Welcome to my Mood Board...

A couple of weeks ago, in my post about Eurovision 2019, I mentioned having a clothes mood board. Actually that's not strictly true. I said that if I had a clothes mood board, I'd put a picture of the Danish singer's outfit on it. The fact remains that I do not have one. I've never had one. Who would?

Comfort over style.
Apart from the mofo hat.

The question of clothing has been fairly pertinent recently. The casual comfort of my daily wardrobe means I rarely think about it normally. Jeans, t-shirts, leggings, tunic tops, and pyjamas. That's all I wear. I prioritise comfort over style every day. I like that about me. But recent months have been building up to the sibling wedding of the year, and I knew (without even asking) that PJ bottoms wouldn't be allowed.*

In the end, come the wedding I played it safe. Because I prioritise comfort over style, that also includes mental comfort. I don't want to be trying something new. I don't want to be rocking a potentially awesome look, when it risks looking like an episode one eliminated drag queen. I like feeling in control of my appearance. So, I went with a black top and black trousers. Standard. It's not all boring though. I rocked a red hat. I rocked it HARD. That was me pushing the boundaries of my comfort zone. It was me trying to up my game without having to actually up my game for realsies. I think I got away with it.

However - in the grand tradition of Carrie Bradshaw - it got me to thinking. If I did have a clothes mood board, what items of clothing would be included? Would it reflect the inner me or be simply a projection of a personality I don't possess? I liked the idea of imagining a world where I wasn't short, wide, and top heavy. Where I could attempt elegance with the best of them. So, let me share what I found. Here are the clothes that make me positively gleeful when I see them. Come with? Yes?

Now THIS is what I'm talking about! Jodie Comer's suit in Killing Eve. Series one, episode three. It is EVERYTHING. Stylish, elegant, practical without being boring. Killing Eve: Come for the intriguing plot and witty script, stay for the outfits.

Nope, I'm not talking about Mary Berry even though she's a style icon in her own right. It's Sue Perkins all the way for me. I love her look. When the day comes that I'm interviewed on Graham Norton, I will model myself on her style choices.

Remember The Fall? Remember Stella Gibson? I LOVED her wardrobe. A mix of a police uniform, uber-feminine silk blouses with pencil skirts, or tailored trouser and jacket combos. I dressed very similarly to the above when I was in my last formal job. My clothes just contained more Wonder Web and lunch stains than Gillian Anderson did. (That is the only difference between us. The ONLY one.)

After watching this episode of Fleabag, I bought a black pinafore from eBay, and wore it with a long-sleeved black t-shirt, repeatedly. As I have the inverse width/height proportions to Phoebe Walller Bridge, I'm not sure it's a look I can pull off. But I love it so much I don't care.

Ah Jessica Jones. I care nothing for the Marvel universe, but I do appreciate how similar my 'dress up for the pub' look is to Jessica's attire. Again, we have different shapes, but so too does my Jessica Jones bobblehead, who reminds me that there are worse proportions to have.

My head hasn't got this big yet.

After throwing all my clothes-thoughts out there, I sense a theme. Not for me, skirts, dresses, and traditional lady-like attire! Not for me, high fashion and cutting edge trends! I like a tailored waist. I like trousers that mean my legs can move any which way they like. (It's one leg over the sofa arm, or sitting on my foot as the other dangles, every time for me.) And I like a jacket with pockets. It explains why I enjoyed my school blazer so much. A flattering cut AND room for a scientific calculator. Win.

Getting older is rather marvellous. I accept that I don't suit delicate fabrics or subtle shades. I understand that some features are best hidden whilst others are there to emphasise. I'm not bothered in the slightest by others' opinions about me. But still, it's rather nice to play about with 'a look'. The next time I need to scrub up a bit - family wedding, BAFTA ceremony, Nobel Prize winners' lunch? - I know what I want. It's a Stella Gibson/Villanelle hybrid, with practical pockets, and room for various leg movements. I'm sure somewhere out there, there's an outfit with my name on. Until then, however, it's a welcome return to my PJ bottoms and baggy t-shirts. I've missed you.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*The sibling wedding of the year (AKA Beth and Tim's big day) was perfect. And, unusually for me, I utterly LOVED Beth's dress. I often appreciate other people's wedding dresses, but feel fairly detached from their beauty. This was different. Beth's dress ticked ALL my boxes. I am sure it makes not a jot of difference to my brother or sister-in-law's memories of their special day, that I wholeheartedly approve of the wedding dress, but it still needed saying. On a clothes level alone, this wedding rocked. And on every other level imaginable, it was off the charts brilliant. Anyway, I've said my piece. Let's leave it there. 

