There is a famous scene at the end of the film The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy must click her heels together three times and say, “There’s no place like home.” When I was a child, this made no sense to me at all. Why would Dorothy want to leave Oz, that magical, colourful land of splendour, where all her friends are, to go back to that dingy, black and white house in the middle of the Kansas dustbowl to live with her strict aunt and uncle? As an adult, I totally get it because there is no place like home.

Someone once sneeringly accused me of being very houseproud. As an intended insult, this confused me. Yes, I am very proud of my home. Aren’t you? Because if you’re not, then you’re living in the wrong house or have the wrong people living with you. I have lived in my current home for thirty-five years since 1991. That’s a long time to live somewhere you don’t like. Luckily, I love my home. I always have. Ever since a friend who was an estate agent insisted I view it because, in his words, “It has a good vibe, and I think you’ll like it”. From the moment I stepped through the front door, it was like the house said, “Oh, it’s you, welcome home.” It wrapped its arms about me, and it has never let go. I knew I had to have the house, despite the lack of central heating or a kitchen, despite all the windows needing replacing, the electrics needing attention, and the whole place needing redecorating from top to bottom; I knew this was my home.

When I got married for the first time and moved out of my parents’ house, my first home was a small flat in town. It was laughingly referred to as two-bedroomed. In reality, it had one small bedroom we just about got a 4-foot bed into, plus a tiny box room that a small single fitted into. There was a minuscule entrance hall with a boiler cupboard, an equally small bathroom, then a long lounge with a kitchenette tucked around the corner. It also had a balcony of sorts outside the front door.

At the time of purchase in June 1988, the housing market was a seller’s paradise. House prices were rising by the hour. A property would go on the market at breakfast and be sold by dinner time. It was six weeks before our wedding, and we still had nowhere to live. In desperation, I visited every single estate agent in town. I schmoozed them, made them like me, and gave them my details. I extracted a promise that should anything — and I meant, ANYTHING — come on the market in town and within my budget, they would call me and give me first refusal. It worked. Three days later, an estate agent called. There was a flat for sale. Was I interested? Was I? Well, I made an offer sight unseen. My fiancé was away, so he’d told me to make an offer on anything I thought would do. It was two days before I was able to go and view the flat. And yes, it was small, but it was charming and would do as a starter home. The design was nice because it wasn’t in a soulless block but in a nice private close, and all the front doors opened onto private balconies with wooden steps leading down to the car park.

The sale proceeded quickly. We were first-time buyers with a mortgage already in place. The sellers were buying an empty house. They were pregnant and wanted to move asap so we liaised with each other, kept nagging the solicitors to work quicker, and acted as a team to push the sale through as fast as possible. We got the keys ten days before the wedding, and I spent a week cleaning, decorating, and moving in our bits and bobs of furniture and our possessions before we moved in on the day of our wedding in mid-July 1988.

We lived there until 1991. By then, the bottom had dropped out of the housing market, and I was friendly with a young estate agent who was the brother of a friend. His advice was to move and move fast. When I protested that the value of our flat had dropped from the £48,000 we had paid for it to a measly £38,000, his reply was: “I hope you like this shoebox then, because if you wait until its value goes back up, you’ll be living here for decades.”

I saw his point and started viewing houses. Then I viewed this house, and the rest, as they say, is history. The house was valued at £40,000. Low even by 1991 standards, but it needed a lot of work doing to it, and at the time, this area of town was considered rough. We had a bikers pub opposite, a gun shop, and many of the premises were boarded up. People told me I was mad, but I didn’t care. I loved this house.

So, we took out a £10,000 loan to be paid off over the next five years, moved our existing mortgage to the new property, and moved in. By this time, my husband was working in Saudi Arabia and would be gone for months at a time, so I took on the job of renovating the house. I went through that first winter with no central heating. I kept warm by wearing lots of layers, open fires, and a horrible gas heater thing that made me feel sick and lightheaded if I had it running for too long.

