It’s Christmas Eve. Are you done with all your preparations? Well, ready or not, Christmas has done its usual trick of sneaking up on us when we weren’t looking. I swear it was the beginning of December just a blink ago and now there’s only one more sleep till Christmas.

Am I ready? Well, by the time you read this, yes, I will be. There is one last mini trip to Waitrose planned for today. We are walking to see my daughter’s other Grandad later this morning and on the way back we pass right by Waitrose. I need sprouts, a cauliflower, some grapes, and a few other bits and pieces, nothing major. There will be under ten items and they will all fit in a basket so we will be able to sneak through the express till. Oh, and I now have to buy a Christmas pudding. I don’t want to say too much because I know my parents read my blog, but Puddinggate kicked off Friday afternoon when I was at work and could have done without the extra stress and worry. All I will say is that you had one job. One job, Mum! How did you manage to feck it up so spectacularly? Do not expect me to give you any responsibilities next year, given how you managed to fail totally at the one I gave you this time. (Hands thrown in the air emoji inserted here).

This is not going to be a very long blog because I have been so incredibly busy, what with overtime and running around organising Christmas, shopping, cleaning, cooking, baking, wrapping, and all the other things that a woman does this time of year.

Work was intense. I was working every day last week and as I watched my boss spiral into a mad frenzy of dashing out shopping every lunchtime and staggering back with bags of food and presents, and listened to her talk of cooking until gone nine at night — and how her partner had this week off but was sitting home doing eff all — I couldn’t help but think the colleague I job-share with had the right idea. She’s buggered off to Mallorca for two weeks with friends, hence why I was working her shifts.

I am ready though. Franki and Rys arrived home last night after a long but uneventful train journey. Thank heavens the drivers decided not to strike yesterday. The house is festive and warm with lights twinkling on every surface. There are presents under the tree, and the fridge and freezer are so crammed with food and drink that it’s like a game of Jenga if you want to get something out. So, normal for Christmas then.

I am tired though, really really tired. Saturday morning was earmarked to rest and write my blog whilst the others wrapped their presents upstairs. I had planned to sleep as long as I could, but my neighbours had other ideas and had a conversation outside in the street under my bedroom window at 7.30am. Did you have to bellow at the tops of your voices? Really? At silly o’clock on the last Saturday before Christmas?

And then my bladder got involved, so eventually I got up at 8. Still, I guess it wasn’t 6.30 my usual time to get up and at least I could relax and have a leisurely cup of tea instead of charging off to work.

On Wednesday I did THE SHOP at Tesco. I was dreading it, and it was as awful as I thought it would be. Two hours of my life later that I will never get back and £173 poorer — How? How?! — I staggered home and tried to find homes for all the food and drink. Wheeling my big trolley and trying to persuade the janky front wheel to turn left, I looked at all the hatchet-faced women storming up and down the aisles — sometimes alone, or sometimes being trailed by miserable and confused men pushing overflowing trolleys — as the tannoy belted out jaunty Christmas tunes that reminded us how it was the most wonderful time of the year. Hmm, is it? Is it really?

I tried to stay upbeat as I worked my way through my list and tried to avoid my wayward trolley from mowing people down, and some of the things I overheard were very funny.

Quite frankly, you can give your sister-in-law a pile of horse shit for Christmas, and I won’t care!

Yes, there is a BIG difference between cranberry and Cumberland sauce, but I have neither the time nor the patience to give you a cookery lesson now, so just get the fecking one I told you to get!

Don’t start! We’ve been in here ten minutes and already you’re starting!

These were all things I overheard frazzled-looking women say to their male partners. Merry Christmas and goodwill to all men, not.

As my offspring and plus one were arriving Friday evening I had considered that the cut-off point. That, barring those few last-minute things that could not be bought any earlier — you were in Tesco on Friday morning, Mum, actually IN a shop that stocks dozens of different types of pudding that can all be microwaved, so why didn’t you pick one up then?! Nope, not going there. Deep breaths. Not going there. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Last weekend I spent ten hours wrapping presents, so am very glad I didn’t leave that until this weekend but instead earmarked a day to do it. It’s astonishing how long it takes, but I do take time with my gifts. I was using a fully recyclable paper that had the consistency of parcel paper but had a bronze gold sheen to it and was lovely to use. I ran out of ribbon early on but as there was no way in hell I was braving town on the last Saturday before the festive weekend, I rummaged in the drawer and found a ball of dark green garden string so used that. I made all my tags using last year’s cards, pinking shears, and a hole punch, and do you know, the presents look great. Very artisan and rustic and just simply pretty.

My favourite part of Christmas Day is watching people open presents. Especially if they are gifts that were not on their list but that I think will surprise and thrill them. I am quietly confident that I’ve hit the ball out of the park this year with my presents for Franki and Rys and I am buzzing with happy anticipation inside. Course, they may hate them and ask if I’ve kept the receipts, which will probably make me cry.

Time is ticking. I can hear the sounds of their lunch being assembled in the kitchen and know there is less than an hour before we need to leave, so I need to keep this chat brief. This year, for the first time in six years, I have time off over the Christmas period. I am beyond happy that I do not have to be at work by nine on Boxing Day morning. Instead, I have two glorious weeks off and have the whole period of Franki’s visit home with them plus five days alone after they have left. Quite frankly, I need this time off. I am exhausted from a year of change, work, and worry — and precious little writing.

There will be a longer blog next weekend when I will round up the events of 2023 and what this year has meant for me. In the meantime, I would like to wish everyone who celebrates Christmas a happy and peaceful festive season and for everyone else, stay safe and take care of yourself.

Merry Christmas with love from Julia

I’m sorry, there’s nothing for it. At some point during this blog, I will be using the C-word. We’re almost halfway through December, the decorations are up, my bank account has been drained, and cheesy music is playing in every shop. Yep. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. But more on the festive season later.

It’s been a strange two weeks, full of ups and downs and little wins. When we last spoke it was the eve of the Stonham Barns Christmas Fair and my car had thankfully been repaired in time. So, how did it go? Very very well is the answer. I packed up my car and set off early on Saturday morning. It was bitterly cold but bright sunshine was beaming down from clear blue skies. I was well layered up and our pitch was indoors, so I knew we were weatherproof. After a brief and uneventful journey, I arrived at the showground and parked in trader’s car park B. Opening my door, I found a pile of animal poop on the ground so gingerly stepped out around it and sank ankle-deep in wet cold bogland. It had rained so much that the ground was waterlogged. Squelching in ruined sneakers, I unloaded the car and looked at how far it had sunk into the ground. Deciding that start-of-the-day me needed to get a move on, I left it as a problem for end-of-the-day me to solve and slopped my stuff into the barn.

Our pitch was right by the double glass doors and my fellow author was already busy setting up her half of the table. I have done so many shows and fairs now that setting up doesn’t take me long. Because it was Christmas, we draped coloured lights and artificial holly sprigs over the stall to make it look nicely festive and waited to see how the day would progress.

At first it was slow going. The showground is large and as the barn was right at the very end and quite a way from the car park, it took a while for people to reach us. A lot of people grunted that they didn’t read to our bright enquiries and it was sad to hear how many are happy going through their lives never picking up a book at all. Still, by mid-morning business was reasonably brisk. Some people were lovely and chatted to us about books and what things they had read and enjoyed. Others were unnecessarily rude. One lady — and I use that term loosely — left us open-mouthed at her unpleasantness. Upon being asked if she was a reader, she replied “Yes, but not of those books” gesturing to our book babies arranged so beautifully upon the stall, and then stomped off. The guy collecting for charity opposite us pulled a face at her retreating back and flashed us a sympathetic grin.

It was a long, busy day, which thankfully ended at 4pm. As we were back the next day all we had to do was cover up our stall, gingerly reverse our cars out of the quagmire, and drive home. I was out for dinner that evening, so I quickly changed and freshened up my hair and make-up and my friend kindly popped around to collect me to save me a long walk there.

The next day it didn’t feel like quite such a good day. The sun which had blazed through the open glass doors on Saturday and kept us reasonably warm was gone and a chill, bitter blast of icy wind was freezing us to the spot. People were grumpy and even ruder than the day before. I mean, it was supposed to be a Christmas Fair — goodwill to man and all that malarky — so why are people always so miserable when Christmas shopping?

Still, things did pick up as the day wore on and we sold books. I had sold out of The Forest the day before so had to rearrange my stall to cover the space. I had almost sold out of Black Ice, Erinsmore and Mage Quest so decided to take the few remaining copies I had off the table and try to push my contemporary novels. For some reason, my fantasy books always sell well at live events, but I struggle to shift the Perennials Trilogy and the Blackwood Family Saga. Is it because people are reluctant to risk a series and prefer standalone books? Or is it just that most readers like fantasy? Or simply that the covers of my fantasy books stand out more? Whatever it is, once I have sold what stock I have remaining of my contemporary novels I will not be buying any more to sell at live events. If it is my fantasy books that people want, then that is what I will give them.

