Why 27 Dresses would take top billing in a movie montage of my life

Sometimes I feel like my life is a movie montage, just without any hot male actors. It’s a bit Bridget Jones (single girl with a serious case of foot-in-mouth-disease), a bit Dirty Dancing (total lack of coordination and a tendency to be a goody-two-shoes), a bit Rocky (you can really work up a sweat in yoga you know), a bit Working Girl (just not that kind of working girl) and a bit Home Alone (Mum and Dad are currently communing with nature somewhere in Kenya).

There is one movie in particular, however, that would really have to take top billing in a movie montage of my life. 27 Dresses*. And not because Katherine Heigel and I share nearly-the-same name, and are both tall, blonde, and love reading the wedding section of the weekend papers. And not because it includes a reference to electric boobs, which sound quite fascinating actually. But because it’s about being a bridesmaid. And that is one thing I know a thing or two about.

No wetsuits or theme weddings in my collection!

My bridesmaid career started nearly ten years ago with Dress #1 for Sal (pink strapless) and will end sometime next year with Dress #7 for Cassie (dress and date unknown but if I don’t get Cass to commit to a date soon her mother might just kill me).  After that, I’m hanging up my curling tongs - no more bridesmaid duties for me. Not because I don’t love being a bridesmaid, but because I think once you hit your mid-thirties you start getting too old to be seen in public wearing the same dress as someone else. Well, knowingly at least.

I don’t know why I’ve been asked to be a bridesmaid seven times. Having two sisters has something to do with it, but I like to think it’s because of my superior bouquet carrying technique. If I ever manage to actually get down the aisle myself, I imagine I’m going to be pretty bloody good at it by then. I’ve certainly had a lot of practice.

Anyway, the point of this post (yes, there is one, I promise) is that 27 Dresses was on the telly last night and as I was watching it I was reflecting back on some of the more memorable moments in my bridesmaid career. And I thought I’d share a few of them with you:

Putting my heel through the skirt of my bridesmaid dress at Em’s wedding. Unfortunately this occurred about two minutes before we were due to walk out the door to go to the church, not on the dance floor after partaking a little too eagerly in the beverage package later that night. Luckily, however, it was at the back and you couldn’t even notice it. At least, I’m pretty sure you couldn’t. No one mentioned anything about seeing my undies anyway.

Kriso riding it like she stole it

Giving Kriso a few too many cock-sucking-cowboys at her own Hen’s party, which resulted in her entering a semi-comatose state about three-hours into proceedings. She never made it past dinner. An amateur bridesmaids error that one. Still, while she was on it, she really rode it like she stole it.

Finding my calling as a Jewish wedding speech maker. I’ve never received more compliments in my life than I did after I made a bridesmaid speech at Dana’s wedding. Seriously. I’d bump into people on the street two years later and they were still talking about it. Unfortunately I think it had not-a-lot to do with me and a whole-lot-to-do with some comments I made about Jewish weddings. Seems that Jewish people don’t get a lot of non-Jewish people making their wedding speeches. Now, if only I could find a few more Jewish friends, or get adopted by a Jewish family, I reckon I could make a career out of Jewish wedding speeches.

Want to see my five minutes of fame? You can check it out right here.

After Ali had calmed her nerves...

Walking from the hotel to the park for Ali’s wedding and having to make a pit-stop at the corner store to get her a drink of water because she was so ‘parched’. We could see all the guests in the park from where we were standing huddled outside the shop in all of our wedding finery, so I shouted out ‘Won’t be a sec, just putting my lotto numbers in while Ali has a ciggie to calm her nerves!’. Okay, not really. But I’m sure everyone wondered what in the hell we were all doing.

Getting pushed out of the way for the bouquet catching at Sal’s wedding. And I mean that quite literally. Some girl’s mother grabbed my arm and pulled me aside and said ‘Sorry, but Sandy** needs to get to the front. She’s my only daughter not yet married.’ Another amateur mistake. Stand your ground girls, stand your ground.

Thanks to Sal, Kriso, Dana, Em, Ali, Liss and Cass for inviting me to be a part of your big days so I could have these wonderful (if not some slightly cringeworthy) memories. I honestly think that there is no greater privilege in a female friendship than being asked to be a bridesmaid. Well, apart from organ donation. Or being a surrogate to your unborn child. Definitely top three though.

I just hope I didn’t blink in too many photos.

