Rude Awakenings / Rumoured Papal Visit to Scarborough

I’d like to say my morning routine has moved on in the last year. No, I’d LOVE to say that. Some things just aren’t meant to be, are they?

Suffered a doubly rude awakening this morning. A strange hissing noise fills the room, which I manage to ignore for at least two minutes. Harder to ignore is the bright  light that suddenly flicks on just inches from my face, followed by a blaring horn. My sleep-fuddled brain bypasses reality and leaps to the first available conclusion -I’ve  been run over by the 8.47am Scarborough to York Transpenine Express.  I sit bolt upright, expecting to find myself drifting bodiless towards heaven. 

First thought: I’m dead.

Second thought:  my poor mother will now discover the shocking rubbish dump that is my bedroom and if not die of shame then certainly suffer a nasty bout of hysterics. Oh God, Oh God. Too late now.

But no, hang on - I’m clutching my duvet. Bedclothes must surely count as worldly goods. For a few seconds I’m on the edge, grappling wildly with the philosophy of existence. Forget “I think, therefore I am”… I have my duvet, therefore I’m not. Dead, that is. Thank God.

I turn my head to glare at the 1970s retro Goblin Teasmaid on the far side of my room, an old gift that I randomly decided to clean up and plug in last night. I take a moment to ponder the identity of the Goblin inventor – frighten people half to death and then present them with a cup of tea to recover from the shock? Definitely someone British, then. At this point my daughter wanders in and switches on a children’s nature programme. “Morning, Mummy. Did you know that females are always more massive than males?” She gives me an appraising glance and titters. Nothing much changes, does it?

At the school gates later, my daughter’s best friend looks a little glum. Her mother lifts her eyes heavenwards and explains that she’d been convinced that the Pope was coming to school to say Mass, (the point being that she’d get to be on the telly). Sadly, the important visitor turned out to be our local parish priest, with his kindly smile and a powerpoint presentation on the saint of the day. Still, I feel sure the comparison will do his ego the power of good.

Amidst all the surrealism, Graham and I are gearing up for the launch of our second book, The Promise. After a pretty weird year, I have a feeling things are set to keep on getting weirder. On that note, I’m off. I have a date with a mallet and a Goblin…

Villains, Dogs and Daughters/ Love is blind.

Actually, villains would probably cover it. Wake this morning to find daughter in my bed again, but decide to bypass the interrogation (having failed to hone my technique at  last night’s Murder Mystery evening).

“Darling, it’s time to wake up.”

“My eyes are still shut.”

“Yes, but it’s time to get up now.”

“Go away.”

“No, and excuse me, this is my bed.” In desperation, “Your teacher will be cross if we’re late.” A fist shoots out from beneath the covers and bops me on the nose. Daily mantra starts even earlier than usual. I am the adult. I am the adult. I am the adult.

Decide to redeem the morning with a good deed before pressing on with writing. Take pain au chocolat round to G’s house for his elder daughters who, like me, are normally a little slow off the blocks in the morning. In the two minutes it takes to ascertain that they’re not home, their dog sneaks out of the kitchen and deposits a fragrant gift of her own on the carpet. I experience a flashback to dinner last night, when a close friend began gushing about how lovable and gentle her staffordshire bull terrier is. I couldn’t let it slide. “Ruchelle, I’ve seen the bruises where he bit you,” I splutter.

“Well, that was just because he liked to collect the post from the mat himself,” she says defensively. “And he doesn’t bite me at all now, he’s such a good boy.”

“Own up,” I retort. “He doesn’t bite you because you now have a metal post box outside the house. That dog is a menace.” She won’t have it. Arrive home to discover our own dog has got upstairs and tipped the contents of my bathroom bin across the floor. Mum says it’s because he’s off colour and gives him a pat. Talk about love being blind.

Oh, and the murder? Came up with a great crime of passion/revenge theory involving a clandestine love affair, a hidden love-child raised by the Masons (stay with me) and then tragically killed in a botched variety show stunt. Pure genius, but no – it was the retired hypnotist, who had stolen diamonds, smuggled them into the country in the belly of his racehorse and been rumbled by the victim.

Of course it was. Obvious, really. The table next to us were the only team to get it right. I’m not bitter.

