When we went shopping at Trago Mills store this morning I had no idea what I wanted to buy… and then I saw him. Unfortunately, he was already taken and the customers who had got in first were adamant that he was not for sale. Don’t you just love babies?
By the way, just a little reminder that my book, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under” is still available on Kindle eBooks FREE promotion until midnight tonight. Look on Amazon, co.uk for details about both the paperback and ebook versions.
I have become a fan of everything Italian recently. It all started earlier in the year when I stayed at Jimboomba, Queensland (no, not Italy, sadly! Or Sicily, for that matter). In truth, I’m not the greatest fan of Jimboomba (although I like the name), which is rather out in the sticks and good for horse people, dog-lovers and those who are not afraid of snakes. However, I shall be eternally grateful for the spell I spent there because that is where I discovered the brilliant television programme, “Il Commissario Montalbano” (Montalbano, The Italian Detective), written by Andrea Camilleri and starring the gorgeous Luca Zingaretti (he with the lovely bow legs – don’t you just love bow legs?).
I was mesmerised and enchanted, not only by the acting, the plot and the players, but also by the scenery; it is set primarily in the Sicilian town of Porto Empedocle, known in the series as Vigata, but such is the popularity of the series and the pride of the inhabitants that the town has been renamed Porto Empedocle Vigata. I even liked the subtitles – that way you get hear the mellifluous Italian language – and you don’t miss a word, especially if you are a tad deaf (like Chris).
Whilst I was still in Australia Chris ordered the entire series of the long-running two-hour programmes and two weeks ago we watched the last episode, which ironically, was the first one I ever saw (back in Jimboomba) and I felt quite nostalgic for the bush. Chris and I felt bereft. What could possibly replace Montalbano? Luckily, a new series of “Young Montalbano” has been produced and was broadcast for the first time on British television on BBC4 last Saturday at 9.00pm. The transition from the not so young Montalbano, played by Luca Zingaretti, to the young Montalbano, rising star Michele Riondino, was made smoothly by a clever script and the inclusion of characters and names that we had come to associate with the original series.
Our neighbour, Ron, who is also a Montalbano fan (but missed it last week) is coming over tonight and we’re all going to watch it again on iplayer (there is something to be said for modern technology, even if I can’t turn on the television myself). In readiness for tonight, and in keeping with my love of all things Italian, I’ve been eating pasta all week – the same spaghetti I made for two actually served seven dinners in all. Which reminds me, Montalbano is a bit of a “foodie” too (if you haven’t seen him already).
Incidentally, when I went to Wikipedia to collect photos of Luca for you to see on my blog I discovered something amazing – who would believe it? Luca was born on my birthday – November 11 – in 1961! I like him even more now!
Just to let you know that I’ve extended the current promotion by another day. Please let your friends know too and remember that there is also a paperback version available (£7.06 and postage free in the UK – not sure about other countries) for those who prefer to read in the conventional way. There has been a good response to both versions. Thank you for your support.
At Lustleigh the other week I picked some tufts of “old man’s beard” from the hedgerow – I just knew that would come in handy for something!
It’s hard to be upbeat when you haven’t had enough sleep. I couldn’t get to sleep for hours last night. I wasn’t lacking tiredness or the will to sleep but neither was I overtired; and it had little to do with the fact that I was sleeping next to a sleeping lion (the lion had his snoring guard in place), although, it has to be said that when you’re just lying there waiting for sleep in the darkness, you notice every single movement and sound. At ten past two I went upstairs to check and see how my free book promotion was going and was surprised to find that Germans were acquiring my eBook in greater numbers than the English, and the Americans and Australians even better still – thank you all! Back in bed at 2.20am I decided to read my eBook for a while in the hope that reading would induce sleep at that hour, but no, I read one chapter and then another two (damned good book, if I do say so myself!). At last I put my Kindle away and sleep came to me after another half hour or so of tossing and turning.
Of course, I knew why I couldn’t sleep. When on Facebook yesterday I clicked onto the page of an old girlfriend of my brother; she had been ill with ovarian cancer and I wondered how she was. It came as quite a shock to read the most recent few posts from her – “waiting for an ambulance”, “hoping there will be a bed on the oncology ward”, “on a drip” and “I have been singing ‘Try not to get worried’…” I decided to phone Henry (in Australia) to let him know that his ex-girlfriend was very ill – thought he might want to send his best wishes. Would you believe that he was just about to phone me?
“How amazing, Sally! I’ve just stepped through the door and I was about to phone you…”
He didn’t say why – I told him about his ex before he had the chance – and we both shed tears. I don’t know her well but she is a nice lady. Henry and I took some comfort from the connection between us, which had made us want to talk to each other at precisely the same time.