I would also like to say, just quietly, that I am very thankful that I was not a bridesmaid in the 1980s. There was a lot of taffeta involved back then. And perms. The combination of which is really just bad all round.

*Technically speaking it should not be called 27 Dresses. It should be called 26 Dresses and a Black Dinner Suit.

** Name has been changed to protect her identity. And for the record, yes, she is married now. I am not. You do the maths.

Why the blind date is dead

Last week a couple of my friends tried to set me up on a blind date.

Now, I’m not averse to being set up, despite a few disasters in my twenties when I really began to wonder whether my friends really knew me at all. Bless their cotton socks for trying, but honestly -I’d find myself sitting across the table from a mute accountant (sorry, don’t mean to stereotype) or a guy in a beanie and Birkenstocks, and I’d think ‘Really? Really?? This is who my friends think would be a good match for me?’

You’d think this would have turned me off blind dating forever. It hasn’t. I’m 34 and single; clearly I have no idea how to find an appropriate mate myself. I’ll take all the help I can get.

But what I found at last week is that there isn’t actually such a thing as a blind date anymore. In fact, the blind date is as good as dead. It’s been killed by social media.

See, when I was in my twenties, I had to rely solely on the judgement of my friend when it came to the looks stakes of my blind date. You know, a description that went along the lines of ‘He’s perfect for you! He’s tall, and he has brown hair (under the beanie), and…..well, he’s really tall!’ So you’d turn up at the agreed meeting point armed with nothing but a vague description that could fit half the men in Brisbane, and a single red rose clutched between your teeth.

Not anymore. Now you can jump on the internet and pull up their Facebook photo faster than you can say ‘Did your grandma really knit that for you?!’. And the same goes for them. No longer am I just a tall blonde, I’m a tall blonde with a slightly lazy left eye, crows feet and a touch of regrowth. Actually, I’m wearing blue rimmed plastic sunglasses and a panama hat in my Facebook photo, so I’m a tall blonde with no fashion sense.

It hadn’t occurred to me that I could look up his photo pre-date until one of the guys I work with said ‘So what does he look like?’ and I said ‘I have no idea. It’s a blind date (derr).’ And he said (slowly, to make sure I could understand) ‘What, haven’t you looked him up on the internet (derr)?’ So we did.

Obviously he looked up my photo too because at around 3pm on the afternoon of the planned not-at-all-blind date, he called in sick. He sounded genuinely apologetic, but I can’t be fooled. I know it wasn’t man-flu. It was Facebook fright. 

Damn those blue sunglasses. 

So my blind date which wasn’t really a blind date didn’t turn out to be any kind of date at all. Sigh. Looks like its back to the eligible bachelors at Bravo for me……

When Creative Girl went Corporate

Four weeks. Twenty days. Around fifty cups of herbal tea. Forty trips on the cross river ferry. Approximately 500 various responses to the questions “How was your trip?” and “Is your book published yet?”. Five pairs of laddered stockings. Ten calls to the IT Help Desk to recover forgotten passwords.

That’s how long I’ve been back in my corporate girl shoes for. And yes, it’s been a massive shock to my creative girl way of life (especially the herbal tea bit – I’m not drinking coffee at the moment and it’s nearly killing me). Such a shock that it took about two weeks for my brain to even really start functioning again. On my first day my boss Lorraine asked me to start thinking about developing a dashboard to measure KPI’s for Bid and BD costs, and I nearly had to ask her what a KPI was. Key Plot Item? Keep Pimms Iced? I remember just nodding and writing it down, trying to look serious and knowledgeable, all the while wondering how long it was until home time.

Unsurprisingly, not much in Corporate Girl world has changed in six months. Lots of new faces to avoid making eye contact with in the lift and a new job, but pretty much everything else is the same. The biggest surprise was only having 1800 emails in my inbox on day one, most of which were junk. Although there were a few in there from around March/April from people asking me to please run a workshop for them. Which was four to five months after I left – meaning that they hadn’t even noticed I was gone all that time. A good reminder that I’m not nearly as indispensible as I would possibly like to think I am.

As for my new role? So far, so good. Mostly because I still don’t know exactly what my role is so I’m able to bring some creativity into my corporate girl life when answering the question ‘So, what are you doing now?’ I’ve taken to just murmuring something about ‘global projects’ and ‘client development’ and I find that it tends to make people’s eyes glaze over, stops any further questioning in its tracks and lets me get back to surfing the net and stalking people on Facebook (just joking Lorraine. I swear. I would never stalk anyone on Facebook).

