No Heat Please We’re British

Us Brits have a weird relationship with our weather, in that we like to talk about it ALL THE TIME. I know foreigners find this strange even amusing, but what they don’t understand is that we have such a lot of weather it always provides a topic of conversation.

If you live in a climate that’s the same all year round then discussing it would be pointless, even boring, but imagine living in a country where you get up in the morning to grey skies and torrential rain, ok, you think, I’ll wrap up and take a brolly. By lunchtime the clouds have rolled away and a blazing hot sun is threatening to boil you alive and so you sit in the park eating your sandwiches, hunched in sweaty misery next to all the others who got caught out as well. On the way home though, a light hail shower surprises everyone, and that evening you have to put the heating on because it’s “turned a bit chilly”. Now, isn’t that weather worth discussing?

Another thing foreigners cannot seem able to grasp is that the UK DOES NOT HAVE AIR CONDITIONING. Ok, have you got that? I know this is an impossible concept to understand, but it’s true and I will be repeating it several more times. Why not? I hear you cry. Well, most of the time we don’t need it. Indeed, our houses are more geared up to keeping us warm than cool. Also, many of our homes were built long before air conditioning was invented and now we face a choice, spend thousands of pounds ripping our home apart to install it, or simply put up with it those few days or weeks of the year that we really need it.

Britain has a temperate although changeable climate. Our winters are never really that cold, our springs are a marvel of greenness and growth, our autumns are a colourful delight and as for our summers, well, ideally they are warm enough to not need a coat but cool enough to be able to sleep at night and not melt into a sticky pile on the pavement.

Recent years have seen a change to this norm. 2018 saw the British Isles gripped in its most brutal heatwave since 2003. For thirteen long miserable weeks, temperatures soared, it didn’t rain and life for most Brits became a sweaty nightmare. It can’t possibly happen again this year, we all thought, yet the past week has seen temperatures reach 40C and once again Britain has suffered because, as we all know, the UK has NO AIR CONDITIONING.

Brits have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the sun. We love it because hey, it’s warm and we can sit in the pub garden and drink as opposed to sitting inside and drinking. We can attempt barbecues, where usually the man of the family sweats his nads off over an open flame, risking life, limb and his forearm hair, struggling to cook sausages and steak for his family and not give everyone food poisoning.

And as they sit there – on metal patio chairs that removed skin from their thighs when they sat down, munching on sausages that are a bloody sacrifice on one side and a burnt offering on the other, and suffocating from the smoke of all the neighbours barbecues up and down the street – they silently wonder if it wouldn’t have been a lot easier if they’d simply cooked indoors.

But no, it’s a sunny day. It’s the rule. On rare sunny days it is understood that Mrs Brit will charge to the supermarket to denude its shelves of meats to be charred, alcohol to be consumed and salad to be thrown away. Whilst Mr Brit will manhandle the barbecue out of the shed and attempt to scrape off the remains of last year’s one and only barbecue, before finally giving up and announcing knowledgeably that the flames will sterilise anything still living on it.

So, on the odd sunny day we know exactly what to do, strip down to the least level of clothing we can without being illegal, drink copious amounts of alcohol, have a barbecue and prance around in the sun like demented reptiles, desperate to soak up every last ray of cancer-giving light. This of course leads to another British complaint – sunburn. Displaying your interesting sunburn being something of a national sport, you are expected to “man up” and cope with it.

But long-term sun, a heatwave that doesn’t last only as long as a bank holiday but goes on and on for weeks, even months – that, we struggle to cope with. Britain simply hasn’t got hot climate customs. We’re all up and out during the hottest hours of the day, and during the cooler evenings and nights, we all want to sleep. This leads to sleep deprivation and short tempers, and far from being happy, jolly times – roasting hot days can be the most miserable of a British adult’s life. Unless you’re on holiday, and then of course you don’t care.

I don’t cope at all well with the sun. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sunny days – so long as I have shade. And I enjoy balmy warm days of summer – so long as it’s not too hot. And it’s definitely been too hot this past week. A redhead with porcelain skin that has a tendency to freckle – and presumably to malignant melanoma – I tend to avoid sunlight wherever possible, because really, what’s the point? I won’t tan, and third-degree burns are no fun. Trust me, I know.

During a heatwave, there’s no more miserable, grumpy, sleep-deprived creature than a British adult. It’s not so bad for children. I was around for the vicious heatwaves of the 1970’s but don’t remember suffering as much as I do now. When you’re a kid, once school is over and the whole six weeks of holiday lie before you, you can spend each day lying in the garden under a shady tree with bottles of cold pop until your mum calls you in for tea. You can live in your swimsuit and sit in the paddling pool reading for hours on end, until your fingers and toes look like an eighty-year-old albino’s. There is no pressure on you to struggle into grown up work clothes – in my case, a top to toe polyester uniform – and drive in a sweatbox of a car to suffer in a stuffy shop, office or factory because, as we know, the UK has NO AIR CONDITIONING. Children don’t have to cope with housework, cooking and laundry, all things designed to overheat and annoy even the most placid of adults.

I remember endless days lounging around the garden, napping under a big tree and crawling into the paddling pool when the heat got too much. Even the hose pipe ban didn’t stop our fun, my father would sneakily fill the pool under cover of darkness and then tell us kids that it wouldn’t be refilled until the ban was over – so no splashing the water over the side, no putting inappropriate things in it, and absolutely NO WEEING in it! (That last wasn’t directed at me, I hasten to add)

I remember how gradually over the days the level of water would creep downwards, and the amount of grass clippings, dirt and bark would grow until a layer of scum floated on the top coating every child who got in and was just waiting to be trodden all through the house. One year we had a plague of ladybirds and went out in the morning to find a struggling mass of the insects on the water’s surface. Appalled, my brother and I set to with cups and buckets to try and “rescue” every single one.

I loved summers back then, but now they seem something to be endured, with the weather either too cold and wet to do anything with, or so blisteringly hot that I cower inside and seek ever more resourceful ways to cope – putting my underwear in the freezer for a few moments before putting it on being the latest.

So, yes, we Brits talk incessantly about the weather and yes, we moan about it. We’re currently moaning about the heatwave and how horrible it is, but that’s ok, because next week we’ll probably be scraping ice off our windscreens with our fingernails and you can bet we’ll be moaning about that as well.

Oh, and one more thing – the UK DOES NOT HAVE AIR CONDITIONING!

Thank you so much for joining me, and I look forward to chatting to you all again next week.

