You get the idea!

Whittards of Chelsea, the fancy tea leaf and coffee bean shop, gave us the idea for the name of the new massage emporium. They were selling their old shop displays – five foot tall, papier-mâché characters out of Disney’s Aristocats cartoon in their Milton Keynes store. Passing by, I saw Duchess, the sassy white cat. She was for sale, complete with a red feather boa, bold as brass in the shop window like an Amsterdam whore. You could have her for ten quid, so I rescued her and struggled home – sexy paper pulp ears sticking out of the sunroof, and red feathers coming loose and flying around inside the car.
Opening my massage parlour, in a totally unsuitable and indiscreet little residential terraced house, I placed Duchess, larger than life, in the front window for all to see, like a feline lighthouse guiding the rudderless, randy men folk of Milton Keynes into a safe harbour of naughtiness.
The legendary ‘Becky’s Kittens’ had begun.
‘Becky’s Kittens’ was advertised as a massage and pampering service, not a brothel. With the picture of Duchess, the saucy cat, looking seductive with her feathers in the corner of the advert. Mr Pip, the marketing magus, had not produced this art work either. He just tutted, disapproved, and suggested I stopped mucking about and got a proper job before I got thrown in the slammer for the rest of my life.
There were no beds in the new place, just professional treatment couches, and all the girls were forbidden to indulge in any sort of sex in case any coppers were lurking. We wouldn’t even admit to hand relief over the phone, saying a ‘relaxing all over massage sir, with full tension release.’
The forty-five minute booking started with tea and biscuits. Then the gent undressed and prepared himself for an assisted bubble bath and a game of hunt the soap. An assisted bath meant that the lady of his choice dangled over the edge of the tub, scrubbed his back and washed all his bits and bobs, making sure everything was nice and clean for manhandling later in the appointment.
Clients would relax in the hot soapy water, with a tray of tea and a plate of quality biscuits resting on the loo seat, by way of a table. I always provided my gentlemen with a nice pot, with milk jug and sugar on the side. I find drinking from mugs distasteful. But a cup and saucer would be almost impossible to handle in a steaming bubble bath as a nubile young lady washed your willy. So, in the interests of health and safety in the work place, I provided those nice bone china vessels that are more than a cup, but not quite a mug, but had a feeling of quality about them. I lovingly prepared the trays myself, and was proud in the knowledge that I was one of the only people left in the UK, apart from Italian grandmothers, who still liked to lay out a nice spread on a hand-crafted doily.
Gingernuts tended to be the preferred accompaniment at ‘Becky’s Kittens’ to a nice tray of Darjeeling, and caused less trouble than chocolate coated confections. It was my job as the receptionist to clean the bath after every client. On one occasion as I swilled away the remaining bubbles, my finger slid right into the middle of what looked to be a large lump of human poo, hidden in the shallow water. Horrified, with a customer’s soft turd under my long nail, I turned and vomited violently into the loo. Embarrassed, but unable to deal with the lumpy intrusion, I interrupted the client’s massage and asked him to clear up his own mess. My shame gained epic proportions when, using toilet tissue to lift the offending stool from the tub, he informed me that it was actually a quarter of a chocolate biscuit that had dropped off his side plate during bathing – a distressing experience for us all which I never wanted repeated.
After a chocolate free bath and refreshments, the gent was towelled dry by his masseuse, and whisked off into a softly lit treatment room for a full body massage and hand relief. HR to abbreviate it correctly.
The piece de résistance of a ‘Becky’s Kittens’ massage were the hot steam towels. An idea plagiarised by Wiggy, during his market research, from a massage parlour on the Luton and Dunstable border.
Similar to the small heated serviettes you get given in an Indian restaurant at the end of your curry, I’d developed the idea further and adapted it for inappropriate, X rated usage. Now hidden in each massage room was a microwave oven that zapped large dampened terry nappies, reincarnated as hot steam towels, for thirty seconds at the end of each session.
Gloriously refreshing, the nappies were whipped out of the oven and laid over the naked customer. As they cooled, the girl used them to remove the massage oil, and any other resulting stickiness from the gentleman, leaving his smile as the only evidence of his visit to ‘Kittens’.
The clients loved them, and I believe it was these little touches and attention to detail that made us different from the others – made us stand out from the crowd, in a trying not to be noticed type of a way.
Wiggy always used to say, ‘I adore the hot steam towels, but I couldn’t eat a whole one!’
He thought this was hilariously funny, and would say it every time they came up in conversation. Silly old devil.