I will admit that the fulltime-work/writing juggling act is not nearly as easy as I thought it was going to be. I distinctly remember writing a blog entry several months ago (around the time I was in Spain and had 24 hours a day to devote to nothing more taxing that writing, eating and sleeping) where I stated that I thought it would be bloody easy to fit it in when I went back to work. Just an hour or two a day, that’s all I need.

Hmmm…..

You see, it turns out that spending my day talking about the impacts of the carbon tax on our clients is strangely draining on my creative juices. And the fact that I’m addicted to Masterchef hasn’t really helped either. The only writing I seem to be doing at the moment are emails to my accountant to organise my tax return and filling out forms to get my drivers license replaced. Even my beloved blog is slowly going to seed.

I clearly need a new plan of action.

So. I’m going to start up a new blog. Exactly what it will be about is still a work in progress – but it will be something that lets me continue to blog about my book, bachelors or bus station toilets. Stay tuned. I'll tell you all about it next week....just as soon as bloody Masterchef is over.

There's a few people I want to thank (because the fat lady is really bellowing now).

Alright. Enough stories of woe about all these Brisbane (in)eligible bachelors. Time to get down to more serious business like the fact that I am returning to work tomorrow. TOMORROW. As in about 10 hours time.

Good God. I really have no idea how this happened. One minute I was sitting in Spain having a bloody good time, writing a (crappy) novel, sleeping in and generally just minding my own business, and the next minute I’m back in Brisbane kicking myself for somehow not managing to get any of my jackets dry cleaned in the six months I had off, and checking all of my nude stockings for ladders.

So I can wear them, not strangle myself. Don't worry.

How do I feel about returning to work? Brilliant of course! (My boss reads my blog). Okay, maybe a tad depressed but I think that’s only natural after six months off. I’m also a little nervous to be honest – nervous that my brain has entered a permanent state of hibernation and will have forgotten how to function. I might need to pack a marketing textbook in my handbag just in case someone actually asks me a question about marketing. Like what it is.

I’m still not exactly sure what I’m going to be doing tomorrow, but I suspect it will involve answering the questions ‘How was your trip?’ (Fantastic!) and ‘How’s the book coming along?’ (Nearly finished!) around 850 times. My good friend Kellie Hogan suggested I just issue a memo on my arrival that provides a summary of answers to all possible questions to save repeating myself. I think that might actually be a good idea, thanks Kel. Or I might just commandeer the reception PA system and make a quick speech on my arrival.

To mark the end of my time as a full time ‘creative’, I wanted to write a list of acknowledgements. You know, like the kind you see in the back of a book where they thank Tom, Dick and his mate Harry for helping them with the book. I’ve actually got a lot of people to thank for helping make the last six months possible. And as my book will probably never see the light of day, I thought best to do it right here, in my blog.

Kelly Kent, aspiring novelist and inspiring friend, who made a bet with me two years ago and then kept me to it. Thanks for helping me with my ‘writing wobbles’, and encouraging me to just dive in and bloody well do it. I doubt any of this would have ever happened without you.

Lizzie and Paul. I truly can’t say enough about these two. Thanks for the festival of Paul, the copious amounts of herbal tea, not subjecting me to any horror movies, your gorgeous country cottage, robust debates about the movie Love Actually, and most of all for opening your home to a writer-in-residence you hadn’t even laid eyes on for five years. I can’t wait for my new bedroom in Bloomsbury to be finished!

Jane and Ben (and Bella the dog), the very-soon-parents-to-be who welcomed me so warmly into their amazing Knightsbridge home for the second year in a row, and who always make me feel like another Cleary sister! Thanks for my A-class rugby experience, teaching me how to make sausage rolls, and giving me a lifelong aversion to yellow paint/80 year old handymen.

Kate and Keith. For loaning me your awesome pad in Clapham while you were on holidays in Australia (and trusting me with your super deluxe kitchen).

Frank and Lorraine: my Corporate Girl bosses who said ‘Sure, off you go’, and are actually willing to take my hibernating brain back on again. Risky move.

