Dotty

When I said those words almost 15 years ago I truly believed the promise I was making would be an unbreakable bond. I looked forward, like most other brides, to a life of making memories and growing old together. We have weathered sickness, changes in our fortunes and circumstances, been blessed with two wonderful children, but what has broken us is the death of love… the one thing I thought would never happen.

I am still inordinately fond of my husband, despite his still very raw and understandable anger. I appreciate his strengths and I know all his weaknesses. He is still the most wonderful father – the same one who sped from Bristol to Scotland to see his first son minutes after he was born, the same one who was called in from combining in the middle of harvest to meet his second son. The issue is that I do not love him as I want to love a man.

There is no-one else involved. There may never be another man for me to love, but I cannot live without the hope of that spark, the possibility of finding that missing piece from the jigsaw puzzle of my life. We have tried actively for the last 3 years to fan the dying embers back to life: we have been responsible parents and done our very best to maintain the ideal nuclear family unit – but I am spent: I have nothing left to give.

I do not want my children growing up with a mother without verve; watching a marriage without affection – they and I deserve more than that.

The practicalities will be difficult – we have little disposable income and no capital. I am looking for a job (doing anything) which will enable me to save up enough to put down the deposit on a small flat big enough for me and for the children. My husband will remain in the family home: the decision to leave was mine so it seems only right that I should be the one to find a new home. We will share custody and I believe that once the hurt has subsided we can recreate the great parenting team that we were – albeit under separate roofs.

In the meantime we will try to rub along, tease apart finances and chattels and remind ourselves that to conduct ourselves in anything other than a civilised and amicable manner would be a travesty, not only for our children, but for the 18 years we have spent together.

I am hugely, almost obsessively, interested in the history of my country. I look at castles, abbeys and palaces and wonder at the lives which must have been lived therein; at costumes and jewels and who designed them, who chose them and who gifted them; at weapons and the thoughts of sons lost and at the everyday pots and bric-a-brac which survive against all the odds.

My wonderment turned into embarrassment whilst playing ping-pong one day: as the scores were called out, an important date from history was married to them. “Anne Boleyn beheaded! Ah yes, Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived”. I knew none of this detail – my education was rooted from an early age (a drawback of our education system) firmly in two disciplines: science and language. History, geography, art and philosophy belonged to other people. The family I married into were those “other people”.

The easiest way to begin my education seemed to be through the well-documented lives of our monarchs. I think that I can say, without too much controvercy, that the most interesting monarch who springs to mind is Henry VIII. I read voraciously, first biographies of the king himself then his wives and then back a little and forward a little. As I got a grasp of the era I became mesmerised by the politics, the courtiers, those who risked life, reputation and fortune on the whim of one person…

I read fact and fiction, learning (as with newspapers) to sniff out and disregard bias and supposition. I placed people on maps, marvelling at distances travelled on horseback, and went to those places where great people stopped to stretch their aching limbs and plunge the unfortunate hosts into debt we would be proud of today.

Every so often I make myself move forwards (or back) from the comfort of my nucleus: but then trip up from lack of material – currently I am stuck on James VI/I. Why is there not a plethora of material on this boy-king who united two kingdoms? Alternatively I am sucked (most enjoyably) out on a tangent to seek out texts on the players, rather than the stars: a big fat biography of Sir Walter Raleigh awaits me (a man whose pickled head was kept by his wife!).

What I have found is that there is almost an equal amount of gems to dross, and I would welcome any comments on which you think falls into either camp. I list a small selection here:

Alison Weir
Henry VIII King and Court; The Six Wives of Henry VIII; The Lady in the Tower: The Fall of Anne Boleyn; Innocent Traitor (fiction/fact)

Phillipa Gregory (fiction)
The Other Boleyn Girl; The Constant Princess; The Queen’s Fool

CJ Sanson (fiction)
Dissolution;  Dark Fire; Sovereign; Revelation

Hilary Mantel (fiction)
Wolf Hall

Jane Dunn
Elizabeth & Mary

Raleigh Trevelyan
Sir Walter Raleigh

I have italicized those books which I felt had little merit or added little to my knowledge.

There are also, of course, the works of David Starkey and Lady Antonia Fraser – but I would be very interested to hear of those you have read which will widen my comfort zone.

