I’m onto the last chapter. I’m so very nearly almost there! My back is giving me bother so I write up until a natural break and go do my yoga.

Breathing, stretching, downward-facing dog (in my case literally – the pugs follow me everywhere) and I am rejuvenated. Idea pops into my head while in Shavasana pose for that final tricky plot point and I can see a completed book by the end of the day.

After my shower I apply all the usual creams and potions and find that eyebrow dye I’ve been meaning to apply for ages but I was afraid of scaring the postman. But today, the postman’s already been, the ferret man won’t be back till Thursday and I have a good four hours till Herr Husband comes home. Now’s the time to dye my brows and I may as well give that charcoal face-mask a crack while I’m at it.

Looking like Groucho Marx fired out of a cannon, I get into my summer shortie dungarees and sit down to finish the chapter. The tension needs scaling. Did this character have a bike when he was introduced? Scroll back four chapters and spend over an hour editing and adding the bike. Extra twenty minutes researching Spanish motorcycles. Face begins to itch.

But how does he know? Why would she hide it? Type/delete furiously for over an hour, only stopping to drink water and brush ash-like flakes off my keyboard. Must wash face. How long is this stuff supposed to stay on? Will check in a minute. I am only two sentences/paragraphs/chapters away from the end. ‘The End.’ As soon as I type those words – which don’t need to be there as they never appear in the book but basically give me an excuse to open a bottle of something bubbly – I can celebrate! Just need to sort that combination for the safe and I’m done.

Message from HH. More good news and he’s on his way home. Right, need to buy something nice for dinner and a bottle of fizz. Yes, it’s Tuesday, but why not? Save WIP, jump into tatty trainers and cycle up the shop, still puzzling over the best way to set an uncrackable combination lock on a domestic safe. The supermarket is packed, so I grab some Gruyère Rösti balls – every bit as good as they sound – and a bottle of Codorníu and smile at other shoppers in the queue.

Arrive home and begin the losing battle of programming the oven. Catch sight of face in mirrored oven door and realise I can never, ever visit that supermarket again. I just bought Rösti balls and Cava in blackface with comedy crayon eyebrows wearing a pair of dungarees. All I needed to add was a Mohican, a gold chain and “Whatchoo talking about, fool?” and the look would be complete.

And I still haven’t typed ‘The End’.





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