Wonderful friends, sisters, family, colleagues and random distant acquaintances who have genuinely encouraged my novel writing escapade. I hear horror stories about people who tell family and friends they are writing a novel, only to be made to feel like they’re delusional and should be admitted to the local psychiatric ward ASAP. My experience has been the total opposite, to the point where it would be impossible for me to actually name everyone individually without getting RSI from typing.

Everyone who reads my blog. Yes, you out there, whoever you are and wherever you may be – from Russia to Japan, Singapore to Brasil. It always gives me a massive kick when people tell me they read my blog/their Mum reads my blog (hi Lyn!)/I made them laugh/they tell me about their favourite post. Thanks for being my writing guinea pigs. I hope it wasn’t too torturous.

Dell computers. Turns out your laptop was suitable after all, even if I did lose E, F, N and S.

And of course Mum and Dad, who always encourage and support me no matter what crazy idea I’m dreaming up (I’m quitting my job to go and work in the Canadian ski fields/I’m taking six months off to write a book/I’m getting a tattoo). I feel fortunate every day to be your daughter. Oh, and I’m joking about the tattoo.

Finally, to the woman who stole my wallet on Friday night. Thank you for your nimble finger work right before I am due back at work instead of last week when I would have had heaps of time to get my new license, medicare card etc sorted out. I would have given you the $50 I had in there if you’d just asked. Okay, maybe not, but seriously. Get a job.

I think that’s everyone, but I’m not sure (please refer to earlier note re: brain hibernation).

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Writing is a very solitary endeavour, and yet I honestly couldn’t have done it without my fantastic support crew. And I promise to repeat this if a publishing miracle ever does appear in my future. Even if I really am using a zimmer frame by the time that ever happens.

Introducing Eligible Bachelor #5

Last night a guy told me that I was ‘quite attractive’ and it was not my father or anyone related to me/working for me and looking for a pay rise/a Moroccan man trying to sell me a carpet.

Now, before you go rolling your eyes and thinking that I’ve gone all up-myself by blogging about this, or getting concerned that my head is going to be so big I won't be able to get it through the office doors tomorrow, let me just tell you that it was nearly midnight, the man in question (who, following my last blog post, I will simply refer to as Eligible Bachelor #5) had clearly had a few too many rumbos, and there was some very dim lighting involved. But what I really want to share with you to make clear that this has in no way gone to my head is what his pre-cursor to this statement was:

‘For an older lady, you’re quite attractive.’

Yes. That’s right. An older lady.

I have been under no illusions that I am getting older. My lovely Doctor in fact brought this to my attention a couple of years ago when he told me that the problems I was having with my neck were ‘general wear and tear’ and there was nothing he could do about it. Being likened to some well trodden carpet kind of has the effect of making you realise you’re not a teenager anymore. But still, I really don’t feel that different in a lot of ways to what I did 10 years ago. The fact that I am in a bar at midnight on a Saturday night is probably testament to this.

Until now. Because now I am an officially certified older lady.

Granted Eligible Bachelor #5 was about 21, so arguably anyone over the age of 22 would fall into his older lady bracket. But I doubt he uses this line on too many 22 year olds. Or looks at them in a way that implies they could well be his mother.

It was certainly a sobering experience. And I was already sober, so that’s really telling you something. I think I laughed – but not too hard, because I didn’t want to further define my obviously already visible crows feet. He wandered off and I was left to contemplate whether I should take his remark as a compliment or an insult. I’m still not quite sure. I guess I’ll think about that a little more today while I peruse some zimmer frame catalogues.

I will say, though, that all of these encounters in the last few weeks  makes me wonder whether I shouldn’t just rename this blog ‘When Corporate Girl met Brisbane’s Most Eligible Bachelors’ and be done with the whole fiction writing thing altogether. Because I honestly don’t think I could make up half of this stuff even if I tried.

Want to know why I'm still single?*

This is not a blog post about books, or writing, or my travels. It is not a blog post about procrastination or losing my mojo. It’s a blog post that will attempt to provide some answer to a particular question I get asked a lot.

‘Why are you still single?’

It’s a funny question. Because I don’t really know the answer. I know some people think I am too fussy. And perhaps I am. After all, I refuse to date idiots, liars or men who still get their Mum to buy their underwear. 

Quantity is not the issue – there are plenty of men around. It’s more of a problem with quality control i.e. most men can’t pass it. And being a good corporate girl, here’s a little story to provide some evidence to back my claim.

