Thank God for the Internet

Because otherwise Christmas would not happen. Not the present part of it anyway. Or even the card part. I just ordered mine from Cats Protection, and consequently have a warm fuzzy glow about sending charidee Christmas cards. They have little black kittens on them that look exactly like Daisy, and are therefore almost like sending personalised cards. Plus, they get money for all the cats who need rehoming (I mean, I'd rather rehome the cats than buy the cards, but Spike probably wouldn't love me for it).

Also, look at where I was on Monday. I'm not one of the ones skating, BTW. Or, actually, maybe I am. Pick one. One that's skating really impressively, obviously. That can be me.

Turkey Day

Even though turkey should really be a Christmas thing (you don't get Ebeneezer Scrooge buying the Cratchits a ham, do you?), I wish a happy Thanksgiving to anyone who celebrates it. And leave you with this wise insight from Anya:

"To commemorate a past event, you kill and eat an animal. It's a ritual sacrifice, with pie."

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 4.8, "Pangs"

(image from http://www.distantocean.com/2007/10/bush-turkey-rel.html)

I'm back!

At least, I think I'm back. Several times this week I've heard the magic words, "It's working!" only to find out on reboot that it, in fact, isn't. But I've already rebooted once today, and, fingers crossed, we're still on.

Bastard computers.

Anyhoodle, what have I been doing while I've been offline? Well, swearing a lot about being offline, obviously. Catching up on Little Dorrit and finishing God Emperor of Didcot (completely bonkers fun, and made me drink lots of tea). And attending the RNA Winter Party. With my shoes, of course.

My computer has the bubonic plague

Or something else equally impossible to fix. Yesterday, it lied.

I may be offline some time.

A go-back-to-bed day

First thing when I wake up, I forget the kitchen floor is being re-laid, which means there are strangers around before I've had my coffee. Coffee I really needed when I switched on this horrible machine to find it wasn't letting me go online. Again. It'd let me use Yahoo Messenger, but not browse the internet, or download updates for my virus scanner. Which I needed, when I ascertained (via use of my brother's laptop and then, when that ran out of juice, the ancient creaky computer I keep networked to back up files) that the problem was probably caused by a virus.

It took me five hours to fix. With limited access to coffee, and the intermittent whine of a buzzsaw, and the Demon Puppy barking ceaselessly every time one of the workmen went outside (this was very often), and to top it all off the impetigo that's not supposed to ever recur but has been coming back for twenty years has shown up on my face again, itching like mad. At least it's not at the scabbing-and-taking-over-my-face stage yet, but the thing is if I go to the doc too early, they can't see anything and don't believe me. So I have to let it get disgusting before I can get the antibi's. NHS: you get what you pay for.

And it was raining.

Poppy appeal

Nearly missed the service this morning, which would have been a shame. Especially as Daisy climbed up in front of the TV to watch the flags waving. Funny, we nearly called her Poppy.

Things I did today

MRI's are weird. Both boring and distracting. I figured I could spend the half hour or so I was forced to lie still inside a plastic tube to at least work on some story ideas, but it's kind of hard when it sounds like you're standing outside a nightclub and people keep turning pneumatic drills on right next to your head. Your head, which is being held totally immobile by two braces and a set of headphones pinning you to the floor of a plastic tube just wider than your shoulders. I'm not given to claustrophobia, but I seriously considered it there for a while.

Anyway. In the spirit of make-do-and-mend, I spent £14 on a new coat. Well, I spent £14 on making over an old coat, anyway. I've had this for maybe ten years, and it's time for an update. Whatcha think?

before

after

Yes, I will get back to some actual work soon. In addition to working on Kett's book, I also have the galley proofs of Still Waters to read. I might stay up tonight for a while and do that. After all, it's not like there's anything else going on tonight that might hold a person's interest.

Things to do this week:

I need to finish revising Kett's book. I figure I've worked out how to fix it; now I just need to make sure I'm actually doing it right. I also need to go over the galley proofs for Sophie book 4, which I was sent aaages ago and forgot about. Whoops!

Instead I shall be: going shopping for shoes that I don't need and can't afford (procrastination at its finest); getting a scan of my brain (just in case my labyrinthitis turns out to be gremlins nesting in my cerebral cortex); watching the RNA on Eggheads (tonight, 6pm, BBC2); fretting about looking like a beached whale when I go to Center Parcs next week; trying to find clothes at are a) clean and b) fit me, which is my usual method of packing a suitcase.