Love

Julia Blake

An Interview with an Author ~ Becky Wright on her latest Gothic novel, vampires & Mr Stoker

There is no denying the fascination we seem to have with Vampires. They have dominated fiction for decades. Most of us if asked to name one, would say Dracula, and of course he is undoubtedly one of the most infamous figures in literature. However, he was not the first blood sucker. During a stay at Lord Byron’s Lake Geneva villa in 1816, it was John Polidori who put pen to paper to create The Vampyre. It was on this same infamous occasion that Mary Shelley penned Frankenstein. It is said that Polidori sculptured his vampire, the suave noblemen Lord Ruthven, on Byron himself; ironically so, as the short work of fiction was first credited to Lord Byron himself by his publishers. Eighty or so years later, there is no doubt that Bram Stoker took inspiration from Polidori’s Vampyre to create what we now see as one of the most iconic characters in horror. What it is about these life sucking, blood thirty villains that we find so fascinating? ~ Becky Wright Author

So, first of all, let me say a big hello to Becky Wright, and congratulations on the publication of your latest book “Mr Stoker & I” which was released just yesterday:

Thank you so much Julia, this book feels like it’s been a long time coming.

Now, I was fortunate enough to read an advance copy of the novel, and I absolutely loved it. To me it felt very timeless and had elements of classical novelists such as Emily Bronte and Mary Shelley. Was that intentional?

Honestly, I don’t think it was intentional at all. And it wasn’t until all my beta readers mentioned the same thing that I sat back and thought about it. For it to be described as Gothic literature rather than Gothic fiction, was the best compliment I can get as a writer. I have a true love for the classics, for the lyrical prose, the phrasing; it has a certain kind of timing to it, melodious, like a musical score. I have to admit that I don’t read much contemporary fiction at all, as my heart has always belonged firmly planted in the past. Obviously, it’s rubbed off on me.

In the story, you’ve gone right back to the pre-vampire era, and I think “Mr Stoker & I” could be considered an origin tale. Would you agree?

Right up until the point of marketing; I had never really of Mr Stoker & I as a vampire story. There are no fangs, or bats, no cloaked figures. And that is because you are right, it’s more a tale of vampire incarnation, of how it came to be, of how one family’s desperation finds faith in misguided belief, with catastrophic conciseness. It’s a story of “what if?”

Have you always been fascinated by vampires? Or is this a recent interest inspired by the book?

I’m not a huge vampire fiction reader, for me it’s all about the characters and the emotions they make me feel along their journey. I love horror, whether it’s vampires, ghosts or poor lost souls. Yet saying that, Dracula is without a doubt one of my favourite classics. It sits alongside Wuthering Heights, and for me it’s for about the dark side of human nature. Maybe there is something in Bram’s writing, in his words, that struck a chord in me – fine tuning and orchestrating Mr Stoker & I.

One of the book’s main characters is Mr Bram Stoker himself, the creator of the best-known of all vampires, Dracula. How much research did you do on him, and did you discover any surprising facts about the father of the vampire genre?

I certainly have a passion for Bram Stoker himself, over the past year or so whilst writing I’ve referred to him fondly as my dear Bram. During the whole writing process, I found myself reading biographies, articles, anything I could find about the man behind Dracula. I think the most notable fact was although he was a famed writer in his lifetime – alongside his ‘day jobs’ of theatre manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, and being manager to Sir Henry Irving – it was not until after his death that Dracula was pulled into the limelight as we know him. As is so often the case with great artists.

Why do you think Dracula was such an instant hit with the Victorian reader?

Published in May 1897, it wasn’t the immediate success and hit you would imagine with the readers of the time. It wasn’t until after his death that the 20^th century readers became more obsessed with Count Dracula. The 1922 movie Nosferatu certainly had something to do with that.

Even though he’s a blood thirsty killer, the appeal of Dracula has never faded from popularity and has spawned a whole vampire culture, what do you think can account for this lasting fascination?

Maybe there is something quite sensual about it. The appeal of immortality, of being devoured. And there is also something quite lustful about vampires. I think that’s how it has developed, that a lot of modern vampire fiction tends to lean towards making death romantic. Although Dracula was not so debonair, or suave, more the desperate blood sucking fiend.

Dracula spawned an entire literary genre, and I wondered what you thought of the recent incarnation of vampires in series such as “Twilight” and “The Vampire Diaries”?

They are not really my thing. Not to say they don’t have their place; they certainly have their fans and success. They have fulfilled or perhaps fed, an insatiable hunger of the young blood-thirsty readers, who are maybe looking for more romance than actual horror.

A remorseless serial killer or a misunderstood anti-hero? Where do you personally place vampires?

I’m afraid my vampires will always be more blood thirsty killers. Whether they are pretty to look at or grotesque monsters, they thrive on the kill, perhaps with a lingering sense of remorse for the human they once were, but it’s all about their own survival.

Even before Bram Stoker penned the immortal “Dracula” the vampire myth has persisted in folklore, especially in the Transylvania area of Europe, with tales of Vlad the Impaler immediately springing to mind. Do you think there’s any substance to these wild tales? And do you have any theories as to the origins of the vampire legend?

If you look into the history of vampires almost every culture has it’s own origin. Mostly existing in folklore, beings feeding on the vital energy force of the living, which is where blood comes in. And as with most folklore, myths and legends, maybe there is that small seed of fact to begin with.

Now the setting of “Mr Stoker & I” is the quaint British seaside town of Whitby – where Dracula is supposed to have first come ashore. Have you ever visited the town? If you have, can you share your impressions of it.

I adore Whitby. I first visited the town about a decade ago, and without a doubt because of its connection with Bram Stoker feel an affinity with the place. We recently revisited and I didn’t want to come home. Even if you put aside any connection to Bram or Dracula, Whitby Abbey dominates the headland with an open invitation, and the town has a vibe to it, it says – welcome, come sit a while, watch the sea, listen.

“Mr Stoker & I” is such a rich and evocative read and harkens back to a more detailed and sumptuous style of writing. Was this deliberate? Or did this style evolve as you were writing the book?

I had no set-out plan of how the book was going to feel, the style, or even the exactness of its genre. All I knew was Lucy had to tell you her story, and how she was going to do that, well, I left that up to her.

I know this is the question that appears in every author interview, but where did the inspiration for the book arise? Was it a germ of an idea that gradually developed? Or did the whole plot come to you complete?

