Category Archives: Fun Stuff

WHAT DO YOU DO?

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Not a lot of people know this, but I’m a writer.

I know, who’d have thought it?

There is a reason I’m telling you this, but I’ll get to it in a minute.

A couple of weeks ago, Hugo took me on a journey, an eight hour plus journey to the Highlands of Scotland. The thinking behind the trip was that Christine hadn’t had a break from the MAC in a while (I’d begun to believe my characters were real. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing when one is a scribbler, but when the characters are Vampyres one’s husband begins to twitch and give one the steely eye.)

Another reason was because the weather (I’m sure I’ve mentioned the weather?) has been vile and he was certain the country was due a break from the rain. But no. We drove for six hours through the worst September storm in thirty years, think pestilence and a flood of biblical proportions and you might get the picture.

The thing about going away in this country is one never knows what to pack because it might be 10 degrees one day and 30 degrees the next, so I was advised by my youngest daughter to ‘layer.’

When we visit the Cairngorm mountains in the national park, see photo below, lovely isn’t it?

We always go on the funicular railway to the very top. Here’s the link if you fancy a trip (you can walk but it takes two hours and it’s 3,000 odd feet above sea level and the paramedics would need resuscitation equipment for Hugo.) The view is usually spectacular as long as there’s no low cloud cover. They don’t allow visitors to step onto the mountain because our footprint might damage the natural habitat. Hmm, I thought it might have had something to do with the sheer drop and a health and safety issue. But no, they’re more worried about damage to the mountain than human beings. Fair enough.

Anyway, Hugo had gone to buy the ticket and I was keeping our place in the line and noticed two couples standing in front of me who were not British. By the lovely singsongy voices, blonde hair, blue eyes (the older guy looked just like Charlton Heston in his prime :) my intuition told me they were Scandinavian. So we all got on the train and away we went. When you get to the top, the organisers are a crafty lot and make visitors trek through a large gift shop. By this time, although I’d ‘layered’ I was freezing and a fleece top caught my attention. In spite of Hugo’s eye roll (I saw it by the way, just say’in) I bought it and they bagged it up in a swanky big brown paper bag, not plastic (even though it was now raining) because plastic is not biodegradable. Fair enough.

At the top they have a café with huge windows for us to enjoy the view. By the time I’d stood for half an hour for a cup of coffee and a slice of cake, I was too hot. So I took off my quilted coat and duck down gillet and told Hugo I was off to the ladies loo. I’d taken the bag with the new top in it and didn’t think he’d noticed. It is true I was gone for a while, but whatever.

When I returned to the café Hugo was chatting to the two Scandinavian couples who’d joined our table. Actually, to be accurate, one guy was British, a sound engineer with Strictly Come Dancing and he was married to one of the women. I know, I was thrilled because I love Strictly. Somebody who works with the famous is almost as good as speaking to the famous. Anyway the following conversation ensued,

‘See,’ Hugo said. ‘I told you she’d gone to change into her new top.’

My husband, boys and girls, has a big mouth.

I just gave him ‘the look’ and smiled at them.

‘It suits you,’ the younger woman said with a smile and a fabulous accent.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘Sweden. We’ve brought my sister and her husband up on a tour of Scotland. We live in London.’

 

‘What do you do?’ the sound engineer said to Hugo.

‘I’ve retired,’ Hugo responded. (He’s a LOT older than me, just thought I should mention it.)

‘Lucky you, how do you fill your time?’

‘Well, I do lots of things and I work for Christine.’

The sound engineer nodded, sipped his hot chocolate and whipped cream with marshmallows. ‘What does Christine do?’

‘She’s a writer,’ Hugo said with an evil grin at his loyal and loving wife.

They all turned to look at me and I gave them big eyes.

‘What do you write?’ his wife asked.

‘Romance.’

‘Oooh, you’re not that 50 Shades of Grey lady.’

I get this all the time.

I smiled. ‘No, I wish I was,’ I said. And we all chatted about Christian Grey.

‘I also write a vampire paranormal set in an urban future,’ I added.

‘Oooh, my sister loves vampires. What’s your name?’

‘CC MacKenzie. My first book was Reckless Nights In Rome.’

Her sister from Sweden turned to look at me and said something in Swedish.

‘My sister has heard of you.’

Heart stopped. Blink blink.