I shall also be staring adoringly at the cover for Spaceport: Courtesan, and attempting to come up with an idea for my next Changeling book. I was going to write about Janus Valdec, but he turned out to not be a very nice guy, so I probably won't.

Probably.

Daisy the hairstylist

Jack and Daisy are now six months old, way bigger than anybody who's six months old ought to be, but also still really small for anyone who goes prowling around in the dark on their own.

To that end, both of them now sport snazzy reflective collars, although I did try to get some that aren't horribly ugly. Daisy's is pink.


It's really sweet to see how she's gained more confidence, from the tiny kitten who hid behind the sofa, and the chair, and the curtains, and under the footstool and...well, anywhere she could. Which, for a kitten, is pretty much anywhere.

But now Daisy is a happy, friendly, affectionate kitten. She's discovered hair.

Middle of the night, the little warm furry body snuggled up against me creeps up to my pillow and starts chewing my hair. Although this is an improvement on Jack, who sprawls over the whole pillow, and I wake up with my head on the mattress and a crick in my neck.

I can spend ages trying to persuade Daisy to come and sit on my lap, but I notice it's a lot easier when my hair is loose. She can sit there chasing it whenever I move my head. She can climb on the back of the chair and chew on my ponytail (which has the added advantage of me not noticing). She can give me a scalp massage, which admittedly would be a lot nicer if she didn't have claws.

Am I her favourite because I give her food, affection, lavish praise, etc, or because I have long, easily chewable hair?

Spaceport: Courtesan and Englishness

The next Spaceport book is done! Well, finally. I only figured out the ending this weekend. It's the story of Sayana, Jal's sister from Incognito. She was originally a throwaway character, until I realised I couldn't pass up the opportunity to write about a courtesan who lives in a spaceship. It should be out in November (yes, it's very late being turned in!).

* * *

Yesterday I found myself on the way to Cambridge with the family, on an expedition to help my dad spend his money on a new TV. On the way, someone foolishly suggested we go to the tearooms at Granchester for lunch. Well, since this involved turning the car around and retracing about a hundred yards, we said yes. Of course, it being a Saturday, and Cambridge hating the car, it took about twenty minutes. And the car park had a queue down the road. And the queue to be served was even longer. And there were no tables.

But I still had a nice time anyway. I can't think of anywhere else where people might queue up to sit outside in deckchairs, in an orchard, with actual apples and everything, drinking tea and eating scones, in October. It was all so English. So English, in fact, that it was full of tourists. Well, that's Cambridge for you.


(Incidentally, anyone from the Cambridge area, please check out the Rupert Brooke poem on the Orchard's website. I especially like how Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile. And the less said about Shelford, the better!)

Where I was last week

Shamefully, I only took a few pictures, mostly of the riverboat trip we took on Sunday, at the Aldeburgh Food and Drink festival (many Yummy Mummies and lots of organic meat). However, they came out rather beautiful, so I thought I'd share some.

There were a couple of these barges sailing up and down the Alde River, which starts near Snape, winds towards Aldeburgh on the coast, but is separated from the sea by a shingle bank. It goes back inland and finally flows out to sea not far from Felixstowe.



The river is quite wide at Snape, and it was explained to us that a wave (the river is tidal) flooded nearby fields in the last century, creating an area of marshland that's frequently underwater, and is now a haven for wildlife (and birdspotters!).



A flock of birds, who seem to be forming an arrow!


And finally, before we even left the house. Jack really wanted to come with us!

I'm back, with five stars

I'm back! What do you mean, where did I go? At least tell me you realised I was gone. I only realised after I'd left that I'd forgotten to mention it here. Set the auto-responder for my email (and came back to an inbox full of 'undeliverable mail' auto-responses to my own auto-response...) and checked my phone was happy to dial up, but forgot to post to the blog. And while I know it is possible to post remotely, I, er, have no actual idea how to. My only internet connection is via my phone with its slightly fuzzy screen and habit of randomly changing internet settings all by itself.

Anyway. I've spent the last week in Southwold, which is like a seaside town from the 1950s, in the nicest possible way. The occasion was my dad's 60th birthday (he's officially an Old Man now, and since he's so concerened about it we have of course spent the week teasing him mercilessly). We hired a cottage two doors down from the Adnams cellar store, and about five doors down from the Adnams brewery. Consequently, I shall be spending the next several weeks attempting to cleanse my liver.