The new hardback versions of Eclairs for Tea did sell well though and I sold every copy I had except one. Most of them were bought by people as gifts for friends and family, and I was kept busy signing and gift-wrapping them. The hardback edition proved a lot more popular than the paperback so it will be interesting to see at the next Christmas event where I won’t have any of the hardback edition to compare it to, whether the paperback will come into its own. If you wish to buy a copy of the beautiful hardback as a Christmas present there is still time. Click on the link for Eclairs for Tea and other stories on the books page of this site and look for the book. Ignore the fact it’s still showing the old cover — I need the IT Department to show me how to change it — the link will still take you to the new listing.

It is strange though, Sunday felt like the worst day. People were less responsive and more bad-tempered, and in my mind, I imagined this would be reflected in my sales figures. However, when I looked I had sold almost the same amount on Sunday as I had on Saturday. It is a nice feeling though, to imagine people unwrapping my books on Christmas Day and hopefully being happy with them. Maybe they will read and love them. Maybe they will want to read more books by me and will check out my website.

One very nice thing occurred when a lady who had bought The Forest from me at the August Comic-Con, and who had found me at NorCon and bought Black Ice, came to the Fair specifically to see if I was there and to buy another signed book — this time The Book of Eve. Thank you, you have no idea how much this meant to me. See you at the next event hopefully.

Speaking of which, the next live event I’m doing — and the last one before Christmas — is the Festive Foreword book sale taking place tomorrow in Bury St Edmunds. I would say come along and say hello but, by the time you read this it will be Sunday, so you will either have come along or not.

I’ve had a few mishaps since we last spoke, all caused by wobbly ankles. I’ve always had dodgy joints and have lost count of the number of times my ankle has turned underneath me causing me to stumble or even fall. Heels are an absolute no-no and even in flats I still feel distinctly unsteady on my pins at times. Usually, I manage to walk a straight line, but sometimes my ankles cause me problems.

A few weeks ago, Mum messaged to say she and “the girls” were coming into town on the bus to do some shopping and have lunch. Bear in mind not one of “the girls” is under 75. Could they come and wait at mine in the warm at about 3.30ish for Dad to come and collect them? Now, on that day I was meeting a couple of friends for an early dinner at a local pub. One of my friends lives on the road leading to the village where Mum and her cronies live on the outskirts of town. I was going to collect her at 4.30 to save her the walk.

Is Dad getting the car out especially? I asked.

Yes, came the reply.

Look, I have to get the car out anyway, so why don’t I run you all home and then collect my friend on the way back in?

So long as you have time.

Yes, it will be fine.

The day arrived. I ran around in the morning doing all the things I had to do. The girls weren’t arriving until 3:30ish so I figured I had plenty of time. They arrived a little early. An hour and a half early to be exact.

We’ve done all our shopping and had lunch, and it’s getting cold and dark, I was told.

Okay, I’ll put the kettle on, I replied.

I boiled the kettle, made four cups of tea, put milk in a jug, and loaded the lot onto a small tray to take into the lounge. It was when I was half turning to close the door behind me that it happened. My ankle turned, the tray lurched, and I watched in slow motion as a whole cup of scalding hot, fresh from the kettle, not even any milk in it to cool it, tea tipped and drenched my side.

It hurt. A lot. The scalding liquid soaked straight through my sweater and the vest top underneath. Shrieking orders to get the kitchen paper and start mopping up, I legged it upstairs ripping off my clothes as I went. More concerned about the carpet than myself, I hastily pulled on more clothes and ran downstairs to aid with the cleaning operation.

Are you all right? They asked in concern.

I’m fine, I said, and at the time I was. No, it wasn’t until later that I realised it did hurt and when I checked, a handprint-shaped mark of raised welts and burn marks greeted me. It looked like I’d been grabbed by the devil. Distinct finger mark shapes where the burning liquid had stuck folds of clothing to my skin which were enough to get me burnt at the stake for being a witch in medieval times.

Three weeks later, the welts have subsided, and the vivid red burn marks have settled into a dull purple stain. Not sure if they will go away completely, or if that’s me branded for life.

First offence of my ankles.

Last week, the large official portrait of Franki garbed in graduation robes arrived in the post. A thing of beauty, I decided it would hang on the family wall in the lounge. I took down another picture and leaned over the side table to hang it up. My ankle decided that was the moment that it was buggering off for lunch and completely went underneath me. I fell. Knocked the side table. Swatted the large red glass lamp standing there and it shattered into a dozen pieces.

I was more than upset. I’ve had that lamp for over fifteen years and it’s half of a pair that stands on either side of the sofa.

Can it be fixed with tape? Franki asked, on being told my sorry tale.

No, it’s smashed beyond all hope, I replied.

So that was strike two against my treacherous ankles. The third time was even worse.

As I’ve already told you, after being at Stonham Christmas Fair the whole day on Saturday, I had a quick turnaround and went to dinner at a friend’s house — the same friend who lives on the outskirts of town. She picked me up but after dinner, I walked back into town with the other guests who lived at various places along my route home.

I don’t know what to say. It was dark, and late, I had ever such a low chunky heel on my sturdy boots, I’d had a glass or two of wine and I was tired. I’d also been on my feet all day. Whatever the reason, my ankle failed spectacularly and I facepalmed the pavement. Laughing off the concerns of the others and insisting I was fine. I limped home gritting my teeth and went to bed. In the morning, I examined my war wounds. A grazed and ripped knee and shin from landing on a gravel bit of the path. A banged and grazed elbow and a large bruise on my forearm. A painful hand where I’d tried to break my fall and a massive dent in my pride.

And so, this is Christmas. How does it manage to sneak up on us every year? The first day of December seemed to flip a switch in people. Town was heaving that day, and every shop was belting out Christmas anthems. Crammed with hatchet-faced people intent on spending all their money, they clogged up the Christmas aisle in Poundland. Caught up in the moment, I went around with a basket and bought chocolates, sweets, and treats for stockings. Two days later I was begging Mum to take them home with her until closer to Christmas. I’d already eaten four of them and knew if left in the house there’d be nothing left for Christmas.

I have a complicated relationship with chocolate. I don’t want it normally. I don’t even like it all that much, and it sometimes gives me an upset stomach. But, if it’s in the house then I hear its siren call and cannot resist. I remember one year I bought a friend a box of gorgeous hand-dipped Belgium chocolates. Ate them. Bought another box. Wrapped them beautifully and attached a gift label. I tucked them away in a cupboard thinking out of sight, out of mind. Two days later I’d found them, unwrapped them, and eaten them. I waited until the day I was going to see her. Went to town especially and bought another box. I cannot be trusted.

Last year I bought the obligatory Terry’s Chocolate Oranges ready to go into stockings. If there isn’t a Terry’s chocolate orange is it even Christmas? I ate them thinking I’d replace them. Nope. Everywhere was sold out. It got closer and closer to Christmas. I began to panic. No Terry’s Chocolate Orange in the stocking would be catastrophic and would mean I had seriously failed in my parental duties. Finally, two days before Franki was due home I heard a rumour from a customer that WH Smith’s might have some left. The next day I legged it to town and was there for when the shop opened. The rumour was true. I replaced the scoffed chocolates, and all was well. I thought it had scared me sober, turns out I was wrong.

So, there is a big bag of chocolates and sweets sitting at Mum’s — including Terry’s chocolate oranges — for me to retrieve closer to Christmas and pray I don’t succumb before Franki gets home on the 22^nd of December.

Am I ready for Christmas? That’s the question women ask each other this time of year. Bound in sisterly angst at the trials we face making Christmas magical for everyone but ourselves we seek solidarity. Do you know, I am convinced if left to men Christmas wouldn’t happen. Or it might be a day off and a pie and pint down the pub — although I sometimes think that might be the better idea.

When did Christmas get so expensive, so complicated, and such bloody hard work for women? Because — and I apologise to the 2% of the male population who actually do more than just stir their stumps to buy their partners a gift — it is incredibly hard work that mostly falls on the woman’s shoulders. Have we made a rod for our own backs? In seeking to create the perfect Christmas with the magic that we remember from our childhood do we stress too much and overcompensate? I think maybe we do. I once comforted a sobbing friend because she couldn’t get paper napkins the exact shade of green and red to match her table centrepiece for the Christmas dinner table.

It doesn’t matter, I said. No one will notice, no one will care.

I will notice, she cried. I will care!

And that’s the crux of it. Women care too much, and men don’t care enough. It’s a shame we can’t meet in the middle and end up with a Christmas that isn’t sheer bloody graft for one member of the family and is enjoyable for everyone. Any men reading this who are shifting uncomfortably thinking that yes, their sole contribution to Christmas is to just about manage to buy something for their partner so long as they are supplied with a detailed list with precise location, size, colour, price, and brand of whatever it is their partner wants  — or better yet, an Amazon wish list — or even better, just give their partner money and let them buy it themselves (totally missing the whole point of presents here guys. Thoughtfulness is key) — and to open the wine on Christmas Day and carve the turkey, then why not help out a little more this year?