I shook my head. ‘Nope. I haven’t been writing for long.’ I took out my business card (always be prepared) and they studied it. Her sister nodded and spoke again in rapid Swedish.

‘Yes, she’s heard of you. Her son’s ex-girlfriend has your book on her kindle. She loved it.’

Blink blink, hot flush rose from my toes as more conversation happened in Swedish.

‘My sister would like your card to give to her son’s ex-girlfriend.’

So I gave her the card and found myself tearing up, how embarrassing was this? Hugo just grinned. I think it’s the hormones – I’m getting to that age - but I’ve never been so emotional in my life.

Who’d have thought it?

I’m famous in Sweden.

I just hope Reckless Nights In Rome didn’t kill her son’s romance with his ex! I sometimes worry that young girls might end up with too high an expectation of their men after reading one of my heroes.

So that’s what I’ve been up to, freezing to death up a Scottish mountain dishing out business cards to lovely ladies from Sweden.

What have you guys been up to?

What do you do for a living?

Come and share it with us – we demand to know. (This should be good.)

 

Christine X

 

 

 

AM IN MAURITIUS

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Okay, perhaps not literally.

Today, I’m a guest on the beautiful blog of writer Zee Monodee who lives in the stunning island of Mauritius. HERE

The island is one of the most beautiful places on earth. The perfect spot for a romantic interlude - just say’in.

Now I’ve actually been to the island four times a few years ago when we lived in East Africa.

Please stop by and say hi and you might learn something about me you don’t know.

Zee asked for photos of the event and I promised her I’d post them here once Hugo’s scanned them - they were taken a few years ago.

Do you have a place you’ve visited that’s caught your breath?

Share it with us - we demand to know! And if you’ve a romantic tale to share too, even better.

Christine

FIND US HERE https://zeemonodee.blogspot.co.uk/

NORSE GOD WITH A BIG HAMMER

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Find him at Debra Kristi’s blog here: https://debrakristi.wordpress.com/

Knew that would get your attention!

How can it possibly be back-to-school week already? I mean, I don’t know about you lot but where the hell was summer? I feel really, really hard done by. And you’ll never guess what that epoch of consumer must-haves (Marks & Spencer) has in their stores? Christmas cards – Christmasssssss caaaaards! I can’t bear it, seriously.

In the UK we’ve had the Queen’s Jubilee and the Olympics and now we’re back to our humdrum lives of too early starts, lunchboxes (try getting them to eat quinoa instead of pasta – go on, you try it!) Buying new shoes that I want them to have with thick soles and laces (not ballet slippers, darling.) Then the morning school run, sigh. I’ve promised not to drive them to school in my pj’s in case ‘I have an accident and some of their friends see me.’ I’m an owl, not a lark. And I’m back to smelly gym kits and remembering tae Kwando classes and taking ground beef out of the freezer, as I’m doing laundry and loading and unloading the dishwasher. AND the dark nights are already coming in and I didn’t have a proper summer – did I mention summer?

So here’s the thing. About six weeks ago my friend Debra Kristi put out a call for some of her blogging buddies (of which I am one) to help her host a blog tour. Now at first sight Debra appears to be perfectly normal and, err, sane if you know what I’m say’n?

I mean, she’s a wonderful wife, the most amazing mom and a writer who lives in her own little world of mythology has an awesome imagination. And Debra happens to have the hots for Thor, the God of Thunder.

Anyway, after saying of course I would be deeeeelighted to host her on my blog I forgot all about it happy in the knowledge that the wonderfully organized Debra would send me her post and I’d put it on my blog and that would be that. Sorted.

But no, dear friends, because two weeks ago I received a face book message from crazy the lovely Debra saying that Thor was going on a tour and since I was his first stop could she please have my postal address. Hmmmmm. Wracking my small brain I tried to recall just what it was I’d agreed to and nothing dinged. So I went back and said ‘Run this past me again, Debra, what is it you want me to do?’

Apparently the God of Thunder was going on a personal tour and coming to my house in leafy Cheshire, England, first. What??? How could this be? Chris Helmsworth is coming to my house. Surely she jests! I was trying to think where I could stash Hugo somewhere far, far away. When I re-read her message and realized the Sex God of Thunder was not the drool worthy Chris, but a plastic action figure.

That’ll teach me to read the small print before I say yes to anything.