Anyway, I came back to the first review for my Madam Periwinkle book, Out Of This World, which is about an interdimensional traveller from a world where sex is synthetic, and a Yorkshire werewolf. Of course. Ladybirdrobi of Romance Junkies gave it five ribbons and said:

I loved the idea that sexual energy can power a ship. I loved the drama of how they would communicate with each other. MADAME PERWINKLE”S EROTIC DELIGHTS: OUT OF THIS WORLD is an awesome read. I liked deflowering the mystery of this story. It was totally unique.

Did I mention the five ribbons? It got five ribbons. That's the highest number of ribbons you can get. Just sayin'.

It's a hard knock life

For Jack, anyway. Look at what this poor kitten has to suffer.


He spent the next evening shredding the back of my hand, since it was tangled in a chenille throw and therefore didn't appear to be attached to Mummy. See how I'm excusing him? He spent this morning sprawled across the paper I was trying to read, kneading my arm with his claws out. Hmm. Perhaps he did know it was me under the throw.

Great excitement this afternoon as I get to go see the specialist about my labyrinthitis. I mean, I actually booked the appointment for yesterday morning, and in a different location, but what the hell, it's easy to take time off when you don't feel well enough to work in the first place, right? Plus, travelling is a breeze with an illness that makes you feel motion-sick when you're standing still. Am half expecting to be told I just have a cold (I do, but I didn't when I booked the appointment a month ago). Should this be the case, expect to hear headlines of Patient Battering Consultant To Death With His Own Anatomical Models.

In other news, I had a dream last night that I was waiting for a train to go to the RNA Winter Party, and spotted Richard Armitage on the platform. I rushed up, told him how much I adore him, and convinced him to come to the party with me. Well, hope springs.

Slow day

Well, slow week, actually. Slow enough for me to procrastinate with a picture of my desk. And an explanation of what's on it. Actually I did this earlier in the week, but it's taken me this long to get around to posting it. Stupid labyrinthitis.


1. My cat calendar. Wanted a Cats Protection one, but couldn't find any (possibly because I didn't start looking until January). In this picture, it's turned to December, because I was looking at dates to try and book tickets for Hamlet with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart. Unfortunately all the other Whovians and Trekkies who are got up earlier in the morning had already booked them. Waah.

2. My music stand. Without any music on it. I keep notes and bits of paper here, occasionally a book if I'm looking something up (the shelves behind it hold my history books and Shakespeare collection, as well as a handful of dictionaries that still often give clearer answers than online translation sites).

3. My kneely chair. I tried a regular desk chair, it mutilated my back, so I'm sticking with this one. Unfortunately it's lost all its padding, so it's covered with a couple of garden chair cushions. Classy.

4. My scythe. Every office should have one.

5. A bumper sticker that says "Destined to become an old lady with lots of cats". See #9 for details.

6. The reason I only have a small computer desk is my amazing capacity for clutter. The smaller the desk, the less crap on it. However, it still holds three pairs of glasses, two mini fluffy cats, a plaque announcing that it's Sophie's Room (technically true), the lyrics to Neil Finn's Driving Me Mad, a dozen or so CDs I've put on my Sony Walkman, my Sony Walkman, a Latin dictionary, a calculator that only works if you don't use the '0' or' .' buttons (and '+' is a bit shaky too), a tape measure, nail file, glasses cloth and about ten hair thingies. And pens. Oh, and a Swedish dictionary. And a pin cushion. Don't ask.

7. My Doctor Who screensaver. See above re #1.

8. The mouse is one my dad got free and therefore the liquid bit has some tiny beer dispensing widget in it (but sadly no beer). The mousemat contains a photo of me and Tinker, back when Tinker was a) alive and b) not ancient. It's fairly old!

9. My picture of Spike, tucked into a picture of Spike. That's the cat in the first instance, and the vampire in the second. Adjacent to that photo, on the side of the bookshelve that's not visible here, is a picture of me with Sugar (also when she was alive. This is perhaps a practice I ought to stop). Above that is a magazine ad for Dunhill Pursuit, because the guy in it looks just like Luke.

