I was an hour late getting to the office this morning. I could offer all sorts of excuses, such as the bus was late, or it had broken down, or my nails fell off as I was closing the front door and I had to go back in to stick them back on again, or the dog was sick on my shoes. Only, I don’t have a dog, and I think I can safely say that I have never worn false nails in my life, and actually, I don’t catch a bus to the office. I walk. Because it is on the same floor as my bedroom. In my house. So no excuse. Simply, battering wind and pounding rain on the window at four-thirty a.m. and a what-the-heck-it’s nearly-Christmas excuse for lying an extra hour beneath a warm and luxurious feather duvet. I’ll be lucky if my boss doesn’t give me a reprimand. That is, if I had a boss…

Something strange happened to me yesterday. For a moment I thought my eyes had morphed into those multiple lenses of the housefly with compound vision. Because I kept seeing Santas. Yes, Father Christmases in the plural…one after another in the street, and when I arrived at the pub for the afternoon poetry workshop, there were a whole host of red-jacketed fur-trimmed young men (and women) sitting at multiple tables. Yes, I have finally cracked, I thought, until I remembered that it had been the Christmas charity fun run in Lincoln that morning, and everyone was recovering…good excuse for multiple beers, oh, and that poem about a host of golden red-faced daffodils Santas…

I’m just wondering if anyone else has suffered disagreements with the little men and women that live inside the machines at the self check-outs in supermarkets? …Come to think of it, I have only ever heard a woman’s voice…is that because ‘she’ is supposed to be calm and non-threatening and helpful, or because she reminds us of our mothers, mother-in-law or wife, any female in fact from whom we have been on the receiving end of a badgering that generally gets us to do things that we may be reluctant to do…at least reluctant to do as quickly as they would like. Like putting your bag in the bagging area, or scanning your first item. There are times when I feel positively bullied (is that really because I am an ineffectual wimp?). PLEASE SCAN YOUR FIRST ITEM. Yes, you told me that a second ago, and I’m still trying to find the bar code and the label seems to be crumpled and I have to straighten it out before the machine can read it, you stupid woman, and… PLEASE SCAN YOUR FIRST ITEM. And because I took one of my gloves off to better straighten the label, there is now UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE. Thank goodness for the exceptionally nice and humorous (male) check-out assistant in Morrisons today who stood up to the little Hitler inside the machine and poked fun at her. She didn’t utter a word afterwards until PLEASE TAKE YOUR ITEMS, which admittedly she did have to repeat… I was just trying to put my gloves on first…

There seems to be a gaping hole in my study floor…it is most disconcerting. Something, I think, to do with the fact that I spent the entire morning tidying up. I’m waiting while one or two people read my draft novel, so rather than twiddle my thumbs, I decide to tidy up the debris that seems to have accumulated whilst in the depths of writing it…. a pile of notes, a pile of research notes and a pile of research materials seems to have morphed into one big splodge of three-pile no-pile carpet, if you get my drift…oh, yes, here is the rug…and what’s this? Wow! Floorboards…oh yes, I do remember them vaguely…Oh and I can suddenly get to my bookshelves and the door to the apple store (Apple store? But that’s another matter…). And the room suddenly seems bigger and more airy. A flap of the duster and a pirouette with the Dyson (it is a very small room) and I feel like I have suddenly moved into a brand new workspace. Now, what shall I do? I think I might have PTND…post traumatic novel disorder… better think up an idea for another novel…

One of those wonderful winter days when white frost sparkles upon branches and hedgerows against a clear blue sky. Even the spires of the Cathedral have a Christmassy rime to them. Who says winter’s dreary? The birds are out in force – it hasn’t taken them long to spot the sugar-free muesli which we have soaked and put out for them – we bought the stuff over a year ago in Greece and haven’t managed to eat it for some reason, and now it’s well past its use-by date! I hate waste, so glad there are blackbirds, hedge-sparrows, robins and a rather plump pigeon to take advantage of it.

Just finished drafting my latest novel. A few edits to go, synopsis and pitch to perfect, then it’s off out into the dark and mysterious woods of publishing…let’s hope there’s a little bit of hoarfrost on the branches to enjoy…

Very privileged to see Ballet Black at Lincoln’s Drill Hall on Friday night. Storyville in the second half was a particular triumph. Choreographed by Christopher Hampson, and  set in the nightclubs of 1900’s New Orleans, it was reminiscent of an Edward Hopper painting in motion. Talented, slick and imaginative, kept me happy for an hour or two…

Managed to watch Even the Rain, the 2010 film directed by Icíar Bollaín, based upon the screenplay by Paul Laverty. Intriguing and disturbing interpretation of issues of artistic integrity, morality and imperialism…

Listened to poet Paul Sutherland reading a few poems from his new collection at the Pimento Tea Rooms, plus other excellent local poets, including Rob Etty and David Cooke, plus a chance to air a couple of little ditties myself…

After all that cultural activity, think I might have to slather myself in beer and curry…

Oh, well, here I am strutting my stuff at the Drill Hall on a wet Saturday afternoon in November. Lincoln Inspired are trying to raise some money to fund a Literature Festival in Lincoln next year. No money for arts round here, surprise, surprise. Lucky for me, I’m used to being poor…one of these days I’ll start gambling on the stock exchange, and maybe I’ll get rich…. Lincoln Inspired can be found around town or on facebook for anyone interested (in literature festivals – not, I think, in gambling).

Saw the wonderful Tina May at the Drill Hall on Friday night. Not a packed hall, but then I’m sure Friday night TV is a much bigger draw… I, for one, voted with my feet and went to the live act… glad, by the way, they did away with the need for a music license last month…let’s all enrich our lives that way instead!

It’s one of those times, like when a close friend or relative dies, when actually there is nothing to say. What words can express the horror of what is going on between the Israelis and the Palestinians, and which countries are profiteering from the arms they’re supplying? Hopefully a ceasefire is imminent…but I just can’t see why people don’t learn that no matter what the differences, killing is not necessary. ‘ Saw The Iron Lady (film about Thatcher) the other day – she was just as intransigent by all accounts re. the Falklands… apparently intelligence (such as an Oxford degree) doesn’t come into it when deciding to blow people apart… the human race does seem to be rather lacking in the brain department… Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something cheerful to counter this…when I can find the words….

Did I mention that I have joined a community choir again, after quite a few years of not inflicting anyone with my dulcet (or not so dulcet) tones? This one is a joy to attend! And a variety of songs ranging from good ol’ Bing (well, it is coming up to Christmas) to Lady Gaga. I’m afraid I haven’t quite got her style, but hey, it’s fun! I am definitely one of the subscribers to the theory that singing is good for you…more people should do it, and at this time of the year, it warms the cockles of your heart!

Another great commuter jazz at LPAC last night with Derrick Harris. All quality again!

Seems like the musical thing is rather taking over…better get back to the novel…

Readwave is a nice little site with a good range of stories… You can check one of mine out there, title …..    What Foxy Saw