Now there is nothing and I feel rather flat. Oh, I have odd ideas, (in fact some are very odd ideas – which reminds me of a Hager the Horrible cartoon I saw years ago – Hager says ‘Helga and I have been married thirty odd years’ to which she responds ‘Thirty very odd years!’ – I tried to find a copy as a card for my husband when we had our thirtieth anniversary but had no luck), but nothing clear cut. My daughters tell me I should write murder mysteries, complicated murder mysteries (they think I have a devious mind – perhaps they are right), and though I have had some ideas along those lines, there is nothing that quite makes a story. They say (the ubiquitous they, who know everything) that everyone’s got a book inside them. Perhaps seven was what I had in me, perhaps I shouldn’t be greedy. I should just enjoy the newly arrived summer here in Cape Town. Then, like not looking for romance, I can be pleasantly surprised when the next story just arrives unbidden. If it does, or when it does, that remains to be seen.
Till next time J