I had planned – I may still plan – to write a collection of macabre short stories, a collection of Penny Dreadfuls – and an image of a piece of carved Whitby jet came to mind, an elaborate mourning piece of jewellery the Victorians were so good at. Whitby has an incredible collection in their museum. This tiny germ of an idea quickly altered into something quite different, as when I really thought about Whitby I didn’t think of jet, but Dracula, and in turn Bram Stoker and his visit in the Summer of 1890. Then the idea of, what if?

If you were suddenly face to face with a vampire how would you react? Would you be afraid and try to escape? Or do you think you’d succumb to his fatal charm?

Do you know, I have no idea? Maybe the Gothic romantic in me would like to think it was a move of seductive charm and gladly succumb to my fate. But in all likelihood, it would be a moment of savage primitive need, and if I didn’t escape my last moments would be having my throat ripped out. Not very romantic after all… I think I’d run for it.

And a question that I know every reader of “Mr Stoker & I” will want answered. Is that it? Or will there be any more tales from the world of the father of vampires?

For me, Mr Stoker & I has a definite ending, as in, there will not be a sequel to the story and Bram will not appear again. Now, having said that, I do plan another book set in Whitby. There will most certainly be some ties to Miss Lucy and her ancestry and Blackthorn Manor itself. Although I can’t promise vampires, I can promise it will be a dark Gothic tale befitting of its era and surroundings.

One of the wonderful things about the book is its striking and mesmerising cover. Now I know you created this yourself, but can you talk us through the process a little. And was this the image you always imagined for the cover, or one that developed after the book was written?

I cannot take credit for the cover. It was most certainly in its entirety the work of my incredible husband. He plays a huge role in my writing process and knew the story very well before he started. I had a completely different vision for the cover, but having total faith in his abilities, I just let him run with it. And just as well I did, my idea was nothing compared the deliciously dark Gothic feel it has.

“Mr Stoker & I” is so detailed and so sumptuously written, that I wondered how long it took you in total to write it?

I am a terribly slow writer. Not that I think it should be seen as a fault, more a way I work. I put a lot of time and effort in my first draft. So much so, that I’m not sure it ever really is a rough first draft. I tend to polish and refine as I go in order to fully uphold the mood of the book as I write. I feel if it was too much of a rough draft, I would lose interest very quickly. Last year, we moved house whilst in the midst of my writing, which brought with it a whole host of time consuming and brain aching issues with it. Taking all that into account, I spent around 18 months on it.

When I was reading the novel, I couldn’t help but picture it as a wonderfully atmospheric film. Would you enjoy seeing it adapted for the big screen? And if it was and you could choose, who would you like to see play the main characters?

I would love to see it on the big screen, or maybe even better on the small screen as a 3-part period drama. As to who would play the main leads, that is a hard one. When I write, I do have a mental picture of the characters, they creep very quickly under my skin, but never in so much physical form, as in their emotions and thoughts, the essence of who they are, not what they look like. I shall have to give this one lots of thought.

And finally, what can Becky Wright fans expect from you next? Is there a plot already bubbling in your imagination, and if so, can you give us a few teasers?

What’s next? More dark, more Gothic, more horror. I’m working on a novella, something short for later in the year. Id love to say Halloween, but I’ve learnt not to give dates as life changes quickly. What I will say is my main character this time is quite a feisty little number, and not sure I’d want to cross her.

Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy weekend publishing the book to talk to us, Becky. I know I speak for all your readers and fans when I say how thrilled we are that another wonderful book of Becky Wright inspired horror is available to grace our bookshelves.

Should you wish to buy a copy of “Mr Stoker & I” for yourselves or would like to follow Becky, then links are all below.

There’s a Paw Print on my Heart

I’ve always loved animals. As a child, I desperately wanted a cat, but my parents said no. They wanted no animals in the house, they were dirty and too much work. So, I contented myself with befriending all the neighbourhood cats. Eventually, I was bought rabbits for my eleventh birthday. Two little chocolate Dutch rabbits called Bonny and Fluffy – I was eleven, don’t judge me. I loved my rabbits, and through those traumatic teen years often wept into their fur and cuddled their little bodies until they were so tame, they’d jump from the hutch into my arms. But they weren’t a cat.

At 21 I was married with a flat of my own, and at last I could get a cat. So off I trotted to the local stray cat’s home to get a kitten. A dear little fluffball that would love and snuggle with me at night. Instead, I came home with a fat, three-year-old tom cat called Zac. (For the full story of why this occurred and how Zac “chose” me, please read my book “Becoming Lili”).

Right from day one, Zac made it plain I was his human and existed to fulfil his every need. Which I did, because I idolised him. He was good-natured and funny, had a personality as big as all the world, and was the most gentlemanly cat I’ve ever encountered. I once had a friend visit with her two small children who were a bit over-zealous with their attentions towards Zac.

“Zac just hissed at Katie.”

“What?! Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry, he’s never done that before.”

“No, no, she’s pulled his tail, squeezed his paws, poked him in the eye, stuck her finger in his ear, yanked on his collar and sat on him – I think he was well within his rights to hiss at her!

And that was Zac in a nutshell. In the seven wonderful years I had him, I never saw him lift a claw to a human being – the local wildlife, ah, sadly, that was another matter – I once opened the back door to find nine bodies lined up in a row. NINE! With Zac the mighty hunter sitting there, white chest puffed up with pride he’d provided so much meat for his woman. What was more impressive was they were all lined up in order of size, from a large rabbit one end right down to a tiny shrew at the other. He’d bitten all the heads off though, because of course as provider he got first dibs. A rule I firmly respected. I would always make a fuss of him and then wait until he sauntered off, proud tail in the air, before shudderingly disposing of the bodies in the bin. Well, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, did I?

Once, I was sitting on the sofa when a loud SQUAWK split the evening air. Startled, I looked up as the cat flap burst open and a very large seagull head was thrust through. Shocked, both bird and I eyed each other up, before he uttered another squawk and was dragged back through the flap. Intrigued, I crept over and peered through, only to see Zac, jaws clamped firmly around the seagull’s shoulder, eyeing up the cat flap as if wondering how to get this rather large thing he’d caught indoors. It plainly wasn’t going through headfirst, so how about if he… slowly, Zac backed his butt through the cat flap, his intention clear. Drag it through backwards, that’ll work! Trying hard not to roll on the floor with laughter, I waited until his back legs were in, then tapped him on the bottom and shouted. Shocked, he let go and the gull flew away, totally unharmed and with a hell of a story to tell his mates down the pub that night.

