New release - it's been a while!

I know, I know it's been FOREVER since I brought out a new book but there are reasons for this which I'm unable to share for the moment.  As soon as I can, I will.  Promise.

Anyway, 'Half as Good as You' is now available for pre-order on Amazon and will hit your Kindle on 4th October.  The paperback version will be available shortly, once I decide whether to publish through Lulu or Amazon.

If you read it and love it, PLEASE leave a review  - your words help to sell mine.  If you've enjoyed any of my other books, I'd be really grateful for even a one line review.  They really DO make a difference.

Right ... here's the blurb ...

The day after discovering her husband’s infidelity, TV make-up artist Fizz finds herself knocked off her feet (quite literally!) by a passing stranger in the busy Covent Garden rush hour.  

Rescued by an elderly gentleman, an unusual friendship forms, a mystery lottery ticket appears and Fizz realises that she’d never really been as content in her marriage as she’d allowed herself to believe.

With the arrival of two new men on the scene, how long will it be before Fizz hits the jackpot?

And the links for UK Amazon

And USA Amazon 

Just £1.99 - less than a coffee and will last longer!

Drum roll .... my new release!

It's just over a week away until my latest full length novel hits the shelves.  My test readers have all enjoyed and even gone so far as to say that they think it may their favourite so far!  High praise indeed and I guess we'll have to see what everyone else says.

So ... the date for your diary is Thursday 12th December (my lovely mum's 86th birthday).  You'll be able to download it on Amazon for under £2 or, if you prefer a paperback copy, you'll need to go to Lulu.com.

Presenting ... TABBY & KAT

 Here's the yummy cover:

 And here's the blurb:

Things are changing for Tabby and Adam.

With their friend Polly leaving ‘The Thunky Three’,

who will fill the void in their cosy house-share?

Enter … Kat

... and a whole heap of trouble.

 

And just to drag you in a little bit more, here's the first chapter.  I really hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

ROOM TO RENT

Fifteen minutes from here

in large, airy house with garden.

Mad enough to share with

fun loving party animals?

(1 male, 1 female, 1 parrot)

 

*****

It suddenly all seemed so final as I positioned the advert in the shop window and then went outside to check that it was straight and fully visible to the passing public. Polly had really left and Adam and I had to find a newbie to fill her slot at the house.  The ‘Thunky Three’ were splitting and I felt a mixture of sadness and giggles as I thought back to how we came up with our ridiculous name.

Of course it had involved too many cheap bottles of cider and gut-rot wine as we celebrated our moving in together and Polly had balanced herself precariously on the coffee table with her full glass spilling everywhere.  As she threw a very drunken arm up in the air and ground her hips to whatever beat we were listening to at the time, she toasted our new living arrangements.

‘Whoop!  To the Thunky Three,’ she’d shouted.  She’d then guffawed, fallen off the table while expertly managing to save her booze, and added as she landed, ‘Ooops! I actually meant ‘Funky’ - but I do believe I’ve just made up a lovely new word which should be inserted into the Oxford Dictionary forthwith.’

Adam and I had fallen about with laughter as she went on to tell us that she loved the words ‘inserted’ and ‘forthwith’ so very, very much (said with a drunken slur) and then proceeded to put them into various madcap sentences.

‘My rumbling stomach demands that we order some take-away pizzas and insert them, forthwith.’

‘I demand that you insert your manhood forthwith, Mr Darcy!’

And so we became ‘The Thunkies’ - even our large circle of friends would refer to our trio as such.  We’d met at Uni, instantly hitting it off and deciding that when our time was done with our studies we’d hot-foot back to London and share a place together - it just seemed the natural progression for us.  From then on, any invitations which plopped on our doormat were addressed to ‘The Thunky Three’ and texts or email would ask if The Thunkies would be at such and such event.

And now we’d split.

After nearly four years of living in each others’ pockets at Uni and another five in London, Polly was off to get married (and pop out a sprog!) and I was bereft and delighted in equal measures.

Of course Adam was a little bit upset that she was going but, as I’d just broken up with ‘Codface Callum’ he saw it as an ideal opportunity to make his move on me - again.  Suddenly there could be just the two of us in the house and Adam liked that idea - he liked that idea a lot.

You see, Adam had been in love with me for as long as I could remember and he made no secret of showing it.  And I loved him too - just not like that.  We’d had a couple of drunken snogs at parties over the years and (from what I could remember) they were good - really good.  You know, the type that get you thinking, ‘Wow!  If I could just let this go a little further this could be something quite mind-blowing’.  But I just never would … you know, let anything go too far.  Because Adam … well, he was Adam!

