Tuesday, 19 May 2015

Introducing ... "Recipe for Change"

For those who have been eagerly awaiting the publication of my next novel, as promised, I have a little something to whet your appetite.

I hope you enjoy my cover reveal/blurb/first chapter and may I remind you to make a note of the following dates:

10th June - available to pre-order on Amazon
17th June - published on Amazon for Kindle and in paperback at Lulu.

Now ... grab a coffee, have a read and let me have your thoughts.


Take 1 single mum

Stir in:
1 hunky male housekeeper
1 new love interest
2 cute kids

Marinate with:
1 randy neighbour
2 feisty OAPs
2 recently dumped broken hearts


Lightly toss in a reality TV show.
Add a spoonful of salsa and a liberal sprinkling of rumba.

Leave on a slow simmer and watch it bubble.

* * * * *


Fancy yourself as a bit of a whizz in the kitchen?
Want to see yourself on TV?

Contestants needed for the popular cooking show
‘Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner’

Five nights, five hosts, five menus.
The guests mark each meal out of 10 and
at the end of the week the winner walks
away with a thousand pounds.

Contact RealLife TV now!

* * * * *


‘It’s absolute madness, Krista!  You can’t even boil an egg without setting off the smoke alarm.’

Alfie was ironing my crisp, white work blouses and looking at me as if I was in dire need of psychiatric help.

I slipped out of my cripplingly high heels and sat rubbing the balls of my stockinged feet.

‘Well thanks for that vote of confidence Alfie, but I don’t actually pay you to pass judgment on my lack of culinary skills so I’d be grateful if you could keep your opinions to yourself.’

‘Fine.  I’ll say no more on the subject,’ Alfie shrugged as he expertly pressed a collar and then placed the finished shirt on a hanger, ready to take to my en suite dressing room.  ‘By the way, there are some letters from the school on the breakfast bar and Harry’s got a school trip next week followed by a football match on Saturday.  You need to sign the forms.’

I stood to flick through the paperwork, feeling a little mean that I’d snapped at him.  We worked well together and my life had never been easier since he’d interviewed for the position of housekeeper.  His thoughts on my madcap idea to take part in a cookery programme did matter because he wasn’t just an employee - he’d become a good friend too.

When Joss and I divorced, I was a mess.  I’d had no idea that all his late nights at the office had meant that he was banging his secretary - not terribly original, huh?  Ironically, the reason I hadn’t twigged was because I’d been too busy working actual overtime myself.  You don’t become a hot-shot music lawyer without putting in the hours and, looking back, I couldn’t really blame Joss for popping out for a juicy steak because the boring old hamburger clearly wasn’t on the menu at the time.

Harry was four when we split and had been nursed by more au pairs and nannies than I cared to remember.  I wasn’t proud of this appalling record, or appearing to abandon him into the care of others at such a young age, but it was just the way it had worked out.  We couldn’t afford the huge house, holidays, private education or any of the finer things in life if I didn’t graft and, with Joss living in Hong Kong with a new family to support, this had become even more apparent.  I had to work.

But what hadn’t worked was the endless stream of young girls who floated through my house to look after Harry.  The majority of them, I chose to forget - to blot them from my memory bank - but some would haunt me forever.

There was Olita, a sullen Lithuanian who I found borrowed my clothes and shagged my (now fired) gardener in my bed.

We moved on to Felina - she was great with Harry but I ended up spending most of my time clearing up after her or cooking (Read: burning) meals for us all.  It was like having two children.

Marguerite was the one I still had nightmares about.  She broke the door off the Aga, left Harry in the park, threw up all over my prized Persian rug after ‘over-celebrating’ her new job the night before and made an overseas call to her mother that cost thirty quid - all on Day One.

I soon found that I was working more and more days at home or dragging Harry into the City where he’d cause havoc in the office, purely because the poor kid was bored witless.

My life was a mess and I was failing in just about every aspect.  I needed reliable help before my career suffered and we lost everything.