Ask — and be forceful about it — for chores to do. Women love to play martyr and refuse any offers of help when inside they are screaming out for it. So, insist, or just take it upon yourself to help. Is the house covered in sparkles and bits from decorating the tree? Then get the vacuum out — without being begged — and use it. Does the dishwasher need unloading? Are there presents and cards to be delivered or collected? Would your partner love you forever if you took the kids out for the day? And most of all, think about what they would love for a gift and buy it for them. You have no idea how stunned and grateful women are when their other half actually bothers to think about them and goes to the effort of buying something special — without their hand being held throughout the whole process.

Anyway, rant over. Sorry guys, but you know it’s true.

Am I ready for Christmas? Just about. My cards are all written and posted — and that’s a rant for another day, the price of stamps. With a second-class stamp now costing 75p, I can see it being the end of posted cards. I would estimate that I’ve spent £50 this year on cards and that 80% of that cost is the price of posting them. Most of my presents have been bought, although I’m still waiting for a couple to be delivered. Sadly, one of Franki’s main presents won’t be here for Christmas and it’s doubtful it will even be here by the time they return to university. There is nothing I can do except cross my fingers and hope. It’s not like I haven’t bought a shedload of other stuff for them.

My decorations are up, and the house is looking beautifully festive. And then there’s my tree. Ah yes, the tree.

Several years ago, when I was still working for the accountant, we bought a narrow silver tree to have up in the office. Although 6ft tall it was pencil thin so fitted neatly into one corner. As the office colour was mostly blue, we bought a string of blue lights and some blue baubles to adorn it with and that was our office tree for many a Christmas. When my boss retired he told me to toss the tree into the skip, but my thrifty nature would not let me throw away a perfectly good tree, so I took it home instead. It packed away neatly into a tiny box, so I stuck it in the back of the wardrobe and forgot about it until a year later when I was working in the bed store.

Do we have a Christmas tree? I asked, as my first festive season there approached.

If you want one, you can buy it, came the reply.

Well, I wasn’t about to do that. Then I remembered the little silver tree in the wardrobe and took that in. Each year, for the six years I worked there, I would bring down this tree from the warehouse and set it up near the desks and decorate it. I didn’t care that everyone else was bah humbug, it was a festive touch.

When I handed my notice in I was told in no uncertain terms to take my tree with me. So, I did. And back into the wardrobe, it went. I had no intention of using it, I just couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I had a vague idea of giving it to the lodger to use but I think their room is so cluttered that narrow though it is, there would be no space to put it.

Since my very first Christmas after leaving home in 1988, I have had a real tree. I love real trees. I love the sight of them, the smell of them, and the whole concept of them. I live in a Victorian house, so it seemed almost rude not to have a real tree. However, this year I am the most broke I have ever been coming into the festive season. What with the unexpected expenses of the cat and the car, all my holiday savings have gone. To buy a half-decent tree was going to be £60+. Then the was the whole inconvenience of having to dismantle my desk and store it in my bedroom to fit the tree in. A real tree tends to be quite girthy, so space has to be created for it.

Then I remembered the silver tree.

I always vowed that an artificial tree would never darken my doorstep, but … but … it was going to be so expensive to buy a real one, and think of all the mess of taking it down, of the pine needles being trodden everywhere throughout the house. Sod it, I thought, just this once I will think with my head and not my heart and use the tree I already had. Okay, it’s over twenty years old. Okay, it’s silver and skinny and looks like a bog brush. It’s free and convenient and will fit into the tiniest space so no removal of furniture will be necessary. It’s clean and packs neatly back into its box. I would use it.

Last weekend, I spent the whole of Saturday deep-cleaning the ground floor. I used to know someone who never bothered to clean before hanging up her Christmas decorations. We would sit there watching the tinsel and the cobwebs flutter in the breeze. Then Sunday I decorated. The lounge and dining room first. The mantlepieces looked stunning with a green garland threaded with twinkly lights and red glass candle holders. The Welsh dressing was adorned with precious festive bits and bobs, and then it was time to do the tree.

It wasn’t an auspicious start. The branches — or silver tinsel struts (branches are too grand a word for what this tree has) — were crushed from being in the box so I spent almost an hour teasing them into shape and fluffing up the tinsel. Then I wound the lights on. To my surprise, the tree took all of the lights I would normally have on a much bigger real tree. A small silver star on top as my antique Angel Gabriel was too big and heavy to use. Then I picked out my favourite decorations and started finding homes for them on the skinny branches. I obviously couldn’t use as many as normal, but I was surprised at how many the tree took. Then I stepped back and took a look.

Actually … it’s not bad. I don’t hate it. It’s kinda cute and neat and sparkly. It’s so compact and sits perfectly in the littlest space between the armchair and the wall. It’s very low maintenance, which is always a plus. I am forced to admit that I like it. I like it a lot, Although with all of those lights on it’s a bit like having a nuclear reactor in the corner of the lounge.

It just goes to show, you might not be able to polish a turd, but you can cover it in lights.

And on that note, I need to go. It’s growing dark and I still need to sort things ready for an early start to the Festive Foreword Christmas Book Sale tomorrow. By the time we are next due to chat it will be Christmas Eve. I’m hoping there will be a blog but am forewarning you now that I might run out of time so will take this opportunity to wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

Best Wishes

Julia Blake

First, let me state for the record that I love my cat. She is a sweetheart. A tiny little black cat who is loving and gentle. But I am seriously considering giving her away to the next person who knocks on the door. Regular readers will remember the GPS tracker malarky that happened in the summer when we discovered just how far our innocent baby travels at night. Since then, her behaviour has got weirder and weirder. During the warm weather, when doors and windows were permanently open, I didn’t notice that she was avoiding the dining room. The lounge window would be open, so she’d come in that way, or appear through the open back door at mealtimes. But, once the weather changed and doors and windows remained closed, it became obvious that there was something wrong.

Now, I have lost count of the number of cat beds and baskets, bean bags, pyramids, and things that hang on the radiator that I have bought for her over the years. Did she sleep in any of them? Nope, studiously ignored them until I got rid of them. Instead, she would curl up for hours in the dining room on the comfy rocking chair near the radiator. Occasionally, she would sleep on the sofa in there or could be found asleep on one of the padded dining chairs under the table. I constantly had to vacuum up the thick clumps of cat fluff and apologise when visitors got a hairy bum.

One day, it occurred to me that I hadn’t had to vacuum any of the chairs for some time. A very long time. I wondered where she was sleeping. It was still warm during the day, and we knew she tended to go a-roaming all night, so I assumed she was finding a warm spot in the garden and napping there. It got colder. All the chairs remained fluff-free. We had days and nights of torrential rain, and I began to find my oven top covered in a thick layer of fluff, dirt, and grit. It was clear she was sleeping on it. Why? It’s a hard surface and certainly not very comfortable. Fed up with having to thoroughly clean my oven top every day, I covered it in tinfoil. Cats don’t like tinfoil so it’s a good way to keep them off surfaces, although I made sure I turned the oven off at the wall. She has been known to turn on a ring leaping onto the oven and the thought of tinfoil catching fire made me shudder.

She stopped sleeping on the oven top and began sleeping on the work surface next to the chopping board. I covered that in tinfoil. She started sleeping on the opposite side. I covered that then came down the next morning to find my clean white porcelain draining board covered in fluff, dirt, mud, and puke. With a big pile of puke next to the kettle for good measure.

Now my whole kitchen, every time I’m not there, has to be sheeted in layers of tinfoil. If even a tiny gap is left she will squeeze herself in there and leave it filthy. It dawned on me that for some reason she is terrified of the dining room. I would carry her in there and sit on the rocking chair with her and try to remind her how much she loved it, but the second I let her go she was off through the cat flap as if all the hounds of hell were after her.

It got so bad she wouldn’t even walk through the dining room to reach the rest of the house. If I carried her into the lounge, then she would stay there for the evening but was desperately needy. The second I sat down; she’d be on my lap. If I tried to stand up she would cling to me, crying piteously.

At my wit’s end, I phoned the vet. Primarily to check when her jabs were due but also to run this bizarre behaviour past them and see if they could suggest anything. That is odd, agreed the receptionist, then told me that the cat’s jabs weren’t due until December but if I wanted to take her in to get them done sooner, then the vet would take a look at her whilst she was in. We made an appointment for the following week, and I went to work. An hour later, my phone rang, and it was the vet. The receptionist had recited the weird behaviour to him, and he was very concerned.

This could be indicative of something Very Serious, he said, and I heard the capital letters in his voice. I need to see the cat At Once. Can you bring her in now?

Umm, not really, I said, I’m at work and don’t get home until gone six.

Well, do you get a lunch break?

Yes, it’s between one and two.

Right, phone us and we’ll do a telephone consultation. It’s not ideal, but better than nothing.

It was agreed I would call them as soon as I got home for lunch. As it happened, our last patient before lunch had to cancel because they had Covid, so my boss told me to go home and see if I could take the cat to the vet because I had a longer lunch break than normal.

Hurrying home, I phoned the vet and explained the situation. Yes, they said, bring her in now and we’ll take a look at her.

I got home, got the cat carrier down, and looked for the cat. Eventually locating her on the flat roof outside Franki’s bedroom window, I did my best to coax her closer with Dreamies and eventually tempted her close enough to grab her by the scruff of the neck, haul her in, and stuff her in the basket. Much to her displeasure. I then strapped her in the car and set off for the vet.