Library Love...

I had some lovely news recently. But first, a ramble.

The day I joined the library.
I look DETERMINED.

When I was growing up, my local library was brilliant. I'd suggest it still is, but the urgency to use it has calmed since adulthood struck. I took full advantage when I was younger, however. Because as every book-loving, poverty-stricken, busy-home-dwelling child knows, the library is an oasis in a world of chaos.

I joined my local library when I turned five. I don't think this was the rule of the library, but more an arbitrary date my parents set, to get themselves organised to take me. (Likewise, swimming lessons started at seven, and permission to have my own TV kicked in at eighteen.*) So at five years and two days old, I joined the library. There are photos in the family album to show this event.

I own these! But I read dozens more for free.

And it was an event. The library was amazing - beyond comprehension. Shelves and shelves of books that I could take home with me? Yes please, sign me up. Until this point, books were bought for birthday presents, or came with other people's names in the front after the church's Summer gala. I wasn't completely devoid of reading material, but I was devoid of choice and replenishment. Now I had a library card, I could read everything and everything. As often as I could find an adult to take me.

The aforementioned murder mystery
genre. There was a whole
load of these stories. More
comical than the Famous Five,
but kids sorting out wrong'uns,
nonetheless. Enjoy this historical
artefact, with added tea stain.

I soon found I had preferred authors. Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and Judy Blume. I found I didn't care much for fantasy worlds such as Narnia or the Faraway Tree, but I buzzed off worlds I could believe in. Worlds like boarding school, or murder mysteries where a gang of kids sorted it out whilst the local constabulary floundered. (The Five Find Outers and Dog! Oh yes.) I can still picture the children's area from the mid-eighties. Turn left at the front door. Turn another left, and the picture books for babies were avoided, and the chapter books were displayed. It was one of my favourite places to be.

As I got older, and the teenage years kicked in, I no longer needed an adult to take me. In a bid to ease the congestion in the Bond household, I spent many evenings of my teenage summer holidays making the twenty minute walk to the library. I'd peruse the adult books at that point. I read anything I could find, but discovered I liked thrillers. Dick Francis books were fun reads despite my disinterest in horse racing, and the back catalogue of Agatha Christie was soon devoured. On top of that, I could experiment. Would I enjoy The Life and Loves of a She-Devil? I had no idea but I got it out for free, found it creepily compelling, and went back a few days later, willing to keep my options open with other books I wasn't initially sure about. I think by the time I left home at eighteen, I'd read the entire fiction section. Probably not, but it felt like I had. It was a safe, free, interesting place to spend my evenings, in the days before bingeing Netflix and going to the pub took precedence. I am very grateful to my local library. It made me a well-read, well-rounded, literate child. It made me a young adult that could access books I couldn't afford. When cuts and threats to libraries crop up in the press, I wince at the lost potential to the community, but especially to children and teenagers. That's the time when reading leaves an indelible mark. That's the time that books shape the adult you'll become.

Bit chuffed about this, can't lie.

So, I said I'd had some lovely news. Well I really have. After an initial enquiry from me, and a couple of emails trying to get in touch with the right people, I can now share that both my books will be stocked in my local library. That also happens to be the library of my youth. MY BOOKS ARE IN MY HAPPY PLACE. There are several wow moments when you write a book. The first time you see your name on the cover, the first time you hold it in your hands... that kind of thing. Well, getting the email to say my books will be in the library of my childhood is WAY up there. I can promise you that. It's the best feeling. 

So, I wanted to share the good news, as well as explaining why it means so much. And obviously I've gone to the library to see the books in their new environment. Leeza looks so happy to be there, don't you think?

