One of the nice things about having a small and malleable young person in the household is that you can influence their taste by refusing to let them experience anything other than what you like yourself. For example, Fecklet has been brought up to think that Elvis is the epitome of cool. He could say “Elvis” quite early on in his life, inspired by the black velvet portrait of Elvis crying which Rock God brought home from Tijuana and which is over our fireplace in the living room. Lately, Fecklet has become totally addicted to The Monkees, which means I get to listen to them all the time, too.*

My own love of The Monkees started quite early as well; I used to watch them on TV after school, I remember.** When I was very young I had a crush on Davy Jones, and then in my teens I switched allegiances to Peter Tork, which was quite convenient because by then I was best friends with Kathy Love, who was a Davy girl all the way. Kathy and I both wrote books about us and The Monkees when we were in high school. Kathy’s was a sex-fest about how we met the band while they were on tour and how we all got it together with them in interesting places. Mine was more of a TV episode gone wrong, with crazed cultists trying to sacrifice Peter because he was a virgin, and me and Kathy devising various strategies of how we could make him not a virgin any more. At one point, I remember, everyone dressed up as a Bolshevik.

We went to see them on their first comeback tour (before Mike rejoined them), and I remember writing a letter to Peter asking him how he shaved inside the dimple in his chin. He (or rather, His People) sent me a signed postcard, which I treasured for years. My obsession with The Monkees was such that last month, when I heard Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones for the first time in about 20 years, I could remember all the lyrics and also all the private jokes my friends and I had made up about them. (We made up whole new lyrics for “What Am I Doing Hanging Round?”, about Mike deciding he had to to to Portland, Maine to meet up with us.)

When I met the Rock God, I was surprised and delighted to discover that he loved The Monkees, too. I didn’t think that serious music people were into them. But he owned every album, he knew all the reasons why they were an important band, and he was also proud that he’d once bought Davy Jones a drink.

My love for Peter Tork faded, and these days I much prefer the young Mike Nesmith. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you? Like, in a heartbeat?

Do you have any childhood or teenage musical crushes that you still harbour a secret passion for?

*He also likes The Wiggles. And Zingzillas. But oh well, you can’t win ‘em all.

**Thanks to Miranda for reminding me I needed to blog about The Monkees.

There have been waaaay too many pictures of me and enthusiasm about my new book on this blog just lately. To remedy this, I will moan about the Hyacinths from Hell.

My agent said, “Buy a pot of hyacinths. It will simply fill your house with the most wonderful scent.” Since she is usually right, I followed her advice and bought a pot with some bulbs in it from a local flower stall, because with two males in the house, we can use some wonderful scents around here, believe me.

I nursed them until they bloomed—surprisingly, turning out to be yellow when I thought I’d bought white ones. They grew to an unnatural two feet or so in height, and flopping all over the place, even when I tied them up with a stick from a balloon Fecklet had burst and a bit of Christmas ribbon. They sprawled off the bookcase, slapping us whenever we walked by. And then they started to fill the house with the unwonderful scent of feet.

I put up with them for as long as I could, and then when I couldn’t breathe properly, I put them on the area that we rather quaintly call the “back porch”, which adjoins the kitchen. Until Rock God was making himself a cup of tea, and said, “What is that horrible smell in the kitchen? It smells of feet.”

We checked the bin; we checked the drains. “I think it’s the pretty flowers,” I admitted at last.

I’ve now cut off the blooms and we have some rather nice two-foot stalks tied up with Christmas ribbon on our windowsill.

My husband always accuses me of having black fingers, and killing everything I touch. But surely, this time it’s not my fault, is it?

They were evil, those hyacinths.

The launch for GETTING AWAY WITH IT was absolutely wonderful, but as I was too overwhelmed to describe it properly, here are some pics, mostly taken by my photographer for the night, the ever-gallant Ben Pearson.