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How do you go about recruiting prostitutes? I had no idea, so I placed an ad in the paper and surprisingly girls called up for a job.
One of them was Victoria. She was a career courtesan, an expert, who had plied her trade all over the world on land and the high seas. In her late forties, smart, almost attractive, utterly financially ruthless, Victoria arrived armed with suitcases of sex toys, lacy lingerie and off shore bank accounts. She’d married three of her wealthiest punters, left them, but kept the houses and money, and was now stalking her fourth.

The girls and I sat in front of her transfixed, like children being told ghost
stories. She was the fount of all carnal knowledge; she taught us what men really wanted and how to charge extra for it.
OWO was an abbreviation for oral sex without a condom – when a gent wanted a blow job minus the Johnny. CIM was ‘come in mouth’, the end result of the preceding oral without a condom. Victoria tersely pointed out that most of the clients knew what these abbreviations meant, and the fact that we were sitting there stunned with our mouths hanging open in shock was outrageously unprofessional.
I don’t think any of us liked her; in truth I was a little intimidated by her. But I knew that if we were going to survive and thrive in the world of fornication for a fee then we had to wise up. And she really had seen it, done it and wiped up the spunk with the Tee-shirt.
The next shocking revelation bestowed upon us was that John from Northampton’s mysterious strap-on was in fact a dildo or vibrator in a little harness that ladies attached to themselves – strapped on, just as the name suggests, then used as a pretend penis to poke up mens’ bums, or up other ladies in any orifice.
‘No!’ Tasha squealed, clearly horrified. ‘Well I’m not doing that. It’s disgusting!’
I sat there mesmerised as Victoria talked us through her bag of tricks and demonstrated how to do a perfect blow job on a lurid pink rubber willy.
So enthralled were we, watching her gratuitous genital handling, that when the work phone rang we all jumped. I stretched over to answer it, with one eye fixed on the dirty demo, only half listening to the enquiring client.
‘Pardon?’ I asked the caller. Waving at Victoria, I silently asked her to pause her show. ‘Maybe you should call us back nearer the time sir, when you’re feeling the urge?’
I looked at the phone in surprise. ‘Oh how rude, he’s hung up on me.’
‘Heavy breather?’ Tasha asked.
‘Don’t know what he was really,’ I replied, genuinely confused. ‘Why waste time calling now, if you can only manage ‘annual sex’, I mused. ‘Imagine only doing it once a year? Sounds like me! He hung up, so today obviously wasn’t the day.’ I shrugged and smiled.
Then I became aware of Victoria’s patronising frozen stare, the pink penis still held aloft like a flag.
‘What?’ I said, feeling foolish and defensive with no idea why.
‘You really are incredibly stupid,’ Victoria said indignantly packing her toys back into her bag of tricks. ‘In fact I think you lot should just give up now. You’ve got no chance of surviving in this business; you’re like a bunch of useless infants, utter imbeciles the lot of you.’
‘W…Why? What?’ I stuttered.
‘He wanted anal sex, not annual sex you fool. A. N. A. L…’
She was right, we were idiots. Of course that’s what he meant. Embarrassed, I could feel the giggles of humiliation bubbling up inside me as I pictured the poor man staring at the receiver wondering what kind of nutter was at the other end. But Victoria didn’t see the funny side. She was getting visibly more irate by the second.
‘Anal is a speciality service. If a man wants to put his cock up my back passage, I’d charge him an extra seventy for the privilege, on top of the booking fee. You’ve just lost me two hundred quid Becky.’ She picked up her bag and gave us all a scathing, sweeping glare. ‘Sod it, that’s enough for me. I’m leaving. This agency is unprofessional and ridiculous.’
Looking at Tasha’s crestfallen face I started to snigger. When you try to hold it in the forbidden laughs come down your nose as squeaky grunts making everything appear funnier. Victoria was one of the most anal people I’d ever met, and the more scathing she became the more hilarious I found it. By the time she’d marched out, slamming the door behind her, all three of us were helpless with laughter. From then on anyone who wanted any sort of bum fun was booked in for a special ‘Madam Beckys’ annual’ seeing to and charged extra accordingly.
We were glad to see the back of Victoria and her passage. I hoped she was slightly jollier with her clients than she’d been with us, but I doubted it. Although I’d now grasped the concept that there were a lot of men out there who’d pay handsomely to be shouted at by a stern lady in her forties. One thing Victoria did make me realise was that just because you have a fanny, it doesn’t make you a good prostitute. Just like just being able to count didn’t make you a good bank manager.
There was a lot more to this shagging for money than met the eye. If we were going to stay in business I needed to take a much closer look at it.
I certainly didn’t want any of us to be Victoria clones but it was time to get serious and time to grow up.