I am a procrastinator. There I have said it. There are countless web sites, books, mp3s, gurus who promise to teach me how to confront this burden I carry – but not one which will do the one small thing that gets in my way of

perfecting the art of ribbon pleating

http://www.vintagesewing.info/1920s/25-m/m-11.html

making my ideal hat

http://www.hgtv.com/crafting/silk-and-taffeta-hat-and-handbag/index.html

creating a profusion of ruffled delights

http://www.etsy.com/storque/how-to/how-tuesday-pillow-with-rosette-clusters-from-felt-furnishin-5095/

or simply writing for the sheer unbridled joy of it.

There is, in my home a shelf. It is a shelf of little value, tucked in amongst many other shelves. Somewhere upon that shelf sits a row of how-to books. How to identify wild mushrooms; how to fix just about everything; how to sew; how to sew some more; how to be the perfect mother; how to be the perfect wife; how to have the perfect child, how to make the perfect blog website… Unfortunately this shelf is directly behind ‘my’ seat at our dining table.

The dining table in our tiny wee house is also the children’s drawing table; their making table; the laundry sorting and folding table; the ‘I’ll put that in the kitchen in minute’ table. When it comes to mealtimes to which we do, to our credit, always sit down together there is usually something which has not been moved from the table. I am usually the one who picks this errant item up and pops it on the self behind me.

The shelf behind me groans and moans and taunts me with higgledy piggledy abandon. I cannot move until it is conquered. To do so would be the work of 5 minutes. 90% of the pile will be destined for the bin or the recycling basket. 5 minutes work to release me to the joys of creativity.

But, of course, there is always the top of the printer, just behind Mr Dotty’s seat…

The Best of 2009

I have been tagged in a blog relay of writing the 5 best things of 2009. At first I thought – how could I possibly choose? Then when I had a pen and notebook I chewed my lip and thought “what on Earth did I do/happened to me in 2009”. Now I have a keyboard and all is well…

1^st Best Bit

I funded my purchase of the Little Pink Netbook from the very last dregs of my ‘Running Away Fund’. I have always had a small sum of money stashed away for emergencies. Until about 15 years ago it was £50. Then it became £100. 6 years ago it grew to £200. The fund was there as a safety net – the knowledge that I could always fill a car with enough fuel to go where I wished, hole up in a cheap hotel and just have time to think. Apart from the independence and freedom of expression this tiny machine has given me, I have finally realised I am exactly where I want, and need, to be.

2^nd Best Bit

www.dottymummy.co.uk has been a life-saver for me. I have an outlet of my own. A channel in which to make some kind of sense of the words and thoughts that occupy and sometimes invade my mind. A medium to share my happiness, my day-to-day ordinariness and occasional despair. It has grown from being a few words to being an entity in its own right – which grows in its own way and space. Often I feel I am writing what it wants, rather than what I want – but that is fine: I’m happy.

3^rd Best Bit

www.twitter.com is my coffee morning; luncheon party; afternoon tea; picnic; cocktail party; dinner party; pyjama party – all rolled into one. It is a digital yet organic presence which has changed how I view myself and my community.

4^th Best Bit

Running. I adore running: I started barely able to run for 30 seconds without collapsing in a wheezing puce-faced heap. I ended collapsed in a heap, half-way through an ‘easy’ 5K run the day after a 4 mile run and 4 days of eating nothing: this happened at the beginning of my latest (last?) episode of bipolar illness. I miss my running dreadfully – it gave me air, space and a sense of accomplishment like no other. It gave me music and the right to love Mud’s ‘Tiger Feet’. It gave me common ground to meet up with my Twitter friend Tom. Meeting Tom gave me confidence to run more, meet more and live more. I’m going to run again as soon as I go home.

5^th Best Bit

Maddy. Madeleine was born yesterday at 10.00pm. She is the daughter of my beloved cousin and best friend. She is pink and beautiful and adored like no other pink child before her. She also gives me total licence to ‘make’. I have baby blankets, mini-handbags, sun-hats and more in mind… Welcome to my world, Maddy. I love you xx

And from being lost for words I have missed out all of this:

and much, much, more….