Have a lovely week, folks.


*That last point merited an automatic call to Esther Rantzen, surely?

It's Bigger Than Us...

I'm doing this on the inside.

OK folks, let's do this. It's Eurovision week!!!! Sound the fanfares, unfurl the streamers, and let the balloons drop... NOW.

At the time of writing, there are many unknowns. Tomorrow's semi-final will knock out seven countries. Thursday's will see off another eight. Right now, Saturday's final line-up is anybody's guess. Other than host country Israel and the big five - UK, France, Spain, Germany, and Italy - we have no clue who'll be in and who'll be out. The excitement is PALPABLE.

Last year's winner, Netta!

We can only enjoy what we know so far. But there's so much info already out there. The rest of the ESC fandom has been commenting for weeks and months, as countries announce their entries. I've repeatedly heard names of entrants that I've now got time to Google. I can see whether their online hype is deserved, and make my predictions. So, as we collectively chill the champagne, and arrange the seafood platter, let me give you my considered thoughts and opinions on this year's contest. Are we giddy yet? ARE WE?

MY CONSIDERED THOUGHTS AND OPINIONS
In the time between writing the title above, and this sentence, I've listened to every single 2019 entry. I KNOW. That's forty-one songs to you. A whopping two hours and three minutes of ESC joy. So, what are my faves? What are the notable mentions? Do I have any tips to share? DO I EVER. 

Moldova have form.
Remember the Sax Guy?

My Faves

Moldova
Remember the Sax Guy from 2010 and 2017? Or cast your mind back to last year's door-ography. Moldova have got form. This year they're giving me Gaga and Celine vibes with Stay - a twisty-turny power ballad that builds to a singing-with-a-hairbrush-in-the-mirror anthemic climax like nothing else. Come on Moldova!

Israel
No one wants the hassle of winning for a second year. Europe learnt big time from Ireland in the nineties. But, Home from Israel is a valiant effort. It doesn't fade into insignificance like most host countries' songs do. With a big old choral vibe going on, it prompts involuntary swaying with a candle or illuminated phone. I like it.

This is Miki, singing for Spain.
He will give you a beautiful ear worm.

Spain
Ah, I LOVE this. Like a Summer holiday hit from a time when dancing to a summer holiday hit was all you wanted to do with your time. You WILL tap your feet and sing along whether you want to or not. La Venda treads a fine line but manages to avoid crossing into cheese territory. Just. It makes me smile. Sometimes that's enough.

San Marino
Did someone mention cheese? Well how do you like these apples? It's Say Na Na Na from Serhat! Serhat has a cult status within the ESC fandom, despite not making it to the final of the 2016 contest. There's something about Serhat, there just is. In the wrong hands this song could veer into novelty. But in Serhat's hands, it's as smooth as a waxed back, sack 'n' crack. Something of which I'd bet money Serhat has knowledge. Say na na na. Say it indeed.

Notable Mentions 

Iceland
I'd heard about Hatari long before I listened to their song. They are definitely memorable. (According to this blog, 'their look is described as bondage-synth-punk, industrial goth, and experimental art pop'. So that's new.) Their sound, with Hatrið Mun Sigra, put me in mind of Lordi from 2006 fame. Not sure if that's doing them a disservice or not. I'm looking forward to seeing them perform on the stage though. They'll definitely make their mark.

Jessica Mauboy sang for Australia
in 2018 and was robbed. She came 20th.

Australia
Australia have been a performing member of the ESC since 2015 when Guy Sebastian secured a respectable 5th place. Since then, they've attempted to replicate that success with a succession of power belters. But this year, there's a bit of a change. Kate Miller-Heidke* brings us operatic yodelling with Zero Gravity. The risk might pay off. Or it might bomb. Hard to know, but you'll have an opinion.

Remember?

Russia
Another returning star. Sergei Lazarev is back. Remember when he climbed up the big screen in 2016? Of course you do, it was huge! Russia seem to get mixed reactions when they perform. Their 'problematic' politics, specifically surrounding LGBT+ rights, mean there's been boos from the audience in the past. Sergei's inclusion might counter that. He's a familiar face. In 2016 he came second, and this year's song, Scream, isn't bad at all. 