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A sneaky preview from ‘Madam’ Chapter 1.

”……. I’ve been told I don’t look like a ‘Madam.’ I’m not really sure what a madam is meant to look like, but I’ve been blessed with some long legged and small waisted genes. Throw in a good education and some cosmetic procedures and in my mid-forties I’m still looking pleasant enough if a tad plumper than I had been.

I don’t arrive to speak clad in rubber or with my knickers on show. Although admittedly for a comedy turn at a rugby club I would wear my infamous PVC catsuit, but that was more for practical purposes than titillation. Rugby club annual dinners always seem to end in a food fight. Dressed in PVC I could be wiped down with a damp cloth and chauffeured home minus the inevitable coating of mashed potato and black forest gateaux.
I genuinely like people. I’m open and honest, but never crude. I would never knowingly upset or embarrass anyone, that’s not my style. I’m more Benny Hill than Ben Dover, maybe with a touch of the Carry On’s and a sneaky Sid James laugh.
Telling my massage parlour tales to a large group of people is a way to help remove stereotypical ideas about the sex industry, not to crack a cheap smutty joke at the public’s expense.
Sensibilities and maiden aunts are safe with me…….. ”

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Made for Adil by his friends

This post was written by me several painful months after Adil’s murder in Nov 2010. Adil was buried on his 17th birthday Dec 3rd as the snow and tears fell onto the frozen ground. My Book ‘MADAM’ is dedicated to his memory. 

Hey you.

I spend all day chatting away to you in my head, but I thought I’d write it down and share my misery with your mates.

I know you’re watching us all every day. I believe when you’re hanging out in the spirit world you can do lots of things as once, as time and location just don’t work the same up there. I’m sure you know about all the hard work, laughs and sadness that happening as we all do our thing to help keep your story alive.

I spend all day looking at your pictures. Helping Zain, Nisha and the others with their group, Immortal Voices. I’m putting together your photos for CD covers and posters, and I’ve turned into a random weeper.

Tonight has been a bad night. I was planning to go to the pictures, but the guys at MKVibe Records needed some help with arranging all your images, text and video clips for the new Ebook.

I know everyone feels bad, and on the chart of devastation and heartbreak I’m way down the ratings, but tonight is a bad night.

I started by reading the words of love and sadness your friends have sent to me.  I’m reading through, taking sentences full of their memories, and wrapping them round you.  Sat at my borrowed desk tucked away in a corner, I feel the tears welling, and I fight them back. The office is busy still, and I’m wearing eye makeup, so I don’t want to cry and look silly.

Andy MKVibe’s boss calls me. I grind my teeth, tears escaping out, and try to reply normally.

Walking into his office, I’m handed a slice of pizza. They’re working into the night to get you finished and looking good.  I see you full screen, laughing. He zooms in, enlarging your pixels.

Staring intently at the screen, this man who has never met you, reaches out, and touches your face gently.  ‘In the world’ he says ‘there’s light and dark; this boy belonged in the light. I wish I’d known him, I feel I do know him. I’m gonna do 100% for this young man’.

Coldplay is coming from the speakers on his desk. I know he’s feeling it….

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

As they sing ‘I will try to fix you’ I know that’s what he’s feeling, what we all are feeling. We’re trying to fix you. But we can’t. Not with all the songs and the marches, the benches and wristbands. We can’t fix you. We can’t make it better.

I put my pizza down and I start to cry. I cry so often these days, that I’m an expert. I can do it anywhere, the tears just seem to fall out when they feel like it.