On Saturday night I went out for a few drinks with a good friend, whose identity I will protect. She will simply be referred to as Wingman #1.  I will provide just three clues to her identity: she is tall, blonde and goes by the name of Kelly Cleary.

Wingman #1 and I met at Ortiga in the Valley at 7pm. It was the first time we’d caught up since I got back, so we ordered a bottle of champagne and a plate of assorted jamon (i.e. fancy Spanish ham, the cost of which nearly required us to remortgage our homes), and spent a good couple of hours catching up on the goss. All very civilised. No men involved.

The fun began when we decided to find a new venue. Exiting onto Brunswick Street, we looked up the road and saw that Bravo was pretty packed so decided to give it a go. I was relieved. It was only about a 200m walk, and my feet were already killing from wearing heels for the first time in nearly six months. While we tottered up the street, I wasn’t praying to meet any men. I was praying for a bar stool.

From a distance what had not been apparent was that everyone there was barely of legal age. These were kids who were still in nappies while I was in High School. It felt a bit like being at a Churchie Dance with alcohol. Wingman #1 and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and realised there was nothing to do about it but order another drink.

Introducing Eligible Bachelor #1

We had only just placed our orders when Eligible Bachelor #1 approached. He was about 22 and had wild blonde hair to his shoulders that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, if ever. He had no hips to speak of and his pants were hanging so far off his bum it was truly a miracle of gravity that they were staying up at all. Or else he had some duct tape hidden in his bum crack. He smiled winningly at us, before leaning in and whispering ‘So, do you girls know anyone around here that's selling drugs?’

Err, no.

His breath smelt distinctly like vomit. It was all such a highly appealing package, I’m still trying to work out why neither Wingman #1 or I didn’t nab him on the spot and try to march him up the aisle.

We tried valiantly for at least 15 minutes to get rid of him. He was fixated on his hair and, more specifically, our opinion of it. He pulled one of his equally glazy eyed mates into the conversation, and asked us whose hair we liked best – which was like choosing between Worzel Gumidge or a tennis ball. He seemed serious. I have never come across a man so fixated on his own hair since Bert Newton or Donald Trump.

He eventually wandered off in search of a drug dealer. Wingman #1 and I slumped against the bar, grateful for our escape. It was unfortunately to be short-lived.

Introducing Eligible Bachelor #2

I mistakenly made about two seconds of eye contact with him. He was quite good looking, but short. And I mean really short. I was wearing heels but even if I’d had flats on he would have come up to about my ears. Which is perhaps why he turned out to have such a fixation on them.

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that I’m size-ist. Okay, maybe I am. I’m five foot nine and I like my men at least the same. Call me old fashioned, but I’m not looking for a man who can see up my nostrils.

But this guy was nice. He was from Northern England (my Scottish boss would tell me this was the first warning sign) but had a lovely accent that sounded nearly Irish (swoon). And he was funny. He was also flirting with me outrageously. Within five minutes he had asked me out to dinner , which he repeatedly did for the next hour. And the strangest thing was that I contemplated it. I thought of Tom and Katie, of Nicole and Keith, and I thought, hell, if they can date a shorter man, so can I!

But after a while things started to get a little strange. I suspect it was the drugs kicking in. He started rubbing the back of my head and commenting on the feel of my hair in a way that suggested he was a serial killer who was making a wig out of human hair. Then he started telling me I had beautiful ears (for the record, they are very ordinary ears). He kept trying to hug me. Eventually I had to have the Dirty Dancing ‘this is my personal space, this is your personal space’ conversation with him, which he promptly ignored by trying to stick his tongue in my apparently beautiful ear. I turned my back on him and started talking to a lovely girl sitting next to me who looked like Marion Grasby from Masterchef. Not that she had any idea who Marion is. Turned out she was 18 and I was old enough to be her mother. 

Eventually Eligible Bachelor #2 also wandered off. But not for long. About three minutes later, he reappeared at the other end of the bar, in our direct line of sight, with another girl whose face he promptly proceeded to try and suck off. Now she must have had a really amazing set of ears.

After a 10 minute display of rampant public affection, he disappeared again, only to reappear by my side. I knew that it was really going to get interesting now.

Me: ‘Hello.’

EB#2: ‘I just had the strangest thing happen to me.’

Me: *raises eyebrows*

EB#2: ‘I’ve just been outside with the Police for the last half hour.’

Me: ‘Really? That’s weird because I could have sworn that you were just across the bar devouring some poor girl.’