Me and my lovely agent, Teresa Chris

Vicky from Headline scoops out the beetroot and horseradish ice cream

The ice cream, by the way, was AMAZING. It was creamy and slightly sweet, with a definite flavour of fresh beetroot. And then, as it melted on your tongue, the heat of the horseradish came out.

There is a great picture of me trying it for the first time, but Biddy’s got it and she hasn’t sent it to me yet. I’ll put it up as soon as I have it.

Guests mingling and chatting in Reading Library

My editor, Sherise Hobbs, giving a speech while I look on gratefully. (Check out her shoes!) Pic by Jan Jones.

The book stall, run by Chapter One in Woodley. This is my mate Lizi buying a book. Every copy was sold...thank you everyone!

Me signing copies. Note the flowery tablecloths and the tulips, both provided by Headline PR. And MANY empty fizz glasses.

More books, hurrah! Pic by Jan Jones.

My purple shoes. Pic by Jan Jones

The after-party, in the pub. Writers Roger Sanderson, Jan Jones, Josh Williams, Valerie Dubord.

Maura Brickell of Headline, writer Brigid Coady, honorary neighbour Lorna, neighbours Anne and Gemma, and me.

Thank you so much to Madeleine at Reading Library, Maura from Headline PR, Vicky from Headline marketing, Sherise and Lucy and Kate from Headline editorial, Purbeck Ice Cream, Lesley from Chapter One in Woodley, Strange Sweets in Harris Arcade, Reading, and all of my friends, readers and fellow writers who came to support my book.

It’s my book launch tonight and I’m extremely excited. I have new purple shoes to match the cover of my book. I have a new butterfly necklace to match the cover of my book. I will be painting my nails pink to match the cover of my book. I have purple glittery eyeshadow to match the cover of my book.

Really, I might as well just wear the book and get it over with.

We’ll be tasting Purbeck Ice Cream’s beetroot and horseradish ice cream and I will generally be bouncing around like an overexcited puppy. Fortunately my new shoes are rather comfortable so I’m less likely to break my neck.

Here’s a picture of me giving copies of RACHEL’S HOLIDAY to charity worker Susan Day at the Duchess of Kent House hospice this morning, in celebration of World Book Night. It was a lovely sunny day; I hope the books bring some sunshine, too.

I chose to give books at the Duchess of Kent House hospice in memory of my friend and fellow writer, Donald Louth. He told dirty jokes to the nurses while he was there. We all miss him.

I’m having a quite exciting day today. First I’m off to the Duchess of Kent House hospice to give away the final stack of World Book Night books. Then, it’s back home to preen and primp for the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Pure Passion Awards this afternoon. The shortlists are wonderful, the frocks will be lovely, the shoes will be to die for and I may drink one or two glasses of champagne.

So I went to a party last night and despite my best intentions, drank far too much pink fizz for my own good. (Yeah…like I was ever going to do anything else. I should stop fighting fate, really.) Nevertheless, I was up, dressed and at BBC Radio Berkshire studios by 8.45 this morning to talk about World Book Night and my giving away books at the Royal Berkshire Hospital and Duchess of Kent House hospice.

On the way home, I stopped at one of Reading’s very few independent book shops, Word Play in Caversham. I’d decided I’d browse the shelves until I saw a book which made me think, “Mmmmmm, yeah, I loved that one.” It was a debate, because there were several books I’d read and loved and several million more I wanted to read, but in the end I bought a copy of A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY by John Irving. I’ve read most of Irving’s books, but I’ve read OWEN MEANY three or four times and loved it every time, and I used to put it on a reading list for my students when I was an English teacher, and my teenage students loved it too. Also, it was one of the books that the Rock God and I talked about when we first met. We’re both Irving and Vonnegut fans…and obviously meant to be together.

I brought the book home, and I put a post-it note on it that said, FREE book! It’s World Book Night, so if you think you’d like this book, please take it. I put a leaflet for the book shop inside the book, and wrote a short note inside the book, as suggested by Nicola Morgan. Then the Fecklet and I took it into town, went to Picnic, our favourite cafe, ordered drinks and apple cake, and discreetly put the book somewhere where it would be seen by other customers.