Fast forward thirty-five years, and that first husband is long gone, as is the second. I have raised a child singlehandedly in this house and seen her safely through university and settled in her own home. There have been ups and downs in my life. Various illnesses, some more serious than others. When my second marriage broke down, I started taking in lodgers to pay the bills because I would have done anything to keep my home. And here I am, thirty-five years later, sitting in a home that’s now worth almost half a million pounds.

There have been a lot of changes to the house and garden. Central heating was installed in 1992. I replaced all the windows with wooden, sliding sash windows in keeping with the age of the property and to conform to the rulings on my street. Although my property itself isn’t listed, the road I live on is, so the exterior of the house, or at least the front aspect, must follow certain rules. The doors and windows must be wooden, not plastic; I can’t slap an ugly extension on. I must be mindful of the age of the property, and solar panels can only be fitted to the back of the property.

The cellar was converted into a usable room over the long, hot, sweaty summer of 1996 by my dad and my uncle, with my brother doing the electrics. And lucky it was because when my second marriage broke down in 2004, it was the basement room that I decided to let out to earn an income.

The garden is unrecognisable from the dense jungle I was confronted with when I first viewed the house in the summer of 1991. Now it’s a beautiful courtyard garden with a mature tree, a pergola, and raised beds.

The location has also changed since 1991, when it was a sad and forgotten part of town. Gentrification happened. The pub changed hands and became respectable, the gun shop closed, new businesses moved into the empty premises, the desirability of period properties was rediscovered, and the old cattle market at the top of my road was torn down to be replaced with a smart new shopping centre and car park. Being within the medieval grid of the town, we saw the value of our properties steadily increase. It’s a short, no-through street, and people rarely move out once they’ve moved in. Our houses are now highly desirable, and I’m always having estate agents’ leaflets shoved through the letterbox, begging me to consider selling.

But I never will.

Well, of course, I can’t say never, because who knows how life will turn. But so long as it is humanly possible, I will stay in this house because it’s more than just a house. It’s a home.

Home has been very much on my mind lately. At the beginning of May, I had 12 days in a row off work. Did I go away? Did I relax? Did I fill my days with lie-ins and lazy leisure pursuits? What do you think? No, I embarked on a deep, and I mean DEEP, cleaning of the house. It took three days just to do the kitchen. Every cupboard was cleared, cleaned, and sorted. Every drawer was gone through. Under each bed was cleared. Piles of stuff to go either to the dump or charity were accumulated. The side of my house looked like Steptoe’s yard with all the rubbish waiting to go.

I replaced faulty lightbulbs, replaced the broken blind in my bedroom, and washed all the curtains and voiles. I cleared out the shed and repainted it. All the old pots half full of paint and stain were examined. Were they still good? Would I be using them? I Googled how to dispose of old paint and, following its advice, bought a small bag of sand to mix into the dregs. I cleaned all the garden fences and freshened them up with a coat of paint. I cleaned and lightly sanded all the exterior windowsills, then applied two coats of stain.

Basically, I stripped the house back to its bones, cleaned it, and put it back together again, and boy, did it feel good. I also bought a new sofa.

Now, my sofas came with me when I moved into the house in 1991. Two very heavy sofa beds, we bought them in 1989 for the whopping sum of £900. In 1989, that was an eye-wateringly huge amount of money. If you think I could do a week’s shopping for two for £10, it will give some perspective as to how much money that was. They were both proper sofa beds with a heavy iron frame that pulled out into a double bed with a decent mattress on, and I wanted them.

Then we moved and hit the first snag when they wouldn’t come through the front door. No matter how much those poor bloody removal men sweated and shoved and grunted, those sofas were not coming in. In the end, ever resourceful, they took the bottom half of the sash window out in the lounge, took the gate off its hinges and lay it from the sturdy front iron fence to the windowsill and managed to slide the sofas in that way. Since then, all the windows have been replaced, so I knew they weren’t going back out the way they came in. It’s always been in my mind that the only way those sofas were leaving this house was in pieces.