Anyhow, last Wednesday a cardboard box was delivered from the United States of America. (Immediately Hugo demanded to know ‘what the hell I’d bought now.’ Cheek.) And since my son was eating bacon rolls at the time, he demanded to know what was in the box. So I opened it and out came Thor, God of Thunder, with a big hammer. When you squeeze his legs together his hammer goes up and down. I will not tell you what the ribald comments were because this is a G rated blog (most of the time.)

Can I just say at this point that I write romance and if I was writing about a Norse hunk with a big hammer, well, I’m sure you don’t need me to paint you a picture.

After howls of gleeful laughter the males in my family went on a hunt for a beast for Thor to conquer before he embarks on the next leg of his journey.

So, here are a couple of photos of Thor in my back garden. And the boys have titled them – Thor’s Rumble In The Jungle.

It’s not often I’m speechless, but Debra’s done what no one has done before. Not only that, to take those photos I had to lie on my back in wet grass holding my breath that Thor and the dinosaur didn’t topple over and then discovered I’d lain in duck poop. Thanks Debra!

Thor’s next stop is the zany Lisa Hall-Wilson in Canada. This boy’s getting about! I’m hoping that Thor finds lurrrrve, but that’s just me. (Shame I didn’t have any Barbie or Cindy dolls, now that would have been fun!)

Do you guys have crazy friends?

Have they ever asked you to do something insane – and did you do it?

And what were your favorite action figure toys?

Mine was Cindy.

You know I adore hearing from you - and this should be a doozy!

LET’S TALK SEX

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Knew the title would get you going.

Do you guys remember the fabulous book ‘A Child is Born’ by Lars Hamberger and Lennart Nilssen? It was published over forty years ago. I’ve had a copy for about twenty years and it has the most amazing photos of what happens inside the female body from conception through to delivery.

There is a very good reason I’m telling you this, by the way, and it’s got to do with sex education so please bear with me.

Now, as many of you already know, I am a mother of three, two girls and a boy. The boy came along when my youngest daughter was ten and no he was not a mistake and yes, Hugo is the father of all three. We battled hard to have our boy, but that story’s for another day.

Anyway, the thing about kids is that as a parent you need to keep your eyes and ears open so that when a ‘right’ moment to discuss a tricky issue raises its head, you go for it. The right moment for my daughters to discuss sex happened when I was lying in bed feeding their brother and they were watching him like hawks. He was about six days old and the novelty of him hadn’t yet worn off. My eldest daughter was lounging in a chair and my youngest was sprawled over the bottom of the bed.

‘Mum?’ said the eldest in a tone that made my intuition twitch so I gave her a sharp look.

‘Hmm?’ I said.

‘Boys at school were filling up condoms with water and throwing them at us,’ she said.

‘That’s disgusting,’ said my youngest. Then she frowned and added, ‘How do condoms work? What do they do with them?’

And there, right there, was my moment.

‘Didn’t they cover condoms in sex education?’

Two sets of big blue eyes stared vacantly into mine and I knew that the British education system had let me down. However, I’ve never been a coward so I smiled and continued, ‘When two people make love and they don’t want to have a child, the man wears a condom to catch his sperm.’

My youngest sat up at this point and looked puzzled. ‘We know that,’ she said as if talking to an imbecile. ‘What we don’t know is how they work. How do they put a condom on?’

Aha! Ever wished you had a handy banana to hand? Then I remembered a slim can of hair mousse which would be just the very thing! And I just happened to have right next to me in my bedside table a condom. So I opened the pack and held a slick piece of latex. ‘This!’ I said, ‘Is a condom and I know this is a can of hair mousse, but just go with the flow.’ So I held the tip of the condom and rolled it down the can of hair mousse and explained to my daughters that the sex act is something not to be taken lightly, to wait for the right man, blah blah blah. And at that very moment Hugo strolled into the bedroom from work. His eyes bugged out of his head and he put his hands up in a no way in hell am I going there gesture. ‘I don’t want to know,’ he growled and backed out of the room. Coward.

‘Goodness me,’ said my eldest in an awed voice. ‘Is a man usually that big?’

I have no excuse for what followed but I couldn’t help it. ‘Only if you’re very lucky, darling,’ I purred and heard my husband howl.

‘I cannot believe you just said that,’ Hugo roared on his way down the stairs.

