The Plumber

When my Argentinian friend asked what was my next post about, I genuinely answered “the plumber”. With the complicity of a couple of glasses, he quickly responded that in most of the movies from his teenage years, there was a plumber. From the kick his girlfriend gave him under the table, I can only imagine at what kind of cinematographic masterpieces he was referring.
Anyway, this post won’t talk about “that kind of plumber”.

Our Plumber, Mr M., is a very nice guy and he is with us since we moved into this house.
According to the family tradition, that wants us to have heating problems in every single house we move, the very same day we stepped into this house, we realised that the lid of the oil tank was misplaced, and there was a high risk that some rainwater had mixed with the leftover fuel.
Coming from a family who had always been in the oil business, I well knew the potential danger for the boiler, of mixing oil and water. We needed an expert, but we knew nobody in the area, plus it was Saturday. Our only option was to ring the number of the plumber indicated by the oil company on the tank.
The travelling husband dialled the number, Mr M. answered, and that was the beginning of their “special” relationship.

” A Special Relationship” in the way that it is purely telephonic but durable. The traveling husband and Mr M. never met. They only occasionally spoke on the phone, but for some reason, every time Mr M. is called around the house, he never fails to inquire about my husband and never forgets to send him his regards. Of course, in the same way, he sends his apologies to not taking my calls too. It must be some sense of brotherhood he holds deep inside him. Still, I am always tempted to remind him that since I am the one he has to deal with, and most importantly I am the one who pays him, he better worries about me and how much he can piss me off instead!
Anyway, once you know what you are dealing with, you act accordingly, and when Mr M. doesn’t pick up the phone, I keep calling over and over again. I keep hoping he will never get involved in any suspicious accident too, because the first person the guards will go to it will be me, thinking I was stalking him.

If you think that Mr M. is not actually as lovely as I say, you must know that if you are really in trouble and your call is urgent, he will show up at your doorstep in no time. Unfortunately, if your request doesn’t qualify as critical, then better you sit back, relax and prepare for a long wait. How long? Who knows!
Now you are probably wondering why sticking with him; I mean, there must be someone in between right? Not really. I had tried a couple of other plumbers for minors job, but it didn’t work. First of all, I felt like I was cheating on Mr M.; and second, but most important, he is the only one who devotedly removed his shoes before stepping on my white carpet. To me, that gesture worths the wait! And that, it is precisely what had happened with my kitchen tap: we waited from November 2018 to March 2019 to have it replaced.

One morning, last November, the travelling husband went downstairs first and found the kitchen island covered in water.
The tap had leaked non-stop for the entire night. We immediately called Mr M., and he promptly came. Thankfully he considered the waste of all that water an urgent matter. So now we know another virtue of his: he is sensitive to the environment.
Unfortunately, not sensitive enough to keep considering my tap an urgent job even after he slowed down the spillage and suggested to wrap a towel around the base of the valve to protect the counter.
It was winter, and the tap with the scarf was cute, for a couple of weeks, but then it started to annoys me every time I looked at it.
In fairness, my annoyance was not only with Mr M. The travelling husband contributed too. In the beginning, it seemed, in fact, essential for him to come with me tap shopping. Then after we went to a couple of shops, suddenly I could go on my own, but the tap had to be a pull out one, because much handier. Now you don’t think that to find a tap that is extendable and filters the water is easy.
Weeks of researches and boring trips from shop to shop paid out, and I had it. Except the pullout was not a good idea anymore. Too many clumsy hands in our house: “it won’t last”. Thank God I am a resourceful person and I had my back up plan ready.
Not even a week later the new tap arrived.
I didnt waste time and rang Mr M. on the very same day: “Brilliant”, he said. “I might make it to you tomorrow late afternoon”.
That conditional verb should have rung a bell in my head because it was only seven weeks and multiple phone calls a day later, that Mr M. ‘s van eventually pulled over in front of my house.
Before opening the door, I rushed to put a bottle of champagne in the fridge for the husband and me to open that night.( Let’s face it: the event deserved a proper celebration. ).
While doing so, my eyes fell on the tap’s box , that was still sitting in my utility routine unopened. A shiver of pure panic ran through my spine: what if it was the wrong tap?!?.
Like he had telepathic superpowers, the travelling husband phoned me to check if Mr M. had shown up. The lack of enthusiasm in my voice raised his suspicions, and I had to share my concerns.
“No matter how wrong it is…we will have it fitted in, even if it is the ugliest of the taps. If we lose this chance, only God knows when we will get another one”.
Pragmatical as always, the travelling husband was right, but I didnt feel any better.
“I don’t want a fecking ugly tap. I want the stylish, funky one I carefully picked.”, I mumbled on my way to open the door to the plumber.
Lucky us, it was the right tap, and I love it!