‘You need a housekeeper,’ Justine, my neighbour told me.  ‘Someone with a bit of maturity who looks after Harry and you.  Stop going down the au pair route and all your problems will be solved.

And she was right.  When Mrs Withers moved in, my life became … smoother.  Smoother but a little regimented.  Harry would eat at six pm - not a moment later - he would spend no longer than ten minutes in the bath and I would call by four if I wasn’t returning for supper.

It was like living with my mother and, although I could go to work knowing that my son was safe, my cupboards filled and my laundry clean, it was a little stifling.

Good old Granddad came to the rescue and, for once, I praised his incorrigible ways.  Granddad, or Ernest as he prefers me to call him, lives at the end of the garden in the summer house - painted in shocking pink, surrounded by gnomes and with a wooden plaque on the door telling all visitors that they are about to enter ‘The Love Shack’.

Yes at eighty-five, Ernest is a bit of a character.

So the third time he pinched Mrs Withers’ bottom and chased her around the breakfast bar saw an end to my problem of how to dispose of her.

And a return of my old problem.  As she packed her bags with pursed lips and hefty tuts, I was left without help again.

Until Alfie appeared.


Looking back, I can’t believe that I very nearly didn’t offer the job to him.  Why would I want a strange man and his daughter living under my roof?

Yes, he came with baggage in the shape of a shy nine year old called Nancy.  Of course she’s now a chatty pre-teen and I love her to bits.  It’s great having a bit of female company around and we often have girlie days or sit sobbing over romcoms and munching on our guilty secret of ice cold Maltesers.

But … it so nearly didn’t happen.  Alfie’s CV and experience were perfect, his manners impeccable, his demeanour easy - and yet I just couldn’t envisage myself having a man work for me.  He’d be washing my knickers for heavens sake!  He’d know my bra size!

‘OMG!  He’s gorge!’  Justine had popped in for coffee when she’d seen him leaving on the day of the interview.  ‘Lucky old you, eh?  Cor!  I wish I had an excuse to take on a housekeeper but I don’t think Rod would agree to one when he knows I do sod all every day as it is.’

Yes.  Alfie was gorgeous.  That was another reason why it hadn’t sat well with me.  How could I have a hunk of a man under my roof as I flitted about in PJs or rollers and face pack?

Fate forced my hand though.  A HUGE meeting cropped up in town, just as Harry came down with measles and so I made a frantic call to Alfie.  He was still available and had moved in to the top floor of our town house with Nancy and their belongings by the end of that day.

That was three years ago and we’ve never looked back.  He does wash my knickers.  He does know my bra size.  He’s even brought me pain killers and camomile tea when he knew I had crippling period pains.

But I only ever saw him as just … well, Alfie - the man who ran my house, cared for my son, brought order to my life and went on to become a confidante.

And now it’s virtually impossible to imagine how I managed without him.


‘Oh that is funny!’  Nancy was tucking in to her supper and looking at me, shaking her lovely dark hair and laughing.  ‘Krista?  Cooking?  Seriously?’

I noticed Alfie stifling a chuckle as he shot his daughter a ‘Ssshh’ look.

Harry wriggled and fidgeted, picking at his food and desperate to join in the ribbing.

‘Mummy won’t cook.  She’ll order pizza.  It’s what we lived on before you came here.’

‘Oh ha ha!’  I pouted and looked at each of them in turn.  ‘You can mock all you like but I’m doing this.  I am going to cook and, furthermore I’m going to meet a man in the process.  My friend Georgie says it’s the ideal way to get your face out there as a singleton.  Nothing else has worked for me, so what have I got to lose?’

‘A few fingers as you chop your veg?  The kitchen when it goes up in flames?  A law suit when the other diners sue you for food poisoning?’ Alfie quipped back at me.

My withering look was enough to silence him and he offered an apologetic smile before continuing, ‘So Georgie’s part of the production team is she?’

‘Yes’, I nodded enthusiastically.  ‘She said it’s amazing how many of the contestants find love after appearing on the show - either with another guest or through viewers getting in touch when it goes on air.  It’s so exciting!’