The vet was charming. A lovely young woman who poked and prodded the cat. Looked in her eyes and ears. Checked her teeth. Took her temperature. Found nothing wrong. Tentatively diagnosed that she might be anxious and stressed and recommended a cat calming plug-in. If I put it in the dining room, it might calm the cat enough to sleep in there. So, in other words, the vet did a fat load of nothing.

I went out to the receptionist. Do I owe anything for this brief consultation I asked, thinking to myself £50 tops. After all, the vet didn’t do anything, I was in there a maximum of ten minutes, and the issue has not been resolved. I nearly fell over when the woman said £155. £155!! Let’s take a moment to think about that. I had to pay two days’ wages for ten minutes of the vet’s time. No tests were done. No blood was taken. No medication was prescribed – other than an expensive plug-in which I would have to buy myself off Amazon. £155. My utter shock must have been written all over my face because the receptionist bristled and said – well, it was an emergency visit.

Yes, but it was only an emergency visit because you made it so, I thought, as I handed over my card and prayed I had enough in the bank to cover it. Driving home with a vague diagnosis of stress and anxiety the only thing to show for my £155, I thought about how I was now anxious and stressed never mind the bloody cat. I phoned later in the day and cancelled the appointment the following week to get her jabs done. They’re not due until December so she can wait until then. I needed to build my funds up again.

Since then, I have been lavishing her with love and affection. I stay in the kitchen while she eats her dinner, then carry her through into the lounge. I’ve found that so long as I’m with her, she will stay in the kitchen and the lounge, but even with me, she will not set foot in the dining room.

This tells me that it’s not me that’s the issue because she’s still as loving and cuddly with me as she ever was – if anything, more so. And she’s happy in the kitchen and lounge – so long as I’m there – so doesn’t have an issue with those rooms. No, it’s the dining room. Something happened in there to seriously spook her, and it must have occurred when I wasn’t in the house.

Of course, I’ve questioned the lodger. It’s the logical conclusion that it’s somehow connected to her. Maybe she did something that scared the cat or had a strange person in the house that the cat was afraid of. They would come into the dining room as that’s the room the lodger has access to. She says nothing happened, so I’m at a loss to explain it.

I have ordered one of those plug-in things, but at £22 a pop per month it’s yet another expense I can’t afford, and there’s no guarantee it will work. I’m desperate enough to try it though and who knows, maybe a month of mummy cat pheromones will be enough to shake loose her irrational fear of the room and make her love it again. I hope so, I’m getting bored of having my entire kitchen covered in tinfoil. We did have a wee bit of a breakthrough this morning. She was in the kitchen eating her breakfast and I went into the lounge to clear some things away. I fully expected her to wait in the kitchen when she had finished eating for me to go back and collect her, so was very surprised when she dashed through the dining room as if the floor was on fire and knocked on the lounge door to be let in. I know that doesn’t sound much, but it’s the first time she has voluntarily set foot in there in almost two months, so it’s a good step in the right direction. I will keep you posted.

What else has happened? Well, I heard nothing from the plumber until this week. I was back from the graduation (more on that later) and texted him that it was getting really cold in my lounge, did he have any idea when he could call in? He came back and said he would come Wednesday. He didn’t. He then texted that he would be passing on Thursday so he would call in and take a look. Surprise, surprise, this time he did turn up. He looked at the radiator, muttered something about the thermostat pin being stuck, took off the cap, and gave it a sharp whack with a large pair of pliers. He fiddled a bit more, turned the radiator on and hey presto, it was working. I expect you have to spend years at the plumber academy to learn exactly how to hit the radiator just right.

How much do I owe you? I asked.

He looked a bit sheepish.

I feel bad charging you anything, he said, so maybe another book for my wife.

Deal, I said and dashed upstairs to see what I had. I stuffed the whole of the Blackwood Family Saga in a bag and gave them to him. His face lit up, but TBH, they don’t cost me that much to buy because they’re such short books and I know that any other plumber would have charged me a £50 call-out fee before even setting foot in the house. So, we were both happy. And my lounge is now toasty warm just when winter is beginning to set in.

I also had the chimney swept last week. He did charge me £50 and was only here twenty minutes – ten of which he spent drinking coffee and chatting to me. Oh well.

Now, the graduation.

I packed up my car on a wet and miserable mid-morning a week ago last Wednesday and set off to collect my parents. As you know, the originalplan was that Franki and Rys would come to stay after their trip to the theatre in London and we would all then drive up for the graduation together. That changed to they would go back to university by train sooner because Franki had found a job in Sainsbury’s and couldn’t have too many days off. Then the whole plan was scrapped because all the trains were cancelled due to Storm Babet.

Well, it was just as well we hadn’t stuck to the original original plan because by the time we’d crammed three adults, all their luggage for three days, the bits and pieces Franki had asked me to take up, plus all the food and drink we would need for three days into my little Toyota Yaris, we couldn’t have fitted one malnourished kitten in there, let alone another two people.

The trip was straightforward until we reached Nantwich, the town where Franki’s university is based and where our Airbnb was located. Google Maps had a bit of a meltdown at that point, although, to be fair to it, Nantwich is not a town designed for cars. Very narrow twisty roads that feed into even narrower and twistier lanes, cars parked on each side of the road making it single-lane traffic only, local road closures, and a distinct lack of street names, had us driving round and around in ever-growing bewilderment.

With Google Maps shrieking increasingly confusing instructions, my dad getting frustrated beside me, and my mum trying ever so hard to be “helpful” from the back seat, I despaired of ever finding our accommodation, when suddenly I spotted a flash of duck egg blue down one of those tiny lanes leading off the main road. All the fences and the shed are painted duck egg blue, had been the instructions. I turned around as soon as I could – surprising and pissing off the car behind me – waited for a gap in the traffic and went back to investigate. A tiny alleyway, barely wide enough for the car thankfully opened into a circle wide enough to turn around and go back to the duck-egg blue fence.

You have reached your destination, Google Maps declared, smugly, like it was all thanks to it.

Thank f**k for that, I muttered.

The parking space is tight, the information has said. Tight? Tight?! Good lord, it was so tight my parents had to get out of the car first and guide me in. Thank heavens my car is a smaller model, any wider and I would have scraped the paintwork. There was a row of three, wheelie bins crammed in the space as well, which didn’t help, and I knocked my wing mirror askew on the first one. The tiny garden shed poked out through the fence into the space and was mounted on a concrete plinth, so I had to watch my front tyres on that. But eventually, after much backward and forward, I got in. We found the key safe, put the code in, and got the key to let ourselves in.

First impressions. Very nice. A small but neat and well-equipped kitchen. A dining alcove with a table and four chairs. Hmm, there were going to be five of us for dinner, so we’d have to try and sort something out. A nice lounge with a modern comfy sofa and chair. And then we saw the stairs to the bedrooms.

The staircase is a little steep, the information has stated. A little steep?! Blimey, it was like the north face of the Eiger. I took my case up, then reached down and pulled my parents’ case up as my dad shoved from underneath. Upstairs, there was a room for me with a king-size bed. There was a small bathroom with a shower over the tub. At the back of the house was the room for my parents. The information had stated that the bed could be split to make two singles and my parents had opted for that arrangement.

At the time, I did try to tell them that I didn’t think they would be proper single beds – three feet wide – but would be more likely to be small singles which are only two feet, six inches wide. In the pictures, the bed in the second room looked like a king size which is five feet, and, of course, half of five feet is only two feet, six inches. To get two proper singles upon splitting, the bed would have to be six feet wide – a super king in other words – and I didn’t think the bed looked that big. Plus, if the cottage contained a super king bed in one of the rooms I felt that would be a selling point and would be mentioned. But I was shouted down. After all, what do I know about beds?

So now, we looked at these two very narrow beds and realised I had been right after all. They were two small singles, not normal singles. Hmm, don’t roll over in the night, you’ll be falling out of bed.

We let Franki know we’d arrived, then checked out how the oven worked and got that on to get the potato gratin in that I’d made that morning and brought with us. It takes almost two hours to cook so needed to go in ASAP. I looked at the table and four chairs again, then went around the house to see if there was anything we could use to seat the fifth person. Nope, not a single chair or stool anywhere we could utilise. There was a breakfast bar and two stools in the kitchen, but they were way too high to use. Whoever sat on one would be tipping off face-first into their dinner leaning down all that way.

First problem. Five of us for dinner. Only four chairs.

Second problem. The water was disgusting. I had brought a 2L bottle of water with me, thinking that if we were boiling tap water for tea and coffee, it would be fine. Nope, even in tea it apparently had such a tang my mother could still taste it.

Third problem. Franki had told me that the accommodation wasn’t too far from the university and that they could walk to us. Hmm, in reality, it was a good twenty minutes down country lanes and along a lonely canal path in the dark and rain.

I phoned Franki.

Do you have anything you could bring to use whilst we’re here?

Nope, nothing, she said.