I hand the baton to:

http://sleepisfortheweak.org.uk

http://www.lordlikely.com

http://dragonwheels.wordpress.com

http://megzytred.blogspot.com

http://lbyrne74.blogspot.com

I rarely remember dreams, but the inclusion of brain-medication has long done away with the joy of deep unencumbered sleep. Under the ‘influence’ of ever stronger drugs designed to actually make me sleep, my dreams are fanciful and varied, and almost entirely without any frame of logic or recognizable imagination.

I have written an entire novel, in the style of Hemingway, with several endings, whilst simultaneously visualizing the screenplay as directed by Tarantino. I have leapt back centuries and conducted punishments so ruthless and visceral that they make my skin break into goosebumps with the mere whiff of the memory. Some disaster-focused dreams are played through and through relentlessly like Groundhog Day, never ceasing until I remember to say thank you to the kind lady for letting me through the door; remembering to pick up the baby; or even just smiling kindly at someone, who unbeknown to me was dependent psychologically on that one glimpse of human kindness. The main theme seems to be one of self-flagellation – as the less-well equipped professionals I see would put it: I am very hard on myself.

Last night’s dream was along a new theme. There was no real resounding punishment, just a journey through an Alice-in-Wonderland sketch set on an uninhabited Orkney-ish island away from time and place.

I was a bridesmaid at a Royal Wedding taking place in a grand Gothic castle where I had been employed as a cleaner. The dresses were truly grotesque with every fashion faux-pas imaginable included in the confection of satin, badly fitted bodice and over-trimmed excess. Before we could commence our duties the bridesmaids were whisked off to our island in an FBI helicopter and left there to survive (I have seen 2 episodes of Lost and 1 of I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here).

The bridesmaids were in one timezone, whilst in another parallel world lived Wendy James as a resident poet/housekeeper bricked up in a tower with one meal a day delivered to her by the one remaining servant – who fed her merely so that he would one day he would be able to enjoy her as his own prisoner.

The bridesmaids and I foraged and built and farmed and planned escapes; until our new life was distinctly better than the one we had left behind. The day we realised this was the day that the evil servant below discovered that the way out of his world was not by scrabbling up to ours – but deep down the well. As he came up, Rumplestiltskin-like, we fled to our rafts onto the seas, only to be outflanked by the FBI hovercraft speedboats… there was nowhere to turn – but one. We threw one rather dull compatriot to the FBI, another to the nasty servant with gnarled fingernails, and took it in turns to dive down the deep well to the land of Wendy James, sprigged cotton frocks and meadows with daisies in abundance. There we freed our heroine and lived happily ever after.

There are many things to read into this dream… but I still can’t fit in where we got our trophy “I love the FBI” T-shirts: and that is the thing that niggles.

A friend of mine from London Town recently took a train to walk, breathe fresh air and contemplate the delights of the great outdoors. I am blessed and truly appreciate that this is something I can do every day – merely by stepping out of my front door.

I know she did this because she Tweeted it. Shortly after noon there was a less than jolly Tweet. @clairenelson had seen two dogs attacking a rabbit. As a country girl, this would hold no surprise for me: indeed I would have been thinking about the benefits of not having to feed the dog that evening.

@clairenelson is not a country girl – at least not of the let-the-dogs-have-it or knock-it-on-the-head school of my country upbringing. I read with some disbelief that she was calling an animal rescue shelter – for a wild rabbit. There were none to be had. The next I heard she and her partner were planning a walk, with bunny (in shock) tucked up cosily in a hat, 6 miles to the nearest vet.

At this point I felt compelled to Tweet her. With all the gentleness I could muster I tried to explain that a rabbit in shock would not survive and that the best thing would be to do “the decent thing”. I got no reply. My gentleness can often be misinterpreted for blunt pragmatism. I am being kind to myself here.

When I checked her Tweets later that afternoon I saw that the rabbit had indeed died. It had died warm, and held, and not alone on the forest floor or torn apart by dogs. It was laid gently under the hedge of a churchyard. And it had a name. Arthur.

Realising that my Truth is not the only Truth is a very humbling experience.

I came to Twitter in June 2009. I had long heard about it being the rapid communication medium of media sorts such as Stephen Fry (the Twitter King) and other lower key, if more vociferous, celebrities. Most Radio DJs spring to mind; many journalists and American A, B, C and Z-listers.

Disillusioned by the Pet Societies, Farmvilles, Zoos and Mafia Wars of Facebook and the never-ending stream of gifts and invitations amongst the real communications I wanted to keep, I stepped over tentatively to the “other side”.