‘How come she doesn’t go on it herself then?  She’s single, isn’t she?’ Alfie asked as he heaped more carrots onto Harry’s plate.

‘Oh no, she … you know … she’s not into men.’  I pulled a face at Alfie and tipped my head surreptitiously in Harry’s direction.

‘Is she a Thesbian?’ my son piped up.

Spluttering a mouthful of pasta across the table, I wiped my mouth and smiled.  ‘No darling, she’s not an actress - and it’s thespian, by the way.  No, she works on putting the show together.’

‘I know she’s not an actress,’ Harry spoke through a mouthful of food.  ‘I meant is she a lady who loves other ladies?’

‘Where on earth have you heard …’

Thankfully any further discussion was thwarted by the arrival of Ernest as he came through the back door, closing it behind him and wiping his feet on the mat.

‘Evening troops!’ he bellowed as he twiddled his handlebar moustache.  If you imagine the Major in Fawlty Towers, you’ve more or less got my paternal grandfather!

‘What fine looking tucker have you conjured up tonight, my good man?’ he asked Alfie as he slapped him heartily on the back.

‘There’s plenty of pasta bake and veg, Ernie.  Grab yourself a plate and join us,’ Alfie offered as he pulled out the chair next to him.

‘No no.  Can’t stop.  Just pour me a quick snifter and I’ll be off.  Got a date with a little dame.  Wouldn’t do to keep her waiting, eh?’

I loved my grandfather dearly but sometimes I just wished he’d slow down a little.  He was always out with a different woman, went to the gym with Justine and basically had a more eventful social life than I did.  With my parents also living in Hong Kong and seeing more of my ex-husband and his kids than they saw of me and Harry, I felt responsible for him and worried that he overdid it sometimes.

‘Hey!  Listen to this, Ernie.’  Alfie poured him a glass of red wine and continued, ‘Krista’s going on that cookery programme.  You know the one we watch at five on weekdays.  Can you believe it?’

Ernest’s laugh boomed out as he wheezed and wiped at his rheumy eyes with a silk hankie retrieved from the top pocket of his blazer.  ‘Heavens to Mergatroyd!  That is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a while. She cooked me a shepherd’s pie once.  On the karzie for days, I was!  Now if you’d told me she was going on that dancing programme, I might have understood.  But cooking?  Krista?’

‘Well I’m delighted that you all find the whole thing so amusing,’ I told them as I sat back and crossed my arms defensively.  ‘Yes.  It would be better if I’d been invited on that ballroom show but as I’m not a celebrity that’s never going to happen.  I’m doing this show, no matter what you may think.  And by the end of it, I’ll have a man.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my dance class to go to - I’ll leave you all to have a jolly good gossip about my inadequacies while I’m out, shall I?’

As I left the kitchen, I heard Harry say, ‘Alfie?  If Mummy gets a new husband, what will happen to you?’

I didn’t stick around to hear the response because it had been a question that had been hovering unanswered in my head for a while.


Originally the dance classes had been Justine’s idea as a way for me to meet single men and for her to flirt with them while Rod was away.  What we didn’t know was that the class was filled with women with the same idea - and gay men.

We might not have continued had we not grown to love Paulo, our teacher, and I found that I had a real flair for dance.  After a stressful day in the office, I loved to simply let my hair down, put on a swishy skirt and some sexy shoes and just let rip on the dance floor.

Justine struggled a little, though.  Her curves and blatant sexiness were more suited to pole-dancing or burlesque but she persevered, partly from boredom at being stuck in a huge house alone and partly because we found we really enjoyed it.

‘Oooh!  Krista!  Loving the cleavage tonight, girlfriend.  Look at those tatas!’ Our friend Felix commented as he saw me practising my rumba with his boyfriend Neil.

‘She’s just been telling me she’s gonna be a TV star,’ Neil said, turning to his partner.  ‘Our Krista’s gonna nab herself a bloke on that dining programme.’

‘Sheesh!  Really?  The last time she tried to cook for us we were laid up in bed for a week!  Remember, Honey?’