Denmark
Forgive me this non-musical comment, but I LOVE Leonora's outfit choice. At least the one she wore to win her national final, anyway. Every year I have hair and clothes envy for someone, and this time the honour goes to Denmark's Leonora. Braces, fitted shirts, a traditionally masculine style over a traditionally feminine body. If I had a clothes mood board, I'd stick her picture all over it. Here's the video for Love is Forever so you can adjust your own mood boards accordingly.

TIPS FOR WATCHING
If you skip the semis and dive straight into Saturday's final, the chances are that every song I've singled out will have missed the boat. I NEVER get it right. (I should have mentioned that earlier. DON'T bet your hard-earned money based on my thoughts.) But I feel I should impart some wisdom and learned experience. It's the least I can do. Here's some viewing guidance for the evening. I know of what I speak.

• It's a marathon, not a sprint. Go to the loo before it begins. You're in for the long haul.
• There's NO TIME for trips to the fridge once we've started. Choose your drinks carefully. Red wine, needing no refrigeration, is a good choice. Or keep a massive ice bucket by your side all night.
• Print off your score cards from the BBC. Even if you think you don't care, you absolutely will once it kicks off. 
• No heavy meals. No knives and forks. Finger food and sharing platters are key. If it can spread out over the evening, it'll sustain you better.
• Go to the toilet when they recap the songs. Missing the interval acts is a gamble. They could be rubbish, but they could also be Riverdance. Don't be the person that wees during Riverdance.
• This year's interval acts have been a hubbub of rumour and intrigue. Will Madonna be involved or was it just a load of big talk? Either way, keep the toilet breaks short, quickly replenish plates and glasses, and have a couple of stretches to refresh. Then sit down and don't move.
• Eurovision Twitter is a fun place to hang out. Keep an eye on the comments as you watch. There'll be a variety of hashtags but #Eurovision2019 isn't a bad place to start. A dull song can be enlivened by an international piss-take. 
• Don't be the joyless cynic in the corner.** No one likes that person. The more you embrace it, the more fun your evening will be. 
• Shots, drinking games, and obscure European spirits really really help. 

Spookily accurate. I probably 
won't bother with the blanket, there'll 
be a plate of prawns and blinis nearby, and 
I'll be glowing from the inside out. But other
than that, yep, that's me.

You can lead a horse to water but you can't make her drink. I've done my best. Now it's up to you. Enjoy every bloody minute of this week. I'll be live tweeting on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night. Follow @BondieLa and join in the giddy thrill of the best week of the year. 

Finally, it would be remiss of me to ignore the fact we have a horse in this race. Michael Rice will be doing his best for the UK with Bigger Than Us. It could be the dark horse that sweeps the jury and phone votes, and brings home the trophy in a blaze of glory. Or, more realistically, it might place on the left hand side of the score board if we all wish hard enough. Let's keep it real, everyone. No point getting carried away.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*A few weeks ago, Kate Miller-Heidke was hospitalised for a week after a blister became badly infected. This was definitely not a PR stunt, but might provide some additional votes for her generally being a trouper. We'll see.

**A recently sacked BBC 5Live presenter was swiftly unfollowed by me, when he tweeted bitter negativity during the ESC a few years ago. A joke, a piss take or a bit of debate is welcome. Spluttering about wasting licence fees and the like, is absolutely not. TOO FAR, SIR. TOO FAR.

Electoral FOMO...

Oooh I do love me an election. The absolute opposite of Brenda from Bristol, I'm aways giddy when I get to exercise my democratic right. Last Thursday the local elections took place. I'll be honest, I hadn't heard of any of the candidates. My current home that's located on the edge of several boundaries - council, constituency, town and county - means I never feel fully part of the community I vote in. But that makes not a jot of difference. I read up on the candidates involved, despair slightly at the lack of political choice in the area, but cross the box with the thrill that comes from knowing it's a basic right that was denied both my Grandmothers until their adult lives. I would crawl over broken glass to get to that voting booth. I love feeling that I'm taking part in something historical. I'm a tiny cog in a small wheel, that keeps the bigger parts of democracy turning. It never gets old.

