latest on snapdragons

OK, I admit it. I have failed all my resolutions. I have not blogged weekly. I have not even blogged monthly. Never mind. The great news is the snapdragons survived, and have been planted out. I've just finished a draft of Ruby Rogers Book 9 - Totally Trashed. That's the working title, not a comment on the quality of my performance as a writer. (Although possibly).
Today I have been visiting some Open Studios in the Stroud area, looking at fabulous paintings. Is it too late to become a landscape painter?
My BMI is still 26 (fat). I hope to report progress on that front.
V. excited by impending publication of Zoe and Chloe on the Prowl, on 2nd July. The advance copy is so sparkly I had to put on my sunglasses to look at it - even indoors on a gloomy day. Tomorrow I begin Ruby Rogers Book 10 - so off now to do nothing in all directions.

I BOILED MY SNAPDRAGONS.
How could I be so cruel? I've always loved snapdragons because they're the only flower that lends itself to ventriloquism. I sowed some. They germinated nicely and grew to be an inch tall, although very dinky and spindly.
The compost looked dry. I didn't want to knock them for six by pouring on cold water from above. So I put a little tepid water in the washbasin and floated the seed tray in there. Then somebody knocked on the back door. I ran downstairs and yelled at them to go round to the front because the back door was jammed. I met them at the front door. They were delivering some hens.
It took a while to welcome the hens, show them to their rooms, give them cups of tea etc and then, about an hour later, I remembered the snapdragons.
Unfortunately I had forgotten about our rogue hot tap. It slyly gushes out hot water when it feels like it. I arrived back at the washbasin to find the snapdragons swimming in a steaming pool of hot water.
They are in intensive care.
12 noon... The back door is now open, but we cannot close it.

Sue's Week

Hoping to finish the sixth Ruby Rogers book this weekend. RUBY ROGERS: WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT? In it Ruby has to face up to her demons (yet again) but at least she doesn’t have to climb the burning mountains of Mordor to fling her ring into the molten inferno. Thank God I don’t write fantasy. It must be exhausting. Every time somebody is rude to Ruby at school, I have to have a glass of water and a lie down. How does J.K.Rowling manage?

I feel excited this morning. So much is going on. OK, it’s raining. Great sopping swags of billowing rain clouds are sweeping up the valley (I live in the Gloucestershire rainforest.) But we’re about to launch the new website, and this week sees the publication of Girl, 15, Flirting for England. I feel exhilarated. It’s time for a new start. Progress. It feels almost like New Year. Time for some resolutions? Maybe.

I will keep this log, faithfully, every week. I will stop secretly snacking on yogurts. I will lose a stone. I will walk 10,000 paces a day. I will measure them with a new, efficient pedometer. The old one is such a liar. It tells me I’ve walked thirty paces if all I do is sneeze and scratch my head. With pedometers like that, who needs friends?

I will… but that’s enough resolutions. Proud of my new start, I march downstairs, planning a healthy breakfast consisting of fresh water and a few organic leaves. No! Wait! Before snacking on leaves, I will go for a brisk walk in the rainforest. I pull on my jacket, seize the doorknob, and pull.

The door stays right where it is. Oh yes! I locked it last night. I try to turn the key. It’s jammed. I turn for help to my partner Steve, the farmer. He looks grumpy. He grabs the doorknob. No luck. He seizes a screwdriver. No joy. He tries to turn the key again. The key snaps in half. He shouts at me. Well, fair enough. I was the one who locked the door last night. He says I am paranoid. I deny it, loudly.

But he is right. I am paranoid. I’m sure the night is full of scary burglars stalking about with jemmies and bags marked “swag”. I’m convinced a thousand crazed maniacs sharpen their machetes at nightfall and tip-toe out to make whoopee. So call me old-fashioned, but sometimes I lock the door.

After a brief struggle, punctuated by some very rude words, Steve gives up trying to unscrew the lock and goes out through the front door – the one we never use - to feed his sheep, calves, etc.

I timidly try to unscrew the lock myself. I try to lubricate the screw with a dollop of French Walnut Oil. It doesn’t work. Maybe I should try and cook with French Walnut Oil one day. I must have had something culinary in mind when I bought it. I can’t have bought it as an essential tool for escaping from the enchanted farmhouse.

It doesn’t work, anyway. We’ll have to call a locksmith. I’ll have to tell him how to get here. (“Left by the haunted house, right by the blasted oak, under the dripping bridge and follow the trail of manure.”) No wonder I don’t write fantasy. It would be too much like everyday life.

I discover it’s also more or less a full moon. People always get a bit stressy at full moon. But it’s also got to be a great time to make resolutions. I will stop snacking on yogurts, walk miles, lose weight, etc etc. Just as soon as I can get the door open.