As I strutted and sashayed, I found myself questioning my sanity.  Just what was I thinking of?  My friends and family were right - I couldn’t cook if my life depended on it.  Tea and toast were my speciality and once, when Alfie had been struck by a bad case of the flu, I’d even stuffed that up.  The toast was burnt on one side, still bread on the other and I’d even forgotten to put the teabag in the cup.

If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, I was destined to be single for the rest of my life.

But … as Felix swung me in to a sexy dip, the blood must have rushed to my brain and given me a light bulb moment.

There was still a week until the show started filming - and an extra four days after that until I was scheduled to host my own dinner party.  Alfie was a master in the kitchen - he was a trained chef, for heaven’s sake.  He could teach me everything he knew - well maybe not everything, that was a bit ambitious, but he could teach me enough to get me through the ordeal.

My housekeeper was going to help me cook my way to a man.

Thursday, 7 May 2015

"My name is Amanda and I'm a writer"

There was a time when I wouldn’t tell people that I was a writer.  When being introduced at parties or social gatherings, I’d keep it quiet.  What right did I have to give myself that title?  Maybe if I’d been traditionally published I wouldn’t have been quite so reticent but, as an Indie, a little voice in my head would always whisper ‘Don’t tell them.  You can imagine what questions will spring up.’

But things are different now.  I’m an Indie and am proud of what I’ve achieved.  I’m living the dream and my writing journey has allowed my husband to abandon his job search so that we can work together as a team - earning enough to pay the mortgage, the bills, feed and clothe ourselves and generally live.  OK, there are no round-the-world cruises on the horizon but if you’d told me four years ago that my writing would support us, I wouldn’t have believed you.  That cruise can’t be too far away!

These days I’m prepared for the questions that come after,‘What do you do, Amanda?’ and I reply, head held high, ‘I’m a writer.’

I should be prepared, I’ve heard them so many times!

‘Who are you published by?’

‘So you couldn’t get a publisher then?’
‘Actually, after being let down at the final hurdle with my first novel, I lost faith and decided to stop approaching both agents and publishers.  The Indie route suits me just fine.’

‘But I bet if a publisher offered you a massive deal, you’d take it?’
‘If someone offered you a fortune to do what you love, I guess you would too!’

‘Does it pay then?’
‘If it didn’t I wouldn’t be working 5 (sometimes 7) days a week or chaining my husband to the desk to edit, format and promote my books.  I don’t dabble - it’s my job and both my husband and I get paid a wage.’

‘Where do you get your ideas from?’
‘Honestly, I can’t put it down to one thing.  A seed can be planted while I’m sleeping or from an overheard snippet of conversation, an advert or (in one case) a parked car that I used to see every day - from that car came a whole plot.’

‘I’ve got an idea for a book!  Do you want to write it for me?’
‘No thank you.’

‘Do you get writer’s block?’
‘I’ve learned to deal with it.  I walk away, make a coffee, talk to the cats, load the washing machine.  If a block hits really badly around the 30K word count mark and there’s nothing I can do to shift it, I accept that I’m writing the wrong book and shelve it.  If my books don’t write themselves, I turn my back on them - I don’t have time for lack of cooperation!

‘Why don’t you write a Harry Potter type book or erotica?  That’s where the money is, isn’t it?’
Would you ask a gynaecologist why he’s not a dentist?  We specialise in our choices for a reason.  And there’s actually pretty good money in chicklit too!’

And finally, my favourite question from a dear friend who asks me every time I see him:

‘When are you going to write about a suave accountant with a huge willy?  I can give you lots of background information.’

Who knows, but I’ll pass on checking out his credentials!

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

Jamelia - punching above her weight

I’m beginning to think that ‘Loose Women’ should be re-named ‘Loose Cannons’.

I gave up watching some time ago but when one of their panelists spouts venom, bigoted views or claptrap it always hits Twitter and you find yourself thinking, ‘Whose career is in need of a boost now?’

