Sunday, 27 December 2009


I went on holiday to Spain last Monday. After twelve fun-filled hours at Gatwick I returned home again. Trouble was as I’d left, the builders had moved in and so I got back to a flat filled with dust and destruction.

I had to break into my own bedroom which I’d sealed up against the onslaught only to leave again at 2 a.m. on Wednesday morning to travel back to the airport where the big silver bird finally decided its wheels were able to navigate the two centimetres of fresh slush and so it took to the skies.

When I landed at Malaga, it was raining so hard I thought I’d best rent an ark rather than a car. The thunder and lightning were so severe, I expected G-d’s voice to boom down from on high telling us all The End Was Nigh.

It rained for four days and four nights. I hardly left my apartment. Sunday morning dawned bright and clear just in time for me to return to the airport to collect my children who are now staying with me, effectively ending the holiday that never got started in the first place!

Add to the above the long-awaited translation into Spanish of my first novel for my editorial perusal, and you've got a whole heap of hard work to throw into the equation.

The translator has told the story but removed the spirit with which I am wont to write. She was too lazy to utilise synonyms and so I counted forty-eight uses of the word ‘enormous’ in the text as well as many other repeats, something I always try very hard not to do. What about ‘big, great, large, massive, colossal, huge, monumental, gynormous, humungous'?

Consequently, I am now obliged to go through the book word for word to ensure it sounds right. Luckily - or not - I speak Spanish and my sister has helped. Had it been in Swedish, it would have gone to the publishers as an ‘enormous’ly bad edit and I’d never have known. . .

The ‘suitable’ older man I spoke about recently has blotted his copybook so many times that his days are seriously numbered.

What is his crime? I hear you ask. Being way too keen, I hasten to answer.

His texting, literally morning, noon and night is driving me nuts and boring me to tears. I’ve resorted to being rude in return – no actually, I’m being honest:

He texted to say he’d been to the gym and now had the body of a 20-year old.

I replied that I actually did have the body (and the head) of a 20-year old tied to my bed in London awaiting my return. That’s one way of holding onto your youth!

As for Mr. Suitable . . . the meaner I am, the keener he becomes!

Why is it always the troggy ones who want you truly, madly and deeply?