh, right, I’d been to view a property for Franki that was not suitable owing to it being roughly the size of a shoebox. And my birthday was fast approaching.

I worked as usual on Monday and Tuesday. Halfway through Monday afternoon, I noticed Franki had sent me a picture via WhatsApp, so I took a sneaky look. To my delight, it was a picture of a train ticket. When I could, I sent her a quick message asking what was happening.

Surprise, came the reply, I’m coming down on Wednesday to stay a couple of days for your birthday.

Of course, I was delighted, even though it meant rearranging a couple of things.

Franki then asked if it was okay to collect them from Cambridge train station at 11.08am on Wednesday, as they’d managed to book a couple of viewings for properties. I suggested trying to squeeze another one in as well. By this time, it was late Tuesday evening, so all the letting agents were closed for the day. As Franki had to be up at silly o’clock in the morning to commence their journey and wouldn’t be able to make any calls on Wednesday, they sent me details of three more properties and the telephone numbers of the agents letting them.

Wednesday morning. I didn’t have to set off for Cambridge until 10.20am, so I tried all three agents. One was impossible to get hold of. The second was tricky as I was diverted to St Ives first instead of Cambridge, and when I finally got through to the Cambridge branch, I was told there were no viewing appointments for the house we wanted to view until the following Wednesday. I made an appointment, thinking that at the very least I could go alone and report back to Franki.

By now, it was getting close to the time I had to go, so I tried once to get through to the third agent. Surprisingly, she replied the first time. Of course, we could go and view the property. Absolutely, 3.30pm was convenient. She looked forward to seeing us there.

Wow. That made a refreshing change. An agent who was easy to get hold of, polite, and helpful.

Anyway, I jumped in the car and let my Google Maps lady guide me to Cambridge station. I’ve never been there before. It was crowded, confusing, and impossible to park. I yanked up into the dropping-off-only bay and phoned Franki.

I’m here, I cried.

So am I, they said.

After some confusion, we found each other, Franki jumped in the car, and we were off. Easing into lunchtime traffic, we made our way back to a large retail park where we could park. Popping into the supermarket ASDA, we used the customer loos, and I bought Franki a cheap hand mixer. They were making a trifle that weekend and happened to mention they had to whip the cream by hand. That’s such a nightmare job, and the mixer was only £8, so I thought why not?

Then we popped into Marks & Spencer for a coffee. We had some time to kill before the first viewing at 1.00pm. The first house was within walking distance, so we left the car where it was and found our way to the property. Franki had a good feeling about this property. I wasn’t so sure. From the photos, it looked even smaller than the house I’d viewed the previous week.

We found the right street. It was in a nice area. There was a little play park at the end of the road and a community notice board about a crafting club taking place. Franki and Rys are both into crafts, so that was nice. The property was also only a five-minute easy walk from the big retail park where we’d left the car, and having a supermarket on the doorstep is always a bonus.

The landlady was waiting to show us around. It was a typical, small Victorian workman’s town cottage. It was right on the street, which I’m never very keen on, as it can get noisy, and if a van goes by, your windows and front door can rattle. The front door opened straight into the lounge. Again, something I am not very fond of. If it’s a windy day, every time you open the door, a ton of leaves and bits will blow in.

It was obvious that the current tenants were still living there, as their personal belongings were strewn all over the place.

The ground floor was small and open plan. There was a fireplace in the lounge area, but it was unclear if it was usable or not. There were bookcases and cupboards built into the fireplace alcoves. Useful. The stairs led up from the lounge, which meant the heat would disappear straight up there as well.

There was a small dining area which then opened onto a galley kitchen. There was a back door leading out into a small but sweet garden. The landlady explained how the house next door had access through the garden to put out their bins or whenever they needed access to their back door or garden. Uh oh. Nope. Big red flag. No privacy in your garden and no privacy in your house. I’ve known friends who lived with an arrangement like this and hated it. Imagine being in your kitchen with the back door open and a total stranger appears on their way to the neighbour’s garden. Not ideal.

I looked around the ground floor, noticing the chipped and dirty paintwork on the skirting boards and window frames. The walls were all a tired and grubby off-white. The kitchen was small and dated. There was no dryer and nowhere to stand one.

We went upstairs. There was a tiny main bedroom. You might just about get a king-size bed in there, but you wouldn’t get much else. The bathroom was dated but adequate. And then we came to the second bedroom. Now, Franki had stated that the size of the second bedroom was very important. They needed enough space to have a couple of desks and shelving. If they could also squeeze in a daybed or a single bed, then even better.

We looked at the second bedroom.

It was basically a dressing room. A row of tired-looking built-in wardrobes filled one wall. That was it. There was no space to fit a desk, let alone two, and as for a single bed, well, you might just about squeeze a small single in there, but it would be tight.

We went back downstairs.

Franki was very keen on the house, and I could see why. It did have a certain charm about it, and the area was great. But … but … but … with my sensible mum hat on, I could see all the drawbacks. It was too small. Franki and Rys are going to be working together all day, every day. When they came home, they did not need to be living in a shoebox. They would need some space to be apart and do their own thing.

The whole house needed decorating, and yes, we would probably be able to do that, but it was yet more work, stress, and expense. The kitchen was small and not planned out very well. No space for a dryer. Franki said — it doesn’t matter, Mum, — but oh yes it does! Imagine working five days a week and needing to get all your laundry done at the weekend. It’s in the middle of winter. It’s cold and pouring with rain, so the washing cannot be dried outside. There was no room to stand an airer, and anyway, airers are fine for drying your smalls but not for large sheets and towels. I’m never a fan of trying to dry clothes indoors anyway. It causes condensation and mould. It’s not good for your electrical devices, and it’s not healthy for your lungs. The house was also just too small to have airers up everywhere and wet washing hanging around the place.

The second bedroom was too small to use as an office. It’s okay, Franki declared, we’ll use the dining room table. Hmm, I think not. Cramped together on a small table, no room to spread out their work, having to constantly clean it away if they needed to use the table, wires trailing across the floor to the wall sockets. It was a recipe for disaster.

The whole no privacy in their garden situation was also not ideal.

But Franki was keen, more than keen, and practically told the landlady there and then that they would take the house. I have other viewings, the landlady told us, and I’ve decided not to make any decisions until everyone has been, and then I’m going to sit down and weigh up the pros and cons of each person who’s been to view. Fair enough, I guess.

We thanked her and then walked back to the car to drive to the next viewing at 2.10pm. Another Victorian terraced house that opened straight onto the street. This time it was empty. A large open plan space serving as the sole living area, which then opened into a small galley kitchen with a bathroom beyond.

First impressions? For me, it was an instant hard no. It just didn’t feel right. I glanced at Franki, not sure what they were thinking. We went upstairs. There were three bedrooms. One is a decent size, and the other two are quite small. There were numbers on each of the bedroom doors, so clearly it had been used as shared student accommodation for three students. The stairs were horrible. Narrow, creaky, slippery, and steep. I could imagine one of them coming downstairs in the night for a pee and ending up in a tangled heap at the bottom.

We looked around the kitchen. Dated. No freezer. No space for a dryer. The bathroom was depressing. It was all very squalid. More The Young Ones than young professionals.

We went outside. The garden was a decent size. It needed some TLC as it was weedy and overgrown. There was a clothesline and an outdoor table set. But the fences were only waist high, so we had an uninterrupted view into the neighbour’s gardens. And they had an uninterrupted view back. Hmm. Almost as bad as house one from a lacking privacy point of view.

We politely thanked the agent. Got in the car and waited until she had driven away before having an autopsy. No, we both said. It had felt soulless, and it was just a … well, just a no. We both agreed on that.

We drove to the last house — the one I’d arranged at the last minute — and about which we knew very little. It was in a nice area, although slightly further from the city centre than the previous two. We parked outside the house. It was a nice street, wide, with plenty of parking. There was also a small precinct of shops next to the house, including a Tesco Express. Very handy if they needed something late at night.

