Everything Will Be Okay In The End

The early autumn sky has been filled with the movement and sound of house martins swooping over the house, resting on the roof and sitting on the wires, chattering and clicking to each other. And now silence. Suddenly they’ve left, on their way back to sunnier climes.

We, however, are not on our way. We reduce the asking price of our house which piques a smattering of interest, but not the deluge we’re hoping for. It’s even more soul-destroying than I expected when we started this process. ‘Everything will be okay in the end,’ I keep telling myself and even though I know there is no point in getting worked up about something that’s completely beyond my control, it’s hard to find acceptance.

Sailing opportunities have been few and far between this year, but with an ideal combination of weather and tide, Tom and I set off to the boat with the aim of dropping anchor in the Pembroke River for an overnight stay. There’s just one problem; the engine won’t start and resists every effort to coax it into life. After swallowing our disappointment we decide we’ll stay on the boat anyway and make the most of our visit. Our berth is on the edge of the Westfield Pill nature reserve, an old railway line surrounded by woodland and lagoons, and today offers the perfect opportunity to explore it. It’s a real treat, especially in this beautiful weather; there are bright pops of wild flowers, swans gliding across the water, ducklings scurrying along under the supervision of their mother and suddenly - gloriously - there is a vivid, neon flash of electric blue. It’s a kingfisher! I haven’t seen a kingfisher since I was a little girl on holiday in Devon and this sighting makes my day and I can’t help but reflect that if the outboard engine had started I would have missed a moment that will live in my mind’s eye forever.

The Cardiff Half Marathon’s approaching fast and I know I’ve put it a lot of hard work and many miles to be ready on the day. It’s ironic then, that I almost derail all that effort altering my charity vest! It’s too loose a fit for my liking and I know it’ll annoy me if it flaps about when I’m running so I dig out my sewing machine, unfold my trestle table… and feel a sudden pain in a hamstring. Wargh! Ever one for catastrophising, I have visions of my race being over before it’s begun. To my huge, huge relief - and with a great deal of care and caution - I’m back on track. Now, all I have to do is tick over until race day on 1 October.

Ma receives good news, her treatment at The Royal Marsden Hospital has been successful; she’s been discharged from their care and will continue to have regular checkups with her dermatologist. As a small thank you, I set up a Just Giving page in support of The Royal Marsden Cancer Charity, so that this brilliant hospital which is at the forefront of cancer research can continue to be there for everyone who needs it. I’m truly grateful to everyone who has so kindly and generously donated and raised £295 so far… and if anyone feels like chipping in with a small sum to meet my target, it would be very much appreciated too. Thank you.

My First Book Signing!

It’s a fine, dry day and there’s an Italian market in the square outside Waterstone’s. Good for a book signing? ‘Bad,’ says Tim. The stalls are blocking the view of the shop and the fine weather’s keeping everyone outdoors. Hmm, that must be why they’ve only put one small poster up for my event, I mean why waste the Blu Tack? Tim demonstrates handing off the marauding hordes After much refolding of a black tablecloth and a rummage around for some books, I’m invited to take up my position at the author table somewhere between ‘fantasy and horror’, children’s books and a poster of the next author, Bobby ‘Iron Duke’ Windsor who’s signing on Monday. Once Tom, Lily, my lovely daughter, and her partner, Russ, are all sure I’m not going to run away, they leave me to it, taking it in turns to make sure I’m all right and bring me tea. Very soon, I notice a small boy watching me. When he returns with his family I learn that he would like to be a writer. His method, he tells me, is to rewr...

A Winter's Tale

Thursday 2 December Feeling confined in her snow-muffled flat, Ma takes a walk up her front path to take the morning air. As she returns a cat jumps over the wall and startles her. She slips on the icy path and lands heavily on her shoulder. When her injury doesn’t spontaneously heal, she eventually gives in and calls her local GP surgery. In the evening a GP visits and summons an ambulance ‘sooner rather than later’. Around 10.30 pm Ma is admitted to her local hospital. X-rays suggest she has a fractured scapula which will require emergency surgery. She is put on a nil by mouth regime that night and transferred to a larger hospital for an emergency operation. However, she’s picked a busy period for her accident so the operation doesn’t take place. Saturday 4 December The operation is rescheduled for this morning, so Ma’s had a second night of nil by mouth. A CT scan shows that Ma’s humerus is broken in four places. Despite her obviously smashed-up arm, which is in a sling and...

Forever Young

Looking at the blurb for my new Lacura WrinkleStop from Aldi, I see that its active ingredient has been ‘proven to help • Reduce forehead wrinkles by 52% • Reduce crow’s feet by 24% • Restrict 82% of wrinkle muscle activity’ That’s quite a claim, isn’t it? Frankly, after years when my face looked like a lunar landscape thanks to the joys of acne, these days I’m just grateful to see a fairly blemish-free skin. Part of me wants to believe that the wonder cream’s making everything looking a bit smoother and tidier, but, hey, there’s also a lot of ‘aqua’ and ‘glycerin’ in the stuff, too. Besides, I could tamper with my skin as much as I like (and I don’t), but I’ve only got to stand next to my beautiful daughters to see the difference. Ma has wonderful skin, so the chances are there are some helpful genes in the mix, but my dad died far too young of cancer, so it’s not all good news. My dad was a carpenter. ‘You can’t get age from a tin, Miss Chris,’ he’d say when rubbing his hands o...

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