But I’ll tell you something, those sofas were worth every penny. They lasted for thirty-seven years before one of them, the one in the lounge, so the one most used, simply fell apart. I’d always said that I wouldn’t buy new sofas until the cat died. She’s a bit messy, what with shedding fluff at an alarming rate, plucking at anything fabric she happens to be lying on, and puking up hairballs with no attempt to get off. When the sofa began to give me a backache and the cushions shrank away from the arms until there was a large gap down the side that I kept falling into, I knew I couldn’t wait until my moggy’s demise; I had to buy a new sofa now.

I found one I liked on Argos. £390, free delivery, and 12-month interest-free credit. It was ironic that it cost less than the old sofa did all those years ago. It wasn’t a sofa bed, though. With two empty guest rooms, I no longer need the extra beds. I’m also guessing that it won’t last almost forty years as the old sofa did, but that’s fine, I don’t suppose I’ll last another forty years either.

My biggest concern was how I would get the old sofa out. And would the new sofa fit through the door? I’d carefully measured and compared the new sofa’s dimensions. It was a shade longer than the old sofa, but length wasn’t the issue; it was the depth that mattered. The old sofa was girthy, and this had caused the problems trying to get it through the very narrow porch and front door. I really didn’t want to try to remove a heavy, double-glazed, sliding sash window. I was fearful I’d never get it back in.

I spoke to a friend who has a very handy husband. He agreed to help and arrived on the day my sofa was due to be delivered, armed with a chainsaw, an angle grinder and more tools than Bob the Builder. The new sofa was due between 2 and 4pm. Mr A was coming at noon. I booked a slot at the recycling yard for 10am. I planned to get the mattress off the sofa bed and get that in the back of my car, along with the cushions, and all the crap I’d cleared from my house and shed.

The day dawned. I was up early and managed to cram everything into the back of my Yaris. My poor car is such a workhorse. I zoomed to the yard and started disposing of everything. Struggling to pull the mattress out of the car, I looked around and spotted a guy in a hi-vis jacket.

“Hey, love,” I called. “Give me a hand with this, please.”

He gave a sort of surprised shrug, but ambled over and helped me yank the mattress from the car and heave it into the appropriate dumpster.

“Thanks,” I said. “Now, I need to ask your advice about some old tins of paint I’ve got.”

“Oh, I don’t work here,” he cheerfully informed me. “I just called in to dump some stuff on my way to work.”

I looked at his hi-vis more closely. It bore the logo of a local scaffolding company.

“Oops,” I laughed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I realised I’d worn the wrong top, but I was happy to help.”

I went to find a genuine recycling yard employee. I told him about the paint. He came and looked at it.

“Those two that are dried solid we can take,” he said, poking at them expertly. “The ones that are still liquid we can’t, I’m afraid. But well done for having a go with the paint.”

I didn’t know whether to preen or feel patronised.

Everything unloaded, I dashed home — taking the unacceptable tins of old paint with me — and found when I got back that I’d missed a call from Argos. The delivery drivers were running early. VERY early. Would it be okay if they delivered the sofa at 11.30?

Crap. I messaged Mr A.

Crap, came the reply. I’m on my way.

I looked at the sofa. Perhaps I can remove the slats, I thought, that would speed things along. Nope. They don’t make furniture like they used to. They were bolted in there solid. I’m used to modern slats, all flimsy pressed wood that snap the second you look at them. These slats were solid beechwood.

Mr A turned up. He looked at the slats. Lifted one large foot and stomped them all out of the frame. I took them outside to be broken down at some point for kindling. Mr A tried to angle grind the frame apart, but quickly realised he was probably going to set fire to my carpet. Instead, he drilled out the bolts holding the bed frame to the sofa arms, and the whole mechanism lifted out. Folded up, we just about managed to get it into the back of my car. Then he took a large mallet to the sofa, and the poor thing didn’t stand a chance.

Frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man have so much fun with a mallet. It looked very therapeutic. It should be available on the NHS. Stressed? Come and smash hell out of a sofa with a mallet. In pieces, it all just about fitted into the back of my car. I then cleaned up the carpet, vacuumed and made us a coffee.

Whilst we waited for Argos to turn up, Mr A looked at where the cable from the microwave snaked up the front of my cupboard to be plugged in at the back.

“What’s going on here?”