In the photo on the screen you’re in the garden at the wedding, there are 5 of you lads, all smiling. Andy, this man who’s never met you, carefully places his hand flat onto the screen, covering you completely.

‘How can it be?’ He asks me, staring at you, ‘That he can just be gone?’

The 4 remaining boys look out of the picture at me, asking the same question. How can it be, that you can just be gone?

I have to come home. I need to be on my own.  I can’t be there tonight. I can’t deal with it tonight.

We’ll do you the best artwork Dilly, sing you the best songs, and hold you the best parties.

I’m so sorry that we can’t fix you; we’re trying to fix ourselves and each other, it’s a slow job.

Tomorrows another day, and as is the way with grief, it may feel ok tomorrow.

We’ll finish your EBook, and then young man, I need your heavenly help to sort out Oceana with me.

I’ll talk to you about that later…… Love you dude, but it’s been a really bad night.

Becky x

Dilly's friends on the Green in Deanshanger paying tribute to their friend six months after his murder

Adil Basharat was my daughter’s friend. He was attacked on Nov 19th 2010 and died two days later in Milton Keynes hospital surrounded by his family and friends. My book ‘MADAM’ is dedicated to him. Read the children’s blog at http://missyoudilly.wordpress.com/

It was six months today since you were all first together on the green. Joined as one, in your grief and shock. You laid flowers, notes and gifts for Adil, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the other kids from school. The ones who normally pissed you off, or who you thought had shit hair. The other kids you usually  laughed at or ignored.

Adil’s murder stopped for a while the judgements, the bitching, the way it is between kids. Real life was on hold. You all focused on him. On your love for your murdered friend.

Today on the green, six months on, you were back in your separate camps. The popular girls, the cool boys, the kids from the other schools, the others who fit no-where and me.  The old fart wandering around like NATO, neutral, in the middle. Stepping over you all with the camera.

I know some of you are saddened that life has gone on. That you’ve drifted away from each other and the communal comfort.  Surprised that you’ve managed to live through six months of hell. I looked at you all today, sat in your separate camps on the grass and I was glad.

Today, some of you laughed, where before there were tears. Some of you chatted, where before there was silence. Some of you ate chips, where before there was just gut churning misery, whilst the boys pushed each other off the bench, where before they’d sat on the cold grass, still and depressed.

Today’s photos were so different to those of six months ago, and I am so proud of you all.

I know sometimes it feels wrong to laugh, to realise you’ve been talking all afternoon and not thought of Adil, but life has to move on, or all life would finish and heartbreak would cause the end of humanity.

It is ok to go your own way and have separate thoughts.

The death of someone you love is difficult and political however old you are. It brings people together and pushes them apart. That is its way.

If you laugh, or enjoy part of the day, or get on each other’s nerves, it doesn’t mean you’re forgetting him, It means you’re human.

You will always remember him. When you’re all 90 years old and completely batty, Adil will probably be the only thing you will remember.  You won’t remember what your name is, if you’ve had your tea, or turned the gas off, but you’ll remember Dilly.

He will always be remembered as young, and handsome. Funny, cute and distracting in class. He will be remembered as a hero. A solider.  A best friend. He will never get fat, or go bald, or wish he hadn’t bought a Nissan. He will stay immortal in your memories and voices.  Forever young, and happy, and loved by all of you.

You’re great kids, and I know he loves you all as much as you love him.  I admire and love you all, whatever you think of each other.

Written originally on November 13th 2011. 6 days before the first anniversary of Adils murder. The loss of this wonderful boy changed my life and made me a better person. My autobiography ‘MADAM’ is dedicated to his beautiful memory.

This time last year Adil you were full of life.

16 and in love. Studying, laughing, the future young, fresh and pure in your veins.

This time last year potential, expectation and promise surrounded you like the soft haze of coloured Christmas tree lights seen through half closed eyes.

This time last year you were on count down.  Your days being crossed off.  Your time slipping away.

This time last year you had 6 days left. 6 days of potential, 6 days of promise. This time last year you had just 5 school days and half a weekend left to live.

The clock was ticking, but you thought you had all the time in the world. Your friends spent that time with you being friends, passing time.  Wasting time.

It took just one minute. Sixty seconds. No time, for them to take your life. Stop your clock.

Every candle that’s blown, every star in the sky, every penny into water thrown, we wish we’d had more time. More time to say good bye, to beg the gods to let you stay. To ask the heavens why?