The morning after Mr M. came to replace the kitchen tap, a quite annoying noise coming from the ensuite of our bedroom, woke us up: “ti,tic tic….”
I could not believe my eyes; the bathroom sink’s tap was now leaking.
To be continued……when , Only Mr M. can say!

A Truly Madly Ordinary Food Delivery

They say you only understand what having kids means when you start to enjoy going to the supermarket, because it is your only chance to move around on your own!
I learned on my skin that it is true but, I also soon realized, that it was a big waste of those free few hours. They were too precious to go food shopping; shoes shopping maybe, but grocery shopping? Seriously?!
And so I started to go to the supermarket with the girls. At the beginning it was easy with just daughter number one on the baby seat of the trolley. When daughter number two joined the family, I started to use the carts with the double baby seat, but then daughter number one’s legs began to be too long and I was risking to break her ankles every time I had to sit her in or out the trolley’s seat. She had to go inside the cart, literally. Daughter number two was still fitting in the baby seat.
This arrangement worked pretty well for a while, but then daughter number one body started to grow along with her legs, and the space in the trolley for the grocery began to be very limited. Thankfully, by then, they were both walking, and they could follow me on feet. Unfortunately to toddlers doing the weekly food shopping can be quite boring and they started to complain about it. – Really? You tell me how boring this fecking things is?-, I always thought in front of their whining,that, I cleverly stopped buying them a little toy trolley each.
Happy days, weekly food shopping became fun……for them. For me, it only meant that once I was done, I had to go back around the aisle to put back what they filled their trolleys with.

Food shopping day became the worst day of my week as on top of the supermarket hassle, the carrying the bags in and the unload, I had then to store everything away that always took me ages.
Then, one spring day, my life changed forever, and my food shopping troubles disappeared all at once.

Abigail, my American friend, had just moved from Atlanta to Enniskerry, a little town at the feet of the Wicklow mountains where I drove my girls to school every morning and just minutes away from my house.
One day she rang me asking for help. When I got there I expected some emergency, and it was actually to her, but thankfully nothing serious: she was just fed up with the postman to look at her like she was a total idiot because she could not understand a word of what he was saying.
My first reaction was a big loud laugh, and still giggling I asked her:” you are serious? you, American, native English speaker, are asking Italian, to translate the Irish postman for you?!”
Anyway, back to the point, once the postman was sorted, the Tesco man it happened to arrive while we were having coffee and she asked me to talk to him too. His accent, even if better than mail carriers, was still incomprehensible.
I didn’t know the local supermarket was doing home delivery: I could have saved years of hassles if I had only known before. Since then I started to shop online and having my grocery delivered at home, except for my meat. That still requires a visit to the butcher, but that is easy and rewarding as every butcher in Ireland has been cleverly trained to make their female customers happy calling them a variety of nicknames that can go from:”luve’, to Sweetheart”, or ” Honey”.

Back in the old house, the Tesco man was always the same : a nice little man on his sixties, kind and cheerful that every time there was something freshly baked in the house(those were still the days when I was a much more efficient housewife), never said no to a slice of cake or a bun.
At the time, our old cocker had just died, and we only had little Clara who always ran to him as he was, to her eyes, the man who brought her treats.
When big ears german came along, it was a puppy and not a threat yet, either for the Tesco man or my groceries. After we moved to the new house, I didnt start shopping online from the very beginning, but it didn’t take long before I was back to my old routine of ordering with one click from the comfiness of my couch.
The difference is that here, the Tesco men change nearly every time, and big ears german is a fully grown brown version of my mini pony who welcome the arrival of the Supermarket truck with incredible excitement.
Tesco man equal Food, a simple equation in Kurt’s head.A simple equation that brings jumping and barking at the window while the poor delivery guys look inside the house with terrified eyes. They usually started to unload the track pretending the dogs don’t bother them, but I know it is not true and before letting them in I always graciously lock Kurt and Clara in the garden. The food carrier with the same gracious always say I should not worry because they are fine with dogs. I usually smile thinking that they can be as comfortable as they want, but once they will be caught in between Clara, Kurt and the food it won’t be pleasant!
So, because it is always better safe than sorry, the entire time the Tesco men brings in the shopping, the dogs whine from outside with their noses smashed on the garden door.