I adored Zac. He was The Boy, my best friend, my comfort. Tragically I didn’t get to keep him for long, and ironically it was his love of hunting that was his downfall. The empty house next door had an infestation of mice, so the sellers called in exterminators, Zac ate a poisoned mouse and that was the end of him. Broke. My. Heart. I’ve had other cats since, and of course I’ve loved them, but not the way I loved him. You never forget your first.

Next came a pair of sisters – Pandora and Perdita – six months old and cute as buttons. Pandora a sleek short haired black cat. Perdita a tiny black and white fluffball. They were as different as chalk and cheese. Pandora was a comfortable, loving, sensible cat, who was also a very impressive ratter and mouser – not quite in the same league as The Boy, but still not bad. Perdita couldn’t have caught a cold if her life depended on it. Jealous of her sister’s prowess, she’d desperately raid bird tables and bring back crusts of bread and foraged bits of cake for my approval. Half eaten McDonalds would be dragged through the cat flap, and once she brought back almost an entire rack of BBQ ribs! They also hated each other, and jealousy would run rife if one caught the other being given attention.

Perdita was a wannabe alcoholic, and visitors were warned not to leave drinks unattended as the cat would have them. Once, desperately trying to fight a serious slug problem in our garden, we put out beer slug traps. We should have known that was a bad idea. Perdita gaily knocked the lids off, ate the beer marinated slugs and drank the juice. She then came into the lounge, squinted at us, puked green slug all over the rug, and lay on her back for the rest of the day quite clearly inebriated.

Then I had a baby; and bringing Miss F home from the hospital I was a little concerned. How would the cats react? Used to being sole centre of our attention, would they be jealous of the baby? I needn’t have worried. Pandora was very polite. She looked at this pink, squirming thing, then removed herself from its presence. Never unkind to the baby, she made her supreme indifference to its existence plain. Perdita on the other hand, was completely different. Right from the word go, it was love at first sight.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a cat loving a baby as much as Perdita loved Miss F. I couldn’t keep those two apart, and in the end, I gave up. They were meant to be. I don’t have a single baby photo that doesn’t have that little black and white scrap in it, and if the baby ever cried, Perdita was immediately there to comfort and cheer. At the time, we had a tank of tropical fish, and every morning after breakfast I’d pop Miss F in her pushchair in front of the tank. Her and Perdita would sit there together and watch the brightly moving fish, mesmerised, and occasionally turning to each other in wonder when a fish would flash by in a blaze of bright colour.

When she started moving around, Miss F was a roller and would roll from one end of the room to the other, right over anything that happened to be in the way. She’d roll straight over Perdita and there’d be a tangle of cat and child, which scared me at first because I thought this tiny animal might be crushed. But no, the cat would emerge, wild-eyed and skittish from the ride, and immediately dash to position herself to be rolled over again.

Perdita was my adorable problem child, no one could pick her up except me, and she stayed as tiny as a kitten. Her ability to be sick anywhere was an ongoing problem, until we realised, she was allergic to cat food (of course she was) and had to buy expensive special formula biscuits for her. Then one day she got ill, she lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose, and her spark faded. We took her to the vet. I knew in my heart we wouldn’t be bringing her back and I’d warned Miss F – who was nine at the time – that we were going to have to be very brave. I was right, it was kidney failure, the curse that seems to get most cats in the end.

Now I’ve been told I was wrong, that I shouldn’t have allowed my young daughter to be present when Perdita was put down, but I stand by my decision. Miss F held her friend in her arms, soothing and loving her as the vet slipped in the needle and that dear little scrap let go of the last thread of life she’d been clinging to. Then we brought her home. Miss F sat and cuddled her body for a while, and cried good healthy tears, then we made a beautiful coffin out of a shoebox and lined it with silk, before holding a moving funeral in the back garden. It wasn’t gross or disgusting, it was natural and healing, and it taught my daughter that yes, it’s fun to have a pet, but taking on the responsibility of an animal means so much more than just feeding them and playing with them. It means cleaning up after them, taking care of their needs and, ultimately, making that tough decision and soothing their way at the end.

That left Pandora. Elderly, quiet and loving, Pandora remained a sweet and gentle creature right up to her own demise two years later. But I have no comforting memories of her end, and her exit wasn’t the loving, dignified death her sister had. I noticed she was off her food; with a sinking heart realised the weight was dropping off her and recognised the familiar symptoms of kidney failure. Bracing ourselves for the inevitable, we took her to the vet.

Only we didn’t see our normal vet – vastly experienced and elderly, he’d been vet to all our animals and knew them well. He was away, so instead we got a young, fresh out of university, vet who perkily informed us that no, Pandora might yet be saved. I was not convinced, as far as I was aware there was no coming back from kidney failure and it was a long, painful death for the animal. I certainly didn’t want that for Pandora, but against my better judgement allowed tests to be run and we brought her home to await results.

Two days passed, two days in which she slowly wasted away. Then my normal vet phoned me at work, furious she’d been left to suffer – I got the impression the young vet had been firmly spoken to – and adamant Pandora’s suffering must be ended as soon as possible. An emergency appointment was made for that evening and I hurried home to collect the cat and Miss F and take them to the vet. But Pandora was gone, and by gone, I don’t mean died, I mean she’d gone as in vanished. Taken herself off into the cold, dark, wet October night to die all alone.

We put notes through doors. Every single neighbour turned out. Every single one. In the darkness they took torches and searched for her, in and behind sheds, under bushes, in compost heaps – anywhere they thought a cat might have crawled to die, they searched. It astounded me how many hearts Pandora had touched in the fifteen years she’d lived on the street, and everyone had a Pandora story to tell. For several hours we looked, but it was no good, we never found her.

The guilt of that lives with me still. She was my cat, I was her human, she trusted me, and I let her down. At the end, when she needed me most, I wasn’t there for her, and the thought of her going alone into that dark night is one that will never leave me.

But life moves on. Miss F was desperate for another cat, a young one this time, one that had chosen her and would be her special friend. The house felt empty without an animal in it, so we went to the RSPCA and found a little, black, nine-month-old girl called Skittles. Sweet, loving and friendly, she settled into our home immediately and now, over five years later, it’s hard to imagine life without her.