Obviously in recent years, the turning wheels of democracy have stuck a bit. Some might say they are broken. Whether it's electoral law-breaking, the rise in far right politics, or the fact that no one in any position of political power knows what to do about the madness of Brexit, it's all a bit knackered. Yeah, I said Brexit. I went there. Again. I'll admit that taking pride in voting in the local elections of a place I feel quite distant from, could put me off the whole thing. But it really hasn't.

Soz John. I'll try and calm it now.

For some, recent political discourse has meant disengagement from the news. People are bored of the empty promises or the posturing threats, so they turn off. They stop caring, and they recognise that their lives are better off without the stress of keeping up with the millions of twists that the news cycle takes. But for others - for me -  the opposite is true. The news becomes a drug; each bulletin or tweeted story is a fix, meaning a greater and greater hit is needed just to feel alive. Initially, following Laura Kuenssberg and BBC News was enough for me. Now, I'm reading minute by minute updates from a whole host of journalists and political commentators, and hanging on for the end of the week until the Remaniacs podcast drops. I can't get enough of the analysis. I want to be there as it happens. I'm more involved in political discourse than I ever thought I could be.

Taken on 2nd May at my local primary school.
I panicked about rules surrounding cameras,
so made sure there was absolutely no
background included at all. In hindsight,
I could have got this from the internet.

So you can imagine my crushing disappointment when I realised I was on holiday for the European Elections. From the day before, to the day after, I'll be in a countryside cottage with my family. It will be marvellous fun, but will also mean I'm nowhere near the local primary school that doubles as a polling station for May 23rd. Obviously, it's not all bad news. It appears to be really easy to get a postal vote. As soon as I realised I'd be away, I sent off the form. But even though my vote will count along with everyone else's, all the fun has been taken away. Walking into the building, handing over the card, and taking the form into the booth. There is nothing better.* I know for some people, I'm talking nonsense, but it really does give me chills. If I'd been born a hundred years earlier, then come election day, I'd have been sat at home, wondering what decisions the rich men of the country were making. There are times, I'll admit, when it feels we're not much further on from that. But we are. And if it only feels like we are on the day of an election, when I get to draw a cross on a piece of paper and push it through a slot in a box, then it's better than nothing. I'll take that any time. 

Even though I'm missing the thrill of the polling booth on 23rd May, I'm sure it won't be long before there's another opportunity to take part in democracy. A confirmatory vote on a final Brexit deal? A General Election? A referendum on whether we should ever have a referendum again? There'll be something soon, I'm sure. But until then, I'll leave the thrills to the people that can make it to their local primary schools and mobile voting stations on the day. Enjoy every second of the entire process. It's your right.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Of course there are things better; a massive bubble bath, walking along a blustery beach in an oversized jumper, a homemade, fresh-from-the-oven bakewell tart. But please allow me my hyperbole. I really like voting in a voting booth. It makes me feel part of the election night news. I was involved. I turned up. I am a kingmaker! (What's that? You want me to shut up? Ah OK, message received.)

The Madness of May...

Sometimes I consider ditching this blog forever. *Is deafened from desperate cries of 'Noooooo! Don't say that! Please keep writing!* Oh all right then. If you insist.

Quasi-journalism
archives right there.

Blogging on a weekly basis can go one of two ways. Either, I wake up in a cold sweat, drag the corners of my brain for a topic, and try to conjure upwards of eight-hundred words whilst trawling my camera for random photos that might illustrate the contrived notion. Or, it's really hard work. Some weeks I cop out and give you a recipe. A good recipe but still, something that takes mere minutes to upload. (Those are the times I'm on holiday.) Other weeks, when an idea has bugged me and the thoughts need to be explored, I give you potentially-Pulitzer-winning quasi-journalism. I'm sure we can all agree on that, yes? Excellent. We're of one mind.

I know from experience there
is no signal in this pub. And
 look how happy I was about that, last year.
I'll be recreating this photo at the weekend.