Don’t get me wrong.  He was no gargoyle.  He was incredibly good looking with his floppy, messy chocolate brown hair, eyes to drown in and a fine pair of long legs (oops, I may have made him sound a bit like a Labrador there - but I guess if you combine the looks with the faithfulness and fun factor, he was a bit like a loyal Lab!).  He was kind, thoughtful, had the most amazing sense of fair play and everybody said he was the nicest guy they knew but … well … he just wasn’t for me.

I went for the bad boys - you know, the ‘Say They’ll Pick You Up at Eight and Don’t’ type.  The ‘Living on the Edge’ type.  The ‘Sod Paying the Bills, Let’s Blow our Gas Money down the Pub’ type.

I liked the thrill, the danger, the excitement - and in a perverse way, the many broken hearts that came as part of the package.  After the upbringing I’d had, it was all I knew really - settling with a kind and sensible man just didn’t seem an option.

Now, if that made me sound like a troubled child from an East End council estate with a drug-pushing dad and a street-walking mum, it couldn’t have been further from the truth.  I grew up in a beautiful village in Surrey with my parents, brother and sister.  But there was never a dull moment in our home - no peace, no normality, no calm - and, weirdly, we all thrived on it.

My mum and dad were artists - crazy, flamboyant, and both mad as a box of frogs.  They loved one another with a fierce passion, fought like Taylor and Burton but always made up quickly.  Mum taught at the local art school and I remember a childhood filled with various waifs and strays being brought home for tea or supper - which was always burnt, always unidentifiable and always made with the enthusiasm of ‘This time it will work!’  Dad painted massive canvases for swanky London houses and made a small fortune ‘extracting the urine and their cash’ as he liked to refer to it.  He would lock himself away for an hour, fire up the spray cans and come out triumphantly proclaiming ‘That’s another pile of shit for The Titty-Farquhars that’ll cost them a cool ten grand.  Pour us a port, someone - I’m shattered!’

Of course, there were no clients by that name but that was what he called all those who coveted his ‘art’ - the people he loathed for their stupidity and vulgarity.  No one had ever wanted his delicate watercolours which took weeks of craft and thought - we’d have been a starving family had he not jumped ship and gone where the money was.  ‘The Titty-Farquhars’ might have paid his bills but they also robbed him of his true passion.

‘I’m prostituting myself!’ he’d cry out after too many ports or bottles of Burgundy.  ‘A whore.  I’m nothing more than a paint-splattered whore!’

This would usually be the moment my mother would grab a feather boa or stick some sparkly nipple tassels onto her pinny and run through a Burlesque routine to cheer him up.  My mum was sixteen stone of gorgeousness but boy did she know how to move it, so it usually had Dad chuckling and slapping his knee (or her fine rump) and forgetting his woes.

We’d sit by and watch in bemusement - me and my siblings - when we were younger. There was love in our house, we knew that, but it was sometimes a drain living where emotions always ran so high.

My brother, Tadge, was the eldest - a ballet dancer and straight to boot.  He could be prone to bouts of self-doubt or crippling worry, but since he married Flo he’d been much more settled.

My sister, Ophelia, was the youngest - a poet (or so she claimed).  I loved her to bits but she drove me up the wall with her weeping and wailing sometimes.  Still living at home with Mum and Dad, she was a slip of a thing who dressed in bits of lace and Victoriana fripperies on the outside but was a lazy, spoiled cow on the inside.

Then there was me, Tabitha, or ‘Tabby’ as I preferred.  I too was a struggling artist but I refused to sacrifice my dream of working in oils or to sponge off my parents so I supplemented my meagre income by helping out my friend Mims in her trendy gift shop.  Sometimes I thought I was  the only sane one in my family, but I guess the wildness of my upbringing must have taken its toll or I wouldn’t still be looking for ‘Mr Bad Guy’ and the thrill of the chase - I would have settled for Adam, wouldn’t I?

Which was never gonna happen!  So we had to get a new housemate, quick sharp, before he got any ideas about us becoming a couple.

‘The Thunkies’ might have disbanded but things couldn’t always stay the same, could they?  And who knew, maybe things would be even better?

*****

I’d noticed a young woman of about my age watching me as I finished putting the sign in the window of ‘The Treasure Chest’ when I got to work that morning.  There was something vaguely familiar about her but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it - she was probably a regular customer or one of the punters at our local pub, I thought as I returned to the counter and Mims.

‘Coffee there for you, Honey,’ she said as I tidied some greetings cards on a rack.  ‘So the wedding’s this weekend is it?  Polly all sorted?’  Mims dunked a chocolate Hobnob in her mug and quickly brought the biscuit to her mouth before it disintegrated.

‘Yep,’ I sighed.  ‘Saturday at two.  She’s been gone for two weeks now and Adam and I are heading down on Friday after work and staying in a B&B near Polly’s parents’ place.’

‘In separate rooms, of course,’ Mims joked.

‘We might share a house but we certainly don’t share a bed, Mims, and you know it.’

