In Hel's Kitchen

This afternoon I was having a little lay down on the sofa (it is Sunday, and I'd had a busy morning - I did at least a whole hour of work before abandoning it to bake a lemon drizzle cake), when I was woken by Gordon Ramsay saying 'Come on, Helen' in an exasperated tone. It freaked me right out. Ironically, I had to rewind the advert selling the box that lets you rewind live TV to check that I wasn't imagining it. I wasn't, by the way; he really does say it. Thank God, though - otherwise I would have had to explain to a therapist that not only had my subconscious adopted the voice of Gordon Ramsay, but, far worse than that, it was urging me to get off my arse.

The Sonnets - Warwick Collins

I worked on this book back in the last week of July. It was my first assignment for The Friday Project and I was full of trepidation. I already knew that Heather - the publishing editor - was lovely, but I was going to be working directly with the author*, was unfamiliar with the House style guide, and if I didn't like this book, there was a chance I wasn't much going to like what came my way in the future, either. Lucky, then, really, that they started me off with a bit of a corker.

The Sonnets is set in the 1590s, and follows a young William Shakespeare as he is forced back on the patronage of the enigmatic Earl of Southampton, after the London theatres are shut to halt the spread of the plague. I'm not sure what I can write now without giving the rest away, but suffice it to say it's got everything good historical novels should have; history (naturally), sex, poetry, horses and intrigue, as well as an intelligent and poignant narrative. Just in case I haven't said the word 'novel' enough, I should point out that the story behind The Sonnets, although aided by known facts, is entirely imagined by the author. However it is undoubtedly lent an authenticity by the 32 original sonnets that are weaved in to the text.

I am reminded of the book by it's recent publication, and the arrival of my own copy. It is my understanding that there has been some talk among bloggers about the image on the front, but I think the cover is as handsome as I'm certain the woman pictured is from the neck up.

The Sonnets is available now in limited edition (1,000 signed and numbered copies) hardback.

* (My worries about working directly with an author proved to be unfounded. Warwick was meticulous, and so quick to reply to my queries that the proofs were complete in little more than a week. He also agreed with nearly all of my suggested changes - which, on its own, just about guarantees an author a place in my good books.)

Just call me Julie...

Before I upload my next post, let me just say this:

It has barely been four days since I accused that one off Dinnerladies of being a self-promoting sell out, and yet here I am, about to do the exact same thing. Of course I can see the irony - I'm just not going to let it stop me.

In other - obviously completely unrelated(!) - news, I am now an 'associate' for Amazon. This does not mean that I have sold out, or that I endorse Amazon (except I have and I do) - I'm just in it for the little widget that lets me post my reading list ----->

Oh, and the free goods.

Word of the Day

'Synonymitis' - as seen here.

Is there anything Julie Walters won't advertise?

In the space of one commercial break her face or voice (and sometimes her face and voice) appeared in no less than four different adverts; including one for WHSmith where she not only promotes her own book, but also manages to crowbar in a mention of her role in Mamma Mia.

I don't care if a well-known face wants to advertise fifty companies - anyone, no matter how much integrity they have, would find it hard to turn down that kind of money - which means it's only when Julie Walters does it that I find it annoying. I'm not her biggest fan but, putting that aside for a moment, I think it's because she has skewed the effect of her voiceovers by being so overly aggressive in those government messages about testing your smoke alarm.

Last night, when an advert opened on a Christmassy (roaring fire, decorated tree) living room scene and she started to speak, I fully expected to be told that my family were all going to die if I forget to turn the fairy lights off.

Not, that Tesco are selling mince pies for half price!

Save me, Mr Sandman.

I can't sleep - staying awake all night on Tuesday has caught up with me - and I'm watching the late night repeat of Loose Women. Don't judge me; it's this or Bid-up TV.

Naturally, known as the show is for its dedication to current affairs, the panelists have been discussing the election. Well, saying how attractive Barack Obama is anyway. I'm not sure how they did it (more proof, if it be needed, of their considerable skills as broadcasters) but they segued seamlessly between talking about one of the most important moments in world politics, to how their partners leave the toilet seat up.

Larry Lamb is on now, regaling them with an anecdote about brussel sprouts.
Unless I'm hallucinating.

Election Night

Watching Obama's speech this lunchtime, it doesn't have quite the power that it had at about 6am this morning. Maybe I'm not as overwrought and overtired as I was then. I admit that, at the time, I did shed a tear - about 125,000 Americans in Grant Park did too, though, so it's ok.

For the first five minutes it looked, rather worryingly, like McCain could still pull it off, and then for the next five hours it didn't. His concession speech was impressive. Well written, it was so dignified and graceful that for a split second I did think, 'Holy crap, maybe they've made a mistake; he might have been able to handle being President after all'. And then I remembered who would have been put in charge of the Free World should he not have coped - someone who thinks that because 'you can actually see Russia from land here in Alaska' [She was in New York at the time] they have the edge on International relations.

I wanted Obama to win. And not just because the prospect of the Republicans getting in was so terrifying. Throughout the entire Democrat campaign his responses have been thoughtful and measured, and he hasn't resorted to employing actors to trash-talk his opponent.

The highlights:

>CNN's hologram reporter
>Oprah getting excited and jabbing her friends when she recognised herself on the big screen
>ITV's shambolic coverage
>The episode of Big Bang Theory I watched online while I was waiting for it to get interesting the polls to close.
>The revelation that Malia and Sasha Obama will be taking a new puppy with them to the White House.

I'm extraordinarily tired now, but having seen the caucuses and debates, there was no way I was going to miss the big finish. However trite it might sound to say, it really did feel like we were watching history being made.

Bitch, you look fierce!

People who like dogs can be neatly divided into two categories: those who would and those who wouldn't put clothes on their pet. I've always been firmly in the latter camp, but then last week we got back from a walk and our dog was shaking so pitifully that I knew something had to be done. However, I'm going to continue to tell myself that I am not one of them, despite massive evidence to the contrary (below). It turns out there is an alarming range of doggy apparel and it took me some deliberation. She's not exactly a little frou frou lap dog - she picks fights with scraggy Alsatians twice her size - and so I had to find something practical but a little bit stylish - after all I didn't want her to look silly in front of that cocker spaniel she fancies from up the road (who usually sports a rather fetching stripy coat himself).

In the end I settled on this:

She might try looking a bit more grateful, though, as it could have been a lot worse -

'A woman must have money and a room of one's own if she is to write fiction.'

I'm talking myself into renting an office. The problem is I can't really afford one and as I have a perfectly adequate kitchen table to write at, I don't really need one. I'm never more aware of how much I want one, though, than I am on a Saturday morning; when the Guardian publish their 'Writers' rooms' section. Just look at this week's!

With the £600 Herman Miller chair, the Bang & Olufsen stereo, and all that white, it's my idea of workspace heaven. It belongs to Francesca Simon, author of the Horrid Henry books. I've just googled her and there are sixteen (!) in the series. But I imagine it would be easy to be so prolific if it meant you got to spend all day in an office that looked like that.

The fact is that, wherever that place might be, I do need somewhere to work and write that is quiet, uncluttered, and uninhabited by other people who might ask me to unload the dishwasher at a moment's notice. There is some office space down in the village. They aren't the most beautiful units in the world, and I've had to put my name on the waiting list but I reckon I can justify the cost of renting one if by doing so I manage to get a lot more work done.