Murder on the North Bay Express

It’s official. I love the Radio York studios. Arrive in semi-gibbering state (my default setting for live interviews of any description) and am waved in by the receptionist. She’s smartly dressed with swingy blonde hair and a brisk, no-nonsense look about her that reminds me of the scarier teachers at school. I can feel myself straightening up and nervously checking the knot of the school tie that’s no longer there. Another Radio York employee appears and the two nod solemnly at each other and utter the sacred Yorkshire greeting.

“Ow do.”

“Ow do.”

Suddenly I know it’s all going to be okay.

Mum is smarting this week from a humiliating encounter at the local butcher’s. “I saw your daughter the other day,” the butcher remarks as he bags up our weekly supply of meat. “Oh yes?” Mum smiles, ready to accept a gracious comment on the book publication. “She needs to clean that yellow jeep of hers. The roof’s filthy,” he says loudly. I was promptly threatened with a chamois leather and hotfooted it to the local car wash.

Going to my first ever Murder Mystery evening tonight on (wait for it) Scarborough’s mini railway, located on the north bay. Apparently they’re fantastic evenings,  with dinner at the Glass House bistro afterwards while each team attempts to unmask the murderer from among the cast of actors. Find myself wondering if they’re going to be pygmies – there’s not much room to kill someone on a miniature railway, unless by suffocation from over-crowding. You can only get about three to a carriage. Am determined that we will be the victors. Will report back later, must go and rehearse ferocious questioning style and penetrating Poirot-like stare.

Conkers and Caster Sugar Casserole.

Fabulous news! The Spider Invasion is to be officially repelled from our home! It turns out that conkers are the Kryptonite of the spider world. Put one in every corner of your room and you’ll have a spider-free zone. I’m so terrified of the wretched things I’ll try anything. Apparently it really works.

A rather odd day in which I try to splice writing book two and promoting book one with a charity shop drop and chores, in the manner of hotshot multi-tasking supermum. This is clearly impossible but two out of four ain’t bad, and chores are over-rated. Complete another chapter and confirm a newspaper interview for tomorrow and a Radio York interview for Thursday. Feel relatively okay about this one as there is unlikely to be any embarrassing microphone placement.

Fail utterly on the domestic front. Emerge from my writing bubble at 2pm to discover the heavens have opened on mum’s washing and my slow cooker sausage cassoulet looks decidedly the worse for wear. There’s no hope for the washing but still time to save the cassoulet if I act fast. The sauce tastes extremely bitter. Poisonous, even. Can’t work out why. Have heard that a teaspoon of jam works wonders at a time like this but….we’re out. Make do with quarter of a bag of caster sugar dumped straight into the stock. Works a treat. Who’d have thought?

At teatime Dad goes back for seconds but then he’s well known for his sweet tooth. Better get on – conker defences need regular monitoring.

If the kids don’t get you, the spiders will…

A double shock this morning. (Actually, a triple one – I woke up before 8am but we’ll gloss over that unnatural occurrence. Just a blip). Wake up to find myself wedged against the wall with daughter spreadeagled across my bed. This is against The Rules in our house. (a bed for everyone and everyone in their bed, thank you).

“When did you get in?” I ask indignantly.

“Not telling you,” she says smugly. Hate being out-manoeuvred by a six year old.

“Well, we’re not putting the cartoons on yet,” I huff. “Mummy’s listening to the radio.”

“That’s okay, I like the arguing man.” (John Humphrys). She turns over and pulls another yard of my duvet over herself.

As if one night-time creeper wasn’t enough, “the arguing man” then announces an imminent spider invasion – not good news when you sleep in the loft space of an old house and have an irrational terror of arachnids. (Once saw a spider so big I rushed screaming for the phone directory to ring pest control, convinced it was some toxic specimen that had snuck in with our Fair Trade bananas. Dad used to live in Cameroon and intercepted me just in time with the news that it didn’t have the body markings of a poisonous spider. Be that as it may, the thing was the size of a pudding bowl).

Anyway, an invasion would be bad enough but this is worse – it’s going to be a bumper breeding season. Great! They’re not just going to be crawling all over the place, hideous legs bristling as they mountaineer over the duvet towards the inviting cavern of my open, sleeping mouth, they’re going to be showing off for the ladies while they do it! Cocky young males showcasing their latest scuttle moves, checking out the latest innovations in web design and scaring humans to make their girlfriends laugh. Well,  it’s not big and it’s not clever (and I don’t care how many bug populations they keep under control). Where are the parents in all of this, that’s what I’d like to know.

