“Hope” is a great word. It inspires lots of positive thinking and happy thoughts. Luckily, I am one of those people who has an optimistic outlook so I don’t get depresssed too often – well not for much longer than it takes to eat a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut or watch the England cricket team doing their warm-up stretches. Now, on the whole, I think it is a good thing to be an optimist. However, some folks might say that being an eternal optimist means I’m really a fantastist and I’d be better off being a little more realistic. I’m not so sure.  I rather like my sunny disposition. Anyway, I thought I’d make a list of things I regularly hope for and you can judge for yourselves when it’s a good or  a bad thing for me to have such an optimistic outlook. Here we go! 1.

This could be a contentious post because I have quite a few American readers and I know the US has a far more relaxed gun law than the UK. So it’s possible US readers might want to let off some steam in the comments. Now I suspect some US folks might think that we Brits are a bunch of wet pussies policing London with umbrellas and a couple of old batons. But before any of you go leaving your pro-gun law rants I want to let you into a secret. *ssshhh* I have some guns of my own. Yeah, that’s right, readers. Mrs T has her own guns ‘cos I am well into personal safety and no mad serial-killer-fruitcake or author-stalker is going to get through my front door without getting his arse blown right off. Now I suspect you’d all like to see my guns. Well, here they are:

So I need an F-word. Hmm. Nothing springs to mind. I need to think harder. Da de da dum da de da dum de da. *lightbulb moment* Ferrero Rocher chocolates! Blimey, why didn’t I think of that before? I love Ferrero chocolates! They are so yummy and…chocolatey. In fact, I love Ferrero Rocher so much I once built one of those pyramids like you see stacked on the tray in the adverts. I was really pleased with myself – until a dog came along and cocked his leg on it. That’s when I realised I shouldn’t have built it on a beach. Anyway I was as mad as hell. And, if the dog cocking his leg wasn’t bad enough, as soon as it had finished peeing it ran off with a mouthful of the remaining unspoilt Ferrero Rochers. I hate irresponsible dog owners. Peeing on someone’s chocolate is unforgivable but

I know most people think January is the time for new beginnings and resolutions. But it seems to me that Easter, when flowers bloom and branches sprout, is a more appropriate time to start afresh and mirror the new life that is bursting forth. Of course, across the world, our seasons and climates are often different. Here, in the UK, spring flowers are blossoming but in California, Steinbeck’s land of milk and honey in The Grapes of Wrath, the soil is currently starved of water as a consequence of extreme drought. A key contributory factor to the drought is the reduced water supplies from the Sierra mountains where the snowpack has been measured at just 8% of its usual levels. So there is little snow and ice to melt – and rivers are running dry. In 2009 I interviewed leading environmental journalist and former science correspondent for The Guardian newspaper, Paul

Today, I am going to talk about a subject that affects us all which is diaherra dorehha dirraheaa, doiaherra  doiorea  diare.. *sigh* … the shits. Blimey, I just cannot spell dioherra… that word. I’ve been trying for well over forty years but I just cannot do it. I have a mental block about how to spell it. I’ll just have to abandon the subject in case I offend all those of you with delicate ears. I know! Wendy Jakob over at Wendy’s Waffle challenged me to write a post about the word “depauperate.” So, first thing’s first, I need to look up the meaning of “depauperate”. How depressing is that? To think I call myself a writer and I don’t know what “depauperate” means. Humph. On the plus side, I do know what “donkey” means. That’s got to put me ahead of E L James surely? Okay, time to Google “depauperate.” So…it’s a biological term that

First of all I want to establish that I think ducks are just great. They’re pretty and that quacking is kinda cute. But, let’s be honest, folks, they are pretty good on a plate too. Especially, Chinese crispy duck. I just love it covered in plum sauce and wrapped in a pancake. Fantastic. However, I have some disturbing news which will be of special interest to my UK readers.  Sadly, I’ve heard on the grapevine that Chinese crispy duck in the UK might soon be in short supply. Calm yourselves, readers. Breathe deeply into that paper bag.  I know you’re probably mortified by that news but, remember, panic attacks are strictly for creative types like me – the rest of you need to hold the world together and prepare for that inevitable alien invasion cos us creatives are going to be no bloody use – we’ll still be panicking over

Okay so my subject matter today is bullshit. And I happen to know a lot about bullshit. Now some people will tell you I know a lot about bullshit because I talk and write a lot of it. Which, of course, is a complete fabrication. I am, in fact, a highly studious author who takes her writing and research very seriously indeed. Indeed, the only thing I take more seriously is the need to pluck my facial hair on a daily basis. So let’s get on and talk about bullshit. God, it stinks doesn’t it?  I’ve lived in the countryside and it’s not like ordinary cow shit which looks like this: This is calf-sized cow shit. Barely detectable. Step in some bullshit though and you won’t ever forget it. Bullshit is way more odious. And about ten times the size of normal cow shit. It’s like crap that’s been sprayed

I am on flu overload at the moment, readers. I have been alternating between hot sweats and cold shivers and have been barely able to speak for the last five days. Mr T is thrilled. Yesterday it was 8 degrees (pretty warm for this time of year in the UK) but I drove the boys to tennis wearing a yellow and purple woolly hat and a bright blue fleece. I looked stupid. So I haven’t done much at all this week. In fact I’ve only just about managed to follow the Jeremy Clarkson debacle in the media. It’s been fun counting how many articles on Jeremy The Guardian can post in one week and truly heartwarming to see them tackling the Clarkson affair with all the impartiality of a open-mouthed shark. But today folks I feel let down – where oh where is the habitual anti-Jeremy rant? Where is it?

Yesterday, as a treat for my upcoming birthday, one of my dear friends arranged a beauty session at a well-known cosmetic counter. I came away feeling glamorous with a bag load of purchases and freebies. This morning I decided I should start a new beauty regime and duly applied my makeup as instructed by the beauty consultant. Afterwards, I went to my full-length mirror to inspect my work. By God, Readers! I looked twenty years younger and almost half-decent. I was so thrilled I was ready to pack my bags and go in search of a toyboy. Hurrah, I thought, there’s some life left in the old girl yet! Then I decided to capture my rare moment of personal glory in a selfie. Which was a very, very, very, bad idea. The selfie, sadly, revealed the truth. When I viewed the photo I did not even recognise myself – I