What a day!

Woke up to fog this morning, but it didn't take long for the sun to burn its way through. Sunday is my "writer's day of rest". I usually listen to Radio 2 while pottering about the house, especially doing the ironing. When I iron I do it in the dining room, which also doubles up as my personal gym (I have an exercise bike, an abs-cruncher, leg elastics and a trampoline - and I must get cracking on them again soon or my weight will be surpassing itself!) It is also the favourite play place for my two Yorkies, being the only room carpetted (are there two t's in that?) and they can chase balls without skidding on floor tiles and breaking something.

We had a sad happening this morning however. I went to say bonjour to my two pooches, who sleep in his and hers teepees in the place we euphomistically call "the back porch", but it could more aptly be called "the muck room" cos it's always mucky due to leaves and half the garden either being blown in or brought in by Candy, Toby and husband Brian. A few weeks ago we noticed that a pair of Black Redstarts had decided to build their nest high on a beam in there. Brian took a pane of glass out so they could come and go when the doors were shut. Yesterday the female was sitting high and proud over young. This morning there was no nest, no baby birds. Just an empty space and one of the parents sitting in the open window looking bemused. The poor thing kept looking at me as if I could tell it what had happened - I almost felt guilty. It had to be a marten, a rat or a large bird. I was so looking forward to having the chicks tweeting and seeing them leave the nest. Ah well, as they say in these parts, c'est la vie!

In the afternoon we went up to a local "book swap" and mingled with dozens of other English people. As usual, I wasn't going to bring any more books back to my overflowing unread shelves, but I ended up with a bagful and the dear old husband came back with three huge shopping carriers full - where he's going to put them all heaven only knows. But I did pick up one or two good research books that are bound to help with the writing. I much prefer a nice hard-backed book in my hands rather than the computer screen, though I have to admit I do most of my research by Internet now. It was a nice, social occasion and we met just about everybody we knew from the English community, and some new people, which is always good. However, the heat and the sun in which I'm not supposed to be without the old F50+ drove me back home reasonably quickly with a car boot full of reading matter. I wish I had more time to read. It's usually no more than a handful of pages, if I'm lucky, before my head lolls on my chest.

Later, after Brian arrived with his final bag of books, he said he had brought me a surprise from the "do" and looked so pleased with himself I cringed inside - he doesn't go in for presents normally and when he does they aren't always something to jump up and down for joy for. He presented me with a pristine copy of Frederick Forsythe's "Day of the Jackal". You might well raise your eyebrows, but there is a story behind this book. Nearly thirty years ago I bought the book and before I got to read it Brian pinched it to take away with him to the Islands of St Kilda in the Outer Hebrides. I made him promise to bring it back. No, he didn't, as you have already guessed - hey, stop getting ahead of me! He had read it, torn it into sections and passed the sections to some fellow in his party to read while Brian read the rest. Then it got chucked in the bin. I was not a happy bunny when I learned its fate and I've never let him forget it. So now you know the significance of him giving me the book so many years later. I'll probably never read it, but boy will I keep it safe!

The only other incident of note was that young Toby brought in a foul-smelling hen's egg that he'd found in the garden (and before you ask, no we do not have hens or any other livestock - must have been stolen from our neighbours). Looking guilty, he ran past me into the sitting room with the thing in his mouth and proceeded to eat it - aaghh! I managed to get most of it from him - sheesh it stank to high heaven. Okay, you've guessed, a little while later my little man (aged ten months) sicked up all his breakfast on his window seat in my office. Double sheesh!

Well, I am now giving thought to my next book, the present one (set on the Islands of St Kilda would you believe!) is finished and the final edit is half complete. My mind is swinging between two stories, both of which I've started, but not continued, neither of which has worked out quite the way I would like. Do I go for the psychological drama or the blood and guts scary murder most foul thriller? The latter is calling me pretty strongly, so I think I'll have another look at it - got the idea for the storyline from watching the Jeremy Kyle show. It's amazing where inspiration comes from sometimes. Mostly the ideas just kind of drop into my head as if they are posted by some invisible hand.

Change of mind. It's getting late, so I think I'll go to bed and try to read more than a couple of pages of Harlan Coban's "Play Dead" before the sandman snatches me away. Goodnight dear friends.