Ah well, the loss of innocence for a father of two daughters is too hard to bear for some men. Bless him.

But back to the book! As I said I’ve a copy of A Child Is Born and it’s travelled with me all over the world. Years ago we were seconded to that beautiful African country Zimbabwe and my son at the age of six went to the International School in Harare which had about sixty nationalities. Anyway, I was unpacking boxes in the garage and a little voice piped up, ‘This is totally gross.’ The little darling had in his hands A Child Is Born and was staring in utter disgust at a picture of a child being born in glorious, gory Technicolor. Ah well, strike while the iron is hot I always say, but on this occasion I let him lead the way. (That’s him above at six.)

Big blue eyes stared up at me and he said, ‘I thought babies were cut out?’

‘Sometimes mummy’s need to have an operation, but most times this is how a baby is born,’ I said.

His eyes went even bigger. ‘Was that how I was born?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Did it hurt?’

‘A little bit,’ I lied through my teeth since I didn’t want to traumatize him for life. ‘But you were worth it.’

He shook his head in disbelief and placed his little hand on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye. ‘All I can say is I’m glad I’m a boy.’ Then he stood up and wandered off, probably to watch Power Rangers or Ninja Turtles.

So feeling pretty pleased with myself at getting off the hook so lightly, I thought no more about it.

Until… My son’s teacher at the International School was a wonderful Irish girl called Mrs Breathnough (pronounced bunok) and I absolutely adored her. It hadn’t taken her long to suss out my son’s tricky ways with maths (he’s got a photographic memory and had fooled many teachers in the past). So a couple of days after the scene in the garage, she grabbed me at the school gates.

‘Christine, a few of the mothers have asked me if I’ve been teaching sex education.’

I knew exactly where this was going and whose mouth had been flapping. ‘Oh God,’ I said and explained how the little sod had found the book. ‘What on earth has he been saying? I bet he put the fear of God into those poor wee things.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘He did a much better job of it than me! He got a gold star! One of the boys said it couldn’t possibly be true that babies were born that way because his daddy told him that there was a magic zip in his mummy’s tummy (stupid man). Your wonderful son’s growled response was ‘He lied’ it was priceless.’

You know I adore hearing your comments (can’t wait for these) so come on and share your stories.

How did your parents tell you how condoms work - keep them as clean as possible please - and how did you tell your children about the birds and the bees? Tell me you didn’t use rabbits! I remember being shown a film about rabbits when I was at school and I’m still confused.

THANK HEAVEN FOR LITTLE BOYS…?

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So, here’s the thing.

It was my son’s birthday yesterday and all the family including my two daughters were all here celebrating in our very green garden. He doesn’t want me to name him or say how old he is in case some of his friends twig that I am his mother. Of course they know that I am his mother but they don’t know that, and he said this in a voice of utter mortification, ‘His mother has published two steamy romantic novels with ‘good’ bits in them.’ Or that she’s in the process of writing even more romantic stories. Excuse me?

He won’t be saying that when we’re sunning ourselves in Fiji on a beach of sugar white sand sipping cocktails while Sven’s cleaning our sunglasses and serving us fresh fruit. Anyway, I got my own back by reminding him of the twenty-eight hours of labour I went through to bring him into the world. He was three weeks late (started life as he obviously means to go on) and almost ten pounds. I can actually feel all the women reading this wince in feminine solidarity. Thanks girls.

Now I’m used to him treating me like a taxi service, and a portable cash machine. But he’s fine with what I do when it suits him to treat me like a newsagent ‘Do you have the latest edition of GQ?’ And I’m a library, ‘Do you happen to have that copy of A Game of Thrones?’ And new technology disappears into the jungle of detritus that is his bedroom. And he’s actually building a new computer with his friend, so you’d think he’d be helpful with my new Mac. But not a bit of it, ‘This technology is wasted on you.’ I was told in a voice edged with utter disdain. (I should point out that he made the comment because I was having trouble switching it on.)

Why is it that derision and goading comes as naturally as teething and nappy rash used to. There’s nothing my son likes to do more than tell me what to do. Just recently he had a go because I used the word ‘cool’ on twitter. Apparently I’m no longer permitted to use the word ‘wicked’ either. Then his sisters’ got in on the act reminiscing about the time I used to teach Dance Fit and would start to boogie in Gap when a Madonna song came on and ‘totally mortified them all the time in public.’