But nothing ever goes smoothly, and now Skittles is sick with some mysterious ailment that has left her nervous and reluctant to come into the house anymore. The vet has diagnosed anxiety, but I don’t know how that can be treated, or even if it can be. I wonder sometimes why we bother to have pets; my parents were right in that they can be dirty and a lot of trouble, and then they die and break your heart. But, a house without a pet in it? To me that wouldn’t be a home.

I’m sorry this week’s blog has been a bit of a ramble, I actually was unsure what to chat to you about, but concern about Skittles had me sitting down and pouring my thoughts out to you all. I will keep you posted on Instagram and Facebook about her progress, and links to these are at the bottom of the page.

Next week, we’ll be exploring the fascinating topic of vampires in literature and I’ll have a special guest appearance and interview with the lovely Becky Wright, whose wonderful new book “Mr Stoker & I” will be released next Saturday – trust me, I was lucky enough to read an advance copy and it is fantastic.

Hope you can join me then.

Julia

Party Mania!

It’s been a crazy, full on, seven days since we last chatted. As I sit here typing this it’s 4pm on Saturday afternoon and the blog goes live 8am tomorrow – yes, I do push things to the wire – it’s an overcast, muggy day and the rain is hammering down outside the open back door, the smell of petrichor is wafting into the house, and Ibiza Live is on the radio – “baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more”.

On Wednesday it was my daughter’s Sweet Sixteenth birthday party. Now it’s not actually her proper birthday until mid-August, but she has a friendship group of ten girls, and they are such social butterflies that last Wednesday was literally the only day they could all do. So, Miss F was like the Queen this year (gawd bless you ma’am) and will have two birthdays!

We’d discussed what sort of party she wanted to celebrate turning 16, and I’d braced myself for the expected all night rave, illegal drinking and other shenanigans that most sixteen-year-olds seem to expect nowadays. She gave me a bit of a strange look and said:

“Do you know what I’d really, really like.”

“No, what?”

“I’d really like an old-fashioned, retro, birthday party – with crustless sandwiches, and cake, and balloons, and bubbles, and party games – lots of party games, with prizes, and take home bags at the end, oh, and a really special birthday cake.”

I was speechless. But she was adamant, so silently heaving a sigh of relief, we made plans. Games were arranged, beautiful take bags were put together, shopping lists were made comprising of wonderful nostalgic food such as jam tarts, French fancies and even cheese and pineapple hedgehogs which took me right back to parties of my childhood.

Party day dawned beautiful and sunny. Guests were expected at midday, so we left town at 8am to do the 45-minute round trip to collect her cake from the cake-makers in a nearby village. Banging along the A14 we were talking and making plans for the best way to get things done, when an awful suspicion crept up on me that we’d been on the motorway a long time. Yep. I’d missed the turnoff and we’d gone miles out of our way. Panic ensued. Miss F frantically searched Google maps to see where I could get off and go back, but due to inexpertly given directions and me being a slow to react idiot, we missed the slipway back onto the A14 and ended up heading cross-country.

No problem, we thought, we’re heading in the right direction, sure it’ll take us a few minutes longer to get home, but we’re ok still for time. Then suddenly we were off the map and into territory unknown – here be dragons – driving through small villages with unlikely names such as Swaffham Bulbeck (I kid you not). To complicate the issue, we’re bang on school run time, so tiny village lanes are crowded with mega people carriers that are apparently necessary for maniac mummies to get an undersized seven-year-old to school! I accidentally ran a stop junction and nearly hit another car – oops, sorry – then suddenly we were where we wanted to be. It is an unacknowledged fact that British country lanes all inevitably end up in the same place, eventually. Cake was collected. We were back on the A14 heading for home. Trip into the nether regions of the Shire survived. We were running late, so I put my foot down, and a little icon of a petrol pump lit up on my dashboard.

Oh poop. Just what you want. I don’t drive very far normally so I’m really light on fuel use, but I’d done a lot of driving around lately what with prom and all that nonsense the week before, so of course I’d gone through it a lot faster than normal.

“Why is there an orange petrol pump alight on your dashboard?”

“Oh, it’s fine, it just means that I need to pop some petrol in when I get a chance.”

“Is it serious? I mean, how quickly do we need to find a garage?”

“Don’t worry, it’s only if it starts to flash that it’s a problem.”

It started to flash.

“It’s flashing!”

“Yes, I know.”

“But it’s flashing! And you said…”

“Yes, I know what I said, but it’s fine… fine.”

“Why are you slowing down? Shouldn’t you be driving faster to get to the garage quicker?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

I babied my car along the motorway, going so slowly I even annoyed lorry drivers. Was it my imagination, or was the flashing getting more frenzied? We limped into town and stopped at the first garage we came to. Filling up, I heard the petrol hit the bottom of the tank. Oops.

Finally, we’re home. Party T-minus one hour and counting. Luckily I’d had the day off before so a lot of prepping had already been done, but still organised chaos ensued as I quickly put together the food and Miss F hung balloons, strung bunting in the garden and figured out how the bubble machine worked. All was ready with five minutes to spare – just time to rip a comb through my hair and quickly spray on scent and change my top.

After all that, I’m happy to report the party was an unqualified success. The girls loved all the games and the fact they were divided into two teams – House Sloth and House Llama – and that every game scored points for their houses and won prizes for themselves. I’d judged the food perfectly – one round of sandwiches left and a few bits of cake, and until 6pm the whole house and garden rang with the sound of happy laughter and excited squeals as the tension grew (at one point I was convinced pass the parcel was going to end in bloodshed).

It was charming and innocent. I expect many reading this will think it all sounds a bit boring, but it wasn’t, it really wasn’t. The games were fun and competitive, with all entering completely into the spirit of things. As Miss F says, this was really the last time she could get away with having such a sweetly simple party and judging by the heartfelt thanks as the girls left and the enthusiastic messages received next day, the party was a resounding success.

That’s it now for main events this year until Christmas. Well, there is my birthday coming up, but it won’t be such an event. At least, I don’t think it will be, but you never know….

Lots of Love

Julia

To Prom or not to Prom?

It was my daughter’s prom this week. Being British, this meant Miss F was only 15 years old, not 18 as she would have been, were she attending prom in America. Like many American customs that have crossed the pond, this one has had to be adapted to suit a different educational structure. Whereas in America, children attend the same high school until 18, here in the UK children can leave their upper school at 16 to move into further education – be it college, vocational training, an apprenticeship of some kind, or to take A levels in sixth form.

