The Diss-location of Maths

Hooray! GCSE's are over. I can't believe my son is the same age I was (16, 17 in October) as I was when I did Matric at The Art, Ballet, Drama and Music School in Johannesburg. It's been a full on eight weeks with exams, baby and 2 under four and the writing of the book...but here's an imaginary glass of Prosecco to the summer...on the Italian Riviera...sun lounger...waiter in attendance...more bubbly...less troubly...whizzy car to whisk me round the hills to the villa...fridge very filla with fooda...housekeepa...nanny for the nippa...

Today was maths for big son. I dropped that one like a hot potato at the time, but now I regret that I did not 'pull my finger out' as people often suggested, and make an effort with it. I did maths until Standard Five - my final year of junior (primary) school, where we followed a traditional (dictation, composition et al.); no siree or 'mam,' as we had to say ('Bat'mam in some cases) I kept my finger located in the general direction of the arts, and dissed maths in favour of the easy stuff: English, History, Art and plenty of drama, but that is another story. I had the same attitude to the sciences - I did not dislocate my finger for them either - they were not even put on the long finger - they were consigned to history, or for history.

Phwoar! Look at the geometry of that

Amusingly enough I married a man with a PhD in Engineering which takes in maths and the sciences; he is creative too - musical and a great photographer - good at coming up with eccentric, yet stylish outfits for daughter to wear when he dresses her...point being that I really wish I had pulled my finger out, because (partly through him explaining sciencey stuff in an interesting way) I now find science fascinating and feel I have missed out; I am something of a one-legged skier in the academic arena. However Trevor, I shall soon be getting another opportunity when I start homeschooling our daughter. Do you hear the sound of shots firing? That's me toes expiring as I shoot myself in the foot. (Hopefully not).

Hopefully not writing dead-lines

Hello strangers. I have been absent due to manically trying to finish Big Men's Boots, my next book. Much frantic writing has been taking place at the little table in my kitchen. My plan is to publish by e book the first of the three books that make up the trilogy that is Big Men's Boots; the first this month, followed by another two e books, and then a paperback of all three; my aim is to have them all out by the autumn, like coloured leaves! - page leaves - not that my page leaves will be coloured; but they will be there: in black and white - this is what I tell myself and indeed, there are deadlines - as in end points, though I do worry about 'dead lines' too, as in lines that don't work in the narrative - I am in the final drafting phase of e book no.1, so veer between thinking the task is hopeless and the lines may indeed be dead and being optimistic at the same time: all very quixotic and spasmodic given I write whenever I get a chance; it's all very grabby and my husband is taking up a lot of slack, but then he is my constant hero.

In a moment of craziness (one of the moments that wasn't spent writing) I hacked off some of my hair - I know very Van Goughian - especially since I was left with two ear-shaped flunks (yes they failed) of hair on either side of my face; and now I look like a Picasso. I had to commandeer my son to help me straighten out the back. In his words, "you have cut a bob in the front and you have a mullet jamming at the back." Yes he tells it like it is and is a smart****to boot. After the hair jutting (not cutting) fiasco, firstborn accompanied me to Sainsbury's so that he could blow the  year's budget on snacks. I discussed the time period of the novel and how I do my research: "You mean you read Grazia 1905, in the bath Mum," he said.

This is how I roll