All this, of course, after the Tesco truck makes it to us, a thing that is always a bit of an adventure for any new driver. For some reason, the coordinates linked to our address on cars satellites are wrong, and they end up to absurd locations unless they are local and have a vague idea of the area, but then the problem is another: They usually stop at the house down the hill. “AH, NO. For God sake. You people already took my t-shirts and Swiffer dusters. You are not going to take my grocery too!”. Thankfully the food is not as tempting as a parcel coming from Italy, and they are told to come up.
This morning was no exception, and I received the usual phone call from the Tesco man saying he got lost.
The guy was bright enough to tell me what he could see on his right and left-hand side so that I knew where he was, and I could give him precise directions, starting with the fact he had to turn around and come the opposite way.
“Oh Ok mam, I have to reserve, yea.Stay with me on the phone.”
I tried to suggest him to go ahead for a 100 meters and turn at roundabout instead of reversing on a countryside road that can barely fit two cars, but the noise of horns and swirling tyres told me it was too late. Now he only had to go straight and turn to the first lane on his right: easy peasy! Except, he missed it and with breaking voice told me he was lost again.
At that point, my maternal instinct kicked in: “ok. don’t worry, stay where you are, and I walk down the road so you will see me.”
So I did, and there he was eventually in front of my house.
Did he park on the road as the others do? Nope, this one reverse, obviously something he adored to do and popped on my path running over half of the flowers I had bought to plant.
I am stood there baffled and probably with an idiotic expression.
He got out the van, gave me a thumb up and thanked me for rescuing him. He brought the shopping in, wished me a happy Paddy’s weekend and went back into the truck.

I am still standing at the door bewildered and quite honestly so glad to see him go, but he doesn’t go. He starts the engine and rolls down the window: “Now I know my way for next time”, he says with a cheerful face.
I look at the desolation of my front path, raise my hand to wave him goodbye and mumble:”I hope there would be no next time “.

Strange Things Happen

After the disappointment of discovering that I couldn’t open a facebook business page without a private account, I had to go back full speed on the platform.
My memory of FB was families and friends sharing pics of their holidays and their exciting and luxurious life, that could not be more different from reality. That aspect is still there, but so much had changed, and with my greatest shock I discovered that the trend of the current days is using the platform as a dating site.
In the beginning, I thought it was me being a bit paranoid, but then it turned out I am not the only one.

Shamefully but truthfully, I found my return to FB incredibly complicated and so I had to ask a friend to help me out.She gave me plenty of tips and hints but also confirmed my impression that there are an awful amount of men using FB as a fishing pond.
In the beginning, I couldn’t understand why with all the young chicks around the web, they wanted to befriend a middle age woman. My friend, wisely explained to me that apparently is “the older, the better”! And not because “the old chicken makes the best soup”, as they say in Italy, but merely because there are a lot of not any more young women, desperate for company, and very easy to get trapped in the net.
I find it sad, upsetting and infuriating, not to mention time wasting, as now I have all this list of dodgy men friends requests to remove nearly every day.
Let’s hope they will gradually lose interest and stop.

Another thing that I forgot about Facebook was the time you end up to spend on it. Without even realising it, it will suck you in. Time and space have no limits on FB, and so the other morning I found myself be twenty minutes late to collect the girls from school. How did it happen? I innocently lost track of time browsing around and deleting fake profile friends requests. As simple as that.
Lesson learned, now I check my account only when I am home and with no imminent engagements, that it is basically evening time. It sounds smart and harmless but, unfortunately, it is not either.The other night, the husband was as usually travelling, the girls were in bed, and I started to catch up with blog posts. Then, right before going to bed, I had the unhealthy idea to have a look at Fb. “Just five minutes”, I said to myself. Twenty minutes later I was still there selecting friends requests until the dogs, that in the meanwhile I had let out for their evening weewee, started to howl at the kitchen door in the desperate attempt to make aware of the fact that they were done and wanted to come back in.That was it for the night — enough of that stuff.