Chris let me sleep on this morning and I awoke with wet eyes and an aching feeling of loss in my abdomen. Chris says I’ve been working too hard recently.
This afternoon a little ray of sunshine entered my studio and took me away from my sad thoughts. My friend, J. waited patiently for me tell her all my news, and when I had finished she broached the subject…
“I haven’t told anyone else, Sally, but I’ve met someone…”
“You’re in love!”
Suddenly it was obvious, by the pink in her cheeks and the light in her eyes.
She nodded. “But we’ve only met once, three months ago, and have been texting ever since…”
She doesn’t have a computer so she has been saving text conversations by writing every single word by hand. Well, I’m not going to steal my friend’s thunder by revealing all, especially as she may be writing her own book sometime. J. (not J.K.Rowling,incidentally) got up to leave and her mobile phone made a pretty noise; a frisson of pleasure went through her before my very eyes. She laughed. I laughed.
I feel so much better now and tonight I think I’ll go swimming. I need to get out and have some exercise.
Sadly, what may have been the last sunny days of summer passed me by while I was in a strange fugue (that I can barely remember) brought about by spending too many hours looking at too many words on the computer screen, and having to place them in apple pie order for publishing. I think I managed it. Hope so – I ain’t goin’ to do it again (sorry, I know where that came from), not immediately anyway (unless you can tell me of any glaring errors! Please no!).
This morning I awoke, not with the feelings of panic or dread that have visited me on occasions recently, but with an innate restlessness, which I recognised straight away. Chris had drawn back the curtains to welcome the day and I opened my eyes to grey, many shades of grey (not fifty, in case you’re wondering – and no, I haven’t read it yet). The sky was a battleship grey, the sea was a dark slate grey, and on the horizon was a huge battleship the colour of… well, not really, I got a bit carried away – it was an enormous tanker, unladen and high in the water – but it was grey, like everything else outside. Even the trees and the normally bright blue railings on our steps looked grey.
I pulled my bedclothes up around my ears and snuggled up to Chris for warmth. I jumped and pulled away because he had been up for two hours already and his hands were as cold as ice. Feeling a tad guilty for my apparent frigidity, I stretched out my arm and held his cold masculine hand until mine was as cold as his.
“I suppose this is it then?” I asked darkly.
“Reckon so”, Chris answered like a cowboy (he often slips into cowboy talk because he knows I like Clint Eastwood).
“The end of summer…”
“Yep!”
“No more sunny days?”
“Iffen there are, they’ll be a might colder from now on… yes sirree.”
“Well, I can’t go to Australia again this year. They will all be fed up with me after so many visits.”
“Nope, ‘ least them there polar bears will be alrighty though.”
“Yes, I saw that photo of the North Pole. Are we going to have an ice-age now?” I shuddered at the thought.
“Things is always changin’ – jest a pard a nature.”
“I’ve got a funny feeling in my bones,” I began, “if I followed my instincts, right now I would be heading south. Can we go to Spain for the winter, Clint?”
” Sure. I’m a already workin’ on it” Chris closed the window.
“Ugh! It’s too cold to get up.” I snuggled closer again when he got back into bed. “I want to hibernate…”
Chris thought that was a good idea too so we cosied up and hibernated for half an hour longer than usual while the harsh light of grey intruded into our bedroom.
Simply go to amazon.co.uk (books) and type in “the innocent flirt down under” and “enter”; two options will appear – the paperback version (a snip at just £7.06 – based on USD fluctuations – free postage option available) and the kindle ebook version, which is presently FREE until midnight Friday! If you are already the proud owner of the old original version (with SPECIAL FEATURES) you may be pleased to have the new book for comparison, especially as it has the addition of an epilogue gives a more clearly defined end to the book. Please give reviews if you enjoy the book – the review option comes after the last page. Thank you.
My eyes are tired and strained from all the hours spent during the last week working on re-editing and tweaking my book, “The Innocent Flirt Down Under”, for two different forms of publishing – the paperback version available on demand from amazon.com and the ebook version (updated to match the paperback) available on Kindle ebooks store (also amazon.com). At last I have finished, in time for the free promotion beginning midnight (half an hour from now) and lasting until Friday midnight. I hope you’ll take up the offer and enjoy reading my book. If it’s not too much trouble, and you have enjoyed the book, would you mind writing a review please? The option to review becomes available at the end of ebooks, as you probably know already if you have a Kindle. My former edition had so many special features and photos at the end that I don’t think many people realised the option to review was there. It is much clearer now (hopefully). If you prefer the paperback form and make an order you will find that most countries, including the UK and the USA, offer free postage; and I believe you may review my book online.