“Oh, when my built-in microwave died, I couldn’t find another the right size, so I had to put a standalone one in the slot. The socket is in the cupboard above, and I’ve been waiting for my brother to come with his round saw thingie to cut a hole in the base of the cupboard so the plug can go through.”

Whilst I made coffee, Mr A took everything out of the cupboard, removed the box socket, moved it over so the plug could fit through the hole, replaced the socket and plugged the microwave in.

“Why have you got a lamp in the kitchen?” he asked.

“It’s the under-cupboard lights. They were fitted with the kitchen in 2003, but since then it’s got harder to find the right size bulbs with a low enough voltage that they don’t all blow the second I turn them on.”

By the time I’d poured the coffee, he’d found the correct bulbs in the low voltage online and had sent me the link.

As I said, he’s a handy guy to have around.

We drank our coffee, and then Argos arrived. A few hairy moments were had trying to wiggle the new sofa through the porch and the front door and then pivot it into the lounge. PIVOT. Between the three of them, they managed it.

The sofa fitted nicely in the space. Mr A helped me take all the packaging off and put the feet on. I shoved the packaging in the back of the car with the old sofa and made another appointment at the recycling yard for 4pm to get rid of it all.

The second sofa, the one that stands in the dining room, is still okay, but I do want to replace it this year with a smaller, more compact sofa on legs. I think Mr A is quite looking forward to another cathartic session of “Hulk, smash!”

The new sofa is gorgeous. But it does make the armchair next to it look tatty. So, I’ve seen this armchair on Amazon …

And so, it goes on.

Summer seems to have arrived early in the UK, with temperatures peaking at 35 degrees centigrade, which is a downright rude temperature for May. I’ve been working in my garden a lot, and it makes me happy that plants are beginning to bloom, especially the incredible Rambling Rector rose growing over the pergola. A week ago, there were only tiny buds, but after a few days of sunshine, it exploded into a mass of the prettiest little white roses with pale yellow hearts. I’m told they smell divine, but my Covid nose can’t really smell them. I will just have to enjoy looking at them.

I went to the garden centre yesterday and spent an obscene amount of money on plants. In my defence, I was left unsupervised, and that’s the plan for this afternoon. Some are for the pots and the hanging basket I put on my front steps, and some are for the beds. I’m looking forward to it. Arranging pots is an art form, and it will be a very enjoyable way to spend the rest of Saturday.

With the arrival of June comes the season of live events, and below is a list of fairs I am doing in June and July. If you’re in the area, why not come along?

6^th June. I am at the Strawberry Fair in Cambridge. This is an incredible all-day fair that has been running for decades. Come along for a fun family day with stalls, food trucks, and events.

20^th June, 5pm. I shall be on a panel at the Foreword Festival Book Event in Eye, Suffolk. The panel is about Suffolk myth and folklore, and I shall be discussing my book, The Forest ~ a tale of old magic ~ alongside two other local authors. You can prebook your tickets on the Foreword Festival website, and the event is taking place in the Hexagon in Eye.

21^st June, 11am to 4pm, I am at the Suffolk Day Book Fair in the Town Hall in Eye. I will have books to sign and sell and will be offering gift wrapping as normal. This is also part of the Foreword Festival Book Event in Eye. There are loads of activities happening on the 19^th, 20^th, and 21^st. Some are ticketed, but most are free. There are author readings, a children and YA day, a Father’s Day sports writers’ event, a cookery feature, a dropped mic poetry evening, and so much more. Again, check out their website for full details.

11^th July, 10am to 3pm, I will be at the Beach Reads Book Fair in the John Peel Centre in Stowmarket.

25^th July, I shall be at Norwich Pride.

As you can see, quite a busy but fun month. It would be lovely to see you. Come along and say hello. Maybe buy a book, as it’s cheaper to buy direct from me than online, and I sign them and include a bookmark plus free gift-wrapping if it’s a present for the bookworm in your life.

Gosh, this is an absolutely huge blog, and those plants won’t plant themselves. Wherever you are, I hope you are well, happy and enjoying your own home, because honestly, there’s no place like it.

Julia Blake

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