I liked the look of the house immediately. It was the end of the terrace, so effectively a semi-detached Victorian house. Unlike the other two, it was not straight onto the street but had a little front garden with an ornate iron fence and gate, a hedge between it and the next house, and the original Victorian black and tan tiles in a diamond pattern.

The agent turned up and we went in. Well, what can I say? I loved the house immediately. Yes, the front door opened straight into the lounge, but having the front garden as a buffer between the door and the street would make a huge difference.

There was a beautifully papered feature wall. There was a working log burning fire. There were built-in cupboards and shelves in the alcoves on either side of the fireplace. There was a separate, equally large dining room with stairs going up. Lovely high, Victorian ceilings throughout, which always make rooms feel large. All the original features, such as wooden doors and skirting boards, fireplaces, and windows.

The kitchen is where it was slightly less perfect, in that it’s not a fitted kitchen. There is a run of worktop under the window at the end, with a sink let into it and a washing machine and small dishwasher underneath. There was a freestanding stove and a Smeg fridge. There were plenty of open shelves on the walls. That was it. There were no cupboards. Hmm, I thought, that’s a shame. But it was a lovely big space, and cupboards could be added.

There was a boot room leading off the kitchen with coat and shoe racks and plenty of space to put a dryer. The back door into the garden opened off this room, and oh my word, what a garden. For a start, it had a fully glazed summer house. Wonderful to use on summer days. Maybe even set up their own bar in there.

Then the garden. It was such a secret garden. It went back and back and twisted around. There were masses of mature shrubs which hid the way. It was delightful and unexpected and ended in a shed right at the very bottom.

I was enchanted by it. Franki grumbled about doing gardening. What gardening? It would literally be a case of taking a pair of secateurs for a walk down the garden, and if a branch smacked you in the face, chop it off and put it in the garden waste bin. Oh, and there was also a private side alley down the side of the house where their bins stood and allowed separate access out onto the street. Perfect if they came home with muddy boots and didn’t want to traipse through the lounge.

We went back in and went upstairs. To my surprise, rather than the cramped and dark landing I was expecting, the whole internal wall had been removed to open up the narrow second bedroom into a large space. With shelves built into the chimney breast alcoves, there was ample room for a large desk each, plus storage and more shelves. There was an opening in the ceiling which led up to a fully converted attic space, we were informed. Sadly, the agent didn’t know what the tenants had done with the ladder, but we could see there was quite a bit more space up there. More storage, or even a place for friends or one wine-soaked mother to crash for the night.

The main bedroom was at the front of the house and was of adequate size with two tall windows. Plenty of space for a bed, wardrobes and a chest of drawers.

Finally, we went into the bathroom. This possibly let the rest of the house down. The ceiling sloped so there were places you could barely stand upright, but it was a nice big bathroom with a generous walk-in shower. It was usable and could be improved on.

By now, I was so in love with this house that I was ready to move in myself. The agent offered to leave us alone to chat, and once she was gone, I turned to Franki, fully expecting them to be as enamoured with this property as I was.

I don’t like it.

I was stunned. How could they not love it? The space was perfect in every way. Being slightly further out of town, it was the same rent as the first two houses we’d seen that day but offered so much more in terms of space, facilities, and décor.

Don’t care, Franki said. It doesn’t feel like home. I don’t want it. I want to make an offer on the first house we saw.

I couldn’t understand it, but at the end of the day, it was not my decision, so I washed my hands of it, we thanked the agent and said we’d be in touch and then drove to my parents, who live on the way back from Cambridge.

In the car, Franki phoned Rys and gushed about the first house and then texted the landlady of the first house and asked to be considered.

They were expecting me, but they had no idea Franki was back for a couple of days. Well, I think my mother might have suspected. We stayed there for an hour and had a drink, and I opened my birthday presents from Mum and Dad, and Franki and Rys.

Then we drove home, parked the car, Franki settled in whilst I fed the cat, and then we wandered across to Waitrose and bought ourselves a picky tea of Italian mixed meats, soft olive bread, anchovies, sushi, cheese, and other bits and pieces.

The hot day had settled into a balmy evening. We were both drained after such a long and busy day. It was nice to chillax in the garden with undemanding food and a bottle of wine. Then Franki got a text back from the landlady. She was so sorry, but she’d offered the house to someone else. It was nothing personal, but the other person had come to the viewing with all their paperwork in order.

Franki was gutted.

I’m so sorry, I said. I know how much you wanted the house. What do you want to do? Shall we try and arrange some more viewings for next week? I know you won’t be able to go, but I can go for you if you like.

No, came the reply. We’ll go for the third house.

I was stunned. All the negative comments that had been made about the house!

We need somewhere to live, I was told, and I’m fed up with all this stress. The house will do fine.

In fact, I think the house will be more than fine, and I believe once they’re living there and have it all how they want it, the house will be more than fine. Franki may even come to realise that, honestly, the first house, cute though it was, was too pokey for them. This house will allow plenty of space for them to live and grow into it.

It was too late to do anything on Wednesday evening, so Franki texted the letting agent at 8.00am the next day. The agent called back. They paid a holding fee, so the property was taken off the market. Since then, it has been a nonstop whirl of documentation, answering questions, filling in forms, trying to sort out moving arrangements, utilities, council tax, insurance, etc etc etc.

One piece of good luck. The previous tenants have now moved out, and they left quite a bit of furniture behind, so the letting agent asked Franki if they’d like any of it. Franki took a look at the photos and selected the bed and mattress, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a pair of bedside tables, a single day bed with a truckle bed underneath it, a freestanding mirror, a wall mirror, a nice wall clock, a large sofa, an armchair, a toaster, and a selection of wine and champagne glasses. This will save them a lot of money to then spend on other items of furniture they will need.

They move in on the 11^th of August, so on the 10^th, I am driving to Reading to collect them and as much as we can fit in my tiny car. They will stay with me Sunday evening, then take the train to Cambridge on Monday (I will be at work) to collect the keys. Rys hasn’t even seen photos of the property; they put their trust completely in Franki. They will take bedding with them on the train and a tape measure so they can measure up and see what size kitchen units they can fit in.

Once I finish work, I will drive over and we will unload everything out of the car. I don’t know if they’ll stay in the property or not on Monday evening. I guess it will all depend on whether they feel like cooking or not. If not, they will come back with me, we will have dinner together, and they will stay the night.

Franki’s birthday is also that week, and there are vague plans about “doing something”. I have no idea what yet, I guess that will be sorted out closer to the time.

On Saturday the 16^th, I will take Rys back to Reading, where we will meet their mother,r who has a slightly bigger car than me. We will then have to fit everything left in their flat in Reading into both cars and then drive back to the house in Cambridge, where Franki will be waiting for us.

Two round trips to Reading. Oh, deep joy. I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to those. Originally, it was planned that a family member would hire a van and drive them and all their belongings down in one trip. I did not even need to go. But, as you all know, the best laid plans of mice and Julia are all filed away somewhere and now I am making two trips to Reading.

Oh gosh. This blog is up to 3500 words, and I still haven’t even told you about my birthday. Next time. I’ll tell you all about it next time. Meanwhile, take care of yourself. Stay safe. Stay happy.

Julia Blake

It’s been over a month since I last blogged. I know, it’s disgraceful. What can I say? I’ve been working overtime, finishing the garden, and writing, so there’s honestly not been a moment spare. But I have no more overtime scheduled now until October, and the garden is more or less finished, so there are no excuses for not finishing my work-in-progress and writing my blog on time.

Last time we chatted, I was doing a spontaneous summer fete at Framlingham. So, how did it go? Not well, I’m afraid. The weather was gorgeous, there were endless stalls of arts and crafts, footfall was reasonably high, and I sold three books. Yep. Just three. It seems people in Framlingham are not readers. Moreover, they were aggressively illiterate. I would politely ask if they were readers, and they would glare angrily at me. What do you mean?! Do I look like I read?! How dare you suggest such a thing?