10. A ribbon holding some badges I got from the RWA national conference a few years ago. They say: "Writing is cheaper than therapy", "(Socially acceptable schizophrenic) Writer", "Piss me off and I may kill you in my next book", "Write to live, live to write", and my personal favourite, "Don't tell my mom I write romance, she thinks I play piano in a whore house".

What's on your desk?

It's the end of the world!

Or might be, if that large hadron thingy goes into effect. When I explained to my mum this morning that it could, just maybe, create a black hole into which we'd all be sucked, she said, "Yes, but what happens to us after that?" And you know, I have no idea. Any astrophysicists out there?

A few of my favourite things

What a photo op! Too good to miss. The book there is my well-read copy of Welcome to Temptation by Jennifer Crusie--I can't count the ways in which I love it.

Daisy and Jack have just had a little trip to the vet, in order to ensure they're the only kittens we have around the house if you know what I mean. While Jack has no stitches and no cone (boys have it so easy) Daisy is looking rather sorry for herself.

And here's a funky sign I picked up in Evolution in Cambridge. It's on the side of the bookshelf next to my computer where I have various other things to inspire and remind me: my Spike poster, a cologne ad with a guy who looks just like I pictured Luke from the Sophie Green books, and a little card that says "To have hope means everything, and to believe makes anything possible."

Am still feeling a bit rotten with labyrinthitis, but at least I have an appointment with a specialist who might be able to at least tell me why I'm still plagued with it. In the meantime, since labs has symptoms not unlike a hangover, I think the only sensible thing to do is get drunk!

The house in my downstairs loo: £625,000

No, really. A year or two ago I painted a mural in the downstairs loo, at my mother's request, of Port Isaac harbour. This weekend I saw one of the houses depicted thereof on the Houses of the Week page of the Sunday Times Homes section. It's pretty pricey for a two bedroom cottage, but then a) the views are spectacular, and b) it's used in a primetime ITV drama as Doc Martin's house (we go to Port Isaac most years, often in June, and there's usually some film crew wandering about). I'd upload a picture, but I can't find one online and I've absolutely no idea where I filed the one I took when it was finished, and I'm far too lazy to go downstairs and take another one.

No, not quite lazy. This last week I've been suffering with labyrinthitis--again--which has symptoms somewhere between motion sickness and the sort of hangover where you're still quite drunk. To combat this I take a whole cocktail of tablets, which reduce the nausea to disorientation, but leave me rather sleepy. So I'm not terribly productive right now.

Although I did just draw a little sketch of Jack, asleep on the windowsill in the sunshine. Hard to draw a black cat without just crayoning black all over the place. Not sure how well it came out, really, so I shan't be scanning it in to show anybody.

Have been watching some Buffy and reading my Serenity scriptbook, and remembering why Joss Whedon is so clever. Making notes--I could do a damn workshop on it by now--and applying them to improving the Untied Kingdom. Which still needs improving. I'm also using the plot chart I made for Kett's book, and going through scene by scene this time (great fun when you have 115k words, at least 15 of which need to be cut). I've already cut a few scene4s which were just repeats of things I'd already said and done.

Last weekend I got the sewing machine out and made a pink butterfly version of a 1957 Vogue pattern. Still not finished; needs a petticoat to hold the skirts out. Still waiting on the fabrics (ordered from cheapfabrics.co.uk; about a quarter of the price I'd have got at John Lewis). Am thinking of making another dress too, if this one comes out okay.

Oh, and I picked a winner for my contest last week: Janet Worley has won the free download of Out Of This World. For those who didn't win (thanks for entering!), you can still buy it, or read a free sneaky peak (or two) at the Changeling chat loop. Be warned, it's spicy.

Stream of consciousness here. Told you I was a bit floopy this week. I guess it's official now: I'm just a dizzy blonde.

Haven't had a picture of Richard Armitage for a while. Here's one from my Richard Armitage picture file (I also have a James Marsters file, a David Tennant one and a Huge Ackman one).

Scratches

You know how cats chase your feet under the duvet? Well, when it's hot and there's no duvet, just a sheet, it really, really hurts. Jack has lacerated one leg and foot--the other is bruised from trying to escape the Demon Puppy by climbing over the dog gate. Probably just as well the weather's turned cooler, eh?
It's a good job he's cute...

Beep beep, n'beep beep, yeah!

