Nick does not travel well with our children. When they were babies and we lived in Botswana he:
a. cried on a flight
b. paid my parents to fly in his place
c. took valium before flying
Now the children are older and the flight from Bahrain isn't overly long and I always fly at least one direction without him - but I still do expect him to fly with us sometimes
This morning he phoned from Bahrain to say:
"I'm in the travel agent. I'm booking my trip to Ireland. Unfortunatley we won't be able to fly back together. There are no seats left on your Saturday flight. I'm going to have to fly back on Sunday..."
Was he taking the mick? (as we say here in Ireland)
I said: "I have a better idea. Let's swap the names on our tickets. You fly on Saturday with the children and I'll take the Sunday flight..."
Suddenly it wasn't a problem to change all of our flights to Sunday.
One big happy family. Flying back to Bahrain together...
Can't wait!

Fake Tan

I'm going to the Rugby Club Ball and I'm wearing a halterneck dress which exposes the most of my back and plunges right down to my navel. But I have a Farmer's Tan - arms, neck and chest are burnt brown, the rest is freckled and pale. In an effort to balance the colour I bought a bottle of fake and asked Nick to to administer light sweeping strokes across the pale curve of my back. I demonstrated on my calves, thighs and tummy. I gently suggested a couple of times as he kneaded and pressed and vigorously rubbed : "Maybe I lighter touch, darling?"
Afterwards I inspected his handiwork - I almost exploded with horror - it was blotchy and streaked and utterly awful. I could make out his fingers in one place. And on my shoulder was a huge gloopy blob. I looked (and still look) like an oompah loompah.
He was defiant. He said: "I think there's something wrong with your back."
There is most certainly something wrong with my back - which is why I will be standing with it pressed to a wall at the Rugby Club Ball.

Fatty

Nick and I went out for dinner because we're expecting Ramadan to be called tomorrow and, once called, all the restaurants will shut for a month. We went to Cico's which has been here since prawns and avocado were fashionable. I asked for the mushroom risotto starter as a main course.
Nick said: "Please remember we're walking home and the humidity is 85% and the temperature is 40 degrees. You'll have that tiny starter sweated off in ten minutes."
He ordered spaghetti carbonara, then a steak, then tiramisu.
He said: "There's no way I can stay two stones overweight unless I keep eating."

Wedding Anniversary

Nick woke me this morning with a kiss. He says we met fifteen years ago to-day. He says it seems like just yesterday. How bizarre to be in bed with my husband when I'm still dreaming about Lord Rupert Glass. I forgot about our wedding anniversary last week and my birthday the week before that - (there's nothing to celebrate, except that I'm a year older.)
It may take Little Black Dress a month to get back to me, to tell me whether or not they like The Revenge of Lady Muck. Till then I exist in a state of suspended animation. It's a little like waiting for exam results except the mark I receive for my novel, pass or fail, is subjective.
This novel was a commission. It sounds very grand, but it's not. The first novel I wrote, The Pineapple Tart, was about a family, the Gordon's; it was frothy and young and very light hearted. I wrote it when I was at university.
Little Black Dress asked me to write a stand alone novel about one of the sisters whose story was not explored in great depth in The Pineapple Tart. Sarah Gordon is a sexually repressed school mistress; precise to the point of pain. She has had one unfortunate relationship with Ian Flemming, an accountant who is heir to his father's fitted bathroom empire. Ian is now married to Alexandra, Sarah's headmistress at school. Alexandra is expecting a baby and it's not a beautiful experience. She's suffering from nausea and obscene paranoia; she thinks Ian is still in love with Sarah. Why has Sarah not had a boyfriend since jilting Ian at the altar?