Time and again, I was shot down. So many times, I ended up riddled with bullet holes. It was an utter waste of time and money and of a beautiful Sunday when I could have been doing a variety of other things. I will not be doing any more fairs in Framlingham. It simply wasn’t worth it. But I had already booked to do an indie book fair in Framlingham this Saturday. I booked before this disaster occurred, so there’s not much I can do other than hope, as it’s an actual book fair, that it will bring the readers out in force. Or maybe no one reads in Framlingham. Who knows.

Since then, I’ve worked two weeks of overtime, and the weather went from summer back to winter to autumn and then back up to summer again. Yesterday, the weather was so gorgeous that we were able to sit outside all day and have lunch out there. It’s my mother’s birthday on the 12^th, and it’s Father’s Day on Sunday, so my parents came round for lunch to celebrate both of these occasions. It was so nice to be able to sit outside in my beautiful garden and eat lunch.

How is the garden going? Well, I’m happy to report that it is finished. There is nothing left to do now except to give the fences a top-up lick of paint, fill in any obvious gaps in the planting, and just generally maintain everything. My brother managed to find another three pallets somewhere and dropped them off at my parents’ house. Dad then took them apart and knocked out all the nails. I picked them up and brought them home, then spent the whole weekend applying three good coats of paint. I counted them up. We had 38 slats of varying widths and lengths. Would it be enough?

Dad called around to continue putting them up. We finished the run we’d begun previously and then assessed what was left to do. Part of the pergola roof runs alongside the bathroom extension, so there was a bit of cutting and patching to do there. We used the slightly wider boards so they wouldn’t look odd butting up to the thinner ones already up. We had just enough of the wider boards to fill to the end of the extension. Then we used the next thinnest boards. The pile of planks we had left was rapidly being depleted.

We won’t have enough, Dad kept saying.

We will, I replied, trying to sound confident. I’ve counted; we should have just enough.

And we did. Just. Only because the pergola goes to a point, so we needed shorter and shorter planks and were able to use up oddments. But it’s finished and looks amazing. The neighbour’s honeysuckle is making itself at home on it, and my rambling rose has already reached the top and is spreading out. I was hoping to get flowers on my rose this summer, but so far there’s been no sign of any buds. My boss, who knows about these things, says that as it’s the first summer of being in, I may not get any flowers this year, which is disappointing.

All finished.

Dad is not a fan of the rose. When he was working on the roof the damn thing viciously attacked him. He got his own back with a pair of secateurs, but I think that just made the rose angry.

Evil Rose.

A friend came to lunch a couple of weeks ago, and before we ate, we went to the local garden centre, and she helped me spend £100 on plants. That’s the best kind of shopping, isn’t it? All the fun of looking and choosing, none of the pain of paying for it. I bought two different kinds of hydrangeas, both white. One is already covered with huge flowers and has black twisty stems. It’s beautiful and has settled nicely in the garden. The other isn’t out yet, but apparently will have clusters of large white flowers. I also got all the plants needed for my hanging basket and pots. Lots of petunias in white, and purple, and some lovely ones that are deep purple with white splashes all over them. Also, white geraniums and some other purple and white flowering plants. Yes, the colour scheme of the pots in my front garden is purple and white again.

Beautiful hydrangea.

In bud, just waiting for it to bloom.

Bought this tall hydrangea last year. It’s just coming into flower now.

I can’t wait until the plants in my garden bloom. As I planted them in September last year, I haven’t seen any of them in flower yet. Hopefully, as they are all summer-long flowering plants, they should all bloom at the same time. You may remember that I went for all white flowers, so they should look amazing.

Ferns under the pergola. They really love it there.

Quirky, retro tin signs to add character to a blank wall.

A lovely, lush, secluded place to eat.

I cannot believe how quickly this year is passing by. It’s the longest day soon, and then it’s all downhill back into winter. At least I have started writing again. I’ve managed about 20,000 words since we last chatted. I suddenly realised that the end of September is fast approaching. I have set myself the goal of having my new book published in time for the Norwich Comic-Con taking place at the last weekend of September. This will be my third year attending, so I need something new for my stall. A lot of people come back every year to buy another book. Last year at least I had Mage Quest, which was new, but this year unless I get my arse in gear and write like a maniac I will have nothing new to offer.

Will I get another book out after that before the end of the year? Possibly. The next book scheduled to be written after this current one will be book seven of the Blackwood Family Saga. These are short, formulaic books. The characters are already created and developed. The world-building is complete. The front and back pages, I can just copy and paste as they are the same throughout the whole series. I have a rough idea of the plot in my head. I can knock out a Blackwood book in two weeks if I have nothing else to do. But I will have a lot on my plate from the end of September onwards.

The lady I job share with is away for almost the whole of October, so I am doing double my usual workdays that month. Yay for a decent pay packet just before Christmas, not so yay for not having any time to write. Then there’s the fact that although I will have the whole summer to myself, Franki and Rys will be moving in at the end of September. Their Master’s course will be over, so they are moving back here whilst they look for jobs and somewhere to live. Depending on how long that takes, they could be living here for a while. It’s a distraction having them in the house. It’s hard to write when other people are banging around and generally making noise.

I guess, if they both get jobs quite quickly, then they should be out during the week, so on my one day off during the week, Wednesday, I can try to write. But they’ll both probably be here during the weekends. We’ll have to see how it goes.

It is a concern. Franki will be taking her first steps out in the big, wide world and will discover for herself just how cold and scary it can be in the land of adulthood. They need to find jobs, save money for the deposit on a flat somewhere, and she needs to learn to drive. All these things take time and money. Lots of time and money. I wish I could help more, but I barely have enough money to survive myself, let alone help them out beyond giving them somewhere to live.

It will be lovely, though, if they find jobs and a home locally. So, they’ll be nearby, just not in my house. It’s a very small house, and when there are three of us, plus the lodger and only one bathroom, it can get a bit cramped.

What else have I been up to? It was a friend’s birthday a couple of weeks ago, so we caught the train to the next town where they were having an open-air music festival. The weather had gone from being gloriously hot to cold and rainy, so many fingers were crossed that it would at least stay dry. We walked from the station to the site where the festival was being held. It was about a mile and a half, so not far, but when you’re lugging a backpack full of drinks, snacks, wet weather gear, and carrying a camping chair, it began to feel like 100 miles. My friend’s husband took pity on me and carried my backpack in exchange for me carrying his chair. It still felt like a very long way, though.

Reaching the site, we picked our spot and settled down. Drinks were poured as we waited for the rest of our party to arrive. Two of the birthday girl’s friends arrived with dogs. Now, I like most dogs, so I petted them after the owner assured me they were friendly. Hmm, yeah, one of them made a lunge for me and bit my hair. I was a bit startled. The poor thing got a huge mouthful of Aussie Miracle curl cream and curling mousse, though, so I think it regretted its choices.

The bands were diverse and great. There was a lot of 90s music played, and I lost track of how many times we heard Parklife. Chips were on sale, and to my joy, they weren’t fried in rapeseed oil. The rain stayed mostly away. It spit-spotted a couple of times, but as it was almost oppressively muggy, it didn’t matter at all. We stayed until the very end, when dusk was settling over the site and the last act came on. A brilliant 90s cover band, they played loud and proud all the classics from Oasis, Blur, Pulp, etc., and the crowd went wild. We were dancing in front of the stage. Someone started a conga that we managed to duck out of, and people just had a great time.

By now, it was dark, and we had that long trek back to the station ahead of us. Yes, my backpack was considerably lighter as I’d drunk all the drinks and eaten all the snacks, but my feet were killing me from all that dancing. Luckily, one of the birthday girl’s friends offered us a lift home in his nice cosy car, so that was a relief.

The next morning, my feet and legs throbbed with pain, and my throat was hoarse from all the singing, but it was worth it.

Speaking of birthdays, this time of year is ripe with them. I had my friends a couple of weeks ago; it was my goddaughters at the end of May. It was Mum’s on the 12^th. Father’s Day is on Sunday. My dad’s birthday is at the end of June. My birthday is mid-July, as is my niece’s. Franki’s birthday is mid-August, and another friend’s is at the end of August. All big birthdays that require cards, gifts, and outings. Summer is almost as expensive for me as Christmas.