Hugo just grinned (traitor) and reminded me of a time I really embarrassed myself on a bus when my eldest was a toddler in the days when I didn’t get out much. I was pregnant with my second daughter, (apparently you lose 30% of your brain capacity when pregnant - that’s my excuse) anyway, the toddler was being babysat by the daughter of a friend and I was alone on a bus going to meet Hugo when he finished work for an early dinner with friends. It was a lovely summer evening and since we lived in the country the fields were alive with cows and sheep and fields ready to be harvested. So I was sort of daydreaming and totally forgot I didn’t have the toddler with me. ‘Oh look!’ I cried in a high chirpy voice. ‘Cows! Tell me, what do cows do?’ And I swear to God I will never, ever live this down, at least twenty people on the bus all cried ‘Moooooo.’ They did, along with roaring with laughter.

So a good time was had by all yesterday as my family basically took the mickey. But I got my own back, I asked my son, ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’ Hinting that the time was fast approaching when he’d need to start fending for himself. But he just batted the question right back to us. Hugo said he’d wanted to join the army or the police but his eyesight let him down. ‘When I was twelve I decided I wanted to be a nurse or a doctor,’ I said, scooping up a spoonful of birthday cake and thinking nothing of it.

‘Really?’ said my son without an ounce of derision. ‘So what you’re really saying, mother, is that you had more ambition as a child than you did as an adult.’

The sooner he moves into a flea-bitten tiny apartment, living on tins of baked beans and doing his own laundry, the better.

So come on guys and girls. Tell me, have your parents ever embarrassed you? Or have you ever embarrassed them?

Which birthday was THE best one ever?

Share it with us, you know I love to hear from you.

Oh, and the pictures above are of my garden. We’ve actually had three whole days of summer, but clouds are gathering so it might not last. And The Olympic ceremony starts tonight so I’ll put good money on it we get thunderstorms and fat rain over the next few weeks.

BOTTOMS UP!

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Since that amazing moment over a year ago when Pippa Middleton’s bottom went planetary, I’ve found myself inspecting the derrieres of everyone from the postman to the guy in Starbucks to the girl at the check out in the supermarket.

What makes a great one? What characterizes Pippa’s bottom – lovely though it is, especially in that dress – from the butts of the average person?

And I’m not being critical here but men appear to be the ones drooling over PM’s posterior more than women. Do they prefer a muscle-butt rather than something more substantial? Is this what they’re looking for in their perfect partner? Don’t they prefer something curvy that could sit on a knee and not leave a crease?

A bottom, like a breast and a narrow waist is a symbol of fertility in a woman, and over millenia men have been attracted to plenteous, competent, well-disposed buttocks; buttocks that can do the job nature intended.

While pondering the meaning of this – in one of those moments when I should be editing and coming up with a brilliant blurb for my new book – it occurred to me that what women want from their own bottom is very different to the expectations placed upon it by a man. Not that I’ve a great deal of experience (she says), but men appear to prefer a handful, something to grope pinch, perhaps something with a jiggle, and a big spoonful of lurve, women, as ever and how pathetic are we, want something skinny.

We want a bum that can wear skinny jeans without trying to burst forth and break loose. A bum that rocks a bikini bottom. A bum that ‘never looks big’ in this. We want peachy and lifted and taut.

If I could choose my bum, I’d want Brooklyn Decker’s bottom which is as close to perfection as you can imagine without belonging to the prestidigitization of the airbrush. It’s pert, high and powerful.

In the interests of understanding my subject, I asked my girlfriends if they liked their bums and NOT ONE said they did. One or two liked their feet, hands, their boobs or their hair, but every single one hated her bottom. And I know three of them said they sobbed in changing rooms with those God awful surround mirrors when they saw their bum. I even know some who wear tops that cover their bum in the sea or in a swimming pool.

I have a flat bum, it used to be toned and pert, but due to the number of hours it’s perched in my chair as I type like a fiend my next best-seller (I can dream) I’m afraid it’s let me down very badly and is an extraterrestrial to me now. If I happen coup d’oeil, usually by accident, I’m always sincerely shocked, certain it must belong to someone else and then I hit the lunges and squats for a week, which means I can’t sit down without whimpering in agony.