‘Well I think you’re bloody mad.  Before I met Tim, I’d have killed for a bloke like Adam - what’s not to like?  But the trouble is, he has eyes for no one but you, so you just take it for granted.  I reckon if you took him up on his offer of paying two-thirds of the rent and ditched the idea of looking for a new housemate, you’d be an item within weeks - the temptation would just be too great.’

I began to sort through some paperwork and orders in an attempt to block Mims and her babble out.  She was a hopeless romantic at heart and wanted nothing more than to see Adam and me together.  When I’d told her of his plan to pay extra rent to save us from replacing Polly, she’d been beside herself with excitement.

Of course, it would have been great to not have to bother interviewing a whole heap of strangers to decide who would fit in best but I didn’t want to give Adam false hope by taking him up on his offer.

‘Tabby, I can afford it,’ he’d stated very simply.  ‘Business is booming and it’s no great hardship for me to pay a bit of extra dosh.  Give it some thought, please.  No strings, I promise.  Just two old buddies sharing a house.’

It was true.  His web design business was booming.  He worked from home in one of the spare rooms and already paid a little extra for that privilege.  Mr Organised was in charge of all the bill paying, housekeeping and any odd jobs that needed to be tackled.  He’d never been in any sort of debt or financial instability as he always lived within his means and was now reaping the rewards.

In short, he was everything I wasn’t.  Mims had once joked that if Adam suddenly announced that he hadn’t got his rent or that he’d blown his savings on a motorbike, I’d drop my drawers in a flash because he’d suddenly become everything I usually looked for.  Not true.  He was my friend, that was all, and I’d hate anything to ruin that.

Mims broke into my thoughts again.  ‘Hey, supposing you get some gorgeous floozy move in and Adam falls for her instead of you?  Would you be upset?’

‘Don’t be so daft!’  I sipped at my coffee and thought about her question.

‘What?  Don’t be so daft because it wouldn’t bother you, or because you’re so sure it would never happen?’  Mims flicked me with an elastic band she’d found by the till.  ‘You be careful who you decide on, Miss Tabby.  You take in a looker, and the gorgeous Adam might not stick around and wait for you forever.  Then you’ll be looking for two replacement housemates!’

*****

I guess Mims’ words must have got to me more than I thought because whenever any sexy, nubile bit of stuff came in the shop and enquired about the house, I told them the room had gone and then ushered their pert little bottoms to the door.  I then had to contend with Mims’ knowing looks and smirks.

‘Yeah, good move there, Tabby.  That one was way too sexy to have floating around in a G-string, seductively munching on a croissant every morning, eh?’

The trouble was, I could control the applicants who enquired in the shop but I had no control over the list that Adam was compiling from the calls he had on his mobile - all female, or so I heard.

‘He’s doing it to wind you up, Petal,’ Mims soothed as we began checking off a delivery of gift bags and paper.  ‘He’s going to pick the best looking girl and hope that you crumble and relent on his suggestion.  Trust me.’

‘Yeah, well that’s fine.  I’ve had some pretty hot blokes come in and ask for details too - a couple of really cute Aussies and a French hunk who could offer me his baguette any old time.  So, I’m ready for his plan - and we have to agree on who we take in, so it’ll be fine.’

The shop had been quiet that day, with only a handful of customers coming through the doors, and I was suddenly aware of a small cough from the corner where we kept our tiny teddies.  I was almost certain it was the young woman who had watched me as I’d put the ad in the window and, as she saw me turn to her, she replaced the bear she’d been considering and left the shop in a hurry.

I didn’t know her but there was something about her that made an involuntary shudder run right through me.

She had poker straight blonde hair, I had flame red flowing curls - chalk and cheese - but there was something about the eyes.  People often said I had cat’s eyes and in many ways I agreed - green, keen and slightly slanting.

In that brief moment when our gaze met, it had been like looking into a mirror - a mirror which reflected a little piece of me.

I continued to work through the huge delivery and pushed the thought to the back of my mind.  Plenty of people had a similar look.  And what did it matter anyway?  I was just over-reacting.

*****

‘So we’ve got three lined up for Monday night - your losers.  And three lined up for Tuesday night - my little honeys,’ Adam told me as he scooped more Chinese takeaway onto our plates.

‘And we promise that we both have to agree wholeheartedly on who we give the room to - based on our strict marking system and gut feeling?’ I asked as I struggled with my noodles and chopsticks.

‘Yep.  And if none of the six are suitable, you’ll concede that my idea was the most sensible one all along.  I’m not spending weeks interviewing no-hopers, Tabby.’

‘It’ll be fine, Adam.  I really think you’ll like Jean-Charles.  He’s got a Porsche and works in advertising.’

