When I fixed up the ancient barn as my “old age home” I thought I would live in it for years. But my children objected to my proposed sale of their childhood home so we’ve now decided to let the barn, and I will move back into the house and hope to see my grandchildren run about the place as their Dad did. The truth is the barn is beautiful for one, but hopeless for babies and children.
So it back to upheaval. The builders, who are re-wiring, re-plumbing and re-roofing the house at the moment, will I hope, be out for Christmas and we will have a massive party with both barn and house to shelter extended family and friends.
Bats permitting, that is. I discover that my house belongs to ten bats. I am not allowed to carefully re-house them in the outbuildings with the hundreds of their cousins already there. I have to wait until they are good and ready to go off for six weeks in early October to find mates or whatever they do. Until then we cannot even look into the attic. And then, when they come back, everything in the attic must be as they left it, presumably with a welcome mat saying, Milk in the fridge, Heating turned on.
I finally delivered the first draft of Relish, my Memoir last month, and it came winging back from my editor with instructions to chop out thirty thousand words (it is too long, I agree) and lose a lot of the business stuff and the charity stuff. I am not so sure. Do readers only want food and love? Tell me, please!