Spider-guys, please – if you want to swing from the rafters with your lady friends, do it somewhere else. Some of us are trying to sleep. I have a slipper and I’m not afraid to use it.

Dogs in Make-up

Picture the scene, if you will.

11am Tuesday the phone rings. Uber-calm Lindsay nothing-ruffles-my-feathers Parker announces that Calendar (ITV Yorkshire) news want to interview us, like, pronto. A taxi is on its way, she says, and yes, I should definitely wash my hair before it arrives. And wacky geometric print frocks are banned for tv appearances (how well she knows me, but this leaves me with virtually nothing to wear).

11.30am Rush around like mad thing making afterschool childcare arrangements and flinging dresses around.

1pm. Remember to eat (this is good going for me).

1.45pm. Taxi due. Realise have forgotten to apply make-up and scrabble frantically in make-up bag. What the….?Eyebrow brush disintegrates in my hand. There are teeth marks in my lipliner and eyeliner, and someone, SOMEONE has chewed my ridiculously expensive powder-to-cream foundation brush. Buddy, my parents 12-year old beagle, watches innocently from his dog bed, wearing a “who-me?” expression and looking strangely buff for a dog his age.

2pm. Okay, am over it. Head to Leeds with G, who comments that I’m unusually quiet on the journey. This is because I’ve passed through ordinary fear into the clear waters of silent terror. TV. I’m going on TV. People I know may see me. People I don’t know may see me. Which is more scary?

4pm. Arrive. Technical guy presents me with enormous looking microphone pack on a long wire with little clip-on microphone at the end. “Where are you going to put that?” I squeak. He looks at my outfit and his face says it all. I’m wearing a layered dress, tights and suede boots with a cute little cardigan…no belt…no pockets…no jacket. With a completely straight face, he tells me where I will have to stuff the microphone. “You…you are joking?” I gulp. “We had Barbara Taylor Bradford on last week, and she says she always wears trousers for television interviews,” he grins. From now on, Barbara, I’m with you. G, of course, finds the entire thing hilarious.

4.30 Pre-record interview, and it goes okay, though I worry I look like a rabbit in headlights. Presenters are lovely and somehow manage to put me at ease (talking about shoes helps). G relaxed and professional as ever. How does he do it?

5pm Set off home and text friends re: interview, fearing Bridget Jones fire station report debacle and hoping for sympathy. One friend replies saying “CC, I do love you, but I have to see this.” Who needs enemies? G gives me a hug and says it really wasn’t that bad.

Miraculously, it did come across fine and I don’t think anyone could tell about the microphone…

Press Cuttings, Grass Cuttings and Parental Shame

8.45a.m  this morning. Sophie and I are galloping through the school gates at full tilt, ever-so-slightly-late. Some of the exiting mums smile indulgently as they watch our shamefully regular fly-by. Suspect they find me incorrigible but punctuality aside, they salute me for being willing to sprint in high heels. One of my friends calls out, “Morning CC! Great to see that success hasn’t changed you!” Sigh.

Weell – yes and no. Said friend then takes me for breakfast and nudges me eagerly when a woman smiles at me from the next table in the cafe. “Ooh look, she recognises you from the Mail on Sunday feature yesterday!” she hisses. Apparently she does. Most peculiar feeling. Am caught between embarrassment and semi-apologetic pride, but it’s not every day you see yourself in a national Sunday Supplement, particularly one as widely read as YOU magazine. (Thank you Mike Parker Media, Fiona McCarthy and lovely Jill Jennings for the photo).

Saturday’s launch was fabulous. Okay, I was a little late to my own signing but car parking in Scarborough is truly horrendous…and – okay, look, my perfume was on offer in town, so I had to detour and get some on the way. (Graham will kill me when he reads this, but there’s a recession on and I got a fab deal).  Anyway, Graham was there to amuse the queue with tales of  his recent heart op and scatty co-author while they waited, so it was all fine. We had fantastic local support at WH Smiths and sold 170 copies in just over two hours. (Oh, and my posh author pen ran out, so I did resort to my trusty Bic. What did I tell you?)

Local launches are definitely the way to go, in my opinion.

Rushed home and poured myself into ridiculously tight dress while my unflappable hairdresser somehow cemented my hair into a cute chignon. Sophie took full advantage of the chaos and managed to extract permission to have her hair curled and wear real eyeshadow. The party to end all parties followed. Club had been decorated in the book colours, bright pink and green, cute quirky candles everywhere and an amazing cake that looked exactly like the cover of the book (how did cake lady do this? How?) Add 100 guests and some truly great tunes, and a good time was had by all – especially me. Graham takes these things in his stride but I was tremendously over-excited about the whole day. Wouldn’t you be?