The basic premise is that you state (Tweet) whatever you are doing (or thinking or contemplating) in 140 characters or less. I started Tweeting into the ether. 20+ Tweets of what I had for breakfast, how my mother’s chicks were faring, went unheard – or unacknowledged. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, I acquired a Follower. She was interested in me! We started chatting, and other people she knew “saw” me, and started following me. Suddenly I had a group of friends. Except: we weren’t friends. They had befriended me on the information I had provided… who I felt I wanted to be, but was not. I was never the dig my own potatoes, run 20 miles before breakfast and concoct wonderful new recipes for dinner they believed me to be… It was all wrong.

Just as I was about to shut up shop another person, like me came along. The sad thing is I don’t remember who it was. All I remember is there was a real connection, and truth, and confidences, and chatter and nonsense and laughter… and then came more, and more and more wonderful people.

I am now followed by over 800 people, and actively follow about 500 back. Some of the people I follow don’t follow me – but why should they? The fact is their lives to me are more interesting than my life to them. Occasionally our paths coincide and I will end up, somehow, through sheer happenstance, having conversations with “celebrities” – who turn out to be just knackered, overworked (although seldom overpaid!) people, parents, sons, sisters, brothers, lovers like the rest of us.

The other great leveller of Twitter is that I can be totally open about my Bipolar Disorder. Nobody judges me. At least nobody I know – if they can’t cope with the fact I cannot be constantly witty and amusing – they simply disappear unheard back into the ether. I can say when I am reaching my nadir (in fact I no longer have to – I am inundated with messages should I be missed for 2 or 3 hours). I am actively watched by a few I trust implicitly for signs of mania – who know how to draw me back in gently, or ring alarm bells if need be.

Twitter is my world of other Mummies “are my children the only ones awake at 4.30 this morning asking if it is Christmas yet?” “NO!” comes 30 replies….

I am not alone. I am not judged. I have all sorts of friends. I have literary friends; cooking friends; mummy friends; daddy friends; friends who suffer mental illness – either themselves or family; friends who live in Switzerland, Finland, Austria, Germany; Mexico; USA; Canada; friends who are secretly in love; friends who are openly in love; bands I would never ever have heard of; humorous friends; sad friends; flirty friends.

In all I can reach out to the whole gamut of humanity and learn their stories – and they learn mine: the fun times, and the bad times. Our common denominator is that at worst we are open to each other. At best – and it really is a best – we love each other.

Twitter, despite anything you might read, or hear from the less informed (have they actually participated?) is a very real community and one I am proud to be a part of.

PS I have met some of these invisible beings – and not only are they real, with arms, legs and a brain – they are kind and true friends… and not an axe between them

My idea of the perfect Christmas present has changed over the years… particularly over the last 6 child-filled years. I am sure that strikes a chord with many….

Gone are the days when, as one half of a high-earning couple, I could go to my favouite jeweller (the very handsome, charming and utterly delectable David Dudley of Marlborough), spend many happy hours dressing up dripping diamonds, pearls, aquamarine and my favourite of all: a star sapphire, unmatched in its understated beauty.  We would choose our favourite and carefully pick 2 stooges to be displayed alongside on the magic black velvet. After a relaxed (boozy) lunch Mr Dotty and our dearest friend would be led into the lion’s den and given ‘the choice’. David would gently guide, Uncle Kerr (as he is now known) would bluster and egg Mr Dotty on – and the prize would be mine.

This year my list is quite different. In no particular order, I share with you my heart’s desires:

A £20 book voucher and 3 hours to spend alone in http://www.mainstreetbooks.co.uk/. It is a gem of a bookshop, fully deserving of its award for Best Independent Bookshop 2009 and amidst the warren of books is a place of calm to sit and read, drink real coffee or tea and pick delicately at mouthwatering cakes. It is a haven.

A driving lesson to drill into me the magic formula for reverse parallel parking. I believe this would save me at least one week a year in my bid to find a 3-car-length space in which to drive straight into.

A wardrobe assistant to pick out a smart, appropriate, slightly quirky/funky outfit for the next day to keep me away from the old lazy fail-safe of the jeans and fleece at the bottom of the bed. I have many beautiful clothes – and they are seldom worn.