‘I hate him already.  I’ll match your stinking, garlic-munching frog with a rather tasty Swiss girl called Eloise.  She emailed me over some rather saucy pics this morning - most accommodating of her, I thought.’  He winked and grabbed another prawn cracker from the bag.

This was not going to be easy and I sighed into my egg foo yung.  We had a lovely summer wedding to go to and yet the prospect of finding a new housemate would be hanging over us the whole time.

Maybe I should have just taken Adam up on his offer and become ‘The Thunky Two’.  Platonic, of course.

Nah!  We’d see what the applicants were like and decide from there - how bad could interviewing them and finding out a bit more about them really be?

Dear So and So ...

Another round of imaginary letters that I'd love to write but never will.  These are always such fun to do and are quite therapeutic as you get things off your chest.

Here goes:

Dear Employers of Young People
If you're offering an apprenticeship at a poxy £40 a week, please have the decency to send a one line email to tell your applicants if they haven't been successful.  That's all it takes and, frankly, it's rude not to.  Remember when you were starting out in your career?  It's a tougher world out there now and all these kids want is a chance or at least an acknowledgment.  Give them some hope that people are decent as they start out on life's journey.

Dear Old Age
You stink.  You rob people of their friends and siblings and then sneak in and continue to rob those left behind of their vibrancy and will to live.  Frankly, I want no part of you - I don't want to live a life of aching limbs and loneliness.

Dear Troll
I am so happy that you now appear to have a life.  Your daily comments were a bore and, with any luck, you are now taking literacy lessons to brush up on your spelling.  My 'ill-educated' scribblings earn me a living whereas your pointless rants get you nowhere.  Anonymity, when leaving comments on a blog, only shows you up for the sad loser you really are.
Dear Stalker
Sadly the above had to be crossed out and you needed to be upgraded to 'Stalker'. You haven't got a life at all, have you?  And there I was with such high hopes for you.   Try to enjoy your holiday in Thailand rather than focusing on me and my kitchen. Oh, and see my reply to you below.

Dear Mouse at the back of the radiator
I feel sorry for you trapped in there but what a bloody stupid place to go and hide!  There's a nice, humane trap waiting for you with a huge chunk of stinky cheese - if you just find your way out to that, I promise you I will set you free.  Your incessant scratching is driving me nuts and if you give birth in there I swear I'll call in the big guns.

Dear Brain
Thanks for putting me through the mill these last few weeks.  I don't think you realise that you are really only able to cope with one plot at a time - thank goodness you've finally settled on the right one.  Also, I'd appreciate it if, when it's bedtime, you shut down and go to sleep.  It's not the time to start telling me what should happen in Chapter Five or what the final line should be.

Dear Wandsworth Borough Council
 You are a bunch of a*ses and you will not beat me.  Do not put the wrong date on letters so that you can then tell me my mother is out of appeal time because I am on to you and you won't get away with it.  If my mother wants sheltered housing for the elderly, I'll fight you all the way and you will not pull the wool over my eyes.  Beware - I am like a dog with a bone if riled!

Dear Melon
Why?  Why would you do that to me?  I have always loved you and one minor slip-up with some parma ham has made me wonder if you will ever pass my lips again.  You made me suffer to the point where I Googled every symptom and discovered I could be dead within the week (!)  Lesson learnt: melon + parma ham = bad combination for me.
NB:  for those wondering why, the fat of the meat congeals and ferments the fruit.  Not nice.

Dear Hole in Roof
Well, you picked your moment didn't you?  Just as the heaviest rains of the year arrive was not ideal for us, really. We will beat you with buckets and towels and, if necessary, move ourselves one floor down.  Your gaping cavity will eventually be fixed and we will make sure it hurts - no anaesthetic for you.

Dear Agents and Publishers
I'm ready for you - where are you?  If you're looking for a hard working new writer with five books and a novella under her belt, and two new titles due out later this year, HERE I AM!  Go on, make me an offer I can't refuse!

All done and, I have to say, that's really set me up for the day.  Nothing like a good outburst to have you breathing a contented sigh, is there?  Go on.  Who would you like to write to and what would you say?

All my books can be found at Amazon UK here and .com here.  Or in paperback at Lulu.

Another Book on the Shelf

With the release date for 'Lottie's Luck' looming (June 19th) I'm now very proud to see five novels and a novella on my bookshelf.  I wrote those and people buy them!  How weird is that?

I'm often asked how I managed to produce so many books in such a short time.  Well, of course the truth is I didn't.  'Diary of a Mummy Misfit' was released in June 2011 but it was actually completed four years prior to that and was sitting in a drawer having a sulk.  Likewise, 'The Darker Side of Mummy Misfit',  which was released in December the same year, was already half written on the instructions of my then agent.