So why am I giving you a peek behind the process? What's my reasoning in explaining the grind of a weekly blog to the single-figure readers that might care? Well, the grind of the whole thing is on my mind at the moment. This time of year is when my top-notch organisational skills are really tested. 

From the first May weekend onwards, the month is a mass of annual events, squeezed around any writing schedule I'm trying to attempt. The family caravan holiday kicks it all off, setting the tone for the madness that follows. That tone peaks on the Bank Holiday Monday morning as I hunt for elusive WiFi in a pub with a children's play area, attempting to post and promote that week's blog, before getting into my car and driving home to sleep in an adult sized bed once more. Identical scenes every year.

Chatting nonsense with Martin
Adams from a previous time.
When I talk Eurovision I do
it via the phone. 

After that, there's Eurovision prep. I'll probably be on Martin Adams' Saturday afternoon radio show on Eurovision day (radio show TBC but Eurovision is May 18th) and I'll need to know my stuff. Other than reading the odd fan-blog, I know nothing. I need to get up to speed. Then there's Eurovision itself. A week of live-tweeting, and party-planning, as friends message me because they know how much it means, whilst I try to find a non-cruel-yet-witty takedown of the costume choices of a former Eastern bloc country. It'll be intense.

But this is what happens every May. It's standard May. Usual May. Nothing out of the ordinary May. But this year - the year of our Lord two thousand and nineteen - May is anything but these phrases. This year's May is intensified, riddled with one-off experiences, and off-its-tits. This year's May is going to be huge.

Breaking in the best bit
of my wedding outfit. (NB: Doctor 
Who is not part of the hat.)

It's all based around a family wedding. My brother and his girlfriend are getting hitched, and facilitating all the excitement that entails. There'll be a family mini-break in a cottage, a day of wearing posh clothes, unwalkable shoes, and lots of cork-popping and toasts to the happy couple. Hurrah! It's going to be so bloody marvellous. On top of that, there are Australian cousins flying in for the shebang. My house will be a hub for family get-togethers. The contrast of having a houseful of people in a place where there's often just me and my thoughts, will be stark. It'll be loads of fun, but won't result in much work being done.

Just contemplating some
witty musings. Natch.

So far, I've got brief outlines of the next few posts for this blog. I try to keep things topical and not write ahead of skej, but it'd be daft to wing it, hoping I find a quiet few hours each week. I'm assuming I won't. My plan is to do my best to avoid reverting to a weekly recipe. Instead, I'm going to write sentences and thoughts, brushed up into something readable, and loosely based on what's happening at the time. Or as the header above states, 'Weekly musings on all kinds of irrelevancies, with occasional book updates and a smattering of author insight.' Snappy, yeah?

Annnnnd breathe...

I've planned ahead as much as I can. It'll all pan out, I'm sure. For now though, I am SOOOOO happy to be going to the seaside at the weekend. From the second I smell the ozone and hear the seagulls, my mind and muscles will involuntarily relax. By the time I open the wine, I'll have all the tension of a melted marshmallow. May your own weekends be as lovely, and as weirdly described as mine.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Leeza in the Making...

Over the past month, I've been emailed, Whatsapped, and verbally anecdoted by people in my life and beyond, who are enjoying Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say. The book has been out for six weeks yet feels like it's always been in the world. To me, anyway. It's been eighteen months since the first draft was completed, and even longer that the ideas that informed it, have been festering. 

For those that care about such things, I trawled back through these blog posts. I wanted to see when I'd started to mention Leeza McAuliffe. It seems it's as far back as May 2017, even though there was no name back then. 

In the spirit of a TV episode that's cobbled together from the best bits of the previous series, I thought I'd dig out a few past posts, to see how far we've all come on the Leeza journey. It was interesting to me, even if everyone else feels cheated and disappointed at the blatant cop out. Soz like. It's the Easter Bank Holiday. I can't be expected to be at full whack every week. If it was good enough for Friends, it's good enough for me.

That Tricky Second Album
The first mention, including photos of the planning file.

To Research or Not Research 
Includes photos of a real life location I pictured for Applemere Bridge.