I was unsure how I felt about the whole prom business. I mean, when I attended upper school – back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, we had an end-of-school disco and were grateful for it. A DJ was hired – probably someone’s older brother who had a mobile disco and was prepared to do it cheap – the school assembly hall might have a few balloons hanging about, and there were a variety of bulk bought fruit squashes for the student to re-hydrate with. I’m not sure there was even food available, but if there was, it would only have been a few crisps and maybe some store-bought sausage rolls. Teachers would have lurked on the edges to make sure that no shenanigans occurred between students, and most of us were there dateless. Girls would congregate on one side of the hall, and the boys would huddle together on the other – apart from a few couples who would self-consciously linger in the no-man’s land in-between.

It was all very basic and very innocent, and very cheap – parents might have been asked to contribute a small amount to cover the squash and the disco, but that would have been it. As for expensive prom dresses and suits – well, I do remember my best jeans came out for the occasion, along with a new top – but that was as far as it went. Although, I do have fond memories of slipping across the highly polished wooden floor in my pixie boots doing the “Prince Charming!”

When my daughter’s prom rolled around, I wasn’t too sure what to expect – but had a feeling I wouldn’t get off as lightly as my parents had. Three months ago the pressure began – all the other girls already had their outfits (they didn’t), if we didn’t buy something immediately, then everything would be gone (doubtful), and stores put their prices up the closer to prom you shopped (not likely, but I suppose possible). So, we hit the local shops and found the entire outfit in the sales, including underwear and accessories for £160. I later found out I’d been incredibly lucky to have found a dress straight away that (a) both my daughter and I agreed on (b) fitted exactly, needing no alteration (c) didn’t require negotiating a loan from my bank. Some parents, I was reliably informed, had spent upwards of £250 just on the dress. To which I responded – “more bloody fool them.”

Events like proms are yet one more occasion that lurk to trip the hapless single parent struggling on a tight budget. Once again, we are torn. Obviously, we want our child to be happy, we want them to look amazing and feel confident in their outfit – BUT – and it’s a big but, there has to be an element of common-sense control. £250 for a dress that will be worn probably just once is a ridiculous and slightly obscene notion. I could feed us both for over a month on that amount, and I think everyone would agree that food is more essential than ball gowns.

The closer to prom we got, the more extravagant became the lengths some parents were prepared to go to. A stretch limo for one 15-year-old to be driven two miles down the road, classic cars hired especially for the occasion, even a silver party bus! It all started to have a whiff of one-upmanship, a game I flatly refuse to play, and luckily my daughter and her friendship group agreed. Tentative enquiries were made into the cost of hiring a limo between them, jaws dropped when they heard the price, and a group decision was decided to save their money and schlepp it there in the two smartest cars the parents could rustle up between them. I did offer. I was declined. Apparently a 1996 Nissan Micra with more rust than paint and cobwebs hanging off the wing mirrors wasn’t even in the running for consideration. Instead I was relegated to the role of Mum’s Taxi, shuttling carloads of girls out to the brave mum who’d volunteered her home to be the base of operations and sleepover central – rather her than me, and then collecting them all the next morning to run them to their various homes.

Question: how many teenage girls can you fit in a tiny, two door Nissan Micra along with all their clothes, prom dresses, make-up, hair products and bedding?

Answer: Four, with very careful packing – honestly, the whole exercise turned into a game of car Tetris.

But I guess what you all want to know after this long ramble, is did Miss F enjoy it? And did I feel it was worth the money? Considering the final bill including hair and make-up probably came to £230. Well, I am happy to say she had a ball, literally. The venue was a beautifully restored 14^th century barn on the outskirts of town, and the food was everything a teenager would want it to be. Her friendship group of eight had a wonderful time getting ready together, and judging by the photos, had a lot of fun dancing the night away. Afterwards, there was a sleepover with a midnight feast and games.

And how do I feel about proms now? While I do still think it is a little excessive for 15 and 16 year olds, I can see why it is held now and not in two years-time. Most of these young people have suffered through eleven years of school together, they’ve endured sarcastic teachers, disastrous school trips, tedious assemblies and the terror of exams. But now that’s over. They’re all scattering, going their separate ways. Many will lose touch; friendships will slip; and the girl you sat next to in Chemistry for years will soon be nothing more than a fading memory.

This night was their last hurrah, their final chance to be together as school children and bond in one, stupendous evening that will be remembered for the rest of their lives. Truly, a coming of age experience, and one I’m glad my daughter participated in. Yes, it stretched me financially, caused me to tear my hair out with stress, and had me driving around country lanes like a mad thing, going back for forgotten tickets and cramming so much into my poor little car I could feel it straining up the hills, but ultimately, it was worth it.

The chance to see my tomboy daughter looking like a princess for one night, watching her and her friends pose self-consciously for photos in their finery, giggling, pulling stray curls off mouths plastered with lipstick, teetering in unfamiliar heels and awkwardly clutching tiny bags bought for the occasion. Then waving them off to a night that represented the culmination of eleven years of hard work on their part – it was worth every single penny.

Do Middle-Aged Woman Become Invisible? Guest interview Toni Kief

Join me and the wonderful
author, Toni Kief, as we
discuss the role of the older
woman in literature and
in life.

Do women become invisible as they get older? That is certainly the opinion of this week’s guest the fabulously funny author, Toni Kief. Author of five independently published books, she made a conscious decision to have her heroines buck the trend and consequently they are smart, opinionated, determined and are definitely what would be termed – ladies of advanced years. I asked her what first triggered this realization that us older girls become more or less invisible to society, and she responded with the statement below.

“There is nothing more amazing than a four-year-old girl. Confident, cute to the max, all-knowing, and energetic, she can dominate a room. This moment is before the demands of society wrestles her into insecurity. Doomed to forget that she is more than a reflection and a fractured comparison to photoshopped beauty. By the teen years, she hates her unique perfection and tries to undermine her brilliance.

Often the girl chooses to stifle her genius and dedicates decades to the success of those she loves. Then one day, the shock of fading into the background from the social scene hits. This phenomenon is usually in the mid to late forties. Simply another step is taking her to a trivializing, “cute.” But this time it is the precursor to the dismissive label of elderly.

When I turned sixty, I realized I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. By that recognition, I had already become completely invisible, and any attention felt like charity. So many years dedicated to the success of husbands, children, and maintaining food and shelter, I didn’t make time to dream. After accusing my mother of sneaking around behind my mirrors, I started to look deeper. We crones were everywhere, but you have to search. There’s one carrying a covered dish, another offering aspirin, one more babysitting, or over there sitting quietly in the corner. NO, it’s our turn. I decided to do something, anything to celebrate us.