Off we go,(me and the dogs ),to bed.
I picked up my book and read a few pages before collapsing: glasses still on, book in hands and a pile of three pillows behind my head that will remind me their presence for the rest of following day thanks to a sore neck.
Around probably midnight, the phone rang and I answered to find on the other line a deep scary male voice calling my name. I jumped up on a sitting position with drops of sweat on my forehead and a terrible feeling of fear and unsafety running throw my entire body. I turned on the light, and then it was when I realised it was all a dream, well more of a nightmare. Definitely, all that facebook thing before going to bed it was not a good idea, and so after cursing the network I scattered the pile of pillows on the floor and went back to sleep. My rest didn’t last long as Kurt started to growl and get agitated. -He must have heard some noise outside, not unusual, most likely my neighbor,or considering the rain and the wind that had never stopped since the early hours of the afternoon, he must have heard the back gate banging-, I thought trying to calm him down. He is not giving up, and in between a bark and a growl, I hear what it sounded like a knock on the door.
I stayed still for a few seconds, trying to hear correctly. The night was noisily windy and rainy: may be I only thought it was a knock on the door. The second knock was loud and clear.It was not the rain or the wind and I was not dreaming either. Kurt and Clara were already downstairs barking like they wanted to eat alive whoever was out there. Well, to be precise, big ears german was already downstairs. Clara was barking big time, but still upstairs trying to figure out the way to get down. The unfortunate little pet: in the dark her vision gets even worst. Eventually, after she had tried every possible direction and banged multiple times on the different walls and doors, she followed me. I, in fact, had got up and threw myself down the stairs.

When I get down, Kurt is at the living room’s window barking. I go pipping from the sitting room and see a little van half parked on my path. I am not sure what to do now! Another knock on the door and Kurt is right below the alarm sensor in the hall barking and growling and howling and making the alarm go off.
I ran to the entrance to stop it but I have to switch the light and so now whoever is outside my house knows I am in and I know they are there. I can’t pretend I am not home or I haven’t heard them.
It is passed midnight of a dark and stormy night and there is a stranger knocking at my door.I certainly don’t want to open, but by now it is quite clear that if I don’t do something, he will keep knocking and the dogs will keep barking, and the girls will eventually wake up. How they stayed asleep in that mayhem, don’t ask me, it is still a mystery! Only thing I can say, is that I swear the only thing I put in their bedtime hot milk is honey! What kind of nectar those bees pollinate, better not to enquire!
I go back to the sitting room and open the window, and the stranger comes toward me holding a package: “here it is your pizza mam”.
It was a fecking delivery guy who got the wrong address. The poor guy! As much as I was upset, I bet he was more upset than me. I suppose me cursing Facebook for giving me nightmares was nothing compare to him cursing whoever gave him wrong direction in the most wet and windy of the nights.

Happy House

Happy wife, happy house, or at least that is what they say! And what does a woman happy, besides receiving presents with clear sparkling stones of many shapes and sizes embedded in them? The answer is simple: Renovating and redecorating her house. I know it is a terrible fifties cliche’, but I had to find an opening for my post.

Last weekend I was a very happy wife in a very happy house but not because we installed new upstairs windows and a new front door. It was more of psychedelic collateral effect happiness.

The job was supposed to be done on Thursday but because the alarm guy couldn’t come to disconnect the wires before Friday, we had to postpone everything to Saturday.That, in total honesty, it didnt make me happy at all. The last thing I wanted to do was getting up and be ready by 8 am on a Saturday, but, it was not really up to me.To optimise the time, I asked the girls to sleep in the guest bedroom on Friday night so that I could cover all the furniture in their rooms the night before, and on the Saturday morning, I only had to prepare my bedroom and bathroom.