Right. I thought about it for a few moments. Look on the Argos website, I told her, to see if there’s a small cheap stool or something that’s in stock in the Nantwich Argos that we could collect now. I am going to come and collect you because there’s no way I’m letting you walk. Argos is inside Sainsbury’s so while we’re there we’ll buy more water, oh, and I may as well fill up with diesel at the Sainsbury’s garage as well, so it’s done.

Okay.

I popped the shoulder of lamb we’d taken with us into the oven, put on my shoes and coat, and set off into the gathering gloom. By now, it was five o’clock and the roads were very busy with going home traffic. Luckily, Google Maps took me immediately out of town onto a twisting country lane that then brought me out on a roundabout I recognised because it was close to the university. I picked up the girls and we headed back into town, this time taking a route that would take us to Sainsbury’s. I dropped them off outside the shop and then joined the queue at the garage to fill up with diesel. I hadn’t bothered to fill up before leaving home because I’d had three-quarters of a tank full and knew that would be enough. But we would be driving to Chester and back on Friday and then there was the drive home. I parked outside the shop until the girls came out bearing a small camping stool and three huge bottles of water.

Arriving back at the accommodation I did not attempt to reverse in, this time I turned around in the lane and drove in face forward. I didn’t trust myself trying to reverse park in such a tight space in the dark when I was exhausted.

We got into the house to find the kitchen warm and smelling of lamb, but the rest of the house cold. I felt the radiators, they were all freezing, I fiddled with them, but they were all on and should be warm. We looked at the thermostat and I turned the temperature up. Nothing happened. I didn’t know what to do. I had the owner’s number so could message or even call her. I didn’t like bothering her, but the house was rapidly getting colder as night fell. Suddenly, at 6.30pm, the radiators came on. It was nothing we’d done, and I wondered if they were on timer although, if they were, it seemed silly to allow guests to arrive to a cold house.

The house soon got warm, and we sat down to enjoy our dinner and had a nice evening. We got the girls a taxi home because the weather was filthy and there was no way we were allowing them to walk home in that.

Going to bed, our rooms were hot – too hot – as the heating didn’t turn off but stayed on all night. The boiler was locked in a cupboard in my room and all night long we were kept awake by pipes banging and rattling and the boiler roaring into life. I opened my window and had to throw the duvet off because I was so hot, but then I got too cold so had to pull it back on again, and then I got too hot, and so the cycle went on and I got precious little sleep. In the morning, abruptly at 10am, the heating went off and the house began to cool down.

I had a suspicion that someone had fiddled with the thermostat. Someone who didn’t know their am from their pm. It seemed odd that the house was cold when we got there, the heating came on at 6.30pm and then stayed on until 10am the next morning. Surely, it should be coming on at 6.30am and going off at 10pm. I messaged the owner, and she talked me through putting it onto manual so we could control the temperature ourselves.

We spent most of Thursday with the girls and in the evening I cooked us another big dinner, after which we played some games before they went home – again in a taxi.

Friday was the graduation. I drove to the university and collected the girls – I’d been down that country lane so many times now I knew every bend and curve – and brought them back to the accommodation for a full English breakfast to set us up for the day. There would be no opportunity to have lunch, so it had to last us until the evening. It was a forty-minute drive to Chester where the graduation was to be held and we only got slightly lost once. That was when Google Maps told me to take the fifth exit off a roundabout but there were only three exits and it didn’t even mean the fifth, it meant the first, but anyway, we got there, parked the car, and took the bus to the city centre.

Franki rushed off to collect her cap and robes and the rest of us joined the very long queue to get into the cathedral.

There were a lot of people to seat, and I understood why they’d told us to get there at least half an hour before the ceremony. I had wondered how good a view we would have but then saw that the ceremony itself would take place at the back of the cathedral nave where none of us would be able to see it. They had erected massive screens at vantage points so we could watch it on them.

I was surprised at how grand the ceremony was. Lots of pomp and circumstance. Six men dressed in red uniforms and busby hats marched in with trumpets and began the ceremony. There were speeches and then the graduates were called up one at a time to accept their degrees, BA’s, MA’s, doctorates, and professorships. It was very moving, watching all those young men and women with their whole lives ahead of them accepting the piece of paper that declared to all how hard they had worked.

The ceremony over, we were all herded down miles of tented corridors to a giant marquee where we were given a glass of indifferent prosecco and waited for Franki to find us, which eventually she did.

She looked very smart in her robes and cap and it’s a shame she couldn’t keep them, but they were only rented and had to be taken back so we picked our way across the wet and slippery cobblestones to the robing centre, then headed back on the bus to the car.

There were a few hairy moments trying to get out of Chester. It was dark and pouring with torrential rain. We were caught in the going home rush hour traffic. I had no idea where I was going, and Google Maps was having another supremely unhelpful moment. But we managed to find our way and I drove us all back to the accommodation. I was very tired and sick of all the driving I’d done. It was a relief to get back, squeeze into the space – I was getting quite good at it by now – and walk around the corner to the lovely restaurant The Cheshire Cat, where we were booked in for dinner.

It was a lovely building, all oak beams, and wooden floors, and it was cosy and warm. Our meals were lovely, and the only thing that let it down was the cheeseboard.

Not fancying any of the puddings, when I saw a cheeseboard on the menu I decided to split one with my dad. Being in Cheshire – home of wonderful cheese – I fully expected it to be made up of local cheeses. Nope. Our waitress spouted a list of cheeses to choose from, not one of them local, and I was further surprised to realise we could only choose two out of the list. At £17 for the board, I did expect there to be a variety of cheese. Anyway, I chose the brie, and my dad chose the Stilton. When it came, the brie was a cold lump of tasteless rubber. Brie should never be served straight from the fridge. It should always be allowed to come to room temperature and squelch for at least 24 hours. And my dad’s Stilton wasn’t Stilton at all but Shropshire Blue. It was very crumbly as well, so I suspect had been frozen at some point. I asked them to heat the brie in the microwave for a minute or so. At least I could then spread it on the crackers, but it was still tasteless. We asked for port to go with the cheeseboard.

Would you like it over ice? Chirped the waitress.

We stared at her in horror.

No, we wouldn’t.

She disappeared, only to return with two large water tumblers with an inch of port at the bottom. I don’t think they know very much about the finer etiquette of cheese and how to serve it there.

Apart from that, it was a lovely evening. After dinner, Franki and Rys headed off to meet their friends who had also graduated that day and I took my parents back to the accommodation to try and get some sleep ready for the long drive home the next day.

We had to be out of the accommodation by ten, so on Saturday it was up, breakfast, pack, load the car, check we hadn’t left anything behind, and then we were off to the university. This was going to be my parents’ only chance to see where Franki was living and look around the campus. It was a filthy day, cold and wet, but we still had a look around the zoo at the animals, before having a much-needed cup of tea. Then it was hugs of goodbye, we climbed back into the car, and off we went.

The rain got steadily heavier and heavier until eventually it was like trying to drive underwater. I slowed down because the roads were slick and visibility was poor, but there were still cars bombing past me as if I was standing still. It was still an uneventful journey, which was a relief. We stopped at Newmarket which is the town before we got to my parents’ village. We needed to do a food shop and none of us fancied going home and then having to go back out again. There was a superstore in Newmarket, so it made sense to stop there, and then drop my parents’ home, before going home myself.

The store was big, noisy, and crowded with way too many people. I couldn’t find anything so ended up going round and round the same aisles looking for stuff. It was a relief to pile all the bags in the car, climb in, and head for home. I stopped at my parents and unloaded the car of all their stuff and then did the last leg home.

My word, I was pleased to be back. Although I enjoyed going away and seeing Franki and of course, the graduation was wonderful, there had been a lot more driving than I anticipated. I don’t mind driving, but when it’s somewhere you’re unfamiliar with it can get very tiring. My mum slipped some money into my coat pocket and told me to treat myself to something nice for dinner. By the time I had unloaded the car, put everything away, put on a load of laundry, and sorted out the pets, I was more than ready for something to eat. My lodger had texted that she was away for the weekend, so I lit the fire, ordered a Chinese takeaway, and chilled out with Netflix.

And now we’re on the downward slope to Christmas.

This is a simply enormous blog. A couple more things. If you are in the Stonham Barns area the weekend of the 25^th and 26^th of November, why not pop along to their Christmas Fair extravaganza? I will be there, along with fellow author Rachel Churcher, and it will be a fabulous chance to do some Christmas shopping. It will be crammed with stalls and stalls of local craftsmen and traders all selling wonderful goodies to buy for the festive season. If you do come, pop along to our stall to say hello.

Finally, I am republishing my short story and poetry collection, Eclairs for Tea and other stories, with a gorgeous new cover and it is being released in hardback form as well. It is the first of my books to be released as a hardback and I can honestly say it is absolutely beautiful. It would make a wonderful gift for someone, especially as it contains two bonus stories that are not included in either the paperback or eBook versions. Available from Amazon today, why not treat yourself to a copy or buy one for that hard-to-buy person? It was a bit of a rough ride getting it out there and I will tell you all about it next time because trust me, it’s a long story.

Anyway, have a great weekend everyone, and I look forward to chatting with you next time.