The cafe owner spotted it first, and looked at the post-it, and left the book where it was. I’m guessing he preferred for one of his customers to pick it up. The next people to sit at that spot glanced at the book and then shoved it aside to leave room for their designer handbags. I was shaking my head—surreptitiously, of course. I’m all in favour of nice handbags, of course, but…!

We’d finished our drinks and it was time to go before anyone had picked up the book. It might even still be there now. I hope not.

I wonder what will happen to it.

This morning at 10 am I’ll be at the Royal Berkshire Hospital, giving out 28 copies of Rachel’s Holiday by Marian Keyes for World Book Night. I’m planning to go to the Sonning ward, where I was treated for a miscarriage about five and a half years ago, and to Hurley ward, which treats female cancer and gynaecological patients. I’ve tucked one of these notes inside each book:

Happy World Book Night!

I’m giving out this book, RACHEL’S HOLIDAY, because it’s one of my favourites. It’s funny, emotional, sad, romantic, true and ultimately upbeat and I think it’s fantastic.

Feelgood women’s fiction has helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life. It’s let me escape from reality for a little while when I needed to. It’s let me borrow someone else’s happy ending.

I hope you like RACHEL’S HOLIDAY as much as I do. If you don’t think it’s the right book for you, please pass it on to someone else who you think will enjoy it.

I’m giving out 20 more copies on Monday morning, at the Duchess of Kent House hospice.

I know that World Book Night has been controversial in the book world. Booksellers ask why do we want to give away a million books for free when both independent and chain bookshops are floundering. Authors point out that giving away books for free devalues our hard work and skill. Librarians point out that you can get books for free every day, at the library. Readers point out that giving away only a selected set of titles that are already well-known restricts access to some equally wonderful, but less well-known titles, and that genre commercial fiction is very under-represented in the list.

I can see that all these points are valid. However, it’s my experience as a reader that having more books doesn’t actually want me buy or borrow or read fewer books; it makes me read more. One book leads to another. I hope that’s what will happen.

Author Nicola Morgan has proposed an alternative World Book Night: she suggests that people buy a book from a shop, then write their name inside it, along with where they bought it and why. And then give that book out on World Book Night. I’ll be doing that, too.

But this morning, I’m really looking forward to giving one of my favourite books to 28 people who haven’t read it yet, in the hopes that it will brighten up their day.

The other day, Rock God had a sudden urge for trifle, so he got Sainsbury’s brand individual raspberry trifles to have after Sunday lunch.

Fecklet loved them. He loved them so much he ate all of his own and tried to eat much of mine. Now I, personally, am not a huge fan of trifle. I think that ready-made trifle tastes pretty artificial and too sweet, and I’d just as soon spend the calories on something worthwhile, say chocolate cake or Doritos.

“I could make something much better than this,” I remarked, as we were licking the containers clean.

“Have you ever made trifle?” asked Rock God.

“No. It’s not an American thing. But how hard could it be?”

“I bet your trifle would look like a train crash,” RG said.

Fecklet thought this was hilarious. “Mummy’s trifle would look like a train crash!” he gleefully repeated. All evening.

Obviously, this was a challenge.

On my way back from the library yesterday I took a surreptitous side-trip to the supermarket, where I bought strawberry jelly, madeira cake, strawberries, blueberries, cream and eggs. I immediately hid it all in various places around the house. I cut up the cake and fruit and made the jelly last night. I made the custard this morning, while Rock God was taking Fecklet to nursery. He came back while the custard was still cooling a bit in the pan, and I had a nervous few moments while I wondered if he was going to suss me out, but he didn’t say anything.

I held my breath at lunchtime, while Rock God rummaged through the fridge to get stuff for his sandwich. I’d hidden the trifle at the top of the back shelf of the fridge, behind some salsa and a drinking yogurt.

Can you spot it? It's on the top right, lurking.