Friday evening, the travelling husband who was not travelling but working in the Dublin office, rang me saying he had missed the bus and had to wait for the next one at 6.45. “Right, what a coincidence and what a pity he had missed the bus on a Friday night and had to go to the pub to wait for the next one just when he could be home enjoying covering furniture with dustsheets in your wife company”, I think.
Was I annoyed? Mmmmm, maybe a little, but after we covered our bedroom furniture together the following morning, I realised that him missing the bus, had been a blessing……for me! While we were working as a team, in fact, I had a definite feeling that we were one too many in that room.Of course, none of us said anything but our poorly concealed frowns said it all. If I was pulling one side, he was pulling the other and for one side of wardrobe covered the other would be exposed. If I was to cut the sellotape, the pieces were too small, but if he was doing it they were too long, and half of them end up rolled around my fingers instead of that on the sheets to keep them still and steady.

Back to Friday night, I started with daughter number one’s bedroom and progressed to daughter number two ‘s. Asking the girls to get from their rooms anything they might have needed because they would not have been able to reaccess their bedroom until the following evening, made my job pretty easier as they took me on parole and moved half of the content of their bedroom in the guest bedroom. The essentials, according to them, that as I discovered after I already sealed their wardrobes, obviously not included a pair of clean knickers and socks for the following day. .
When I was nearly done covering everything my vision got a bit blurry, I blamed my glasses on being dirty, but that didnt explain the fact that I was feeling a bit dizzy too. Maybe it is all that up and down the ladder, I said to myself but as more as I was working away with the dust sheets and as more the feeling of dumbness was stronger.
I was not feeling unwell. I was feeling…..strange.Everything around me had a funny light. It was like to be in a Jimmy Hendrix video clip. When I had finally finished my balance was affected too, or at least I thought, and I could swear my eyes’ balls were wide and wild.
I didn’t know what to think, but because it was so absurd, I just decided to ignore the whole thing, thinking it was probably me imagining things. Except, daughter number one came to me saying, “wow, these sheets are cool, if you look at them for a while, they make you feel and see funny”.
So it was not me imagining things, those were not simple disposable colored dust sheets, they were psychedelic free mental trip dust sheets, and I was looking at them for a while now. No wonder I felt like Mowgly after Kaa tries to hypnotise him.
Glad I was not imagining things, I quickly closed those bedrooms doors behind me and still feeling dumb I went to take a shower hoping that feeling of just had an LSD trip would vanish.
It didnt, but in the meanwhile, the travelling husband came home. He cautiously stepped in not sure how my mood was: was I upset because I had to do all the work on my own? You bet I was, but that was before I experimented with the disposable dust sheets. Relieved I was in a good mood, he offered me a glass of wine, that leads to a second one …..Guess how happy I went to bed that night, wobbling but serene.

If you are wondering if I had another dust sheet trip the following morning packing up my bedroom, well, with extreme disappointment I have to say I did not.
I think those things work only with the dark. While the dark activates their flower power color source, for some reason the light impairs it. So here it is my recommendation: if you ever want to feel a bit ……”.seventies”, cover up your furniture with disposable coloured dust sheet but make sure it is dark outside.

Was it the lack of psychedelic trips or was it all the cleaning after the workers left, on Saturday the wife was not happy, and neither was the house.
In fairness to the two guys who installed windows and doors, have been brilliant, quick, precise and nit. The only problem was that they were identical twins and I spent the entire time they were there repeating over an over the same things because I was always speaking to the wrong brother.I kept saying to myself to memorise what they were wearing to help me remember who I said what, but I kept forgetting.
When they eventually left, and I had finished the cleaning, we were tired but indeed delighted of having noise and drafts proof windows in our bedrooms and a flashy red new front door with no doorbell to drive the dogs mad and no sleeved letterbox bringing every possible lousy weather in, along with our post.
That delight didnt last long because soon we realised that we had not thought about our posts. Where were we going to receive the correspondence? We needed a wall mounted letterbox, and we need it now or else on Monday the postman would have not to know where to leave our post.

Thankfully, the most popular day for DIY is either Saturday or Sunday, and the shops are opened all weekend. As on Saturday, it was too late, Sunday we went. We bought a new wall mounted letterbox, and the travelling husband fitted it, as neither he nor I would trust myself with a drill.
Unfortunately Sunday there was also Ireland vs Italy for the six-nation rugby tournament, and it is superfluous to say that the husband was not impressed to be out shopping and drilling instead of being in front of the tv. Graciously he understood that we had no choice: we could not afford to have other posts missing or lost!We needed that letter box before Monday!