Julia Blake

Hello everyone and Happy Halloween – if you celebrate it. If, like me, you can’t be bothered, then happy whatever you like day. When Franki was a child I made the effort. We would buy a pumpkin and scoop all the disgusting smelly pulpy stuff out of the middle and carve suitably scary faces. Franki would dress up and I would drive her to a local estate that is known to have a lot of Americans living on it and where even the British locals make a real effort. She would trot from one ghoulishly decorated house to the next, looking adorable in whatever witch fancy dress she was in that year, lisp “twick or tweat” and get shed loads of sweets in her little pumpkin-shaped bucket. I would be trailing at a suitable distance with a larger bag-for-life to tip the pumpkin into when it got too heavy to carry.

Once every house within a mile radius had been pillaged, we’d drive home and divide the loot into equal-weighing small bags (I’m not kidding, scales were involved). She would then be allowed one bag, and all the rest were put up in a high cupboard. Our local cinema used to do something called Movies for Juniors every Saturday morning when they would show a choice of two or three films of U and PG rating for only £1.00 a ticket – in later years it rose to £1.50. I guess although they made no money on ticket sales, they did rake it in at the concessionary stand because parents figured as they’d spent so little on tickets they could afford snacky treats. Well, as a single mum, I couldn’t, so I would smuggle one of the bags of Halloween candy plus a Capri Sun into the movie in the bottom of my capacious handbag. We did this for years, going to the cinema most Saturdays, even seeing films Franki had enjoyed two or three times. Okay, the films weren’t the latest releases, but we didn’t care. Because it cost so little we took chances on films we’d never heard of and found gems that we still love to this day – Barnyard, Strange Magic, and the City of Ember spring to mind, but there were others. Anyway, we relied on the Halloween haul to provide sweets for almost the rest of the year – topping up the stash with Christmas, birthday, and Easter sweets.

Nowadays I don’t bother with Halloween. Franki isn’t here so there seems little point wasting money on a large vegetable that will then rot on my doorstep and end up in the bin. I’m certainly not going trick or treating – at 56 I feel I’m a wee bit old – and there are not even any Halloween parties this year. Well, none that I’ve been invited to. A lovely American couple are renting a house at the top of my road and have a sweet little three-year-old boy, so I put a message in the road’s WhatsApp this morning that although I don’t celebrate Halloween there will be a bag of treats here for the little lad if he wants to trick-or-treat at my house. So far, a couple of other houses have jumped on the bandwagon and said they will do the same. Hopefully, enough will think it’s a nice idea that he will have a safe and local little trick-or-treat Halloween outing without his parents having to get the car out or walk a great distance in the dark and the rain.

What have I been up to the last fortnight? Well, working. I’ve done a couple of days overtime which will help with funds so that’s okay. I’m still enjoying my job, although now the temperatures have dropped I have discovered that the heating there is inadequate so I’m having to layer up, which is fine. I’d rather be bundled up somewhere I like, than warm somewhere I hate. Speaking of old jobs, Dreams keeps sending me commission statements at the end of every month but when I open the statement it’s just a blank page and when I check my bank I have received zero from them. It kinda rubs it in that they stiffed me on my commission. I was owed almost £200 for the end of July (the last month I was due to receive any commission from them) but only received £14. I felt that was more insulting than receiving nothing. I emailed them and tried to speak to them about it but got nowhere so in the end I gave up.

As I said, the temperature has radically dropped here and reluctantly I am being forced to put the heating on. In my lounge, we have two radiators, one in the alcove by the fire and another under the window. I used to have just the one in the alcove and every winter we shivered in that room. The radiator simply wasn’t man enough to reach the other side of the room so we would huddle on the sofa and the other half of the room over by the window became a no-go zone in winter. This was a real pain because it’s not the largest room in the world and losing the use of half of it was not ideal. Back in 2013, I saved enough money to decorate the lounge and replace the old carpet, so I made the decision that whilst the carpet was up, and the walls were bare to have a short radiator put under the window. Best decision I ever made. Instantly the other half of the room was as warm, if not warmer than the half with the big radiator. I was able to put a large spinning comfy chair in the window bay which Franki claimed as hers. The whole room was available to use whatever the time of year. Turning the heating on for the first time this winter, I discovered to my dismay that the new radiator under the window wasn’t working.

I tried twiddling the thermostat, but nope, it had no effect. I wondered if it needed bleeding but usually if there’s air in a radiator you can hear it and the radiator still gets a little bit warm. This radiator was stone cold all over. Even the pipe leading to it remained cold. Oh bum, I thought, just what I fecking well need. More expense. I dropped a text to my plumber. It was late Friday evening, so I didn’t expect to hear anything until Monday. Sure enough, Monday morning he replied asking when I would next be in. I told him Wednesday and he replied he’d be around in the morning.

Wednesday morning, I was up and showered in good time. Now, I know this plumber of old. He’s a great guy, friendly, cleans up after himself, is obliging, and a very good plumber. BUT. He has the time-keeping skills of a toddler. He was the plumber who installed my new bathroom and regular readers of my blog will remember the malarky we went through with him not turning up. So, I wasn’t expecting him “first thing” on Wednesday but thought I’d better be ready anyway, just in case. It got to eleven o’clock and no sign of him. Although I was going to be home most of the day, I did need to go shopping and go to the doctor to pick up a prescription and the dentist to sort out Franki’s appointment (more about that later). I dropped him a friendly text asking if I had time to pop out for an hour or whether I should wait. Go now, came the reply, I’ll be along this afternoon. Mid-afternoon arrived, no sign of him. It got to five o’clock and I texted him again asking if he was still coming. Oh sorry, came the reply, got caught up in another job and lost track of time. Right, okay, par for the course then. I texted back saying as it was probably too late to come now, when could he come? My next day off was Friday and after that, it was the weekend, I would be at work all day Monday and Tuesday, then away for my daughter’s graduation for three days, then it was the weekend again, and then I’d be back to work for Monday and Tuesday. It was getting cold in my lounge, so I was keen to get the radiator fixed. And he replied …. Zip, zilch, nothing, zero. There has been nothing but radio silence from him ever since.

So … now I don’t know what’s happening. Is he coming? Is he never coming? Do I need to try and find a new plumber – not tempting, good plumbers are rarer than the Yeti. I’m a bit disappointed. Okay, he takes on too much work so can’t fit it all in and although that’s on him, I do understand and am even prepared to accept it. Although I guess if I’d taken a day off work especially and sat in waiting for a plumber who didn’t show, I would be really pissed off with him. But to not bother to fire off a quick holding text saying sorry, will get back to you ASAP on when I can come, that would set my mind at rest and let me know that okay, I am going to have to put up with a chilly lounge, but at least the plumber will be coming at some time in the future. Now, I honestly don’t know what to do. I guess wait and see what happens after the weekend.

About the dentist. As you all know, Franki is away at university up north, but she is still registered as an NHS patient with a dentist in Bury. Despite the inconvenience, we move heaven and earth to make her regular check-up appointments whenever she’s home in the holidays and do our best to make sure she keeps them. I know if she misses an appointment then she will probably lose her NHS status and that is something we do not want to happen. There are no NHS dentists in a 50-mile radius and none of the private ones are taking on new NHS patients. So, like I said, we do our utmost to maintain the status quo with the dentist Franki has.

Franki and her partner were due to come home for a brief visit last Saturday. It was their second anniversary, so they had tickets to go to a concert in London and had a hotel room booked for Friday night. The plan was to travel to London by train on Friday morning. Have a meal, see the show, stay one night in London, then catch the Saturday morning train to Bury. Stay in Bury until Thursday morning, then take the train back to their university. Franki had a dentist appointment on Wednesday morning. It was perfect. Although I was going to be at work Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, at least we would have the weekend, the evenings, and most of Wednesday together. I bought lots of food, including a shoulder of lamb and some amazing chuck steak and brisket beef burgers. I was looking forward to seeing them.

Then Storm Babet hit the north with a vengeance. Friday morning, I was awoken early by a panicking Franki. Severe weather warnings had been issued for up North; the train app was saying that their train might be cancelled. She didn’t know what to do. They only had until midday to cancel their hotel room for a full refund. If they left it any later than that and their trains were cancelled, then they stood to lose a lot of money. You’ve got time to wait a little bit longer, I said, before you make that decision. I desperately wanted them still to come but didn’t want them to risk getting stuck midpoint if their trains were cancelled whilst they were on it. Thirty minutes later she called back. They had made the decision and cancelled their hotel room. Twenty minutes after that, all of their trains were cancelled with a full refund made to them. So, that was that. I had a weekend all to myself and they were stuck with no food and had to go out in the storm to get some. It was very disappointing and of course, I was left with a lot of food. Luckily, my mum has two freezers so was able to put it in there ready for Christmas.

Anyway, to get back to the dentist. Franki was not going to make her appointment so was stressing about that. Don’t worry, I told her, I’ll call them, even they will understand that you have no control over the weather or the trains. I tried to phone the dentist. It rang, and I was told they were too busy to take my call, so please leave a message. I hung up. I tried again. Same story. I tried calling them a total of 37 times during the day. Each time it was the same thing, too busy please leave a message. I left five messages. No one called me back. In the end, the message had changed to one saying they were now closed so please leave a message. I left a message. It wasn’t a very polite message, I’m afraid.