So to sum up, women are not happy with what they’ve got and men are more than happy with whatever they can get.

Does this mean that men (for once) are right? They love Pippa’s bum simply because it belongs to a woman?

Hugo’s just yelled, ‘Result!’ Hmm, might need to inflict pain on him later.

You know I adore and need to hear from you guys – Do you love your bum? If you’re a guy do you love your honey’s bum and if so what does it for you?

We need to know!

Due to a book launch, guesting on a blog and being driven insane by the foibles of my new shiny Mac! Desert Orchid is late this week – normal service shall be resumed as soon as possible. (Hugo’s just posted a note above my Mac – THIS MACHINE HAS NO BRAIN – USE YOUR OWN! I feel a D.I.V.O.R.C.E. coming on!)

Oh and on Monday my book, Reckless Nights In Rome is here – one of fifteen chosen, all sales on Amazon on MONDAY 16TH JULY 2012 shall be donated to the ‘Sell Books For Steve Day’ for thriller author Steve Brown’s Bone Marrow Transplant treatment. You might find a new author you like! Please spread the word around the ‘net on Monday – you guys seriously rock!

LICKING MY MAN INTO SHAPE

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Okay now, children, settle down. (I knew the title would get you all going.)

Every now and again it’s shake-down time in this house and the red mist of temper descends. You all know what I mean. It usually follows the unparalleled agony of standing on a tiny Lego figure in your bare feet, the air turns blue and every red blooded male runs for the hills because we women have finally hit our limit (an event that tends to be cyclical) with the chaos that now reigns in our domain, all thanks to the men in our lives.

It happened this week and my son and Hugo still haven’t recovered from the tornado that was Christine as she tore through kitchen, bathrooms and (Oh My God) the biological hazard that was my son’s bedroom. I’ve promised next time I will name and shame him.

The salad drawer in the fridge was shocking with something that might have been a baby carrot in a previous life, tomatoes which had dried out without the aid of the sun – withered chorizo anyone?

The breadbin offered up a ping pong ball, one chocolate button and a burger bun that was evidently taking part in some weird Year 6 science experiment.

The oven needed two full cans of Mr Muscle.

The microwave – well – all I’ll say is I cried, readers, I cried.

I found three socks, not matching, empty chip packets, car keys that went missing three months ago and six one pound coins down the side of the couches in the lounge.

Then just to compound the horror, I decided to clear out my closet. Why, Christine? I hear you ask. Don’t you have enough to do with editing two books at the same time as well as writing a weekly serialised story on your blog and have a new book coming out this week, along with social networking and guest blogging. What are you doing, woman?

In my defence all I’ll say is I was demented by this time, so I set about shovelling through T-shirts/vests/leggings/hoodie. Pointless, thankless task. The wonderful streamlined look will last for all of three days, max. No matter how fabulous and liberated you feel after a mammoth clear out, as you survey the six bursting black bin bags, colour co-ordinated T-shirts, sweaters and neatly folded jeans, within a couple of heart beats your favourite best silky top is trapped under a stool, and two sweaters and a pair of pants are found stillborn on the floor.

It’s the same with shovelling clearing out the cars. I’ve tested this in the past: as soon as the last apple core is cleared out from the glove compartment, the melted candy from between the seats, 48 hours later it morphs back into a dumpster on wheels.

Or is this just me?

Sometimes I worry and promise to do better.

Friends of mine are always smart and very well put together. And I’ve seen their kitchens, they (or their cleaners) must spend hours scrubbing the white grout between their tiles with toothbrushes. And I bet their ovens are sparkling and their microwaves are a thing of beauty.

So here’s my ‘will do better’ list:

Hang up and put away.

Do not leave clothes in a scrunched up ball on the floor.

Wear matching bra and panties and not just for visits to the GP/hospital.

I will do a little and often (cleaning that is).

I will stop terrorising the men in my family and ask them nicely to please clean up after themselves (they asked me to put that in btw.)

Anyway, peace and tranquillity has now returned to the household. It’s all looking sparkly with the surfaces gleaming and glass glistening.

Hugo’s just stepped out of his study (a room I never set foot in because the dust bunnies on the floor are breeding) and he put his arm around me.

‘Don’t worry, honey. Your friends might have cleaner houses. But they can’t tell a story like you can and bring sheer entertainment to the masses.’