Guess how many letters we received Monday?None ! And Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday.No post has been yet delivered after we got the new letterbox.
Does the travelling husband know? Of course, he doesn’t! It s been all week I put old correspondence inside the letterbox. Last thing we want is for him to have the impression he had missed the rugby match and waisted his Sunday …..all for nothing,right?!

Grab It Today , It Can Be Gone Tomorrow

The good thing about shopping in TK Max (TJ Max I suppose it is for the Americans), is that not only you can get unbeatable deals, but you also get inspired with wonderful slogan. Anyway, despite the title of the post, I am not going to bring you shopping. I am, instead, simply and shamelessly advising you all, that Fields Of Lies will be available for free on kindle this weekend end.

Thank you for your support and patience you wonderful WP people💗and I promise Ortensia will be back with a proper no book related post very very very soon.😀

Fame Or Not Fame…..This Is The Dilemma!

Every time I used to see an article starting with: “you wrote a book, now what?”, I found it weird, but now that I wrote the book and it is out there, the sentence makes perfect sense.

When they say the hard bit is not to write your book, but what it comes next, they are right!
Publish it, market it, sell it: all this is far more overwhelming than I ever imagined. Out there it is a wild literary jungle where at every corner there is some guy or some company selling you the right help at the right price.
My head is overcrowded of informations.I am under the impression to waste all my time just surfing the web in the hope to find the one magic tool to promote my work and checking my Amazon’s account for those reviews that cannot possibly be there yet unless I am so lucky to be surrounded by friends who are the fastest reader in the world.

Whether they re coming from real life or the web, the closes of the friends are undoubtedly your first costumers. The one who had to listen at your rant during your writing time and that now are buying the book to eventually shut you up. They, of course, are not alone and you have another group of first in line: your fellow bloggers, whose majority is in your same boat and that sympathetically feel your pain and wants to support you as much as you helped them, or you will potentially do. Never underestimate the good writer karma.

So, one thing I understood, it is that compassion and solidarity make you sell your first copies.!
Unfortunately, solidarity has a limit, and you need more customers and even more if you have my significant disadvantage. I, in fact, cannot rely on my relatives’ network to boost selling. I come from a big family but because ” big” doesn’t necessarily mean “close”, over the years my biological potential audience self censured and reduced itself. I could anyway still be more than happy with my small but trustworthy and lovable circle if they only would be English speakers, but because they are not, they are business wise totally useless.

Find your niche, advertise, market, be visible!!!!! The mantra every fecking book I read and websites I surfed repeat. It comes naturally to think that if they all agree on this, it must be the right way to build up your business right? Right! But, do I really want to be that visible?
I am more than fine with mine “on line fame”, and I love blogging, twitting and Instagramming(this I don’t even know if it is a word, but you know what I mean), but the “real life” visibility is entirely different. Not only the ones who share my same interests will know what I am up to, but also everybody at the school gate.
Dilemma, Dilemma: do I want this type of attention locally?
I certainly do not but, I suppose there is no half way to do this, plus if I am the first to doubt myself how can I expect others to believe in my talent?!

My dilemma had its answer, and after consulting with my “personal editor” and friend SJ, I decided to gather all my courage and go back to Facebook with the intent to send all my old contact my new author page. I swear the intent was there and I was gonna do it , if only FB didn’t turn out to be so absurdly complicated.

Never mind, the first step to my nationwide notoriety has been done . Now I only need the papers cover, and the only way is to go to the local newspaper to advocate the cause of my book. Easier to say than to do because the newspaper office, that is also the village tourist office, seems to be never open and, of course, there is no sign with their opening hours.Probably due to the high volume of tourist and happenings we locally have they want to keep their options open and be sure they have time to rest from time to time.

Few days and attempts later, when it became more a matter of principle to get into that place than else, I finally spotted a bench with some article for sale outside meaning someone had to be there.More precisely , someone had been there.On the door there was in fact a note saying they were back at 2.30pm.
“Yess!”, I was going to wait and I was going to do this. Never mind it was that one day I threw myself out of the house as I was, and by that, I mean still wearing part of my PJ under my coat. Thank God, just in case something happened I had the right spirit to wear a cute pair of shoes and some red lipstick. As my mother would say, enough to deviate the paramedics’ attention in case I was involved in some road accident!.

I went round and round and when at 2.45pm nobody had yet arrived, I parked on the opposite side of the road and I waited in the car. Thankfully the neighbours could not give a dam about those people because otherwise, someone would have already reported the crazy woman in the long black coat stalking the local news.

