Is it me, or does this year seem to be hurtling towards Christmas?
I'm so sorry for unleashing the C word already, but I've been trying to get in the mood so I can write some festive magazine stories - not easy when the sun's blazing and you're trying to get a last minute tan before the clocks go back and we're plunged into darkness in the middle of the afternoon, unpacking our mittens and thermal undies for the long cold winter ahead.
Ahem. Got a bit carried away there.
Anyway, I've tried humming carols and supping hot chocolate and Googling all manner of sentimental snow scenes, but instead I keep picturing cornflower blue skies, shimmering sea, hunky surfers with wind-tousled hair (that's another story altogether) and sand between my toes.
This is possibly because my daughter is currently holidaying in Greece and keeps texting me daily updates of how scorching hot it is, and how she's going to be swimming all day, followed by a bit of swanning about in thin clothing in the balmy evenings. It's all right for some.
Also, Lovely Husband has booked a long weekend in Rome for the two of us next weekend, which I'm simultaneously excited and terrified about. Long-time readers of this blog will recall how scared I am of flying, and that I've only been abroad once - 24 years ago. Every time I think about it I have to swallow a scream.
Nevertheless, I'm determined to embrace the experience and stop being such a wuss, and figure as long as I can read a good book on the plane, or even do a spot of writing, the time will, er, fly by and we'll be there in no time. In one piece. With my sanity intact.
Actually, I can't wait. I crave the sun in the winter months, so hopefully I can stock up while I'm there.
And on that note ... 'ding, dong, merrily on high ...'
'we're all going on a summer holiday ...'
I'm confused. But excited.
And scared.
(No news from my agent, but we'll gloss over that ...)