Another expense coming up is that I need all my windows sanded down, filled, and re-stained.  The last time they were done was Spring 2020, so they desperately need to be done. I should have had it done last summer, but money and time got away from me. They must be done this summer, though. There are places where the wood is crumbling, so it needs to be filled and stained before the wet weather sets in again.

I floated my job on Bark, which is an online “find a tradesman” website. A couple of local decorators came back to me. One seemed promising, so we arranged for him to come and look at the job and give me a quote last Wednesday. My parents had also recommended a man in their village who was retired but still taking on little decorating jobs to keep himself busy. He painted their lounge last year and did a very good job of it.

The guy from Bark came around. He was a very nice man and seemed to know what he was talking about. Now, when the windows were last done in 2020, it cost me £400. I was, of course, expecting it to be more than that now. Prices have gone up across the board. The guy looked at the windows, then quoted me £1250. I was flabbergasted. It was three times what I paid last time. I thanked him, said I’d think about it and let him know, then texted my parents’ man. He phoned me back, arranged to call round later that day, arrived, looked at the job, and gave me a quote of £200-£300 cash, all the tea he could drink, and chocolate Hobnobs.

Umm, no brainer really.

So, that’s happening soon. It will be a relief to get them weatherproof before winter. I’m not a decorator, but I know enough to realise that jobs like that can’t be left. They go from being an expensive job to a very expensive job if you do.

Anyway, it’s getting late and I’m getting hungry. I am sorry I missed a blog. It wasn’t intentional. Life has been a bit heavy lately, and my heart has not been in a lot of things. But I am making a conscious effort to tick things off my to-do list, and the first was to catch up with my blog.

I hope wherever you are in the world, you are well. Stay safe, and I look forward to chatting with you next time.

Julia Blake

And once again I am apologising because I think I missed a week. Did I? Not sure. I know it was Easter the last time we chatted, and it’s now nine days into May, so I might have missed a week. It’s hard to keep track of time. Does anyone else feel like this year is passing quicker than normal? We’re almost halfway through the year, and I don’t feel as if, other than working lots of overtime, I have done any of the things I planned to do.

I did hope to publish three books this year, but the way I’m going with my latest work in progress, I’ll be lucky if I publish one. I planned to produce at least another four of my books as deluxe hardbacks, but that’s not likely. To be honest, after the pain in the bum shenanigans of producing The Book of Eve and the Blackwood Family Saga, I’m not sure I have the mental energy to do that again.

This time last year, all progress ground to a halt on the epic space opera I was writing because of working endless overtime and being in the middle of a large garden project. Fast forward to a year later, and all progress has ground to a halt on the epic space opera I am still writing because I’m working endless overtime and am in the middle of a large garden project. Groundhog Day vibes all round. I do feel like I’m repeating the same day over, and over, again.

Okay, so what has happened since the last time I saw you? As you know, a friend hacked the cherry tree down to ground level, and Dad and I have been trying to get the stump out. Good Lord. That thing did not want to go. We dug away the earth around the stump and found the first root. Seriously, that thing was bigger than a sewage pipe and as tough as concrete. Digging away all the dirt, Dad went at it with my chainsaw. It cut some, then died. Battery out of charge. We hoped it was that, and we hadn’t burnt out the engine. It is only a baby chainsaw after all. I put it on charge and hoped for the best. After thirty minutes, I tried it again. Nothing. Oops. Had we killed it?

Dad had already pulled two of the pallets apart the previous week, and I had banged out any nails I saw and slapped on three coats of paint. Two of the pallets, unfortunately, the two largest, couldn’t be used because they weren’t made of proper wood but some kind of composite layers of pulped wood. They were impossible to take apart and wouldn’t be much good even if we could. It had rained whilst they were standing in the garden, and the layers were peeling apart. Those we cut up and stuck them in the back of my car, along with the old bamboo roofing from the pergola. I booked us a slot at the recycling yard, and we dashed there to get rid of them. It always amazes me how busy the recycling yard is. So many people getting rid of endless rubbish. No wonder it’s now by appointment only.

So, anyway, Dad returned the next day with his old chainsaw and had another go at the cherry tree stump. The chain was so blunt it didn’t touch it. We took the chain and went to B&Q, the local hardware store located only a few minutes away. They didn’t stock his brand of chainsaw, and all the replacement chains they had were too small. We came home. I went on Amazon. They sold universal chainsaw chains in the 20” size, Dad said he needed. Two for only £13.38 and delivered the next day for free. I ordered them.

We then went into the garden to assess what we could do next, as the cherry tree stump had a stay of execution. We decided to start putting the pallet planks up on the pergola roof. The temperature had risen, and as we’d chopped down the cherry tree, given my silver birch a brutal haircut, and taken the roof off the pergola, there was not a scrap of shade anywhere in the garden. I needed to get a covering on the pergola, so at least I had somewhere to sit.

One of the usable pallets had produced long planks of wood, which covered three joists perfectly and didn’t need any trimming. Brilliant. They went up as quickly as lightning. We should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. The next two pallets were smaller, and all the planks they produced needed measuring and trimming. It was a boiling hot day. I mean, seriously hot. Not just hot for the UK, but hot anywhere. In my garden, the temperature tipped almost 27 degrees centigrade, and there’s my poor 80-year-old Dad up a ladder trying to nail slats onto the top of a pergola. I gave him a pint of water with ice cubes and a slice of pink grapefruit. He viewed it suspiciously. Like many people his generation, he never tends to drink water, only endless cups of tea, but I was afraid of him dehydrating and collapsing, so I insisted. I think he quite liked it, though, because he didn’t say no when I offered another one.

We ran out of slats with only half the job done, so now I must wait for more pallets and the whole “taking them apart, banging out nails, painting them, and then nailing them in place” process to start again. I think it will look great when it’s done. So far, it is looking really good, and once my plants ramble over it, the effect will be fantastic.

Dad came back this week, bringing both his chainsaws and on a vendetta to get that fecking stump out. We opened the new chains that had been delivered. They were too big. They were advertised as being 20” chains, the packet said 20”, but they were 24” long, so they are way too big to fit even his largest chainsaw. So now I have the pain in the bum task of sending them back, along with a photo of said chain next to a tape measure showing that they do, in fact, measure 24”.

I got my little chainsaw out and showed it to Dad. I had charged it fully up and tried it again, but it was completely dead. Dad tried. Bloody thing flew into life. Operator error. I hadn’t realised that, as well as squeezing the handle, there was a button that needed pushing at the same time to make it work. So, that worked, but it was too little to even try on the big root we’d uncovered. Dad went at it with his other chainsaw. Is it a requirement of older men to have a variety of chainsaws on hand? He managed to cut through the root, but the stump was still solid. He dug all around it. We uncovered another three roots, all of a similar girth. He cut through them all. The stump remained solidly planted in the ground.

I think it was now personal for my dad, and it was all very Ernest Hemingway. Instead of The Old Man and the Sea, think The Old Man and the Stump. We found more roots, not so big, firmly rooted in the soil. In went my small chainsaw, which performed admirably. Dad repeatedly hit the stump with a heavy metal pole. The stump gave in and rocked a little. We kept at it. At one point, I was in the muddy hole scrabbling away with my fingers, trying to uncover the roots whilst Dad continually hit it with the metal pole. I felt like a terrier trying to dig out a rabbit hole.

Finally, the stump gave up. Gasping like a pair of winded goldfish, we dragged it out and threw it behind the barbecue, where it lay. A colossus of wood and dirt. We’ll let it dry out, and at some point, it will be sawn up into useable chunks of wood to burn on the fire next year.

Once we’d caught our breath, we then dug out the small ornamental tree standing on my front doorstep out of its pot. We staggered around the back with it and into the garden. It was much heavier than expected and nearly killed us, but we got it there and into the hole. The poor thing was dreadfully pot-bound, so we teased out the roots, put bonemeal in the hole and dumped it in. Backfilling with all the dirt dug out.

