If you click on the image you should get an enlarged version which is easier to read:

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Marian had to pick me up for golf this morning, as poor Lord H's car has broken down again, so he had to take mine to work. So, much like a 1950s housewife, I was stranded in the flat and forced to wait for more powerful people to pick me up and take me places. Mind you, it hasn't seemed to have done my golf any harm - I played like a dream today, though I say it myself and shouldn't. I even got to the green in one on the 9th and had the long swagger down the fairway waving my putter and looking smug, aha! And yes, I did par it. Double aha! I was amazed Marian gave me a lift back at all really ...

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Over at my blog.

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One of the odd things about being a writer is that you are, in a tiny sense, a public entity. This might sound ridiculous in a culture which has replaced gossiping about the neighbours - because we don't know them any more - with gossiping about Big Brother. And no time soon are you going to be mobbed by paparazzi, or have your bins rifled by the gutter press for receipts for things the government shouldn't have paid for, or know that every bullet the Taliban own will be aimed at your platoon now the world knows you're in Helmand.

Plenty of people have some kind of public existence, of course, if only enough to get them worried that a prospective employer might Google them and find not only the conferences they've addressed and the public bodies they sit on, but also their wickedly scurrilous blogging alter ego and the pictures of the children dressing the family dog up as Julian Clary. Maybe it's simply a measure of how very un-public indeed you can become when, thanks to the cost of childcare and the obsessive compulsive disorder known as being a writer, it's years since you had a proper job.


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This has been a good week for my writing. There have been plenty of weeks when I've written more, but few when I've felt so productive. On Monday I polished up a selection of short stories for a submission opportunity which came out of the blue. Tuesday was book review day, and I completed my latest contribution for www.theshortreview.com. I recommend highly not just the site but the discipline of reviewing stories, which teaches you such a lot about what works and doesn't, why a reader responds to a story - my own writing has benefited hugely from the discipline of reviewing other people's work.


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Had great fun at the launch of Thorn in the Flesh yesterday - in spite of being so hyper I could probably have crawled across the ceiling without the aid of suction pads. Even Jennifer of Goldenford asked me if I'd been on the coffee. Caffeine?? Ye gods no! - can you imagine what I'd be like with that?!? Alas, the hyperactivity factor is entirely my own ...

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I am meeting my editor for lunch in the Ivy. Not my choice. The Maitre d' smiles at me professionally. “I’m meeting Chris,” I tell him.

He leads me to a small table in the centre of the room. Chris, as usual, is wearing a suit. “Would it kill you to throw on a shirt?” he asks, eyeing my un-tucked T-shirt and jeans.

I shrug. “I thought this place was full of arty creative types.”

“Yeah, well even arty creative types own clothes with buttons.”

“I’m just relieved we all survived the earthquake.”

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I'm not here. I'm busy. Working. Writing. Well, nearly. Researching. Found a book of first hand accounts of life in tsarist Russia, all by women, called Russia Through Women's Eyes. One of the writers, Ekaterina Slanskaia, was a doctor, though there was only a brief period in which women were allowed to study medicine in tsarist Russia (ten or so years before the medical schools were closed to them). They had to have the permission of either their father or husband, so many women entered into 'fictitious marriages' with a man who would be willing to grant permission.

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Bridge Cup


Well, for all my writing projects are looking dismal, at least I can report a trumph at bridge. This is ironic, given that I'd decided to give up playing - at least in clubs, where a recent encounter went thus:

Opponent 1 : Why on earth did you play that card? It was a stupid thing to do.

Me: Yes, I knew straight away that I shouldn't have done it.

Opponent 2: It really lets your partner down. She's such a good player, too.

Me: Don't worry, she's OK about it. I told her I was rusty because I hadn't played for a while, and at least this way she gets to play.

Opponent 2: That's no excuse! You've been playing for years.



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I've had this interview with Number 1 bestselling author, and all round lovely lady, Kate Long for a few days and have been wondering when best to post it. (I was trying to leave it so it appeared closer to the launch of her latest novel, The Daughter Game (Picador), which is March 7th. You can pre-order from amazon here.)

And what should the postman have for me yesterday? Why, my very own copy. I've read the first few pages and I have to say it's terrific so far. I took that as a hint that I'd best get on and post the interview.

So here's what Kate had to say about the new book (amongst other things, including otters and grandparents' rights)...

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