And do you know something? He’s absolutely right, no wonder I adore him.

What’s more important, my readers or my oven?

No contest really, is there?

You know I love to hear from you guys, tell me I’m not alone and share your dirty little secrets with us, we won’t tell a soul!

And chapter sixteen of Desert Orchid is up. This story’s nearly at THE END.

AND A STORMY SPRING IS OUT ON MONDAY! YAAAAAY!!!!!

WHY HUSBANDS COME IN TWO VARIETIES

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My friend, Jeanette, has a very interesting husband.

I’ve thought so for quite some time. You see, he gives her unsolicited advice on what to wear and when to wear it and has even bought an entire outfit for her when she wasn’t with him.

This made me realise that husbands come in two distinct varieties. The first type roll through life tremendously interested in bikes, iPads and the latest football score, without unduly bothering about what’s living (or hiding) in their wives closets. Fortunately for me, I’m married to this first character, and I must admit, it’s a very good thing. I can surf from new shoes to new purse to cooking spaghetti bolognaise to an evening dress to my ripped jeans and he’ll never notice, unless I leap into his line of vision and SHRIEK about the absolute fabulousness of my NEW DRESS. Otherwise, I could walk into the house carrying twelve shoe boxes, teetering under the weight and he’d say, ‘Hey, babe, have you seen the remote?’ Or, ‘Did you know we’re out of chips?’

Of course, there are one or two disadvantages to being married to type one. He wouldn’t notice if I ran around the garden naked, shouting ‘Hello! Here I am, wearing nothing but a silver bracelet and ready for luuurrvvve.’ But most of the time, it works. If I had a husband like Jeanette’s, I’d be spitting nails and swearing like a trooper.

Her husband watches her like a raptor, always wittering on about what’s appropriate attire for the trip to the supermarket or that the plunging neckline is not suitable for the pub quiz night. He even buys her underwear not kidding, and usually red or black. Jeanette appears thrilled by all the attention and lovely gifts he bestows on her. It would drive me to drink. I don’t know about you, but I feel a man who’s interested in woman’s clothes is well, odd. I’ve never met a straight man for example who can genuinely understand the brilliant cut of Victoria Beckham’s clothing line.

In my humble opinion, a woman’s closet should be a very personal space, a place where she can simply be herself, where she doesn’t have to follow anyone else’s personal agenda.

To be honest, I don’t think my husband even knows what’s in my closet or even where it is. He certainly has no idea I have ‘fat’ clothes and ‘thin’ clothes, ‘winter’ and ‘spring’ clothes.

Which is why I was not at all surprised when Jennifer Lopez divorced the odd Marc Anthony due to his endless enthralment with what she wore and when she wore it. According to those in the know (miles of gossip fodder) he threw all his toys out of the pram because her clothes were too sexy (hello, this is J.Lo!) and not ‘appropriate’ for a 42year old mother of twins. I know exactly why she did it – she was saying ‘Up yours! I’ll wear whatever the hell I like!’ If I had a body like hers I’d be shaking my booty up and down the red carpet. Just try stopping me.

However, all this being over particular about what your wife wears is an insidious form of control in my honest opinion and can only end in tears. Just remember, marriage is about devotion not about ownership.

And J.Lo’s moved on and we’re seeing a great deal more of her amazing body – you go girl!!

So tell us the truth women (and men). Does your nearest and dearest buy your clothes?

Does he know the difference between boot cut and skinny jeans?

Does he know if you’re an Apple or a Pear?

Does he buy your knickers in packs of five from Wal-Mart or pure silk from Victoria’s Secret?

Tell us! We demand to know!

You know I love hearing from you! Don’t be shy, you’re among friends and we won’t tell anyone - so come and share your closet secrets!

Oh, and Episode fifteen of Desert Orchid is out and Khalid in on his knees. Just say’in!

THE JUBILEE SONG - SING- BY GARY BARLOW - AMAZING

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I’m sharing this with you guys because I watched the programme that made this song it was totally awesome.

Listen and share. This song is made from people from all over the world that make up the Commonwealth - nations that joined together to trade and celebrate the fact that they have the same Monarch who’s been on the throne for sixty years.

The choir is made up of military wives who’ve rocked our world. As well as many people from Africa, Australia, Jamaica and the Solomon Islands. It’s just wonderful. LOVE IT!