My other novels have come to life through pure hard graft - the only way to get from Chapter One to The End.  My bum goes on my seat at about 8.30am and most days stays there until about 4pm.  Yes, there's lots of dipping in and out of Twitter but that's one of the tools I use to sell my books and I need to have some sort of a life outside of my characters or I'd be a madder woman than I already am!

When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing.  I believe writers work 24 hours a day - ideas will strike when you least expect them.  A writer's brain is their main tool and, sadly, we can't switch them off along with the PC.  Some of my best ideas come to me just as I'm going off to sleep and I will often find that a problem will be solved overnight.  Likewise, I can wake with the clarity of knowing I've done something wrong and need to do a re-write.

So who would have thought that all those years ago, when my agent told me I would need a 'stable of books to be a viable published author', that I would now be looking at a shelf of six of them with another Christmas novella due in October and a full length novel in December?

And I will keep on keeping on!  As long as I have stories to tell, readers who love them and the need to keep writing, why would I stop or slow down?  Maybe one day an agent or publisher will see that I'm not just a one book wonder and decide to take a chance on me, but my days of seeking them out are over.  I need to use that time for writing.

Remember all of my books can be found here - check out my 5* reviews!  And if you'd like to try 'Lottie's Luck' for FREE, leave me a message here or RT one of my tweets (mummy_misfit) and you can go in the draw for a chance to win a Kindle copy on publication day, June 19th.

Now, back to that chapter I need to finish ...

Go Dotty for Lottie!

It's a little over a month away until my new chicklit novel 'Lottie's Luck' is launched on Amazon for Kindle and in paperback at Lulu.  So I'd like to give you  little taster by offering you the blurb and Chapter One for your comments and thoughts.

Grab yourself a drink, get comfortable and meet Lottie ...

THE BLURB

I’m Lottie Truman

and this is my story.

My life was simply tickety-boo

until a neighbour’s prediction

seemed to coincide with

my luck running out.

Join me on the path

I needed to take to get me

to where I am now.

But don’t judge me.

Because sometimes you have to

make a few diversions to allow fate

to push you in the right direction

* * * * 

 

Lottie's Luck

I want to tell you a little story.  Some of it may frustrate the hell out of you and could even have you screaming in protest at the pages (or at me) but I’d like you to be more than just a reader - think of yourself as a friend and non-judgmental confidante, living through this tale with me, and I think you’ll see why everything had to happen the way it did.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

CHAPTER ONE

  

The day that things really began to change started with me winning another sixty quid on the lottery.  I opened my ‘Rainy Day’ book and noted the figure down.  Almost five hundred pounds in the past year - not bad for someone who only did a couple of lines a month.

Mum and Dad did the lottery religiously, using the same selection every week - birthdays, anniversaries, old door numbers.  The same numbers with the same dream in mind - to finally get that cruise they’d dreamed of all their married lives - and yet they barely ever won a tenner.

If my luck carried on, I was hoping I’d be able to treat them for their pearl wedding anniversary the following year and that would make me really happy.

You see there’s something you should know about me as we start on this journey.  People were always telling me how lucky I was and I could only agree.  Born to the best parents in the world, an older brother who I only wanted to kill occasionally, a best friend who I knew would never let me down, my own thriving business (more on that later) and a boyfriend who made Brad Pitt look like Gollum - I felt I was truly blessed.

But it wasn’t just those things that made me feel fortunate.  Whatever I turned my hand to seemed to turn to gold.  Dad reckons when I was about two, I scribbled on his racing pages on the day of the Grand National and, sensing it was an omen, he had a little wager on the horse I’d marked with a snot green crayon.

It came in at forty to one and he made a nice little profit.  It soon became the family joke to get me to predict the winner each year but I’d only ever give a hint if I got a really strong lucky feeling.

And things continued in the same vein.  Family holidays would see me winning the jackpot at bingo or first prize in a raffle.  School contests always saw my name on the winner’s certificate and any magazine competitions I chose to enter would see a prize of some sort plopping through our letterbox.

You may think I’m exaggerating but have a look at a snapshot of some of my escalating wins to date and then you can decide for yourself:

£5 book token in year three at primary school - best project on dogs.

A year’s supply of Nestlé chocolate - aged ten.  Shared with brother Simon and my best friend Amy.  Almost put us off chocolate for life.

Make up set and brushes - aged fifteen from a crap teen mag.  Gave to Amy as preening has never really been my thing.

A week’s holiday in Portugal for two - just as I’d finished college.  Took Amy with me.

A pair of Christian Louboutin shoes worth £500 - also gave those to Amy as I don’t do heels.

A brand, spanking new Ford Transit van complete with insurance, MOT and service for three years.

Pretty lucky, huh?  But that last prize was the one that finally liberated me from my dull working life and gave me the opportunity to begin living my dream - or so I thought.  As it turned out, it did so much more than that.

