For the last week, we’ve enjoyed being together, at home, getting some routine back into our lives. The routine bit might sound mundane, but that’s the sort of people we are when we’re not living on the edge dicing with death and/or staring down danger.
You haven’t heard much from me in the last while because my daily quotient of creative energy has been directed elsewhere, in order of priority: my third novel, and thinking up insulting yet affectionate pet names for my dog.
You haven’t missed much. The highlight of my week was joining Marlborough District Libraries and checking out fifteen books. I was so over-excited I had to lie down on the sofa for a while. About four hours.
Bit of bad news: recently, the only radio station we can tune is The Breeze. Listening to this oestrogen-centric confection of Dionne Warwick; Shania Twain; The Creepy One what’s her name again? Celine Dion; Eric Carmen in his shiny leopard-print big-shoulder phase; and The Back Street Boys; it’s like being bludgeoned to death with a lavender scented pillow.
If I die under mysterious circumstances, the only clue being the blood coming out my ears – and, of course, the whiff of lavender – you’ll know The Rock or Radio Hauraki is still fuzzy tomorrow morning.