This has been a weekend and a half. On Saturday evening, the choir with which my husband sings, the Benson Choral Society, put on one of its three annual concerts in Dorchester Abbey and, as always, the family came out in force to support him.
On Saturday evening, eight of us sat down to the main course, then dashed off to the Abbey for the (brilliant) concert, returning later for pudding, cheese and coffee. We all had breakfast the next morning, then two of the number left. Six of us sat down for Sunday lunch (the venison casserole I mentioned on twitter) and black cherries jubilee. At five o’clock, all of the guests left for London. At five thirty, my husband’s two friends from Cheshire arrived. We sat down to dinner at seven thirty (venison casserole again - on Saturday, I’d made enough for an army). At nine thirty, the friends left for Stansted, taking with them my husband. They’ve gone to Italy.
I staggered downstairs this morning to be greeted by a GINORMOUS pile of washing - bed linen for all the beds in the house, towels, napkins, shirts, you name it. Dealing with it will take a couple of days, if not more. It was a depressing sight as I have so much I want to do, and funnily enough, washing and ironing don’t figure on my wish-to-do list.
Then I opened my mail and my email. Katie Fforde had sent me the page with the Bookseller review of The Road Back; my copy of Romance Matters fell open at the page taken out by Choc Lit, congratulating Jane Lovering and Evonne Wareham for winning the Romantic Novel of the Year Award 2012 and The Joan Hessayon Prize, respectively; my copy of The Silent Touch of Shadows, by Christina Courtenay, is at hand as I’m starting to read it today; my email brought details of The Festival of Romance 2012, which takes place in Bedford in November, and in which I and other Choc Lit authors are participating; the programme for the RNA Conference 2012 in Penrith is on my desk nearby.
Mine is a world full of novels, both reading and writing them, and it’s a BRILLIANT world in which to live. As I sort out the piles of washing, I shall be counting myself lucky that I don’t live in Wyoming, 1887, and as I get down to the ironing, I shall be thinking about Ben Davies (I loved Please Don’t Stop the Music, Jane) and I’ll be wondering what I shall think of the hero I’m about to meet in the pages of The Silent Touch of Shadows.
You don’t need to win the lottery to be lifted out of the mundane into the sublime - all you need to do is to open the page of a good book. Or to find yourself in front of a computer, with the time to write one.
That’s my thought for the day. Plus the fact that I NEVER want to eat venison again!