Monday morning, a text arrived confirming the cancellation of Franki’s appointment, so obviously one of my messages at least was heard, and that I was to call the practice to book another one. All day Monday and Tuesday, in between patients, I called the dentist to no avail. Eventually, I gave up. Looking at my phone record I had tried to call them a total of 52 times which is bloody ridiculous. No one can possibly be that busy on the phone, they would never get anything else done! So, on Wednesday when I was waiting for the plumber, I dashed to the shop and on the way called in at my doctor to collect my prescription and quickly walked around the corner to the dentist. Is there something wrong with your phones, I asked. The receptionists stared at me blankly. Only, I have tried to call you over 50 times since Friday morning and you never answer them. They flustered and blustered and could offer no reason. They checked available appointments for the few days Franki was home over Christmas, the only time they could fit her in was 9am on the 2^nd of January. I took it. I had no idea when she was going back to university, it didn’t matter, like I said, we move heaven and hell to make sure she keeps her appointments so she will go to this one.

And now it’s Saturday and I’m sitting in a chilly lounge writing this and thinking about the packing I must do ready to travel up north on Wednesday. It sounds several days away, but I will be working two such long days on Monday and Tuesday that there will be no time to prepare. I have earmarked Sunday as the day I will find my small case, lay out on the spare bed all the clothes and toiletries I need to take, and gather together the things Franki has asked me to take up for her. My parents and I have booked a two-bedroom Airbnb cottage about a ten-minute walk from the university which looks very nice. I had a brainwave and all the food I bought to eat when Franki was here will be making the journey with us. It will save us from having to worry about going shopping when we’re up there and will save us some money.

I can’t believe it’s Franki’s graduation already. Where did the last two years go? She has booked her robes, and the ceremony will take place in Chester Cathedral which is supposedly very beautiful. At first, there was some doubt that Franki’s partner and I would get tickets for the actual ceremony as each student was initially only allocated two each, and Franki was very keen for her grandparents to attend, but then they released some more and Franki was able to acquire another two. I’m looking forward to seeing her receive recognition for the hard work she has done over the past two years. If I’m allowed to take photos in the cathedral I will share them here next time. Even if I’m not, I will still take pictures of our accommodation and anything else that we do.

It’s quite a long drive and I am taking my parents in my little Toyota Yaris, which will be interesting, but at least we won’t be as cramped as we would have been. Originally it was planned for Franki and her partner to stay for longer and for all five of us to drive up together for the graduation. Then Franki got her job at Sainsbury’s which entails her working Sunday and Monday so she couldn’t get the time off and the plan was changed. Although it would have been lovely to have them stay for such a long time, it would have been a bit of a crush – five people plus luggage – so I wasn’t very upset when the plan changed. As it happened, they didn’t come at all because of the storm, so there you have it. It’s still going to be a bit of a squash with three adults, luggage, food, plus the bits for Franki but I’m sure we’ll manage.

Goodness, how I’ve rambled on. I do have more to talk about, but this blog is already far too long, and as it’s getting late and I’m hungry – today is an eating day – I will save it all for next time. Oh, and talking about the diet, I hit a plateau for about three weeks when I neither lost nor gained, but this morning I weighed myself and I’ve lost another two pounds. That’s a whole stone I’ve lost in six weeks which isn’t to be sniffed at. For all my American readers, a stone is the equivalent of fourteen pounds.

Take care and have a Happy Halloween.

Julia Blake

Well, that’s another month done and dusted. Does anyone else find it hard to believe that it’s the first day of October already? September charged by like a gazelle on speed and I don’t feel I achieved very much. What with working a couple of days of overtime, packing up and returning the youngsters to university, and the big event that was NorCon, I’ve hardly had time to catch my breath.

So, what have I been up to since we last spoke?

Firstly, NorCon. What a spectacularly successful event that was for all of us. I sold £310 worth of books last year and thought that was pretty good. If I can do that again, I thought, I’ll be happy. But I suspected because of the cost-of-living crises that I would be lucky to reach that number. Well, I didn’t only reach it, I smashed it out of the park selling a massive £410 worth of books. Yep, a whole £100 more.

The footfall was higher, and people came all out prepared to have a good time and spend. I took 53 books with me, including Black Ice, The Forest, Erinsmore, Mage Quest, and Lifesong. I sold 45 of them. I couldn’t believe it. Not only did I do well, but my fellow authors did fantastically as well, which was wonderful. The costumes were astonishing, and I managed to take a few photos, but to be honest, I was too busy talking to people, and selling and signing books to take many. Once again, Black Ice was popular and I sold out of both it and The Forest, which was also a runaway hit. Not so many of Erinsmore, and a few of Mage Quest. I didn’t expect to sell too many of the latter because it’s a sequel, but I sold four copies which was great. My little bonus novella Lifesong which was £3.50 when bought with another book, also did very well with most people taking advantage of the offer.

It was a long and exhausting weekend though. We had to be at the showground by 8:30am at the latest each day to be able to park in the trader’s car park next to the venue. This meant I had to be up at six every day to pick up another author I was giving a lift to at seven. Then being on the stall and having to be on red alert for the whole day left us all drained and with sore throats from talking so much.

It was lovely though. My first sale of the event was to a lady who bought The Forest the year before and waited all year to come back and buy Black Ice. There were a few buyers who had bought from me the previous year or at other events and looked for me at NorCon, hoping to buy some more books. I need to print more cards because I gave out all I had left. I signed books and even gift-wrapped them as presents for people and my little card reader was constantly on the go.

Driving home Saturday, I realised how hungry I was and was relieved I had arranged to go for dinner with the author sharing my stall and her husband. We wandered down to the Old Canon and sat in the garden. A big burger with lots of chips seemed in order and luckily I had thought to take the voucher we’d won at the quiz, so my dinner was free. We shared a bottle of wine, chatted, and relaxed, but made it an early night as we had to be up at silly o’clock to do it all over again the next day.

Sunday was a little quieter but still a good day. Driving home I was so tired I took the wrong turn off the slip road and we ended up going about ten minutes out of our way, but eventually we made it home and all I did was unpack the car and put everything away, fixed myself some soup for dinner and fell into bed.

I had soup because I’m back on my diet. Determined to shift the middle-aged spread and the weight that has piled on because of my underactive thyroid gland, I started the diet two weeks ago. So far, I have lost 6lbs the first week and 4lbs the second, so that’s 10lbs lost just in two weeks, which isn’t too bad at all.

I am having issues with my printer. It’s an Epson. I usually buy HP as I find them less complicated and more reliable than an Epson, but for some reason when I had to buy a new printer last time I bought an Epson. Anyway, it has done nothing but whine ever since I bought it because I wasn’t using genuine Epson ink but the cheaper compatible stuff.

Do you realise you’re using nongenuine Epson ink? it would petulantly ask every time I went to print something.

Yes, I do, now shut up and print, I would reply. Sulkily it would huff and puff but eventually print what I wanted.

During the summer vacation, the girls needed to print off a rather long document that had been submitted to the university online but now had to be printed off and posted first class to them. So, it was urgent and had to be done ASAP. They woke the printer up. It grumbled and complained, printed ten pages, and then stopped.

Out of ink, it spitefully informed us. You need all the colours.

The document is black and white, we told it. Just print it in that.

Can’t, it declared. No ink, no print. Give me ink. And make it bloody Epson this time, you cheap skates.

As it was so urgent that this wretched document be printed, I pulled on my shoes and ran up town to Rymans, the big stationery store.

I need ink for this type of Epson printer, I told the flustered young girl behind the counter.

Do you know what picture is on the box?

No, I’ve never bought genuine Epson ink before.

Oh, right. What’s the printer number?

I told her.

Umm, okay … do you know what picture is on the box?

No … teeth gritted by now … I told you; I’ve never bought the proper ink before.

Oh, it’s just, it’s only my first week here so I don’t know which type of ink it needs.

Is there anyone here who does?

My supervisor.

Great, can I speak to them, please?

She’s on lunch and won’t be back for about forty minutes.

Can you look it up on the computer?

I don’t know how to do that yet.

Right, okay, can you think of anywhere else in town that sells printer ink?

Umm, Denny Bros might.

I’ll go and try them then.

All right … she then brightened as a thought struck her. If you find out from them what picture is on the front of the box then I’m sure we’ll have it in stock. She waved her hand at the wall behind her on which hung an impressive array of boxes of printer ink – all with a different picture on the front.

Will do, I told her, but I think my sarcasm was lost on her because she just grinned happily at me.

I dashed across town to the small printing, art, and stationery suppliers.

No, we don’t sell any printer ink, the jolly man behind the counter told me.

Damn. I turned to go, then a thought struck me. I don’t suppose you know what picture is on the box of ink that this type of Epson printer needs.

I showed him the number and he tapped importantly on his keyboard.

Yes, it’s a starfish.

Brilliant, thank you.

