Welcome, welcome to my new blog. The old one was getting a bit tired after ten or so years, so this is a new, re-vamped edition ready to contain the writings of a getting-older author. Hopefully it will be relatable and entertaining……

First of all, I am delighted to announce that I have signed with a new publisher for two books, the first of which is called The Art Of Deception and it will be hitting the shelves in 2026! It’s a strange feeling to have written an actual new book that actual people will be reading. And while you hope that most people will like it, there’s also that knawing nervousness that some might hate it – though I have always valued constructive criticism. We shall see…….I’ll keep the publishing and manuscript updates right here.

So, I’ve written that I’m a getting-older author and it’s true. I have reached the grand old age of 43 (insert a shocked emoticon here) and I have three daughters of varying ages who alternately keep me young and force me to be old, because in my wisdom they are 23, 18 and 2. Yes, you read that correctly. From being quite a civilized household, we have bounced right back to nappies, stairgates, car seats, luridly coloured plastic toys, Paw Patrol on a loop and daily – nay, hourly – eating battles. The littlest doesn’t seem to think that eating is necessary. Occasionally she will grace us with her presence at the dining table without screaming and she might eat a yoghurt or two, or a piece of cheese, but this is far from guaranteed. She prefers to watch Rubble and Crew which, if you don’t know it, is all about the ‘wiggle and wag’. Look it up if you’re not familiar – you can thank me later.

Meanwhile, the eldest is happily ensconced in her flat in London, on a year out from Uni, working and doing pub quizzes, socializing and spoiling her cats as far as I can tell. With a large dose of health anxiety that sees me receiving a text message most mornings saying “Mummy, I think I’m dying. Seriously.” All I can say is that she hasn’t yet.

And the middle one has just passed her driving test and is flourishing in her new-found freedom: “Mummy,” she said in hushed tones, “I can go anywhere I want. I can go whenever I want. I don’t have to wait for lifts or get Ubers any more.” Wait, what? Ubers?? That was a surprise and swiftly made me check my Uber account, where I discovered a few anomalies but seeing as she won’t be needing their service any more I’m prepared to overlook them.

And then there’s my partner who copes very well with an all-female household. He’s only joined in masculinity by the dog and even he’s neutered. My partner is very good, he wearily but generously accepts requests for money most days for fuel, books and Hollister purchases (the girls, not me). He also wearily accepts my impromptu nights out and usually bringing back a friend or two who will stay until the early hours, and occasionally dawn. He’s a GP you see and gets more problems and tears from his patients than he does from our ramshackle family.

So, there you have it. An introduction to the various bits of my life. My aging life, let’s not forget. The minute I start spending £50 on slippers or scarifying the lawn is the time when I’ll be found in the local nursing home (as long as it accepts consumption of gin).