A swimming lesson to teach me grown-up front crawl. The idea of actually moving arms and kicking legs in synchronicity *and* moving forwards is a joy only those confined to breast-stroke can dream of. The swimming instructor also happens to be an official hunk of the highest order

Anything at all from the ever innovative, stylish and amazing Khoola Designs www. khooladesigns.co.uk

And my last wish of all – true acceptance of mental illness and maybe one day a cure or two….

And on a humorous note – here is what stirred me from my lassitude and got me back into the Christmas spirit: a message from Father Christmas himself sent by my dear friend on Twitter @grizzlyfish: http://portablenorthpole.tv/watch/507e822ab36032eda5f8e993342d8870

Picnics have been a part of my life since I can remember – from being packed off for the day as a child with a jam sandwich, a bottle of Dandelion & Burdock and a promise to be home by teatime to dining al-fresco in black tie deep in the Nambian bush beneath the twinkling skies.

Eating outdoors holds a magical allure for me – which I hope to pass onto the Wees. Picnics can be an impromptu decision to take a flask of coffee, some home-made flapjack and just sit by the river watching the ripples and eddies (and keeping an eye out for Mabel the crocodile), or it can be a planned long-anticipated afternoon of decadence with smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries and Champagne watching an outdoor play or opera.

The joy for me is in the place and the company – and the irreverence. There are no rules (at my picnics, anyway) of the order in which food should be eaten. The Wees are free to get up, run, paddle, and return for another nibble as they wish. Picnics can be eaten anywhere: I’ve sat on a low wall in Mayfair with my aunt eating a sandwich, a city centre bench eating hot chestnuts, underneath the shade of a tree at the foot of a massive sand dune; public parks galore – but best of all are the secret places discovered by us.

Weather provides no restraint: flasks of Bovril, that long-forgotten staple of my childhood; baked beans with slices of sausage (or whole sausages wrapped in foil), chunky soup with crusty bread… a picnic in the snow can be as memorable as any balmy sunny day.

Food does not have to be prepared at home: think of blisteringly hot fish and chips on sea wall with a biting wind, or crab claws sucked clean of their sweet juicy flesh: even an emergency dash into the newsagent to buy HulaHoops, bananas and Mr Kipling’s Fancies.

I was prompted to write this post, rather than any of the others scrapping for attention in my head, by a new website www.onlyfootprints.co.uk. Take a look, and follow them on Twitter @only_footprints.

Once in a while a chance comment to a chance friend in a chance moment in time can lead to something great. Perhaps not quite as great as in as how marvellously great  Great Britain can be (when she allows herself); or even as in as mightily great as the legend of Alexander the Great: but great in that it brought people together around the world from Finland to Nebraska to share a common interest: reading.

This encounter happened when two Twitter friends (@dottymummy and @Wendymal) both reached the end of the last book on their to-read shelves at the same time. They both happened to be on-line with the next book on their minds when the same thought occurred to them both. If we would value each other’s opinion on a book recommendation, then what about the rest of the Twitterverse (as the Big Wide World of Twitter is known)? Thus was born #goodbooktuesday.

Rising so far beyond either of our expectations, the hashtag took off, soaring higher and higher on retweets and pal to pal to pal recommendations. We determinedly did not want this to be a “Look how clever I am” exercise: just a casual dropped in conversation “I finished a really good book yesterday”. This is what we got:

Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett

Paula by Isabel Allende and Margaret Sayers Peden

We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver

Possession by A.S.Byatt (2) Amazing book. If you never finished it, do go back to it, and if you haven’t tried, it’s well worth the effort.

A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth (4). Don’t be put off by the size of it. Book where you miss the characters after.

Lean Mean Thirteen by Janet Evanovich. Way too funny to read in public re Jersey girl bounty hunter Stephanie Plum

Really NOT enjoying No Angel by Penny Vincenzi. Been ploughing through 700+ pages for 2 weeks. Must finish.

The Law of Attraction by Esther & Jerry Hicks

One Day by David Nicholls. I do not have the words to explain what a perfect, beautiful book this is.

The Time Traveller’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger (2)

Whistle Blower by Tess Gerritsen. Not one of her best but decent enough page turner.