In an unintentional challenge, never meant to be serious, I started to write. Unlike many who have silently written for entire lives, that wasn’t me. After a couple of hundred short stories, there was the afternoon I saw a woman of an unexpected age. She was walking, no stomping, on the side of the road. She was deep in an animated conversation with the cosmos, and she was angry. That was the moment that birthed my first book, Old Baggage. Gifted with the realization that all of us have stories to tell, I continued. Women, not girls, face choices and make new beginnings when least expected. Our stories are sometimes shocking, victorious, heartbreaking, and funny. They arise from an unplanned change. However it happens, those twists make us who we were meant to be.

Our confident, beautiful, all-knowing selves from the age of four, are back. So, I decided to make invisibility a superpower, to celebrate my regrets as a tool that brought me to here. I’ll continue to embroider personal stories into legends hoping for a form of immortality.

Today is the beginning. Your assignment is to make art. The art of your choice and move it to primary importance. Right now, form a unique creation with no concern about measuring up to anyone but our four-year-old epic self. Ready, set – go!”

Toni Kief…

Toni, that’s quite a forceful and poignant statement, but do you really believe that when women reach a certain age, we become invisible?

It happens quickly along with a particular birthday, between 45 and fifty. One day, we walk in the room, and heads turn and there are greetings. A week later, around the season of menopause, there is no notice at all. Instead of being asked to dance, I’m now asked to save a chair.

Why do you think that is? Is it because we’re no longer considered attractive to the opposite sex?

The realization that when the Beatles came into popularity, I was too young for Paul McCartney, and now at the age of 70 I’m too old. I agree it has to do with sexuality and a society that has been moulded to worship a glorified idealization of youth and fashion.

As the attention from the opposite sex wanes, I watch the communities of women grow. Little do “they” know that we are coming into our strength. Educational opportunities have grown, and we are no longer considered a victim or frail. In reality only the exceptions were weak.

Throughout history, we women receive a minimal education and placed in a position of support. Many of us have been listening, and reading – growing to a greater role. We are asked daily to prove we can not only take care of ourselves, but children and elders too. Today, I hear the mature voices speaking and building in power, but it is slow going.

Or does it go deeper than that? Perhaps it even has its roots further back in history, to a time when once a woman was no longer able to bear children, she was considered a burden on society?

The historical research I have found genius and accomplishments that were co-opted and demeaned. In earlier times we were witches and hags. Now it is bitches, shrill, and emotional, but things are changing, and it is an exciting time. There were a few women in positions of power. There are some very respected women in history, but at the time, I’m sure they had to battle the patriarchy. In my research I find names daily that have slipped to the foot notes.

Or maybe it’s simply that many middle-aged women dress for comfort and no longer to impress. I must admit, I have heard the siren call of elasticated waistbands and the colour beige myself, which I am so far resisting.

I stopped wearing shoes you couldn’t run in during the women’s rights marches in the 80s. I was the President of the Tampa National Organization for Women. I started a movement to mail our shoes to President Reagan. He had been against women’s rights and the transition from the home and subservience. My last pair of high heels were sent along with over 200 pairs of shoes. There was no acknowledgement in the press, but I was rewarded with an FBI file, which I’m sure is paper and in the back of a cabinet. P.S. the Equal Rights Amendment has never been ratified so American women are still not protected on the Constitution.

Now, I understand that you didn’t start writing yourself until you were a lady of advanced years, what gave you the push to begin?

I didn’t start writing until I was sixty years old. I was in metaphysical group that was disbanding. James Johnson said, “I want to write more.” I’m not sure where the answer came from, but I said, “If you write I’ll write.” Now ten years later we have a total of eight published books between us, and that doesn’t include the cookbooks we never published. (Dangerous Dishes and the Food they Inspire were short biographies of women of history and myth with recipes to go with them.) I have the only printed copy.

What’s your favourite thing that you have written?

Of all my 200 short stories and 5 books. My favourite project is Mildred In Disguise with Diamonds. The first in the Mildred Unchained trilogy. Mildred Petrie is 71, widowed and broke. She walks to a casino, and they offer a job working in security undercover. She isn’t your usual crime fighter and I’d love to hang out with her.

I really enjoyed reading Mildred in Disguise with Diamonds and admired her strength and determination not to let her age slow her down in any way. How much of you is in Mildred?

I’m noisier and more strident than Mildred. But we do share a drive for justice. I considered her completely separate, but as the further books came along, I can’t deny there are some connections.

Before our interview, I thought long and hard about whether I could think of any older heroines in literature at all, other than your own of course, but all I could come up with was Miss Marple from the Agatha Christie books. Can you think of any others? And if you can, did they have any influence on your own heroines?

I’m racking my brain. Most older women in literature are Queens, murderers, or supporting characters. I found The Little Old Lady That Broke All the Rules, by C. Ingelman-Sundberg and found it delightful, but I already had Mildred cooking. I’m noticing a change creeping into the entertainment industry starting with The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. I love that the older actresses are refusing to be pushed aside and building their own projects.

Do you read indie books? If so, are they any that have had an impact on you, and why?

The past four years I have read almost exclusively Indie authors. It has been a wild ride into genres I wouldn’t have read before when I was awash in best sellers. This sounds like a commercial, but one of my favorites was The Forest ~ a tale of old magic ~ written by you. The story was complex, the characters were deep and thoroughly real. There was also Circle of Time by Debra Shiveley Welch, she combined history and time travel in a fascinating way. The Shark God’s Son by Kia Bertrand, this was a modern story into Hawaiian myth and unique read. Last, was another dive into a genre I had avoided before, The Immortality Cure by Tori Centanni, a mystery with a unique vampire twist that is out of the stereotypes.

Did you think about trying for a traditional publishing contract? Or did you go straight to being an indie author? If the latter, why?

I didn’t even try traditional. Since I started writing so much later in life, I didn’t want to wait for agents to reject me and then publishers all adding more months and years to a book. So, I simply went to work, published and then wrote some more.

What are you working on now?

I’m working on a historical fiction about my 8x great grandmother, Susanna Jackson/White/Winslow who was on the Mayflower in 1620. I’m struggling with her book; it is so much more complex that the story that has been given to us in our American history. She also had disappeared for a long time, but was a true foundation to the colonization. Sue Allan from Scrooby Manor has been successful and learning about Susanna.