Later that evening, I pruned, fed, and watered it thoroughly. It’s a pretty, little tree. I can’t remember what it’s called; I’ve always known it as a Red Robin tree. In autumn, its leaves turn bright red and in summer, it has white flowers. It’s given the garden back its height and character, and will be much easier to manage than the cherry tree. Hopefully, it will survive the shock of being moved and will be happier with more space to grow and better soil.

The garden is almost finished. What has been a twenty-year project is close to completion. The pergola roof needs finishing. I need new light bulbs for the outdoor lights. I want to buy a few fun retro tin posters for the exterior wall. I will need a few more plants to fill the gaps in the flower beds, and then, it will be done. All I will have to do from now on is pruning, weeding, and painting the fences as and when necessary. Oh, and hopefully sit in my garden and enjoy it.

What else has happened? It was the big Indie Author Book Fair in Huntingdon on the first Saturday in May. I was all packed up and ready to go, and looking forward to it. Last year was phenomenally good, and I sold 40 books, so I had high hopes. The pitch fee had almost doubled, though, from £45 for the day to £75, so that was a slight concern, but I did have my new hardback books, which should attract attention. I was also looking forward to using my new three-tier stand, book holders, and my new trolley.

A fellow author who was also attending the fair was picking me up early Saturday morning and was then staying the night at my place. She was attending the fair on Sunday, but I had declined. They wanted another £70 for the day, and I personally felt it was too expensive, and that the footfall would not be large enough to generate the sales to cover my expenses and make a profit.

She arrived at 8.15, we loaded my things into her car and off we went. One slight hitch. We couldn’t find the car park. I assumed, as she’d gone last year, she knew the way. And she assumed the same about me. Wrong on both counts. But we phoned a friend and eventually found the right long-stay car park, which was cheap — only £3.20 for the day — got parked, loaded up our trollies and trundled them down the elevator, into the high street, and found the hall.

We were a bit late and were still setting up when it opened, but it was a sluggish start, so we were ready by the time any significant numbers came in.

And how did I do? Okay. I did okay. Footfall was way down, and I only sold 26 books compared to the 40 I sold last year. It was a fun event, though, and the lovely thing was that several people who had bought from me at previous events came to find me to chat and buy more books, including a lovely family who came at the end of the previous year’s events when I had no books left to sell. They saw my promo for this year and came especially to buy a copy of Black Ice.

At the end of the day, I packed up and my author pal ran us back to mine where we had time to unload my things — hers had been left in situ because she was going back the next day — have a cup of tea and a rest, change into warmer things because the temperature had plummeted during the day, and then head to the local pub to join a couple of friends for dinner.

Did I make a profit? Just about. By the time I took off the high pitch fee, the cost of parking (which I paid in return for the lift), the cost of buying the books and postage, bookmarks, cards, and bags, I made about £50 pure profit. Of course, that’s not counting networking, giving out cards, and any future sales I might make based on the event, but it’s still not a lot. And then I went out to dinner, which cost me £50. Oh well, easy come, easy go.

Doing a direct comparison with the tiny Leiston craft market two weeks previously, where I made £38 profit from the sale of only 11 books, it’s obvious that the bigger events are not necessarily the most profitable. Once the difference in pitch fees is factored in — Leiston £15. Huntingdon £70 — you can see how many more books I must sell to make up for that.

Speaking of small events, I found out about a craft fair taking place today in Framlingham, which is about 45 minutes away from Bury. So that is where I will be whilst you are reading this blog. The pitch fee is £25 for a whole 6’ table to myself, so I’m giving it a try, and we’ll see how it works out. After that, I am back to Framlingham again on the 14^th of June for an Indie Authors Book Fair. I have also expressed an interest in taking part in the Sudbury Book Fair on the 22^nd of June and am waiting to hear if I’ve been successful.

One annoying thing that turned into a rather lovely thing happened. Looking through the transaction report of my card machine the day after the Huntingdon Fair, I noticed one of the transactions for £15 hadn’t gone through. So, I had given one of my books away. Which was very annoying. Normally, I check carefully that the sale has gone through before signing the books. I learnt that the hard way. I once signed a book for someone called Declan — not the most common of names — and then his card was declined and he walked away, leaving me with a signed book I could not sell. After that, I always take payment before I sign. Anyway, for some reason, I took my eye off the ball, and the payment hadn’t gone through. I was angry with myself, but what could I do?

A couple of hours later, a notification pinged up on Messenger, and it was the father of the girl who’d bought the book saying they’d noticed the sale hadn’t gone through. Please could I let them know my bank details, and they’d pay me straight away. I did. The payment came through instantly, and I thanked them profusely because, although it was the right and ethical thing for them to do, a lot of people wouldn’t have bothered. Many would have considered it my hard cheese and chortled that they’d got a free book. It quite restored my faith in humanity.

Will I get any writing done this weekend? I am going to try. I am writing this blog on Friday morning, so in theory I still have the rest of the day and all of Saturday to write. But will I? Meh, who knows. At the moment, my muse is a fickle bitch and is refusing to play nicely. I need to get another book out, though, at least by the time NorCon rolls around at the end of September. So many people come back year after year to find us authors. They have already bought all my books, so I need a new one out by then.

I will try. That’s all I can do is try.

Anyway, take care, everyone. Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, be safe and happy.

Julia Blake

And here we are at Easter. It’s late this year, very late. I honestly don’t understand why it keeps moving around. I mean, we don’t move the alleged date of the birth of Jesus around. It’s not in November one year and then in January the next, so why keep moving the date of his death about? The Vatican do some mumbo-jumbo calculations based on the position of the moon or something. I don’t know. All sounds a bit mystical and pagan to me, but what do I know?

Anyway, it’s Easter, so if it’s something you celebrate, peace and blessings on you. If it’s not, then happy chocolate day. I bought myself an Easter egg and some chocolate bunnies. I didn’t intend to, but saw a Lion Bar Easter egg and some Malteser chocolate bunnies when I went shopping so I succumbed and bought them. I loved Lion Bars when I was a kid, and Maltesers are always my go-to chocolate. No doubt, they will be scoffed over the long weekend.

My parents gave me some money, and that went towards buying myself a new festival trolley. I do have a trolley that I use for live events and comic cons, but it is only a small one holding a couple of boxes, and it’s not very stable. I’ve lost count of the number of times my trolley has gone arse-over-tit, spilling boxes of books everywhere, especially if the surface is uneven. I’ve been thinking for a while that I need a proper festival trolley that has four wheels and can hold a great deal more, so I ordered myself one and it’s coming next week — just in time for the big Indie Author Book Fair in Huntingdon on the 3^rd of May.

I did buy Franki and Rys their favourite chocolate Easter eggs and sent them to them last week. I made sure I ordered them in good time because I thought everyone would be getting their eggs delivered over Easter, and I wanted them to get them beforehand. They arrived safely and no doubt have been eaten by now.

Last time we spoke, it was coming up to Mothering Sunday and I was convinced that Franki had forgotten about me because it was late Saturday afternoon and there was no whiff of a pressie, let alone a card. Had she forgotten about her old mum? No, of course, she hadn’t. Just after I posted the blog, there was a knock at the door, and it was Amazon bearing a couple of interesting-looking parcels. I put them on the table and was examining them when my phone pinged, and it was Franki video messaging me — she’d just got the notification that they’d been delivered — and wanted to watch me open them.

I didn’t buy you a card, Mum, she said. It’s a 45-minute bus journey to the nearest card shop, and then there’s the cost of postage, all for a card you will look at, say aww over, stand on the side for a week and then throw in the bin.

Okay, I guess that’s fair enough. I have raised her not to waste money on pointless tut, but still…

The large box is instead of a card, she said.

I picked up the box. It GLUGGED!

Now, I likes me a present that makes glugging sounds. It promises so much.

Eagerly, I opened the box to find a pretty bottle of artisan rhubarb and ginger gin.

I thought you’d appreciate this much more than a card, she continued.

Darn right, I do. I really have raised my kid right.

In the other box were some much-needed and much-appreciated items of make-up. So, I was very happy with my Mothering Sunday presents and felt a bit guilty for doubting her.