Anything by Saki

My Uncle Oswald by Roald Dahl. 20 reads later, still ludicrously funny

I Am A Cat by Natsume Soseki

The Tale Of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu

WW1 Trilogy by Anne Perry

Bad News Bible by Anna Blundy

The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch. A dark tale of love and obsession, perfect for cold winter evenings!

Through the Tunnel (short story) by Doris Lessing

Down Came the Rain by Brook Shields

A Town like Alice by Neville Shute

The House at Riverton by Kate Morton

When I Found You by Catherine Ryan Hyde (2)

Elvis, Jesus and Coca-Cola by Kinky Friedman

Far North by Marcel Theroux. Hauntingly disturbing novel about what will happen if we ignore our planet.

Wonderful Fool by Shusaku Endo

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. Can’t believe I left it this long to read Raymond Chandler

Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs

Dune, or The White Plague, both by Frank Herbert

Day of the Triffids, or Trouble With Lichen, both by John Wyndham

The Other Hand by @chriscleave Unmissable, best book I’ve read in ages

Behind The Scenes At The Museum by Kate Atkinson

I Heart New York by Lindsey Kelk

Precious Bane by Mary Webb

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Annie Barrows. (4) Simply a delight. Audio book superb. Brilliant!

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman (@neilhimself) & Terry Pratchett (@terryandrob). I recommend it to everyone I meet!

Dying to Survive by Rachel Keogh. Inspirational book re overcoming heroin addiction.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. Beautifully written and moving.

Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson. Cracking

Fingersmith & Affinity, both by Sarah Waters. Am just about to start her latest The Little Stranger

Brick Lane by Monica Ali

Enduring Love by Ian McEwan

White Oleander by Janet Finch

American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld. Based on Laura Bush

Lord of the Fading Lands by C L Wilson. First of four

Howards End is on the Landing by Susan Hill

Dear Fatty, Dawn French’s autobiography. A funny & touching read, written as letters to everyone from her Dad to Madonna

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini (2). Just read this in our book club and it has stayed with me.

The Other Hand by Chris Cleave

Gifted: Here Today, Gone Tomorrow by Marilyn Kaye fab reads!!

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold

Anything by Augusten Burroughs & anything by Julie Myerson

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (first of the Millennium Trilogy) by Steig Larsson. A fabulous read!

An A-Z of Possible Worlds by A.C. Tillyer published by @roastbooks

Legend Of A Suicide by David Vann

Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris (2). The darker, more sinister sequel to Chocolat. Loved every page. Is *so* on my Christmas list

A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel. Best novel about French Revolution.

Precious Bane by Mary Webb

Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell.  My fave

The End of the Affair by Graham Greene

Heartburn by Nora Ephron (2)

The Other Side of You by Salley Vickers. Amazing poetic book and male character I really fell for

Turbulence by Giles Foden

Twenty Something – The Quarter Life Crisis of Jack Lancaster by Iain Hollingshead. Delivers in every way.

Blackberry Wine by Joanne Harris. Very lovely.

Eat, Pray, Love. by Liz Gilbert.

Fannie Flagg’s Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe

Beloved by Toni Morrison

Ninteen Minutes by @jodipicoult Is my fave.

How to Afford Time Off with Your Baby: 101 Ways to Ease the Financial Strain by Becky Goddard-Hill

The Gift by Cecelia Ahern

Every single thing ever written by @Jodipicoult this lady is amazing!!

Random Acts of Heroic Love by Daniel Scheinmann. Tender, elegant, unexpected and very very beautiful. Enriching x

Frenchmans Creek by Daphne Du Maurier. My all time most favourite book, makes me want to become a pirate at once!

The Twilight Saga – Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse & Breaking Dawn  by Stephenie Meyer. My most recent reads and just such great stories

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith. This is my demographic & I will give The Powers That Be every cent if they keep this up.

The Happy Isles of Oceania by Paul Theroux

The Irregulars by Roald Dahl

The British Spy Ring in Wartime Washington by Jennet Conant. Interesting and well written.

The Writing Class by Jincy Willet. Very clever and fun twists.

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl by Fannie Flagg. All time fav. I read it about once/year. Can be hard start but worth it.

The L Shaped Room – Lynne Reid Banks Amazing!

I know I can speak on behalf of @Wendymal when I say this is a pretty proud (if not Great in our little worlds) achievement.