So yesterday I went with my dad and brother to the British International Motorshow (why the 'international'? Is it because otherwise people might think it's just for British cars? Are there any British cars any more? Didn't they all get bought by Ford, or sold to Russian oligarchs, or something?). Just as it was two years ago, the weather was blistering, but at least Excel seem to have got their air conditioning sorted out, and there was a breeze coming straight off the river for the outside bits.

Although, what the hell was up with the catering? A dozen or so fast food concessions, including three with the word 'posh' in the title, and the only veggie options were a cheese baguette or a cheese and onion pasty. Add a tuna baguette and fish'n'chips for those who eat fish...but it's still not a gigantic choice, is it? Maybe Clarkson's opinion of vegetarians has spread to the show's organisers?

Well, food ranting aside, I had a great time. It's always kind of funny to go to the Motorshow and see the ratio of men: women. It's probably about 4:1, and of those women present, at least half, maybe three quarters, fell into the wife/daughter/mother category, and not women who are there because they're actually interested in cars. Which is insane: I bet most of them drove cars. But then, men wear clothes and don't care about fashion.

I actually received what I'm taking as a high compliment from my dad: that I know as much, if not more, about cars than him. This might be his way of admitting he knows sod all, but that's not the way I choose to take it.

Anyway. Show highlights. I wanted to look at the new Fiesta, but it was kind of swamped, so I wandered over to the Land Rover stand. Here's my old favourite, and a car I still want, the Defender. Brilliantly functional, does what it says on the tin, and still looks damn good. This is what Sophie drives--although of course, Ted is bile green, about a million years old, and looks it.

The Land Rover concept, on obligatory revolving stand. Looks fantastic. Hope it makes it into production. Although whoever designed it does appear to have been moonlighting at Saab, too.

From the concept-for-concept's-sake department at Renault, the Megane concept. Those doors...very nice, but perhaps trying a little too hard to be different? You don't need to reinvent the wheel. A door that opens in one piece is enough, thank you.

The second-worst car company slogan I can think of belongs to Kia. "The power to surprise" is not a power I want from my car. They might be cheap, but that's part of the problem: buying a Kia tells everyone not just that you're cheap, but that you really don't care about cars (if you're that broke, buy a Fiat Panda). Kias just aren't cool (see Andre Agassi advertising them. Instead of his cool rubbing off on the cars, their naffness started to rub off on him). Putting gold wheels and bumpers on a car doesn't make it look cool...it just makes it look silly. And don't call it Diva. That's like you wanted to call it the Beyonce but couldn't get the licensing.

Incidentally, the absolute worst car slogan I saw yesterday was Ssangyong: "It works for me." But for everyone else, it just doesn't work at all.

The truly ugly Citroen C-Cactus. A terrifying melange of what-the-fuck-ness. It looks like a rhino snorting coke. Its name sounds like something spiky you find on ocean floors. It has lime-green felt on the inside. And yet, there is one thing I like about it: no dash on the passenger side means acres and acres of legroom. I mean, in a crash that diesel-hybrid engine is going to kneecap you, but up until then you'll be comfy.
Chevrolet's new Camaro. I don't know what it is about this thing that's just so...American. I mean, take the badges off every car in the place and ask someone to find the American one, and they'd point to this. That's not so say it's not good looking--it is, in a Tony the Tiger kind of way. It's grrreat. Makes a change from the ubiquitous silver and this year's concept colour, white.

Of the three Humvees on display, two were locked, and had blacked-out windows, so I'm not sure what their point was.The other one was full of young men in baggy jeans and very large t-shirts, and I've never been quite sure what their point is, either. But I absolutely loved the little soft yellow cuddly Hummer toy in the floor display case. Cute as all hell. Buy one for your kids: by the time they grow up, cars will probably have been outlawed.

Vauxhall's replacement for the Vectra (about time!), which of course is the invisible repmobile Luke drives in the Sophie Green books. Receiving its world premier at the Motorshow, although as this understated display shows, Vauxhall are being subtle about it.

Sarcasm aside, I think it looks like a decent vehicle, a whole lot better than the Vectra, and my God, it has a boot you could live in.

My brother remarked that the crappiest marques had the prettiest promo girls--he was right. After all, if their cars are rubbish they need another way of grabbing your interest, right? And see above re: ratio of men to women. No one is trying to sell anything to women at this place. In contrast, when you get to the prestige marques, the stands are being manned by middle-aged blokes in suits. The exception was Alfa Romeo, whose promo girls wore very stylish little black dresses, but then they're Italian, and they won't countenance ugliness.