Have I got my weeks mixed? Was I supposed to blog last week? I have honestly got so turned around this last month or so that I don’t know whether I’m on foot or horseback. I worked two 40-hour work weeks, then had a week off during which I scurried around catching up with everything and sawing up wood. Then I worked another two 40-hour work weeks. On top of that, I had friends coming to stay last weekend, so the whole weekend before was spent cleaning the house from top to bottom, shopping, gardening, washing the car, and making sure the guest bedroom was ready for them. They arrived by train on Friday afternoon whilst I was still at work and collected the spare key on their way through town to my house.

They had asked if we should go out for dinner or perhaps get a takeaway Friday evening, but this whole rapeseed oil allergy makes eating out and takeaways a nightmare of a minefield. Is the food going to make me ill? How stroppy will the restaurant staff be when it turns out I can’t eat anything on the menu because EVERY SODDING THING HAS RAPESEED OIL IN IT NOW!! And yes, I do need you to be more specific than just telling me you use vegetable oil because, guess what, rapeseed oil lurks under that title as well. And yes, I do have an EPI-PEN, but as I really, really don’t want to go into anaphylactic shock in the middle of the restaurant, I would rather avoid the situation and not eat anything that has rapeseed oil in it.

I said we’d eat at home after I got back from work.

So, Thursday evening was spent making a lasagne from scratch to the point where it was ready to go in the oven. I let it cool, covered it, and put it in the freezer. I also made garlic butter ready to go in a sourdough baguette. Friday morning, I thinly sliced a red onion and put it in a bowl with iced water and a teaspoon of red wine vinegar. I like a proper Greek salad, and I planned to make one to go with the lasagne, but the raw red onions it’s traditionally supposed to contain don’t agree with me. To be honest, I’m not sure raw onions agree with anyone. If you soak them in iced water and vinegar, it helps break down the enzyme that causes heartburn and acid reflux. In short, it starts the cooking process.

At lunchtime on Friday, I charged home and drained the onions. I quickly put together a Greek salad and put it in the fridge, as well as took the cheese that needed to soften out and put it on the cheeseboard. I tidied up and then dashed back to work.

The weather here in the UK has been spectacular over the last couple of weeks. Warm days with blue skies, and everywhere you look, spring flowers are popping up. Anyway, they collected the key, and when I eventually got home, I found them relaxing in the garden with cups of tea. I put the oven on, got changed, and then slid the lasagne into the oven to cook. I made big gin and tonics for everyone and had half an hour relaxing in the garden and chatting before we came back in to finish cooking dinner and to eat. And how was it? Delicious. The lasagne was tasty and very satisfying. The Greek salad was lovely, and is there anything better than homemade garlic bread?

We drank our way through almost three bottles of wine, we chatted, we ate cheese and played music. It was a very relaxing evening.

First thing Saturday, I dashed to the shop to grab croissants fresh from the bakery, which we had with apricot conserve, juice, and fresh coffee. After breakfast, they went to visit family, so I cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, caught up with laundry, and sorted out the pets. Midmorning, there was an unexpected ring at the door. I opened it. My brother stood there … ???

I’ve got a vanload of pallets for you.

Oh, right, okay then, best you put them in the garden.

Now, to give you some background as to why my brother unexpectedly turned up with half a dozen large wooden pallets, we need to go back to last spring when I gave my garden a makeover and painted all the fences, trellis, and walls in a different colour. The roof of the pergola is currently made up of rolls of bamboo fencing simply laid over the joists and nailed into place. They have served well for the fifteen-odd years they’ve been up there, but they are looking a bit decrepit now and need replacing. I had the idea to get wooden slats, paint them the same urban slate as the pergola and nail them across, leaving gaps in between for the jasmine and the rambling rose to climb through.

I looked at buying the timber. Wiped the tears of disbelief from my eyes and decided I had to find a cheaper option. I mentioned it to my dad, who said that a friend of my brother’s works at a builder’s merchant, and they always had loads of sturdy wooden pallets lying around. Why didn’t we ask him for some to take apart, remove the nails, paint, and then use to make a new roof? Apart from the cost of the paint, it would be free, and I’d be recycling used timber.

Brilliant.

That was a year ago. Nothing happened. Now and then, I would jog my dad’s memory. Oh yes, he’d say, I’ll get onto that. Nothing would happen again. Until Saturday. When five monstrous pallets arrived unannounced on my doorstep. They are currently sitting in my garden until we can get around to doing something with them.

Saturday afternoon, once my friends returned from visiting family, we went for a long ramble about town and had delicious handmade gelato in the Abby Gardens. I had mango-flavoured. It was delicious. Then we wandered through the gorgeous Victorian cemetery, which is wonderfully neglected and overgrown with wildflowers and grasses, along the river at the back of the park, and then through town to Waitros,e where we stopped to buy steak for Sunday dinner. Apparently, if you buy meat from the fresh meat counter on a Saturday, there’s 20% off the price, and if you buy fish on a Friday, there is also 20% off. I did not know that. I do now and will take advantage of that.

They were going out for dinner on Saturday to a posh dining club experience in a local restaurant. They had asked if I’d like to go, but to be honest, it was very expensive, and what with the whole rapeseed oil thing, probably not worth the effort, so I said no. They left, and I made myself a delicious rustic sausage ragu with pasta and salad. I also packed up my car because the next day was my first live event of the year, the Leiston Easter Craft Market. I would need to leave by 8am on Sunday, and didn’t want to wake the whole household, lugging boxes and my table out of the house.

I do like the Leiston event. Even though it’s an hour’s drive away, mostly through twisty, tiny country lanes, and it’s only four hours long — 10am to 2pm — it has a nice vibe to it, people are friendly, the pitch is only £15, and I generally do quite well. I got there and put up my stall. I was quite excited to see how my new hardback books did. I mean, they had sold like hotcakes at the Christmas markets I did, but that was Christmas, so things might be different at an Easter fair.

It was sluggish to start with, but then things picked up and, in the end, I sold £150 worth of books. For a tiny village market, that is not bad. I did treat myself to a cup of coffee because it is excellent coffee and only £2 for a large cup. I bought five raffle tickets for £1 — I still live in hopes of winning again — and a lump of homemade fruit cake the size of my hand. I asked the lady on the stall if there was any rapeseed oil in it. She puffed up indignantly and exclaimed — Not in My Cake! — Okay, sorry. So, I bought it, and it was lovely.

I didn’t win the raffle, by the way.

Halfway through the morning, an elderly lady staggered into the room, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Huffing and puffing, she looked around, spotted me and stalked over to me, waving her stick at me.

You! She exclaimed. You!

Um, me?

Yes, you! You made me cry!

By now, other stallholders and shoppers were turning to see what the commotion was about.

Did I?

Yes, Chaining Daisy! Never cried so much over a book in my life. Absolutely loved it. I’m about to start Rambling Rose. I wondered if you’d be here and came to buy some more books.

And she did. She bought the hardback edition of the Blackwood Family Saga omnibus.

It’s always so lovely when something like that happens. It is such a tonic for an author. To have someone come to an event specifically to find me and buy another book, well, it kinda makes it all worthwhile.

I got home from the event at about 4.30. By the time I’d unpacked the car and put everything away, it was gone five, so I had a gin and tonic and then chatted to my friends as they made us a delicious steak dinner, with mushrooms, fresh buttered asparagus, and new potatoes in garlic butter. It was lovely, all washed down with a bottle of wine, and then we finished off the cheeseboard afterwards.

And that was the weekend over and done with. I had to go to work the next day, and they were catching the ten o’clock train to go home. I wish we’d had a bit more time together, it would have been nice to go out for the day, but what with me working overtime, them going to see family, and me having already booked to do the Easter fair, there simply wasn’t time. Oh well, we did spend some time together and it was lovely to see them both.

At least my hours were back to normal this week, and I only worked Monday and Tuesday. As it’s the Easter weekend, I have next Monday off as well, but then I’m back to work on Tuesday, have Wednesday and Thursday off, working overtime on Friday, have Saturday and Sunday off, then back to work on Monday. Is it any wonder I get confused about what day or week it is?