3.15pm and the door opened, but now too much time had passed since a bravely decided to come here, and I am nervous and forgot the speech I had carefully prepared. Once I am in I can only say, “good day, I am….and I wrote a book”.
The lady from the news looked at me with puzzled expression first, and slightly worried after a few seconds when she realised I was panicking and I could easily hide a knife under my coat and stub her on the spot without nobody sees anything.
None of us speaks for a few seconds. I am trying to find something witty to say that wouldn’t give away the fact that I’m a first-time author desperate to advertise her work.The lady from the news is now not puzzled, not worried but simply annoyed for this waste of time and openly wondering what I want.
“The book is a murder mystery set in the village with fictional names, and I thought it would have been nice to have it mentioned on the local news considering it talks about the town.”.Here, I said it and I now definitely had her on board.
Let’s just hope she won’t expect something as juicy as Peyton Place!

We talked, she had been very nice and interested and asked me to send the book cover, the synopsis and a little bio by email. Then, when I thought we were done and I could eventually relax and stop giggling like an idiot, (that is something I always do when I am nervous on top of talking like a chatterbox ), out of the blue she jumped on her feet branding her professional camera and started to shoot.
“Just a few pics to put with the article,” she said.
“Damn, just today that I left home like crap”, I think.

I am still hysterically giggling and at the same time making sure my coat is fully buttoned up as my giggling open mouth, on probably all the pics she had taken,will be enough embarrassing without all the village spotting my PJs underneath.
Once home, I managed to regain some clarity and dignity. I mailed the info I have been requested and swore I usually am not as idiotic as I looked today and I hope the news lady had believed me, but even more, I hope she will ultimately use the pics I sent her, instead of the ones she took.


Thank you to support my writing beautiful people

A Truly Madly Ordinary Announcement

Starting from the last post that was quite a long ago, that so desired lazy Sunday never arrived but, thanks to the travelling husband falling suddenly the victim of man flu I have been quick to take his place at the pub to the rugby. Am I mad fun? No, but it is one of the few sports I like to watch on tv, plus it was my excuse to leave the house. It was not that hot bath with candles, kindle and wine I had planned but that, it would not have happened anyway because someone decided to have it before me and all the hot water was gone.
Big ears german managed to snatch two of his three stitches but survived, and he is now back to his bold self. Once he was done with the vet, daughter number two had to be brought back and forth to the dentist because she broke her braces and in the meanwhile, the foster dog was neutered. I would feel very sorry looking at these creatures so harmless and weak after that big dose of anaesthetic but, this time, it came just at as a blessing and allowed me to have nearly 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep like I was the one under anaesthetic. My lovely Charlotte, in fact, turned out to be a night owl and every night between midnight and one o’clock in the morning, she gets lively. I had not a full night sleep in three weeks now.
Things are gradually going better now, and we established a sort of routine. When she wakes up, I bring her downstairs (or else she will try to wake up everybody else in the house, no matter if with four or two legs), we play a little bit, and then I locke her in the kitchen for the rest of the night.
It might sound cruel, but she is fine and not having anybody around to hassle she sleeps too. For once she also has all the couch for herself and can eventually stretch her long legs without worrying to kick Kurt on the other end of the sofa.
So yes, it has been a couple of busy weeks, but in all this, I am glad to inform you, and here it comes my announcement, that I managed to get my first book out there.
Now please show your loyalty and start buying it and reviewing it and……of course, you are allowed to lie about it!!!!!!!

Picture challenge

I loved this tale😍

Writing Romance


Elephant grey and cotton wool clouds of coal smoke, puffed from the steam train. Behind were silhouettes of faded mountains and the memories of the man she’d left behind.
Lines of tall bottle green trees swept past her eyes and the smell of fresh pine sap filled her nostrils.
Marina stared and blinked through the dusty glass, as she sat on the thread bare leather seat.
She craned her neck to see as far back as she could, hoping her lover might be running after her, in a desperate attempt to stop her from leaving. But that looked impossible, the tracks were long and lonely and the large metal wheels turned faster gaining momentum with shunting sounds, which deafened her ears. Her fingers trailed down the window making lines of dusty regrets.
Tears soaked her porcelain skin, as a breeze blew the smell of coal and black dust, to cover…