Back to my normal blog tomorrow – after a good night’s rest! I hope my poor eyes recover.
When you have read this you might well ask yourself, “Why did Sally tell me this?” Therefore, I’ll tell you from the beginning that this is a subject very close to my heart… in more ways than one (cross my heart), seeing as I’m going to write about bras. Well of all things! Yes, I know.
It isn’t a subject I’ve been pondering on too deeply – it doesn’t keep me awake at night – but I got to thinking about bras this morning when a friend wrote the next line to me in an email – “I have recently washed 2 white bras with pink jeans and now have two pink bras, so I needed to replace them, why am I telling you this??” The odd thing is that I knew very well why she told me – bras are the bane of women’s lives.
For a start, it’s so hard to find one that fits perfectly; if they are too big they don’t hold you up (very disappointing, even if the bra cost only £4 in the sales you’ll never wear it!), and if they are too small, they grip you like a vice and cut your breasts (and your back) in two – you will only wear it after you have forgotten about its existence and one day come across it by accident in the back of the drawer! Also, I’ve found that it is quite hard to buy nice white bras nowadays. There are plenty of attractive coloured or patterned ones available but they tend to show through one’s tops unless they match perfectly. Most women like white bras so they can wear them under anything they wear; we prefer pretty bras and avoid the old lady section like the plague… usually, although last week I even cast my eyes in that direction on the off-chance that something pretty might have been hiding there. No way.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a single bra to buy last Saturday because none of the shops I went into had any nice white bras in a 38E, and I have all the polka dots (in various colours), leopard skin prints, roses, zig-zags, buttons and bows that I could possibly want – not that I can wear all of them, of course – some sag a little and look too au naturelle whilst others seem to cut me in half, front and back!
Chris was inordinately pleased when I announced, rather disappointedly, and somewhat annoyed, that I could find not a single bra to buy.
“I would have thought you have quite enough bras already,” he observed.
“Oh, you don’t understand,” I whined, “all I want is nice white bra, that fits and isn’t ugly, to replace the one you ruined when you carelessly put it in the wash with the pink load!”
That shut him up. So now you all know why my friend told me of her plight and also, why I’m telling you this!
My dear old Mum, she’s such a darling, no matter what some of the younger generation may think. I feel rather guilty that in my previous blog post I alluded to her (albeit in a light-hearted fashion) as being just a tiny bit like the Grandma in the old Giles’ Cartoons; in case I gave the wrong impression, I must tell you that my Mum does not wear a big black coat and a black hat with feathers; on the other hand, the grandchildren are just like the naughty children in the cartoons.
Chris and I take Mum shopping almost every Saturday morning and we always have a lovely time; she’s bright, perky, full of fun and not at all irascible. Last Saturday Mum looked at me in my nice white trousers, pink top and sunglasses, and she said, “Sally, you look so young. No-one would believe your age. You don’t look a day over thirty!” Isn’t she sweet? What a kind thing to say. I felt good (na, na, na, na, nah…. as the song goes – love that song!), even though I’m well aware that her sight is not what it was (and even then she used to wear glasses!). In truth, this last week of long days sat at the computer, editing and performing technical procedures for the self-publishing of my book on Amazon.com, has taken its toll on me. Every time I look in the mirror I see the result of too much brain strain and not enough sleep (Chris has had a bad snoring week); I appear tired and haggard.
In fact, I’m considering having a facelift if things don’t perk up, provided, of course, that my books sell well and I become a wealthy woman any time now. I remember a time, many years ago, when my mother was about the same age as I am now… I was living in Woodbury, East Devon, and my old boyfriend (who really was quite old) and I were taking my parents out somewhere for the day. They were divorced but used to go out en famille for the sake of their children; Mum and Dad didn’t argue but there were sometimes some quite interesting conversations.
It was around the time that the British press had reported a suspicion that Margaret Thatcher, who was looking especially young after a holiday, had had a facelift and we were all in the car when Mum suddenly came out with…..
“I wonder if I should have a facelift… like Margaret Thatcher?”
“You don’t need one Mum,” I said, “You are lovely as you are.”
“Oh, I don’t know. What do you think Charles?” she asked Dad.
“I should,” he said, giving me a wink.
Mum didn’t notice (her sight wasn’t that great).
“But… then again….” Mum continued in a dreamy way as if conversing with herself, “why do I need a facelift? Who really cares? Who would I would be doing it for?”
“For the sake of the general public,” Dad said dryly.
If my mother heard the comment, she ignored it. There was a silence in the car that lasted for several miles; and during the silence at least three pairs of eyes looked ahead assiduously, lest a sideways glance at one another should set off uncontrollable laughter.