It’s a beautiful day here in Suffolk. A tad breezy, but sunny and warm. Let’s face it, any day I don’t have to put the heating on and can dry laundry outside is a good day. I did manage to take apart one of the smaller pallets yesterday, and I had a go at one of the bigger ones. But they are too sturdily assembled for me to pull apart, not without damaging the planks, and I don’t want to do that. Dad says he’s coming next Wednesday to help me. It’s going to be a big job. Once the pallets have been taken apart, all the nails need to be removed, then the planks will need two or three coats of paint. The old bamboo roofing must be removed. Before the painted planks can be fixed in place, though, I will have to climb up the stepladder and put a couple of coats of paint on all the joists — I couldn’t do it last year because the bamboo roofing was in the way. And then all the planks can be nailed securely in place. It’s good we’re getting it done now before the rambling rose has got up to speed. It’s a vigorous climber and has wicked thorns, so it’s as well it’s not quite reached the top of the pergola yet.

And then that will be the garden finished. I’m looking out for some retro tin signs for the wall, and I need to buy a few more lightbulbs for the outdoor lights, but apart from that, it’s done. I can sit back this summer and enjoy the fruits of my labour — well, not cherries, because the tree’s been chopped down.

Am I writing? Hopefully, this weekend. Now I’ve written my blog and caught up on the laundry, nothing is stopping me from diving back into my work in progress, so … you never know, I may get a few more words down, especially as I have an extra day off on Monday.

Anyway, Happy Easter. I hope you have a wonderful weekend, and I’ll chat more next time.

Julia Blake

Hello everyone. Welcome to Sunday and welcome to March. Can you believe that we’re 20% of the way through the year already? How? I mean, really, just how? Anyway, apologies once again for there not being a proper blog last week. I fully intended to write one. I promise I did not commence the week thinking sod it, I won’t bother. But then I worked a 40-hour week. On my one day off mid-week, I had so much housework, gardening, shopping, laundry, and just general running about like a headless chicken to prepare for working another two 10-hour days, that there was not a spare minute to even sit down, let alone spend a few hours writing my blog.

Never mind, I thought, I’ll write it on Saturday. Sure, I’m launching two books at the weekend, but I’m sure there’ll be time to squeeze in writing an itty-bitty blog. Wrong. There was barely time to squeeze in an itty-bitty toilet break! I always forget how much time is taken up on launch day posting and sharing the posts other people very kindly make about my book, replying to every comment, and liking all the posts and comments. By the time I reached ten o’clock Saturday evening, I had accepted that the blog would not be written in time. Indeed, I had even acknowledged that I would not be getting up early on Sunday to write it either. So, I hastily dashed out an apology for there not being a blog blog and fell into bed exhausted at midnight.

But that was then and this is now and there is a blog. Quite an important blog because after sitting on it since the 19^th of January, I am finally confessing to my crime. Yes, I am a convicted criminal. Mum and Dad, I know you’re reading this and learning about this for the first time but before you leap to the phone, carry on reading and you will see that it was NOT MY FAULT.

Regular followers will know that Franki and Rys came for the first two weeks of January to celebrate Christmas with me and the family, and it was a lovely (if expensive) visit. I drove them back to their university on the 17^th of January. I was not looking forward to the drive. To be honest, I was dreading it. The route is not a nice one and I get quite anxious negotiating those horrible roads around London. They’re so busy and everyone drives so fast. Way faster than the speed limit. Without my oh-so-helpful Google Maps Lady, I wouldn’t even attempt it.

Anyway, before I could settle down to the rest of 2025, I had two stressful events to overcome. Driving the girls back to university and completing a tax return for the first time.

The 17^th dawned. We load up the car. Have a last trawl around the house to check for forgotten items, because there always is a charger wire somewhere or a lone sock under the bed. And then we set off. The roads were busy, but not horrendously so. It was a grey and overcast day, but not that bad. We chatted and played car games to pass the time. We were on the M25 which has a speed limit of 70mph. Not that you’d think it. Usually, the M25 has three speeds – dead slow, stop, or let’s see how fast the other cars can overtake me – but today it was a little sluggish and I didn’t get much above 60ish mph. I was still being left in the dust by other drivers though. Franki had her phone in her lap checking our route and she suddenly exclaimed –

Franki: Mum, I think it’s 50mph along here.

Me: What? Really? I haven’t seen any signs anywhere.

Franki: Maybe you should slow down while I check again on the phone.

I tried to slow down and immediately pissed off the driver behind me who attempted to climb into the back of my car, then swerved to dangerously overtake me and roared off into the distance. Then we saw a tiny temporary 50mph sign flash by. I mean, seriously, it was tiny and filthy and easily missed. Blink and you wouldn’t have seen it. I was doing 50 by now, a bit anxious and very stressed because I was crawling along and everyone else was burning me up.

Then, literally a few moments further on, another speed sign was there. Bigger this time, it loudly proclaimed the speed was now 70mph. I sped up with relief and the rest of the journey progressed uneventfully. I dropped them off, had a quick comfort break, then turned around and drove all the way home.

The next day I completed my tax return. I didn’t understand half of the questions so figured the answer was no. But it was done, and I had my email confirming it had been done in plenty of time so I wouldn’t be fined.

Not going to lie, getting those two major stresses out of the way was a huge relief and I very much enjoyed a big dinner and a glass, or two, of wine that evening.

Saturday morning, I slept in a little. I was beyond exhausted after two weeks of having the girls’ home, the long drive, and the tax return. When I got up, I had a cup of tea and scooped up the post off the mat. A brown envelope. Hmm. I don’t like brown envelopes. They’re usually bad news. I opened it.

WTF?!

NOTICE OF INTENTION TO PROSECUTE!!!

Wait! What?

Was this for me? Had I accidentally opened the lodger’s post? Nope, I checked, it was for me. From Billericay police force. Billericay?! What?

I’d been caught by a speed camera on the M25 between junction 26 and 27 doing 61mph in a 50mph zone. No! I can’t have been. I mean, the M25 is 70mph all the way round. Everyone knows that. Even the BMW drivers burning past me at 80+ know that.

I read the whole letter. I’d been caught speeding in a temporary 50mph zone. Then I remembered what had happened. The lack of visible temporary speed signs, the fact there was no discernible reason WHY it was 50. No roadworks, no lane closures, no accidents or bad weather to make a speed reduction logical. Nothing. Just a teeny tiny sign I had missed. And not just me, judging by how fast everyone was overtaking me in that area they must have caught hundreds of drivers breaking the law that day.

Oops.

I read the letter several times. It was terrifying. I’ve never received such a thing before, and I was honestly properly scared. It was so threatening. It talked about court and a thousand pound fine and points on my licence.

There was a form attached to it. A WERE YOU THE DRIVER form? Yes, I whimpered and completed the form. I was allowed to send evidence with the form, so I typed a contrite letter admitting to an ignorant but honest mistake and asked them to consider my 40 years of blemish-free driving.

And then I waited.

Waited to hear how many gazillion pounds I was going to be fined. If I would have to attend court in Billericay (I don’t want to go to Billericay! I think even people who live in Billericay don’t want to go to Billericay). How many points they were going to slap on my licence?

I didn’t mention it to many people. I waited to see what the outcome was before I worried anyone significant. Weeks dragged by. I heard nothing. A sudden thought occurred that I hadn’t even been in Essex as my route to Reading takes me nowhere near that county. Usually, I go A14 and then up the A505, not getting onto the M25 until the last minute and way beyond junctions 26 and 27. But, examining my driving history I found that on that day, Google Maps Lady must have seen there was congestion or an accident or something up ahead, so instead took me up the A14, then the M11, then got me onto the M25 much sooner than usual so yes, on this one occasion, I was where they said I was.

I mentioned it to one of our patients — a very sweet elderly lady in her eighties who said I seemed a bit down and not my usual cheerful self — and she smiled sympathetically.