I whipped the cream while Rock God was picking up Fecklet from nursery. And I presented the trifle to them both, when they got home.

“Mummy!” cried Fecklet. “It doesn’t look like a train crash! It looks BEAUTIFUL!”

The Sekrit Trifle

And it tasted delicious.

I’ve been on the phone and email today confirming things for World Book Night. As I mentioned earlier, as part of a scheme to give out one million free books in the UK, I’ve been chosen to give out 48 copies of RACHEL’S HOLIDAY by Marian Keyes, which is one of my favourite books ever.

I’ll probably come back to this later and talk about it more, but when I saw that RACHEL’S HOLIDAY was one of the books on the list for World Book Night, I immediately applied to be a giver. See, I think it’s a marvellous book. But I also think that it’s a good example of what women’s commercial fiction can do. It’s an effortless read which is also emotional, a happy ending that can give hope, funny and sad and true. It’s a few hours of escape, a step into someone else’s life and feelings. (And it has hero Luke Costello, who is one of the sexiest men ever to wear leather trousers.)

And I started thinking about the times in my life that I’ve needed an escape like that. I thought about lying in bed in the Royal Berkshire Hospital, having lost a pregnancy, reading romance novel after romance novel. I thought about sitting on the plane to see my dying grandmother, reading another Keyes novel. I thought about times I’ve been tired, sick, stressed out, sad. When feelgood books have been my best friends.

I wanted to give a few hours’ escape to people who could use it.

Today I’ve had it confirmed that I’m allowed to give out books at the ward in the Royal Berkshire Hospital where I was treated for my own miscarriage. I’ve also been given permission to give out books at the Duchess of Kent House hospice, where a friend and fellow writer spent his last days. I’ve also been in touch with Reading Libraries (who are also giving out books and holding events for reading groups), and local media to try to get coverage of the event.

I’m getting pretty excited. Will keep you updated.

The featherweight Fecklet sitting atop the crust of snow, watching Grandpa and me climb up to shovel off the camp roof.

Well, we’re back home now from America and it’s back to work for me. I’ve written a new scene for the beginning of my book and I’m working on eliminating a character from the next scene. I’m not even sure why he was there in the first place, to be honest. His only distinguishing feature and function was to wear a bad tie.

We had a wonderful visit in Maine. There was absolutely tons of snow and Fecklet spent most of his days, when he wasn’t being doted on by grandparents, wallowing in it. He loves to throw himself into a drift, flail his arms and legs around, and eat great handfuls of snow. We spent all week working on a sledding trail down the hill at the side of the house, and by the end, it was nicely packed down and very speedy.

I forced the Rock God to go skiing with me. He’d only done it once before, as a teenager, when his instructor was a crazed Frenchman who brought all the beginners to a black slope and basically hurled them down it, so he had a bit of trepidation. But the Maine skiing instructors are nice laid-back guys with names like Bud and Ed, and they were so successful at teaching the Rock God how to ski that by the end of the day he was whizzing around as if he’d been doing it for most of his life, and was pointed out to complete strangers as the star pupil of the day.

The other highlight of the trip was the Ice Fishing Derby on Roxbury Pond. For those of you not from Maine, this consists of a lot (a LOT) of people driving their snowmobiles out onto the frozen lake, drilling holes in the ice, setting up shacks and lawn chairs etc, and trying to catch the biggest fish for cash prizes. We didn’t fish, but we went up to watch and pull the Fecklet around on the lake on a sled. It was excellent. You haven’t lived until you’ve stood on a frozen lake drinking hot chocolate from a thermos watching people trying to catch the special Grand Prize Brook Trout.

Along with hot chocolate, we bought hot dogs from a truck and ate them for lunch. Fecklet was just starting on his second hot dog (watching people fish is hungry work), when an affable golden retriever mix came along, wagging his tail, and scarfed it straight from his hands. We all laughed. Fecklet wailed. The dog’s owners bought Fecklet a new hot dog, and put the dog on the leash. It’s a new family legend.