I’d been working as a receptionist in a vet’s surgery for five years and, although I enjoyed my job, my goal was to start up my own dog walking venture.  I had a business plan, a logo, all the information I needed about insurance and pages of ideas to get the word out there.  But without decent transport, ‘Watering Lamp Posts’ would never get off the ground.

Mum suggested I started off small and just walk a few dogs, using my battered old Mini to get to and from clients’ houses, but Dad and boyfriend Nathan disagreed.

Dad said it wouldn’t look very professional and I was better off waiting, saving and doing it properly when the time was right.

Nathan merely turned up his nose and said he didn’t see the point of me starting up a business if we were eventually going to get married and have kids.

‘You’ll only end up ditching it and becoming a housewife - stick at the vets.  No point slogging your guts out just to fold as quickly as you started.’

Yes, Nat had very definite ideas about our future and, on good days, I could envisage myself at home with 2.4 kids, doing the school run and preparing dinner parties for his important clients.  But on the bad days … well, let’s just say I got a little bit panicky.  I loved him, so I was sure it would all work out for the best, but I knew I still needed to have a crack at my dream or I’d always live with regrets.

So when I entered the competition to win the van, I sent up a little prayer and even drafted my resignation to the surgery to help visualise the reality.  Positive thinking always worked well for me and this occasion was to prove no different.

But the words which made me realise that my dream might actually come true, also warned me that it may not finish in quite the way I’d expected.

‘I see a tin box, fur and a diamond … these things will change your life in more ways than you could ever begin to imagine.’

It was a miserable Friday afternoon and I’d popped next door to our elderly neighbour, Venetia, to tell her about my latest lottery win.  Now I loved Venetia, and I still do, but she’s seen by some - well, most - as barking.  She fascinated me from when I was an impressionable child of five and she first moved in.  With her swirly, velvet skirts and huge jewels, I could look at her for hours and listen for even longer.

I’d lost count of the amount of times Mum or Dad told me off when I was little.

‘Lottie will you stop staring at Venetia?  It’s rude.’

‘Lottie, come home right now and stop bothering Venetia.  She doesn’t want you hassling her all the time.’

But she didn’t see me as a nuisance.  She loved me too and our bond grew over the years.  Whenever I needed advice or guidance, I’d hop over the side fence and slip through her back door.  Sometimes she’d just sit and chat to me but as I got older she began to do readings - tarot cards, tea leaves or the crystal ball - and she was always spot on.

And that particular Friday, without either of us realising it at the time, she hit the jackpot.

‘If you take on this gift of the tin box, you must be prepared to accept changes out of your control.  Life will seem tough for a while but all will end well.’

Now, I didn’t like the sound of that one bit and I told her so.

‘What d’you mean, tough?  I need to know more, Ven.’

‘Oh, shush Lottie.  That’s all I can tell you at the moment - the mood has gone.  Now go and pour me a Baileys and Guinness and let’s talk about Big Brother - I can’t believe what that couple got up to in the jacuzzi last night!’

Venetia seemed to live on her trademark foul cocktail concoction and Mum and Dad knew to have plenty in stock when she came in for a chat.  We’d known her for twenty one years and she’d never missed a birthday or Christmas party, supping in the corner on her unique tipple - life just wouldn’t seem right without her sharing our festivities.  When she’d first moved in, I was convinced she was already about a hundred, but I’d got to the point where I didn’t see her as having an age at all - she was just a dear, if slightly wacky, friend.

‘Ven, you’ve scared me!  I don’t want bad things to happen to me - they never do.  Why should they start now?’

It’s true to say that, aside from being lucky, I also seemed to be protected - almost as if a guardian angel was shielding its wings like a cloak around me.  Again, I hear you say, ‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous!  You’re deluded!’

OK - then try these for size.  They’re the more minor examples of my good fortune but still a fairly valid testament that bad stuff simply passes me by.  I’m Teflon coated - it slips off me and dissolves into thin air.

When the whole of Year Six went down with chickenpox, I didn’t.  But, even better, I was told to have the week off school - no point going in if no other kids were there.  I spent the whole week playing in the back garden.

The massive puddle that the Number 23 bus hit and then soaked all of my friends as we were heading off to my 15^th birthday party totally missed me.

The food poisoning which struck all my friends after that same birthday party also passed me by.

When there was a cock up with our GCSE English papers, I was the only one who got the right paper in our year.  I got an A* and every one else had to retake.

Granny has never knitted me a hideous Christmas sweater but chooses to give me gift vouchers instead.  My brother Simon, on the other hand, has spent every festive season sporting an itchy jumper which has either been two sizes too big or too small, with reindeer, Santa or snowmen emblazoned on the front.

Oh yes, I’ve been blessed.  So hearing Venetia say that things might be rocky for a while didn’t seem possible.  I needed some answers.