EB#2: ‘No, I’ve been outside with the Police!’ *sways slightly*

Me: ‘Goodbye.’

Thankfully he walked off without too much of a fuss. I suspect he went in search of the same drug dealer as EB#1. Or perhaps a pair of Gary Glitter platform shoes.

At this Wingman #1 and I decided it was time to blow this pop stand and never look back. We made our way down to Cloudland for one last drink.

Introducing Eligible Bachelors #3 and #4

These guys were both tall (tick) and very good looking, but the real reason they stood out was that they were both wearing suits. On a Saturday night.  When they approached us I immediately assumed they were Real Estate Agents. Or very devout Jehovah’s Witness.

EB#3 was wearing a duck egg blue cotton suit from Zara. We’ll call him ‘The Hamptons’.

EB#4 was wearing a grey wool three piece. We’ll call him ‘Wall Street’.

They were out celebrating The Hamptons birthday. When Wingman #1 said ‘Happy Birthday Helen' to him and he didn’t get it, we knew we were dealing with a couple of young ones. Turned out it was his 24^th birthday. I remember that birthday myself…it was at the turn of the century. Literally.

I may be a reformed size-ist, but I’m not an age-ist.  I have friends who married younger men. My own Mum was a cradle snatcher. It can work. But as soon as Wall Street started telling me about his job (without me even asking), I knew this was not going to be one to add to the statistics. He works in banking. And honestly, there is no greater arrogance than a freshly hatched wanker banker. Especially one in a three piece wool suit in a bar on a Saturday night. I can’t even bring myself to tell you about his conversation, or the way he talked to me about business like I would know no more about that than the intricacies of a prostate examination. When he eventually asked me what I did for a living, I told him I was a professional dog walker.

The only interesting thing about those poor boys was watching The Hamptons try not to spill his vodka cranberry on his duck egg blue suit. He didn’t, which was frankly quite disappointing.

Over a slice of New York pizza just after 2am, Wingman #1 and I were in champagne and vodka fueled fits of laughter about our night and the quality of the men who had featured in it. Eventually we stopped long enough for Wingman #1 to look at me over her feta and spinach pizza and say ‘And people wonder why we’re still single.’

Well, now you know. 

*This post is dedicated to all the single girls of Brisbane. Good luck, it's all I can say.

O writing mojo, writing mojo. Wherefore art thou, writing mojo?

LOST

My writing mojo.

Last seen somewhere near Peniche, Portugal.

Answers to name Erratic, Unreliable, or Unpredictable.

Reward offered (currency: Gin and Tonics)

I am not quite sure what the problem is, but ever since I got home last week I have really lost my writing mojo.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am really not loving my manuscript. I know, I know, you will all just roll your eyes at that and tell me to stop being such a perfectionist. Those of you who don’t know me so well (or at all, other than through this blog), will tell me that the first draft is always pretty bleak, and just to plough on. Just get it done, no matter how bad the writing. I am telling my brain and typing fingers all of these things, but the big problem is that I just don’t like the basic concept of my novel anymore (did I ever? I can’t remember). And that is a problem.

It’s too clichéd. It’s not original enough. The characters are naff. It’s, well, dumb.  And as the only person who has actually read it that means I have 100% consensus on this. So no arguments.

One of the main reasons I know I’m not loving it is because for the life of me I cannot think up a title for it. It is still called ‘Book Draft 1’. Catchy huh?

But I am going to finish it. I am. I am! I just need to get my writing mojo back on. Or just sit in the bloody seat, start typing, and stop procrastinating.

Because procrastinating I have been. This has taken on many forms in the last week, most of them entirely justifiable of course. Like catching up with friends who have had babies either while I was away or since I got back. And there are a lot of them – I think my friends are single handedly working to keep the average Australian birth rate up. Which is lucky I guess, since they have to take on my share of the breeding as well. Thanks guys.

I’ve also been lunching and brunching, shoe shopping, testing out all the new espresso bars on Oxford Street, signing myself up for Pilates and piano lessons, drinking wine/G&T’s/pretty much anything to hand, and spending way too much time reading The Daily Mail Online to ensure I am up to speed with all of the world's most important news.

Enough. I don’t need to know what Kate Middleton was wearing at that charity do. Or eat bacon and eggs ten ways. I just need to write. I need to put one word in front of the other and march towards THE END.

And I will. Just as soon as I have another coffee.