Surely that can be the only reason these women come out with such contentious views.  We’ve seen the Vile One (Hopkins) do it time and time again (her empire is built on it), we cringed at Judy Finnigan’s rape comments and now we have Jamelia with this beauty:

“I think everyone should have access to lovely clothes, BUT I do not think it’s right to facilitate people living an unhealthy lifestyle … I don’t believe stores should stock clothes below or above a certain weight. They should be made to feel uncomfortable when they go in and can’t find a size.”

What was she thinking?  And what will she be thinking this morning now that the dust has settled?

Yes, she’s entitled to her opinion but has she really considered the implications of what she said?

  1. What is this ‘certain weight’ she’s talking about?  Do we have scales at the doors to ascertain who can and can’t be allowed to enter?  Or maybe we have a radar that automatically brings down a shutter if it detects non-perfection?  Who decides on the ideal weight?  A doctor?  A catwalk model?  A chat-show panelist?

  1. How should these people be made to feel uncomfortable?  Pointing?  Jeering?  Making them try clothes on whilst standing on the shop floor rather than in the privacy of a changing room?  Maybe a Tannoy could be used to announce the arrival of a fatty or a skinny?  A fanfare perhaps?

  1. Who says that being overweight or underweight is due to an ‘unhealthy lifestyle’?  There are many medical conditions which cause weight gain or loss, just as there are many people carrying a little extra weight or not enough who are totally healthy, happy and fit.  Your mind is as narrow as your hips, Ms J.

  1. What message are you giving your daughters?  ‘Oh, the scales have tipped over the perfect weight!  Greedy girl! or ‘Too skinny, sweetheart!  Sick girl!’

  1. What right do you have to enter women’s living rooms and make them feel bad about themselves?  I’m not talking about the ones who are happy and confident in their skins (be that large or small), I’m talking the ones who are already struggling - the young mum who’s lonely and trying to shift a few extra pounds, the uni student who’s battling bulimia.  Did you think about them?

  1. Where exactly should these ‘freaks’ go to buy their clothes?  Must we keep them all behind closed doors and only allow them to shop on the internet?  If so, why draw the line at clothes shops?  Let’s keep them inside all of the time so that they don’t offend your sensitivities.

  1. Start saying your prayers to the Beauty Gods.  May your bottom never sag, your metabolism never change, your health never throw you a curve ball that affects the holy scales and may you always be allowed in the hallowed shops.

On a final note, dear readers, let me leave you with the perfect body - yes, I do mean the rabbit.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

Going Mental about Dental

Regular readers of The Misfit will know that I used to work for a dentist.  Yes, I was the nurse who had everything (medically!) performed in her mouth by her work colleague.  I was the nurse whose boss got her so tipsy after a Christmas lunch he took great pleasure in telling all the patients booked for that afternoon (check-ups only) 'Look!  My nurse can't walk in a straight line!'  We're talking the 80's here - when stuff like that happened!

There was no fear in that surgery and a whole heap of laughs!

But over the years I lost my trust.  I became fearful.  I allowed the dentistry devils to move in.  In short, I developed a phobia which made me feel physically sick so that I couldn't actually think straight anymore.  Stupid? Yes!  Avoidable?  If, you have a logical brain, maybe.  But we are talking the The Misfit here!

So several visits to various practices and a few botched jobs later, I've been led me to the dentist of my dreams.

My last 'Demon Dentist' (no, I won't name and shame) left me with a half-broken wisdom tooth and said I'd need to be referred to the hospital for a surgical extraction.  I think the truth was, after FORTY MINUTES of wrenching, he basically gave up.  Hey!  At that point I was quite happy to leave - I'd had enough too.  (Memories of being in early labour sprung to mind - that moment when the midwives tell you to go home because nothing much is happening and you think to yourself, 'Oooh!  That's good.  I don't actually have to do this anymore!')

But of course, you DO have to deal with it eventually - rancid teeth or babies, you can't ignore them forever.  One way or another, they're coming out!

So when the euphoria of being back home died down and I realised that I still had a manky, rotten stump of an evil piece of nothingness living inside me (the tooth, not the baby!)  I knew I had to find a solution quickly.