Don’t worry about it. I’ve had three. As it’s your first offence and you weren’t driving dangerously, I expect they’ll offer you a speed awareness course instead.

I blinked in surprise, a little taken aback that this sweet old dear was three times a convicted criminal.

The last course I did three years ago was in Thetford. It was very interesting, but oh dear, silly me, I got caught speeding again on the way home from doing the course.

And then she trilled an airy laugh.

Okayyyy. Someone didn’t pay attention in class.

Anyway, I waited until almost the end of February, all the time quietly panicking that my filled-in form confessing I was the driver had got lost in the post, or that they were thinking about whether to throw the book at me or not. Finally, I had a brief and nasty letter saying all my pleas for mercy had been in vain. They WERE going to prosecute me and that I could have my say in court if I liked.

I tried to process exactly what this meant, I luckily didn’t have too long to fret that prison uniform would probably be unflattering, because in the next day’s post, I received a form stating I had a choice.

Pay a £100 fine and receive three points on my licence.

OR

Pay £95 and attend a three-hour speed awareness course and not get points on my licence.

Hmm, tough choice, I think I’ll do the course. I had already decided that if there was a course in my town and it wasn’t on a Monday or Tuesday because those are my workdays, I’d rather attend the course in person than do it online. I mean, after all, it’s a day out. With like-minded people. All of us criminals together. And if I’d paid £95 for it, then I wanted a free cup of tea and a biscuit at the very least.

 I went to the website the letter directed me to. I put in my reference number — half wondering if I should take a head and shoulders shot of me holding up a card with it printed on — and clicked on real courses.

Click on the drop-down menu to select the most convenient day for you to attend the course, it stated. I clicked on the down arrow. One date dropped down. Monday the 31^st of March. A Monday. That’s a workday. Of course, it is. I mean, really, what was I expecting? That it would actually offer me a choice of any of the other five days in the week I don’t work.

Sigh.

Go back to the main menu, and change my choice to online. Click on the menu. This time there was a bit more choice. Mostly Mondays and Tuesdays though and one lone Saturday. The 29^th of March. I chose that. The course is three hours running from 9am to 12 noon. I only hope my webcam equipment is up to the task. I can just imagine spending most of the course desperately trying to get the link to work and plaintively bleating that I can’t hear them.

I will keep you posted.

Other than that, it’s been nothing but work. I like my job, but I wouldn’t want to do it full time and I dread the lady I job-share with deciding she wants to retire. It’s one thing occasionally covering her days, but I would not want to work 40-hour weeks every single week. Yes, I would be better off financially, but everything else in my life would suffer, especially my writing. I’m not sure I could continue to write working such long hours. I know I would still have three days off — Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday — but I find when I do overtime that Wednesday is taken up with shopping, laundry, running errands, and cooking. Saturday is pretty much the same and there is housework and gardening as well. I need time to see friends and family and do house admin, I mean, let’s face it, just renewing your car insurance can take up several hours. No, at my time of life, I do not have the physical, mental, and emotional energy to work a full-time job.

Let’s just hope she has no plans to retire soon. I mean, she can take a holiday whenever she wants. That was made very clear to me in the job interview that part of my duties include covering her absences and I’m fine with that. These occasional weeks of overtime give a much-needed boost to my income. But I would not want to do it all the time.

It’s been an expensive start to the year for me. Having the girls here for the first fortnight and bearing all the costs of Christmas myself. Having to clear an interest-free store agreement for the new fridge/freezer and tumble dryer before it hit the interest-bearing period. Buying my parking permit for another year. A trip to the dentist and hygienist which cost a day’s pay. And having to pay the £95 speeding fine. Is it any wonder when I booked my car in for its MOT this Wednesday just gone, that I was apprehensive about how much it was going to cost?

It’s an old Toyota Yaris and yes, Toyota is a reliable make, and the Yaris is a sturdy model, but things go wrong with old cars. Let’s face it, things go wrong with new cars as well. I finished work at 6pm on Tuesday, walked home, jumped straight in the car and drove it to the other side of town where my garage is located. I put the keys through the drop box slot and walked home, buying milk on the way to make pancakes for dinner. It was Shrove Tuesday, and I wanted pancakes. I always drop off the car the evening before. I’d much rather do it then than be up at the crack of dawn on my one day off and take it then.

On Wednesday, I rushed about doing my chores waiting for them to call and let me know how much it was going to cost to get it through its MOT. My garage knows if it’s too much then I might have to make the tough choice of getting rid of the car rather than pay a fortune on it. I missed their call and spotted that they’d left a voicemail at eleven. I played it. My heart in my mouth. My car was all ready to be collected. Wait. Already? Gosh, that was quick. No mention of the cost.

I was still waiting for the doctor’s surgery to let me know my thyroid medication was ready to collect — the surgery is on the way to my garage, so it made sense to collect the meds on my way to collect the car — so I went into the garden and did some light work out there as it was such a gorgeous day.

This past week we’ve had False Spring. This tends to happen every year here in the UK. We have a week or so in March when the temperatures rise, the spring flowers burst into life, the sun shines, and everyone takes their clothes off. DO NOT TRUST IT. This is not really Spring. Come next week we will be plunged into Second Winter when the temperatures will plummet to below freezing again, gale-force winds will rip the spring flowers to shreds, and the knitwear will be dragged back out of the wardrobe.

I waited until almost four then, knowing that the garage shut sharply at five, I walked to the surgery anyway just to see if my meds were ready. I ordered them through the repeat prescription line early Sunday. They normally text me on Tuesday to say they’re ready so I can collect them on my day off Wednesday. I was down to my last tablet, and as I was working Thursday and Friday, not leaving work until the pharmacy was shut, I needed to get my prescription.

I got to the surgery. I asked. Yes, my medication was in, they just needed to box it up and text me. Could I wait? It might take about twenty minutes or so to do. I told them I’d be back after I’d collected my car. I then hurried to the garage, heart in mouth, wondering how much it was going to cost.

You can imagine how happy and relieved I was when they said it had passed the first time with no need to do anything to it. That left me with the lowest bill I could possibly have of £54 to pay for the actual MOT, labour checking the car over, and VAT. It was the best possible outcome. I paid, thanked them, and then drove back to the surgery where my medication was ready.

Wednesday was quite a good day. I got all my chores done including some like pruning the wisteria that I hadn’t planned on. I even found time to have a bath in the evening. Now, I never have baths. I mean, who has the time? I also fret about the cost of all that water and the gas to heat it. My new bathroom was fitted two years ago, and I don’t think I’ve even had a bath in it. Nope, I’m a shower girl. But I fancied pampering myself and wanted to do my feet and shave my legs and let’s face it, it’s so much easier to do these things in the bath. The water was way too hot, like molten lava, so I added cold and then it was too cold, and it took me ages to get it right. As I never have baths, I didn’t have any bubble bath or anything to put in it. I found a small pot of bath salts that had been kicking around the cupboard for ages and put them in. It felt like I was lying on grit.

I used to be so good at having baths. I’d have soft music playing, candles flickering, a glass of wine on the go, and a good book which I’d try not to drop in the water. The full works. I’d be in there for hours, topping up the hot water and emerging like a prune.

I think I’ve lost the knack of having baths. I don’t know, maybe having a kid and never having the time to have a bath breaks the habit. I did try. I had a book, I lit some candles, and I had the radio on, but I was so BORED. And my back hurt. I kept thinking of all the other things I could be doing, so in the end, I did what I needed to do and got out. And then I had to clean the bath.

Probably won’t be in a rush to have another one any time soon.

And now it’s Saturday lunchtime. I have a day and a half before it’s back to work. Once this blog is finished and scheduled, I will pop to Waitrose because I need grapes and yoghurt, and yes, I know I could probably buy them elsewhere slightly cheaper, but I will get a free cup of very nice coffee from Waitrose. I really fancy a decent cup of coffee but don’t want to pay for it. So, I will take my thermal cup and pay 50p more for my grapes and yoghurt and get my free coffee.

And that’s about it for now. Enjoy your Sunday, whatever you’re up to, and I look forward to chatting with you next time.

Julia Blake