I rushed back across to Rymans.

A starfish, I told the girl triumphantly and she beamed happily.

Great, we have that.

I paid the exorbitant sum of £55 for four ink cartridges which was more than the bloody printer cost and sprinted home. The girls put the new cartridges in and finished printing the document and I thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Last week I needed to print off my trader’s ticket for NorCon, along with a copy of my public liability insurance – in case someone hurts themselves on my book stall – and a few more sheets of the Julia Blake logo that I stick on the bags I put books I sell into.

I tried to print. It wouldn’t.

No ink, the printer smugly informed me.

WTF? You have ink. You have loads of ink. You have a full belly of ink. And it’s genuine Epson.

No, it’s not. I don’t believe you, screamed the printer, flashing the ink low light in an aggrieved manner.

I trudged upstairs where the printer lives. I checked all the new ink cartridges were in place. They were. I took them out and snapped them back in again, just to make sure. I turned it off and turned it back on again. I tried to print.

No ink!!

I tried again, I checked the plastic tab had been taken off each cartridge, I carefully snapped them all back into place, and I tried to print a test page.

No ink, no ink, I’ve got no ink, taunted the printer.

You have got ink! I snapped. I checked that it was the new, eye-wateringly expensive cartridges in the printer and not the old cheap ones. Nope, Epson was written on each one. I took them out and cleaned them and the heads where they connect to the printer.

I tried to print.

Nope.

I watched four different YouTube videos on what to do when the printer fails to recognise new cartridges. The advice was all basically along the lines of taking them out, putting them back in, cleaning them, and turning the printer off and on again.

Nothing worked.

By now, I am getting more and more frustrated. I must print these forms. It was late Wednesday; I was at work all of the next day and I needed them for the crack of dawn Saturday morning.

I had to email a fellow author I was sharing a stall with at NorCon and I mentioned the issue. Send them to me, she told me, and I’ll print them out for you. Very relieved, I emailed them to her, and we made plans for me to swing by hers and pick them up that Friday.

I honestly don’t know what to do about the printer. There is no reason for it not to work. It has four brand new, genuine Epson ink cartridges that cost a lot of money. It’s connected to the laptop just fine. It just won’t print. The no ink light is lit and the error message I am getting is that it has no ink at all, in any of the cartridges.

I don’t know what machine the pop group “Rage Against The Machine” was raging against, but I’d bet any odds it was a printer.

The trouble is I need to print out more logos for my bags before next weekend. I don’t want to have to buy a new printer, but I may not have a choice. I need those bags for the Foreword Festival, and I can’t expect my friend to keep printing them out for me.

I’m looking forward to the Festival. It’s so exciting that it’s being held in my hometown. It’s the first-ever Literary Fringe Festival to be held in the UK – that we know of – so we are all hoping it’s going to be a huge success.

Are you coming to it? There is going to be a two-day book fair in the Guildhall, plus author panels and workshops. The Festival ran a 500-word short story competition to which I submitted a story, and much to my surprise, so did my daughter Franki. Her story was very good, and I was thrilled for her when we both reached the top twenty shortlisted entries. As we waited to find out whose stories had made it to the winning ten, a little voice in my head kept whispering – please, don’t let me be beaten by my daughter.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I would have been delighted if she’d made it to the top ten as well as me, I just didn’t want it to be instead of me, if you know what I mean. As it turned out, I made it to the top ten and sadly Franki didn’t.

All of the top ten stories will be read out on Saturday at five different locations around town by professional actors from the Quirkhouse Play Company. My story is going to be read out in the library at 11:30 and I am going to try and find someone to watch my stall for twenty minutes whilst I dash out to hear it being read. It’s going to be strange. I’ve never really heard anyone else reading out my words.

If you are coming to either the Literary Fringe Festival on the weekend of the 7^th and 8^th of October, or to the Bury St Edmunds Literature Festival two weeks later on the 20^th, 21^st, and 22^nd of October and are looking for somewhere to stay, the owner of two Airbnb properties right in the heart of Bury has contacted me with an exciting proposal. Both the beautiful cottages are available for those weekends and, if you book through me, you will receive a gift voucher entitling you to any one of my books completely free.

Below are some images of the properties. They are both a short walk from the town centre where everything will be happening. Both have two bedrooms with a double bed in one and a bed that can be a double or two singles in the other. Both are furnished superbly and would be perfect for staying for either or both of the festivals. But hurry, there are only two properties which could be let at any minute.

Wednesday was my day off. In the morning I made cherry vodka. Nothing says Autumn is here and that Christmas is coming quite like making my vodka ready for the festive season. I’ve made a lot this year because I give a lot of it away as gifts. Then I went out at lunchtime with a friend for her belated birthday celebration. We had a couple of glasses of prosecco before we went, then ambled to the Old Canon and found a nice table by the open door leading to the courtyard. Instead of having one of their large plates, we decided to share a starter and then have a lite lunch each. We both love potatoes, so the cheesy loaded potato skins with crispy onion bits, sour cream, and tomato relish appealed to us both. For our main, we both chose the open brioche buns with salad garnish and skin on fries. Mine was stuffed with deep-fried shrimp and my friend’s with crayfish and pomegranate seeds. We ordered a bottle of rose and sat chatting until our starter arrived. Well, it was a new definition of potato skins that I hadn’t previously been aware of. It was whole potatoes, cooked, halved, and smothered in cheese, onion, sour cream, and relish. The platter was mahoosive. Way bigger than we’d imagined.

We managed to finish it then sat looking at one another in stuffed dismay. Our mains arrived. We looked at them. Knowing there was no way we were going to be able to eat it all, we prioritized. I ate my shrimp, she ate the crayfish, and we picked a few chips. We were done. Our plates looked barely touched. As usual, I felt unbelievably guilty about leaving so much and apologised to the server, who laughed and offered us dessert. We declined, politely. We paid, then stagged back to mine where we sat in the garden and finished the first bottle of prosecco, then opened the second ­– which was possibly a bad move.

We sat and chatted, then my friend went to go home and suggested as it was such a gorgeous afternoon that I walk with her and have a drink in her garden before I walked home. She lives about a mile away and as I was still feeling over full of lunch I thought the exercise would do me good. We got to hers to find her husband barbecuing lamb with a bottle of red on the go. I had a glass. I think I had more than one glass. Dusk fell. It was mild enough to sit outside on their covered veranda, but the wind was picking up and gusting through the shrubbery. It all seemed such a good idea until her husband offered to walk me home – I think he was concerned I wouldn’t make it on my own – and I got up and realised how wobbly my legs were.

Reaching home safely, I fell into bed. The lodger had texted me that she was staying at her daughter’s all night and wouldn’t be home until the morning, so I put the chain on the front door, turned off the outside light, and fell into bed – only to be jerked awake at one in the morning by what sounded like someone trying to break into the house.

I got up and stomped downstairs. A torch was shining through the glass panels in the door and the door was open as far as the chain would let it go. It was my b****y lodger. For some reason she’d decided to come home after all and hadn’t bothered to let me know, so of course couldn’t get in because the chain was on. I stomped to the door, took the chain off, and stomped back off to bed but could not get back to sleep.

In the cold light of dawn, when I had to be up at six to get ready for work, the whole evening no longer seemed like such a good idea. On reflection, it had possibly been a very bad idea indeed. But, we’d had fun, so I guess that’s more important than a slight headache.

Speaking of Franki, which we were a few minutes ago, she has discovered that when she goes to Reading University next year, she will only be able to get a student loan to cover her tuition fees. This means that all her living expenses will need to be found by her. I won’t be able to help because I can barely manage my expenses, let alone those of a student living near London.

Deciding the sensible thing to do would be to get a part-time job near her current university, Franki applied for a few and gained three or four interviews to attend when she returned to university. They all had pros and cons but the one she was hoping for was working for the supermarket chain, Sainsbury’s. And I am delighted to report that she got the job. The hours are perfect – she will be working every Sunday and Monday – as her lectures are only on Thursday and Friday – this will leave her three days every week to study and work on her dissertation. As she doesn’t need the income this year – she receives a very generous living loan – every penny she earns can go into savings ready for next year.

There is also a possibility that when Franki comes home next summer she might be able to transfer to the local Sainsbury’s in Bury. There is even a remote possibility that when she goes to Reading University, she might be able to transfer to the branch there. That is one benefit of working for a large national chain. And of course, as a member of staff, she will get 10% off her grocery shopping which will be very handy.

I am proud of her for realising the financial situation and immediately doing something about it.

Further speaking of Franki, I need to ask for your help with something. She is carrying out a study on cats and would be very grateful if you could help by filling in a short survey to help her with her research. It is only short, and it is about cats – so that’s nice. I will put the link at the end of the blog and would like to thank anyone who takes five minutes to fill it out.

Take care everyone and I look forward to chatting with you next time. Here is the link for the survey and Franki would be very grateful if you could fill it in for her.https://forms.office.com/e/hbEZRccGtc

If anyone is interested in the Airbnb, please message me, and if anyone is coming to the Fringe Festival next weekend, please come to the Guildhall and say hello.

All the best.

Julia Blake