Things seem slightly calmer today, thank goodness. Possibly because I’m simply too tired to respond to difficulties with anything other than a grunt. And, if I’m feeling energetic, maybe even a shrug. Heck, I’m such fun at parties, you know. No, really …

Anyway, I’ve decided to go for the D&C at the hospital next week, so have sent letters to all and sundry, telling them this. Whether this will mean anything to the hospital by the time I turn up remains to be seen, so I’m planning to take all my correspondence with me so I can wave it at them at the due time. I think I’ll also ring up on Thursday when I’m at home, just to make sure – and then, if they do end up taking my leg off, it will most definitely not be my fault ...


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Much to my astonishment, I actually managed to get an appointment with the nice doctor at 8.30 this morning, so as I only found out at 8.10am, it was a mad rush to get there. Once again, he was very sweet and helpful, but I’ve been left with even more confusion and decisions to make than I had before. Groan. The upshot is that he's concerned about:

1. The ablation - he doesn't think I need it and says the new consultant does have a rather steamroller approach to stuff, even though she's good. He suggests a coil (which I don't want) or a D&C which is an alternative and less extreme option. To be honest, I really didn't want to have to think about anything the week before the op, but it appears I must. I just feel really upset and confused about it all, particularly as the consultant said the doctors probably wouldn't like it. I'm stuck in the middle of a medical disagreement - not a great place to be. At the moment I'm leaning towards a D&C, if that's the moderate answer, but I suppose I'll need to write yet another letter to the hospital & everyone, plus ring PPP up again. And I suppose I'll have to do it this week if it's going to mean anything. Deep deep sigh ...


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An illuminating insight into freshers week at Sheffield Hallam as youngest son posts his first photo album of student life (entitled Fresh Meat Week) on facebook. Find it reassuring that the ritual of balancing as many objects as possible - ashtrays, food, pizza boxes, discarded underwear - on top of comatose student clutching empty bottle persists ...

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So there I was, pootling around in my big desk notebook, (not, of course, procrastinating, no, not a bit), pretending to collect up the bits and pieces of thought about the nameless new novel because it wasn't just the right moment to dig back into my PhD commentary. And I came across this sentence at the bottom of a page:

Pain of trying not to be in love with someone.

True enough, I thought, absently. Don't think it was to do with the novel. Maybe a story? Can't remember what I meant. Has the milk come yet? I'd kill for some coffee. Standard stuff. Come on Emma, either keep going or do some other work. Goodness knows there's enough waiting. There didn't seem to be anything else useful on that spread, so I flipped over, and found the rest of the note:

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A nice lie-in and a lazy start to the day today, hurrah - I didn't even surface until nearly 9am. Bliss. Plus Lord H made scrambled eggs with chicken on toast for breakfast, so that's set me up for the morning at least. And I've made a plum and nectarine crumble for lunch, so I have Wife Points too, aha!

And I needed all the energy I could get, as the whole day has been spent editing The Bones of Summer and updating the synopsis. Much to my joy and surprise, the editor hadn't suggested any major changes so most of it was tweaking and tightening up the text. So that was great, as I've done it, read it through for sense, improved the synopsis and then sent the whole bundle off to the agent for his delectation. Or possibly not. This time, bearing in mind that Bones is the sequel to Maloney's Law and won't therefore attract the interest of any mainstream publisher, I've suggested that I would be happy to tackle the small press with it myself, to save him the wasted effort of contacting the big boys. I do think that's the best way forward on this occasion but, for courtesy's sake, I'll see what the reply might be ...


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It often happens that I’m doing some research and stumble across something interesting that sadly has nothing whatsoever to do with my current book.

Here’s an intriguing advert I found in a 1792 edition of The Times. I’m sure there must be a perfectly innocent explanation, but as innocent explanations aren’t my forté, I’d be interested to hear any speculation on what this gentleman is up to, and why it requires secrecy...



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OK. This is how the day starts. A rude awakening to The Cult’s She Sells Sanctuary (6Music) followed by three cups of Columbian coffee (cardiologist assures me this is OK). Treat hens to an armful of tarragon and fennel. Rewarded with four eggs. Postman delivers bank statement though not pre-release copy of debut album by eldest sons band (promised yesterday)...

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Was delighted to receive The Bones of Summer back from my very charming editor Sarah Abel yesterday, so that's something I can start working on tomorrow - thanks so much for your help, Sarah! I was especially pleased that she was very positive about it, saying the following:

"I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your novel. It is apparent that you have crafted it very carefully. Your characters are well-defined and believable ... The plot rolls out confidently and builds gradually, holding the tension ... and your final scenes are extremely atmospheric."


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I sat on this earlier. It's a bench in a war memorial not far from home. Peaceful place it is too.

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Well. I must be the only girl I know who can rush with cries of glee into a hoped-for Glam Shopping Experience (GSE for short) and after two hours come away from the shops with ... um ... a flannelette nightie for going to hospital in. Ah well. It's evident I haven't got the concept of Being A Woman (BAW for short) quite right yet. Not that Guildford helped at all. Yesterday, there was absolutely, entirely nothing in the whole of that fair metropolis that I actually wanted to buy. In fact, 90% of shoes, trousers and tops appear to be only available in brown or black this year. Is it the effect of the Credit Crunch or another Government directive I have missed??... Anyway, the urge is gone now - and as I only get the shopping urge once every decade, you'll have to wait to my mid 50s to see me in pink or green or orange. Which is no doubt a good thing of course ...


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