This girl was on the Cadillac stand. I think this was the only stand, apart from Alfa, where I wouldn't be ashamed to be seen in public in the promo girls' outfits.

From the eco corner, the Nice (No Internal Combustion Engine). What's that you say? No, it's actually a real car.

In the same corner, the Nissan Cube. Clearly designed by someone who was only allowed a ruler and set square (and how exactly is this thing going to be fuel efficient when it has the aerodynamics of a, well, a cube?). Paint it red, add a bloke in a Royal Mail uniform, and you've got Postman Pat, am I right?

And back to the Now That's What I'm Talking About section. The Mazda Furai. How it can possibly have the same label of 'car' applied to it as the Nissan Cube I have no idea. Just look at it. Aerodynamics of an eel. Looks like Batman is going to dive into it. Sounds like a martial arts manoeuvre. This is why I love cars.

The Furai again. Because I love looking at it.

After lunch, we took a stroll down the side of Excel, past the river where, for those who find the whole car thing a bit boring, a bit cheap, a bit lacking in vision, there were some very expensive boats. This one came in at £2.8 million. You could buy three Bugatti Veyrons for that.


But if you have a lot of money and don't fancy a yacht, there's the Heritage Enclosure. This is where they put all the money-can't-buy-it classics. It's also where you find a lot of men with long-lens cameras and misted-up spectacles, quoting specifications at each other in hushed, adoring voices.

The sublimely pretty Alfa TZ1.

The wonderfully un-PC number plate on the Ford GT.

The completely bonkers Koeniggsegg CCX. This is the one that tried to kill the Stig.

The big, brutish Aston Martin Vanquish. This was the jumping-the-shark disappearing car in the last Pierce Brosnan Bond movie. Which is a shame, because I think it matches up with Daniel Craig's barely civilised Bond much better. This is the one Sophie blew up in Ugley Business. This is the one Docherty really wants some payback for.

It's so beautiful we'll have another picture.

From the sublime to the ridiculous: the AA had a small exhibition of heritage vehicles that had been used during the last 60 years. You know, the AA? Automobile Association? Comes to get you out of trouble when your car's broken down? Well, what I just loved was this. Most of the cars had drip trays underneath to catch the oil leaking out of them. Yeah, that's what I want to see--a rescue vehicle I'm going to have to tow.

Back inside to the Sunday Times You Couldn't Possibly Afford It area of the show. I was mildly disappointed that Aston Martin didn't have their own stand, and neither did Ferrari, but at least you could see them here. Shame there was no Veyron, however.

Yes, I do have a thing about Astons.

The Pagani Zonda. Looks like the white knight version of Batman, doesn't it?

And now to my favourite stand (well, since Aston didn't bother). Alfa Romeo, the last car manufacturers to prize style firmly over substance. God bless the Italians. The only manufacturer with nice cars who actually bothered to find their promo girls nice outfits to go with them. Also, one of a very small handful (the others are all Italian too) who should be allowed to paint cars red. Italian racing red. Any other red just doesn't work.

Here is the Brera, which my brother loves so much he'd marry it if he could.

Personally, I prefer the 8C Competizione. Mrrrow!

The only time you'll ever get my dad in an Alfa. ("But BMWs are much more reliable!" Yes, which is why yours has been back to the garage a bazillion times. At least when your Alfa breaks down, you still look good).

Toyota's new Pious concept. I mean Prius. Sorry.

From the Top Gear stand, Hammond's not-at-all-gay Vitara. Nice. The other two 'police' cars were there too, with several promo girls wearing t-shirts saying I Am The Stig. Sure you are, love, sure you are.

And that's it. Apart from the incident at the Suzuki stand, where I was checking out the Swift (still a very nice little car, even if it has absolutely no badge prestige) one of the promo girls came over and before I could say I didn't need any help, she said, "Excuse me. I just wanted to ask how you get your hair like that?"

This was basically my 'it's hot and I just want it out of my way' style. Because of the side fringe and the layers, etc, it doesn't pony up as well as it used to, especially if there's a breeze which there was, Excel being by the Thames and all. What the Suzuki girl wanted to know was how I got the plaits sitting on top of the hair, not tucked under. And I had to honestly say I have no idea: I'm just cack-handed about these things.