Calling All Stattos
I talk word counts, do a bit of research from similar books to the one I'm writing, and generally stress that I'm winging it all as usual.

Comma Comma Comma Comma Comma Chameleon
This one is all about editing, my obsession with commas, and then the reason I overuse them in the first place. Contains Victoria Wood.

Back to School for Bond
World Book Day 2018. I share the planning process of the book with Y5 and 6.

An Elevator in a Skyscraper Works Best
First mention of the blurb. 

Climb Every Writing Mountain
I panic here about accidentally ripping off one of my idols, before realising it's alright. We've just been exposed to the same chaotic upbringing.

Consider This a Naming Ceremony
Why did I call the book what I called it? More here.

The Universal Mysteries of Being Ten
Ten year olds are ten year olds, aren't they? How things have changed from 1988 to now.

Leeza McAuliffe Has Arrived
The moment I had an orderable entity online. I was a bit excited. (I definitely used up my ration of exclamation marks on this one.)

World Book Day and Leeza, Together as One
Publication day, and all it entailed 

So there we have it. If you've made it to this point and read every old post, I'm afraid there's no certificate or gold medal. Instead, possibly get out more, breath fresh air, and find a hobby. Yeah? However, it's a nice way to show a snapshot of the overall process in making a book. From the initial ideas to the wanging on about it to the public. It's been quite the journey. Well done all of us.

Have a lovely week, folks. 

All True at the Time of Writing...

Last night I left my phone in a taxi. I know. I'm ridiculous. 

Yeahhh. That's how it was.

I'd had a lovely evening with friends, visited three bars and a restaurant, then got a taxi home. As soon as I walked into the house I realised I didn't have it. For a nervous half hour, I worried, sweated, and mentally retraced my steps. Using another phone, I contacted the restaurant and left my email, rang my friend in the taxi to check if it was there, and tried to get in touch with the last bar I'd been in. It was at that point my friend in the taxi rang back. It had been on the floor, unlit and elusive until he'd got out. It was found. Panic over.

A dramatic reconstruction of my phone
speeding off into the night. In New York.

As horror stories go, it's not really up there, is it? The Mystery of Nicky's Lost Phone is hardly going to sell out cinemas. Nor would the paperback hit the best seller lists. It's just one of those things that happens. And in a few hours, there'll be a happy conclusion to the narrative when I meet my friend and am reunited with my phone once more.

But the past twelve hours - for indeed that's how long my phone and I have been apart - has been challenging. Once the fear of having lost the thing went away, the practical realities kicked in. I didn't have an alarm clock. I was unable to add the food I'd eaten to my WW app. I couldn't fall asleep to Netflix. Straight away - well at least within an hour of being phoneless - my routine was all over the place. 

Don't say you don't miss it.

I want to be better than this. I don't want my world to feel empty and frightening because I've lost a piece of technology. A piece of technology I grew up without, managing perfectly well until my mid-twenties when I got my first Nokia. And yet, as I've outlined before, phones are more than phones. Lives are organised through apps. Work priorities, friendships contact groups, banking - it's all there. Until the time it's not. It's in a taxi and you can't set an alarm.

This is all I can do.

So, how will I cope for the rest of the day? Well, it's not as facetious a question as it sounds. I'm genuinely not being sarky. I have to rethink a few things. My work To Do list was on the phone. I can't remember all the things I'd planned to box off so I feel a bit untethered. My shopping list for Tesco was also on there. I'll have to spend sometime recalling that - and because I think I'm Nigella, it was full of random and specific ingredients rather than just 'pies'. It'll take some time. Then there's the family WhatsApp group. They won't have even clocked my absence. Instead, when I get my phone back, I'll have 9675 messages, focusing on banter. Plus funny vids of the Niece and Neph. Catching up with all that will fill an evening, no mess.

The good news, however, is that the top priorities for today have already sorted themselves out. My main To Do list - the one that starts with 'Get up' and  'Drink tea' - had two main tasks to complete. These were 'Think of blog topic' and 'Write blog'. I can now tick those off my list. My paper list. All I need to do is find a pen.

Have a lovely week, folks.