Having been told by the 'Demon Dentist'  that there was a NINE MONTH waiting list to have the ****** removed at an NHS hospital, this was not an option!  Sheesh!  If I was young enough I could make and produce another baby during that time frame!

And so began the hunt for the 'Dream Dentist'.  Hours of Googling and panicking about what this whole nightmare was going to cost me, led me to ... (humour me here, I'm a romantic comedy writer!) my Knight in Shining Face-Mask.

From the moment I spoke to the lovely receptionist, Loretta, at Gentle Dental (now she's a lady who needs to feature in one of my books one day!) I knew I'd hit the jackpot.  Nothing was too much trouble, I wasn't a paranoid looney, I hadn't lost my marbles - I was simply a nervous patient with concerns and they were instantly dealt with.

Fast forward to the appointment with Dr Etienne after sleepless nights of imagining (at the very least) blood-shed, torture, agony, 'nee-naw'-ing ambulances and almost certain death (Drama queen? Moi?!).

From the minute I shook his hand, looked into his kind eyes and listened to his soft South African accent, I was a little bit in love.  The writer in me began scribbling notes - older love interest with a sense of humour, kind, calm, solid and dependable.

This was the man for the job!  There was no doubt in my mind.

And apart from the colly-wobbles (I'm famous for them! - think: whole body jiggles like a jelly and can't actually sit still, no matter how hard it tries!) all was well.  He ripped that ****** out in less than five minutes and did something no one has ever done before.

Yes, while under his spell, he gazed deep into my soul and explained why I shouldn't smoke for three days.  At this point I would have walked over hot coals, vowed never to have a saucy Richard Gere thought ever again or even renounced the odd glass of Pinot - and all I could do was nod, wide-eyed, and say, 'Ngggnginnggkkay' through a mouthful of cotton wads.

But, as he'd fulfilled his promise of a painless and hassle-free extraction, I kept my end of the bargain and didn't smoke.  It almost killed me (no irony intended!) but I did it.

AND ... my fear has gone.  I'm ready to start the journey to a beautiful mouth and I'm happy to become a regular visitor and undertake any procedures they throw at me.  I never would have thought I'd say that.

The Misfit is smiling!

I have not been paid to write this.  These are my thoughts and opinions on Gentle Dental, Putney, London.  If you're a local - go there!  You won't look back.

Monday, 23 March 2015

Sowing the Seeds of Love

England, we are led to believe, has four seasons - although sometimes it can feel like one long, wet, grey never-ending winter.  As my Aussie husband loves to say of our weather, 'Summer is my favourite day of the year!'

I'm a great fan of winter.  I love the dark, cosy nights, the rain, hail, snow and cloud. Yes, I really do!  But I do get to a point, when we change the clocks, that I start to yearn for a bit of sun, a cool breeze and long evenings enjoying our garden.  We have a very small, typical townhouse garden but we utilise the space well and take full advantage of it whenever we can.  Dinners seem longer, chat seems less distracted and life feels better during an alfresco meal or drink.

So yesterday when we found ourselves with an unseasonably warm day for London, we set to work on preparing the garden for our long-awaited summer.  Tubs were emptied, borders cleared, leaves swept, plants chopped and seeds planted.

As I dug my fingers into the earth, covering seeds and pulling out weeds, I could almost smell the approach of warmer days.  Oh, I know we have a lot more of the grey stuff to get through before we can have that first drink outside but ... it's coming!  It's on its way!

My garden looks a bit like an empty stage awaiting its actors at the moment but it's exciting and I love the thrill of watching new shoots pop up or new life pushing its way through the soil.

I then got to thinking how much tending a garden is like writing.  It all starts with that first seed.  You plant it and give it time, love and patience.  Lots and lots of patience!  As it grows you trim it, prune it and tame it.  Sometimes it gives you a scare and you think you may lose it but then it suddenly bounces back with a surprise.  Within time, that tiny dot of nothingness has a mind of its own with strong roots and it's ready to face the world.