Curling on her plum chaise longue, she tucked her legs under her scarlet skirt and lit a brightly coloured cigarette, batting away the smoke along with my fears.  ‘I didn’t say bad things would happen, did I?  Just things over which you’ll have no control - it will be a journey that will set you on the right path.  That’s all I can say.’

And the very next day I received the letter to say that I’d won the van.  My entry had been picked from thousands of other hopefuls and I was to go and collect my prize the following week.

‘Aha!  The tin box!’ Venetia had said with a glint in her eye when I went in to announce my good news.  ‘This will be the beginning.  I knew it!’

I was too excited to dwell on her words so I handed in my notice and began to put my plans into action - much to Nat’s disapproval.

‘Lottie, I’m just not convinced this is the right move for you.  I mean it’s not exactly the ideal job for an accountant’s wife, is it?  Please say you’ll reconsider.’

But my mind was made up and no amount of begging or cajoling from Nat would make any difference.  I was at the start of my adventure and nothing or nobody was going to stop me.

The sign writers did a great job of my ‘Watering Lamp Posts’ logo and picture on the side of my van and when Venetia came out to admire it she pointed to a cute, fluffy puppy alongside the writing and said, ‘Aha!  The fur!  All is becoming clear.’

I have to say, as much as I love Ven, at that point she was beginning to piss me off and freak me out in equal measures so I threw myself into my work and tried to ignore her predictions.

And things seemed to go well for me.  My ‘tin box and fur’ were doing me no harm and business began to boom fairly early on.  I had fifteen clients within the first month and, thanks to word of mouth about my top quality service, that soon doubled.  I was finally living my dream and once more I felt truly blessed.  I’m not one to take things for granted, you see.

After I’d been up and running for around six months and not been knocked over by a bus or struck with Beriberi, Venetia’s psychic reading soon began to fade into the depths of time and I’d all but forgotten her warnings.  Life was good, I’d got my ideal job at last and was spending my days doing what I enjoyed the most - being out in the fresh air, walking dogs and chatting with other dog walkers.

Then came the diamond …

* * * *

 Hope you enjoyed that morsel - remember the date for you diary is June 19th.  Do YOU want to know what happens to Lottie?  Comments here, on Twitter and Facebook will be gratefully received.

The A-Z of an Indie Writer

This week I’m looking at the A-Z of my life as an INDIE. This list will differ from writer to writer but I’d bet my last pound that some of them will always be the same.

See what you think:

A is for APATHY.  Yes, there will always be those moments or sometimes days when I just have to push, push, push to get to my target.  But I always feel better for it afterwards.

B is for BULLSH*T.  Oh boy, have I been spun some in my time.  I’m sure when it was happening that the agents or publishing houses believed what they were saying but please tread carefully with writers’ dreams.

C is for COFFEE AND CHOCOLATE.  Absolute essentials and if I was told I was banned from having them, I would simply refuse to write another word.

D is for DETERMINATION.  As a writer you need to have this in bucket loads.  Writing a novel starts with the words CHAPTER ONE and finishes with THE END.  There is no way to get to that point without dogged determination and discipline.  

E is for EDITING.  What more can I say, except grrrrrr!  The first draft is complete and then the hard work really begins.  After weeks of my own editing, the book then goes to hubbie and the red marker pen comes out, as does my vicious tongue, endless nights of bickering/sulking and the threat of divorce!  It’s a horrible time but we laugh (manically!) about it when it’s over.

F is for FOLLOWERS.  Those lovely people I’ve met through my writing who leave glowing reviews and eagerly await my next offering.  I love each and every one of them - without them I’d be nothing.

G is for GERM.  That wonderful moment when the first seed of a plot starts to grow arms and legs.  When suddenly you find that your head is filled with brand new characters telling you their stories.

H is for HOPE.  Every day starts with a fresh bout.  Will I have a stonkering sales day?  Will my words flow effortlessly?  Will I be discovered and shot to fame?  Without hope, we’re nothing.

I is for INSPIRATION.  Where on earth does it come from?  It’s quite scary really because it often appears from nowhere and hits me with a plot before I know it.  ‘Completing the Puzzle’ was inspired by a battered old Mini I see every day on my travels.  It made me think of the sons in the sitcom ‘Butterflies’ and, before I knew it - bam, I had a plot!  The idea for my latest Work In Progress came from an ad for a Bingo website - and no, not one game of Bingo features but it was enough to get me thinking.

J is for JITTERS.  As each new book is launched, I tremble with fear.  What if my readers don’t like it?  What if it’s totally panned?  Only after that first review hits Amazon, do I begin to calm down.

K is for KNOCKBACKS.  I haven’t submitted to an agent or publisher for over a year now as I felt that I’d had my emotions played around with just a little too much.  Not only was I rejected by a few (who hasn’t been?) but I was also signed up and messed about.  I was even approached by another agent who asked me to submit the complete manuscript for ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’ never to hear back from him again - and when chased up, he ignored me.  Rude!  I’m doing quite nicely as an Indie now and I don’t need to prostitute myself again.  Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, wrote the book.  If you want me, come and get me.  Simples!