The Mail on Sunday feature came out the next morning (yesterday) - cue copious amounts of family pride etc, with the exception of my poor Dad, who looked at the photo of Sophie and I in the garden and said mournfully, “I can’t believe it – that was the one week I forgot to cut the grass.”

Tried to reassure him re: artistic merits of a tufty lawn but he was inconsolable, poor man.

What’s next for me and G? I’ll keep you posted…

Wide Awake with Weird FM

Okay. It’s 1.40a.m. Somehow I’ve slipped onto Owl Time. Camomile tea, Gregorian Chant music and a small sherry have failed in their soporific duties. Thought a bit of late-night radio might soothe my jangled nerves but no, it was the end of a bizarre interview with an American woman and her dogs, followed by a fly-on-the-wall documentary lamenting the lack of infrastructure and town planning in a place called Sao Paolo. Apparently the bus journeys are horrendous. Oh, and the world’s best-known mountain gorilla, attractively named Titus, has died. You heard it here first.

Good grief. Where is off switch to brain? Where? Keep running through things I have to do before the book launch this Saturday. Only one day to go!

1. Collect dress from dry cleaners to wear to book signing at WH Smiths.

2. Correction, have forgotten to do this. Take dress to dry cleaners and beg them to do a same-day deal. Cry real tears if necessary.

3. Try on party dress for evening book launch and decide whether or not to buy new shoes (okay, that one’s a no-brainer).

4. Discuss playlist for party with Rowan Oliver (a.k.a former Goldfrapp drummer and DJ extraordinaire). Much excitement among guests on this score. Debating whether or not requests for disco cheese will offend his musical sensibilities. I’ll have to risk it. I can’t get by without Carwash and Dancing Queen. Also something from Dirty Dancing in honour of Patrick Swayze.

5. Concoct cunning plan to convince over-excited daughter that she really wants to leave the party at 8.30pm and go quietly home to bed.

6. Buy suitable pen to use at book signing. Middle Sister (Youngest is more concerned about my outfit and called from New Zealand to tell me so) has strictly forbidden the use of a Bic, but I just like them. They’re like the Volvo of pens – zero aesthetic appeal but 100% reliable. What’s the posh version of a Bic?

Is it any wonder I can’t sleep? So much excitement, so little time…

Sore from pinching

So this is weird. Heartbeat – erratic. Stomach cramps – increasing. Breathing – laboured. Excitement – huge. I’m about to give birth…to a book. And quite frankly, with 72 hours to go, a private room with my own gas and air on tap would be just the ticket (hold the screaming).

Ever had that feeling where you wake up at home and, just for a second, wonder where you are? Everything around you is familiar but for some reason your brain fails to recognise your life? That’s where I am right now.

A year ago, I was living at home with my parents, taking care of my amazing and terrifying daughter and holding down a couple of part-time jobs, as you do. Now…well, all the above still applies, but with a five-book co-writing deal in my hand, I’m looking in the mirror and wondering what on earth I’m seeing. My arms are covered with pinch-marks.

Want to know what happened? I met the wife of author G.P Taylor and we got chatting. The following week she called me out of the blue and asked if I’d apply for a job as his P.A. I went for an interview – though the way Graham tells it, Kathy went home and told him he had to employ me. Like all good husbands, he obeyed. I liked him and he liked my shoes (green mary janes with cream piping and cute buttons), so we decided to give it a go.

I’d always loved writing, and used to create short stories for family and friends, as gifts, cheer-uppers or just for the heck of it. A few months later I entered a writing competition with Waterstones (I never won anything, I just can’t function without a deadline) and gave it to my friends to read. Almost as an afterthought I showed it to Kathy. Unbeknown to me, she read it, loved it and passed it onto Graham. A one-line e-mail arrived at 11pm a few nights later, saying simply “Do you want to write a book with me? G.” I printed it off and showed my parents in case I was hallucinating.

Pretty soon we’d signed up for one book, and when the publishers had a sample of our work, they signed us up for five. Curiouser and curiouser. A year, a lot of work and not much sleep later, I’m preparing for our book launch on Saturday.

Any minute now, I’m going to wake up…