The only difference is, I can choose when I want to plant in my garden.  Sadly (or maybe, happily) I can't with writing.  I wasn't looking for a new plot but the germ of an idea popped into my head yesterday and I think it's already settling itself in the soil of my brain and preparing to sprout.

Ah well!  At least I'll have a lovely scented garden to work in.  Now pass me that notebook and a box of fertiliser!

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

Chicklit? Predictable? Hell, yeah!

How do you like your eggs in the morning?
Fried, scrambled, boiled, poached?
There are so many ways.

How do you like your chicklit?
There is only one way.

Those who devour chicklit like to know what they're going to get - a light, frothy read that takes them on the heroine's journey until she has her man/kiss/ring/epiphany.

It's really very simple.  A chicklit reader will know (sometimes from Chapter One - and I have to say, in some books I've read, Page One) who the main character will end up walking into the sunset with but they want to know how she gets there.  They don't want plague, murders, famine and mass outbreaks of smallpox.  They want humour, trials, tribulations and tittilations until they reach that magic swoon.

Pick up any successful chicklit author's work and there will always be one thing that runs through them like a stick of rock - the happy ending that the readier nailed fairly early on in the read, laced with the thrill of wondering how it will happen.

If we took our reader on so many twists and turns with various men who our heroine might end up with and then threw in a curve ball at the end, we wouldn't be trusted and she'd be called a slut.

If we wrote the final chapter awash with misery and despair we shouldn't be writing chicklit.

People can be as snooty and snobby as they like but women love to cosy up with a read that will deliver - the Mansells and Kinsellas of this world are proof of that.

So to sum up ...

How do I like my eggs?

How do I like my chicklit?
Predictable - but with humour and surprises along the way.

Otherwise, I'd opt for Dostoyevsky.  Or a self help book.

Tuesday, 3 March 2015

51 is the New 50!

So, last year I hit the big five-oh and hosted a party at our house for about 30 people.  Then we decided it was such fun, we might do the same for our 20th wedding anniversary.  Becoming 51 seemed the perfect excuse to have yet another bash and so, never one to do things by halves, out came the notebook and the lists were made.
We're a little short on photos as we were all having too much fun and forgot to take many but these are a few to give you an idea of our night.
The food we'd prepared and frozen over the preceding weeks was displayed on our Laura Ashley marble boards (a little budget tip for you - they're actually floor tiles!), the house looked like a party shop had exploded inside it, the gazebo was adorned and the teen was all set for DJ duty.

DJ son with friend Tchengiz

We made 60 pop-cakes.
Never again!  Delicious but time consuming.

Sadly, flu and various other aliments attacked some of our guests but the assembled group of about 25 certainly made up for it.  We had a sterling performance of  'Cabaret' from 'Fenella' and then we moved on to the teen's friend Tchengiz, who did a couple of his own songs and wowed his audience. We only have one video to share on here as it almost killed hubbie trying to get it from his phone and edit it for the blog.

To view, click here.

At my request Tchengiz also performed his Christmas song and I thought I'd post the original video here too:

I'm sure you'll agree that he's got quite a talent and will go far.  I wish him all the luck in the world - a lovely young man who shared many happy years with my son at school and I'm sure they will continue to keep in touch.

We were then entertained by my good friend @nurseyjo, who tap-danced to an Olly Murs number.  I'm so jealous and it made me even more determined to master those moves!

Then quite out of the blue, @nurseyjo's beautiful daughter did an impromptu performance of 'Bring it on Home to Me' with Tchengiz accompanying her on guitar - they had literally disappeared upstairs for only a few minutes and then *BAM* they were in to it.  If  Simon Cowell had been at my party he would have been rubbing his hands together with glee at the plethora of talent!  Thank you so much, guys!  I'd love to post the video here but I think the process of doing so would tip hubbie over the edge!

We danced, we laughed, we ate and we drank.  It was even warm enough for people to enjoy sitting outside in our 'Bedouin' tent - mad for February! A great night was had by all and I thank my guests for making it so special.

Being 51 is just fine!

Now ... shall I throw a summer party?