drowning in froglets

Just come in from the garden. It's hopping with frogs. After all the rain fall, which has filled trays full of herb pots, and weighed down the sweet peas, I've been rescuing plants in that ham-fisted way of mine, i.e tipping out the water from the trays, moving one or other from here to there whilst a thousand more freckles emerge on my pale but interesting skin. Yes. The sun is out again, as is the washing. And five minutes later it's cloudy. Ah well. That's England. Maybe it wasn't just rain yesterday. Maybe it was plague of frogs. Maybe I should be worried that next it'll be locusts. Mind you, they're lovely little things. Frogs. Not locusts. And if baby toads are lumpy then maybe these aren't all froglets. Which makes me think, I don't know why, about Jessica (the tube puller) and Ailsa (the forgiver of all things done to her). Why aren't they called twinlets? Like triplets and quadruplets etc? In fact they're more twinlets than anything. They were born at exactly the same time, in the same lift-out. No 'I'm the oldest', or 'I'm the youngest' tousle here. Twinlets. Yes. I like that name. Or twoplets. Tuplets even. That would do. Twins is so...what is it? Dated? I don't know what's got into me. Yesterday I was grumping about this and that and today I'm championing froglets and twinlets. if there's anyone out there remotely interested, I need diagnosing I think.

editorial

Look at this! Two posts in one day! Unheard of. Wouldn't it be nice to have an editorial eye secreted about the desk which you can plug in, switch on and say, fix that? I think it would. Imagine time saved, the angst avoided, the...well just imagine! Mind you, my desk wouldn't be the safest place for it, nontheless, what an addition to my tiny writing world, which no-one in particular is interested in, unless, of course, I get a publishing deal and everyone and their granny (at least those who write) might flicker a little and those who don't might mutter something about how long it all takes, and do real writers take so very long to get established...?It's a funny old thing. If I was a stone wall builder would it be any different? Or a chef? Or still a nurse. Who knows? Are we all just nothings in the scheme of things. Writers, I mean. No matter what we do or write. We might change a few things along the way, along a tiny thread-like path, but does anybody actually use that path? When people ask, how's the writing going, I wonder if they really want to hear or if it's just something they think they ought to ask, because well, that's what I do. Write. And maybe once the question's asked they can move on to what they really want to talk about. Grump, grump. I know. But then. Do I ask them about their work? No. So why am I complaining? It must be the rain. It must be wanting to get going on another big thing and I can't, a publisher might want me to go in a certain direction. Apparently. So hang fire for now. And all that. Anyway, that editorial eye. I wonder what colour it should be.

busy busy busy

So I'm now related to twins, not just married into a family of them. Jessica and Ailsa, weighing as much as a bag of sugar and a white loaf each, according to my brother, who likes to work things out. He once prised open his leather football (Christmas present, only hours old) to see how it functioned, delivering it of its bladder and wrecking it, basically. Rather like a C. section without the gore. I sincerely hope he doesn't try to work out how breathing tubes, feeding tubes, incubators and respirators tick because those girls need them right now.

I seem to remember that football Christmas being a fractious one, once it was discovered that you can't get the bladder back in...

Fingers crossed that the girls don't need the tubes for long, and they lay down lots of lovely protective fat pearls to keep them warm and safe and allow their mother to hold them.

Bursting with hope, can't wait to see the pictures and to meet them.
Go girls, go!

oh woe, woe, woe, woe

So I have been glued to my yearly accounts, the tennis (well it is June), some rather benign football, and my computer, and find that it's weeks, nay almost a month since I updated. That's a disgrace. But my accounts are finished, a fat envelope consisting of an aga-saga of receipts for outgoings and a slim volume of incomings, which is always the way. England were truly terrible - no surprises there. Why do people continue to be surprised by the ineptitude of our footballers? Murray's out, doing a Henman on us. Again, why are we surprised? And I haven't got a publisher yet. But then I have learned not to expect things, merely just to hope. And if I do get a surprise, great, be it tennis, football, publishing contract. That way, the disappointment can be controlled, embraced even, used for the betterment of my soul and other weary parts, though I don't have to haul in a red and white flag, cos I didn't hang one out in the first place. Instead I've been scattering myself about, in schools, youth groups and day centres, either singing at people or writing with them, and have started a story for young readers, while I wait for news from my agent re: publishers. Plenty of other material for him to look at in the meantime. I#d hate him to be twiddling thumbs on my account. Hopefully he's not been too fixated on bad football to forget to read it, but not wishing to be idle myself, I've just got on with writing. No point in brooding about what might be, might have been or will be. We'd all be in a sorry state, wouldn't we?