L is for LAPTOP.  I’m practically surgically attached to it.  My first novel was written on a laptop I borrowed from my Goddaughter and it changed my writing life.  Before, I had always written in long-hand and I now know this is not the method for me.  Threaten my laptop and I will become vicious - it’s my life-support!

M  is for MORALE.  It’s important to stay upbeat as an Indie.  I have no agent, editor, publicist or publisher to chivvy me along and keep my spirits up and a ‘down-day’ has the potential to set me back for weeks.  This is where fellow Indies come in.  What a great bunch we are!  Anything I’m going through I can guarantee that they will have been through it too.  A quick, chat, Tweet, text or email and everything is put back into perspective.  Writers need never feel lonely now - it’s wonderful!

N is for NETWORKING.  Where would we Indies be without it?  From Facebook to Twitter, guest blogs to book websites.  Every minute not spent writing is spent marketing and that comes from networking.  I firmly believe that without Twitter I would have sold less than half the books I can brag about now.

O is for OMG!  That wonderful moment when someone other than a friend or family discovers my books and says they love them.  I can still remember that first time and the feeling it gave me.  I wish it could be bottled.

P is for PLOT-FACE.  I’m told by hubbie that this is a look I often sport.  It’s a kind of ‘dreamy, not quite in the room’ look and can often be accompanied by a very deep, throaty hum.  Give me a few minutes and I’m back but please don’t talk to me if I’m ‘under’!

Q is for QUALITY.  Always hoping that my latest book is as good as my others - that it will be as well received and of the standard my readers expect.  I’ve just finished reading a novel by a very well known and established author and it could only be described as lazy.  Constant repetition to the point I wanted to chuck it in the bin but I’d invested so much time in it I needed to know what happened.  Nothing is the answer - nothing that she hadn’t told us seven times before.  Shame on the publishers for churning out sub-standard books from your top writers, just because you know they’ll sell.

R is for REVIEWS.  Now, tempting fate here but I’ve been lucky with mine.  I know it won’t last because you can’t expect everyone to like your work.  I’ve read some real stinkers (even for traditionally published writers) and I’m always amazed by how spiteful people can be.  If I don’t like a book, I don’t post a review - writers have feelings you know and when you slate a book it’s a bit like telling them their baby is ugly.  Don’t do it!

S is for SALES.  As an Indie it’s very easy to become obsessed.  In the early days I used to check my sales report page every half an hour (sad but true).  Each and every sale still makes me smile - people are finding my books and my hard work is paying off.

T is for TYPOS.  Curse of the indie writer.  There are three of us who work on the final copy of my books and, each time I’ve released one, typos have still managed to slip through the net.  It still annoys me when I read reviews for other Indie books and the reader says, ‘You could tell it was self-published.  Typos!’  Trust me, it’s not just us.  Recently I’ve spotted more and more mistakes in big name novels - sack the proof-reader, I say.  Oh, and I can’t sack mine because they’re hubbie and best friend!

U is for UNAUTHORISED.  The annoying websites who get a copy of my novels when I’ve done a freebie promotion and then upload it, thinking they can sell it for profit.  Or the people who try to sell a paperback copy for £150!   GO AWAY!

V is for VA VA VOOM.  Those days when nothing will stop me.  The words are flying from my brain to my fingertips and the plot is racing along at a rate of knots.  I cherish those days -I never know when I’ll get another one.

W is for WASHING MACHINE.  Odd but true.  If I’m battling with a scene or dialogue, a trip to the washing machine and a quick flick of the kettle will see me returning to my computer with newfound oomph.  Just the act of loading or unloading the laundry seems to give me the shake-up I need.

X is for the X FACTOR.  With each new book I write I ask myself can I give it that special ‘something’?  Does it have my voice, my style?  Is it good enough?  What makes it different from anything else out there?  I can only do this by constant reading and research - it’s a job that never ends.

Y is for YAY!  This is how I feel each time I check my sales.  I’m a published writer, selling my books.  What a feeling!  My son always shouts, ‘Go Ma!’ when I tell him my sales figures for the day - that makes me feel so proud.

Z is for Zzzzzzzz!  Because there’s nothing like a good night’s sleep to let a plot settle and problems to resolve themselves.  Often my first waking thought will be the answer to an issue I’ve been struggling with.  The whole of the last page of ‘Christmas Deliverance’ was changed after a moment of sleep-induced clarity and it became a much better book for it.

So come on Indies - or any writers - do you agree?  Which would you change?  Why not do your own A-Z on your blog and let me know.  It would be interesting to see how many we agree on.