View original post 112 more words

A Truly Madly Ordinary Sunday

It started as an ordinary Sunday, and believe me, I am well aware of how that “ordinary” might sound but this is what it was, or better, this is what I wanted it to be.
The travelling husband , daughter number one and big ears german left early to go hunting. I got up with them, but not because I am a perfect irreprehensible mother and wife, only because I tried to stay in bed before, and it didnt work. Let’s say they are not the most silent of the persons and neither the most independent.No matter if they spend hours the night before to get their equipment ready, in the morning there is always something missing andf they go around the house with the grace of two elephants in a china shop looking for it, and normally unsuccessfully until mama gets up and finds it for them. Ever tried to see in the right place where things should be?

Anyway, back to this morning, I got up, got down, made breakfast, make sure the husband and his daughter had everything, and they do, or so they said. I waved them goodbye and good luck, and with extreme relief and satisfaction, I close the door behind me, or them…as you prefer.
Even if it is a bit of torture waking up early even on a Sunday, I like my early morning “me time”.
I put on another coffee, switch on the TV for the news and grab my I pad to catch up on some post and maybe write my post too. Daughter number two is not an early rise, and I am hoping to have a couple of hours to spend exclusively in my own company.
Shortly after I got comfy on my favourite chair, a frantic knock on the door made me jump, and poor old Clara bark like the lunatic she is,(thank God the foster dog is not a barker…yet!).

I peeped from the window, and there they were….back: they forgot some maps! I passed them over to them and hopefully send them away for good, this time.
I went back to my chair, where I didn’t last long undisturbed….the knocking and the barking woke daughter number two up who, crankily got down asking what the hell was that mayhem!
Good news is that in the meanwhile it started to rain. On an average day, it would probably annoy me, but on a Sunday morning like today, it would only be a blessing as it might be an excuse to skip hockey.
A very naughty thought, I know, and in fact, I am immediately punished! Just when I got accustomed to the idea to indulge in my PJs for another while a blinding sun appeared and suddenly we had to rush to get to the pitch on time for the match.

After lunch, my yellow chair is still there begging for me to go and keep it warm, but because CG has inherited my overdeveloped memory, she reminds me that there is the monthly fiddle Sunday session. Not that I had forgotten about, I just hoped she would!
I am now in the pub, sitting by the window, sipping a refreshing pint of beer while spoiling my soul at the sound of lovely Irish ballads.
A beautiful picture isn’t it? But it couldn’t be farther from the truth. The only thing that resembles the reality is that I am sitting by the window. Except, instead of looking at the red sunset on the harbour, I need to give my unconditioned attention to daughter number two and her mates, who are playing some not recognisable Irish classic; and I am not even drinking a pint of beer because I am driving! I am instead drinking a disgusting over sweetened and watered blueberry juice.
I know what you are thinking, why not drink a coke or something else? Just because they didn’t have the same strong smell that, once it goes up your nostrils will save you from all the other scents that come with a room full of teens and pre-teens.

One hour and a half later, (and five euros after, because it is not that this honour comes for free), we are done and back home.
My chair is destined to be still neglected because even the “hunters” are back home, unusually early. My chance of lazy time for lazy me has gone: vanished, until after I played a quick round of harry potter Cluedo and sorted dinner I go locking myself in my bedroom. I am not asking for much, just to lay down for half an hour. I don’t even attempt to read a book; I will be more than happy to look at the ceiling in silence. And I was seriously risking to succeed on this impervious venture when a scream reached me. It was not a scream of pain, and because the other adult of the house was allegedly downstairs, I ignored it! Only THEY did not ignore me, and a few minutes later there was a knock at the door. I was still determined to ignore whatever was happening outside my bedroom.

“Mom, have you seen Kurt has a big hole in his chest?”. A shy voice spoke through the keyhole, probably knowing I was certainly not going to ignore that.
I threw myself out of bed and down the stairs. Poor big ears german was laying belly up while the travelling husband was inspecting his chest and cleaning the open wound. He must have jumped over some razor wire without either his father or his sister to notice.
The injury was deep and required four stitches, but thanks to his protective Popeye t-shirt, he was the most fashionable dog on the beach.
Me, I am still hoping to go lazy next Sunday.