That sounds fascinating, and of course despite history being mostly told from the male perspective, there are examples of remarkable women doing extraordinary things. Is there any one woman from history whom you particularly admire?

When asked if there is a person alive or dead that I could meet with, I always chose Mary Magdalene and a translator. Since I have spent some years researching women’s history this could read like the movie credits at the end of The Greatest Story Never Told. I’d like to meet Elizabeth Freeman, AKA Mum Bett, she was a slave in the 1770s and sued for her freedom. She was the reason that there wasn’t slavery in Massachusetts from then on. I had researched her and couple years later found my family was the bad guys in the story. In my time in politics I have been fortunate to meet several modern women and I would love to spend more time with Maya Angelou.

What is your pet hate?

Frogs and I don’t know why. I must have seen one with a knife and a sneer when I was a baby. Just thinking about this answer gave me a chill.

Have you ever built it into a character or used it in your writing?

No, it is a silly enough hate it would make a character unbelievable.

What movie can you watch over and over again?

I don’t tend to re-watch movies or reread books. I am embarrassed to say that I’ve seen Grease seven times, but that was accidental – it was on in front of my face.

Grease is the word – if you’d said those seven times were on purpose there’d have been no judgement from this side. Okay, is there one movie you saw and absolutely hated?

I can’t believe how hard it is to answer this question. If I dislike something, I let it go. I have walked out on films, and if it is in a multiplex simply go to the next theatre. I’ll go with the Fast and Furious franchise. I don’t care about fast cars and violence once, let alone 8 of them. Ever since seeing The Mummy’s Ghost on late night TV at the age of 10, I have avoided 99% of the horror genre too.

What’s your favourite quote, ever?

Oscar Wilde, “I’m too old to know everything.”

Name two things in life that you wish were easier.

Getting a good education and cleaning the oven.

Totally feeling it on the oven cleaning front, and I’m not ashamed to admit I actually pay a little man to come and clean mine. It’s my guilty secret, sshh, don’t tell my mother. Do you have a guilty secret? And are you prepared to share it with me – I promise I won’t tell anyone.

I have 23 years of community college and no degree. My father was 43 when he was disabled as a firefighter and went to college. I was a senior in high school, and decided to take the pressure off of him so he could finish. I took classes one at a time and never took math; we can also add 5 years of yoga. I did get a standing ovation in a women’s studies class for the record.

Apart from your cloak of invisibility, if you could have any other superpower, what would it be?

I have thought about this, and I’ll stick with invisibility. I used to dream I could fly, but it was like swimming, about 5 feet off the ground and was about as fast as running. With invisibility I can catch a commercial flight and sneak a sandwich under my cloak at the same time. I assume that as I age the desires become more basic.

Finally, what would you like people to know about being an Indie author?

The writing is the joy, editing the equalizer and marketing the battle. Remember commas are Ninjas that creep around into the night trying to make you look bad. I used to be an insurance investigator called to horrific scenes of destruction in the dead of night. I spend more time and energy writing, but it gives me more reward (well not monetary, but reward none the less). At least before I didn’t wake up at 2 am trying to craft a scene for three hours then doze off and forget most of it.

Author Page – Amazon

Website

Facebook

Many thanks to the amazing Toni Kief for being my guest on A Little Bit of Blake, and thank you for taking the time to join us. I hope you have a great Sunday and look forward to chatting with you all again next week.

Julia Blake

A Blog with a Difference

Hello there, and welcome to my very first blog on “A Little Bit of Blake”! Now, it’s not the first blog I’ve ever attempted, but hopefully this will be the first blog I stick at. Several years ago I started a blog on my website, but I was a brand-new author and completely clueless about how to promote myself and my books. I had no internet presence to speak of, so had no way to drive footfall to my website. Eventually, I grew discouraged at the lack of response, at that feeling I was whispering into the void, and gave up.

Time passed, I published a few more books, became a little more experienced and decided to have another go at this whole blogging lark. This time I started a blog on Goodreads, figuring I might get a bit more traction there, but again, quickly grew bored and the lapses between blogs grew longer until finally I had to admit to myself it was going nowhere and abandoned that one as well.

But now, a few years, a few books and a lot more friends and followers later, I’m going to have another try and this time I think it might stick, because I finally understand what I want my blog to be about.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m an author, I write and publish books, so a good proportion of my blogs will be about books – both mine and other authors – and the whole writing process in general, but that’s not all I am. I’m a single mother, I’m a busy working woman, I’m a reader and reviewer, I’m a complex and multi-faceted person who is interested in a wide range of far reaching topics. Most of all, I’m someone who appreciates that life is sometimes wonderful, sometimes not so much, that it is complicated and hard and difficult. That every day we all get up, shape up and try to make the best we can of what’s been given us. Yet life is also amazing and diverse and best of all, funny. That’s what I want to blog about, life and everything that it entails.

Once a month, sometimes more often, I will have a guest on my blog who has an interesting story to tell. Not just authors, but people from other walks of life as well. People who’ve done something amazing, have faced the darkness and fought their way back to the light. People who are giving everything they have for something they believe in. People – wonderful, diverse, real people with honest tales of real life. That’s what I want my blog to be about, you guys! So, if you have a story you think might be of interest to others then please get in touch and maybe you could be a future guest. If you’ve done something amazing, or are doing something fantastic, then likewise get in touch.

I do hope you’ll stick around. I can’t guarantee you’ll always be interested in everything I blog about. I can’t promise you’ll find my guests interesting, but I can promise to do my best to entertain and enlighten you.

And of course I will talk about this crazy writing journey that I’m on, the ups and downs, the funny bits and the soul destroying bits, but this will be different from the normal authors blogs in that I won’t preach or tell you what you’re doing is wrong. I’m not really the best person to give advice as I’m still pretty much fumbling around in the dark myself. What I will offer is support and encouragement, and the knowledge that you are not alone. That whatever you are going through, I’ve probably been through it as well, or at the very least know someone else who has.

So, what do you think? Worth a look? If I’ve piqued your interest even a little, then why not check my blog every Sunday to see what my week has been like and check out my latest guest. I’m always open to suggestions for any topics you’d like me to explore, or maybe you’d simply like to comment on something in the blog that has touched a nerve with you.

Next Sunday is Father’s Day in the UK and I’ll be looking at the very sensitive subject of how to handle it if your child’s father is absent from their lives. This was a real issue for me when my daughter was younger, and I’ll talk about how we handled – and continue to handle it – together.