Time to say ‘sorry, let’s be friends’, ‘we’ve not spoken in a long time’, ‘come to mine, spend some chill time’.

This time this year, this time now, we too are on count down. The days slip by.

We have lived with this for almost a year. It’s been a long time, but somehow no time. A lifetime.

Time spent in the numbing cold at your grave. Time spent in the numbing silence of the court. Time spent in the numbing blackness of the night, with nothing but your name in our heads and the ice of hatred freezing our hearts.

They got so little time. They left you so little time.

This time this year we have 6 days left. 6 days more for the pain and heartbreak to swell and grow, swallowing us whole.

This time this year, the massive black hole that feels bigger than the world devours us, the monstrous despair funnelled fast into the closed throat that chokes and cries out with grief.

This time this year there is no life for you. Your time has been and gone. We are praying for ours to pass, hoping in its passing time will heal like they promise it will.

But for now, for this time this year, for fear of unravelling, all we can do is stand tight together, afraid and bewildered, saying ‘This time last year Adil was still here…’

‘Treacle Tarts Upper Crust Delights’ was born. My first out-call escort agency. This later became abbreviated by all the randy residents of the Home Counties to just ‘Treacle’s’.
Mr Pip disapproved of my career choice, and didn’t want to help with designing the logo for my harem, so the first step was to get the art department of the local rag to design me an ad.
A saucy postcard-type sketch of a buxom wench in a short pinny, coquettishly holding a fruity tart aloft, seemed to do the job and into the paper it went. Favourable tarot cards were turned. Mr Pip tutted. We were on our way.
The calls started immediately.
I foolishly thought that the normal business procedure would be that the phone would ring, I would answer, and a man would request a lady. He’d make a booking. I would despatch the object of his desires and a good time would be had by all. A process hopefully repeated at least ten times daily, turning a nice profit. I had not been aware of the need to factor in the endless silent callers, heavy breathers, wankers, panters, grunters, time wasters and hoaxers that would block the lines and drive me to the very edge of reason. For the first two days, I gave each caller the benefit of the doubt. I went through my whole sales spiel. Prices, descriptions, company ethos, blah blah. But by day three I was recognising voices and scenarios. I was utterly amazed at why any person could be bothered to call a number up to twenty times a day and ask exactly the same questions. And why did the phantom thrusters call a company who sells sex and try to shock them by pretending to be having sex? It’s like phoning a dog groomers and barking. No-one’s impressed. By day four I was saying ‘I think you may have phoned us before sir, I believe you have all our details. Good day.’
By day five I was telling them to fuck off, and by day six I was just sighing and hanging up within the first five seconds of their performance. Several of these very same gents made the very same calls daily for all of the next twenty years that I was running agencies, parlours and brothels in Milton Keynes. Very odd.

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Doing the final read through, and tweaking the typos etc. The last bit has been far more painful than writing the thing. Like marking homework. I had no idea just how much work and effort it would actually take.

Why I should be surprised that writing a book should involve sitting 12 to 16 hours a day just well, writing I don’t know. It’s like moving house. You look at it and think ‘that won’t take long! Nothing to it! Then 3 weeks later…..

Anyway its done.  Twenty years of brothel keeping memoirs. Forty chapters of frisky fun and high jinks.

I’ll keep you all posted on publishing dates, or follow me on Facebook.

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After I’d retired from my saucy lifestyle  of 20 years brothel keeping, I had an identity crisis. I was really surprised how lost I felt without my Madam Becky persona, and getting involved in a book seemed like a good way to keep in touch with that side of my life.

Many years, and many adventures in the sex for sale business has resulted in squillions of funny stories, half of them are being forgotten as time slides by. I decided a book would be a smashing idea for sharing my memories, but I had no intention of writing it myself.

Although I’m an avid reader, I’ve not written anything since my years at school, and it’s always the police that write the content for my statements when I’ve been arrested for whatever transgression it may be, so I’m very out of practice, and not really up for the task.

It was easy to find a ghost writer; in fact several were keen to take on the Madam Becky project, the ups and downs of brothel keeping in Britain. I’m not a crude person, more maiden aunt than sex chats with sailors, so I was looking for an Ealing Comedy approach rather than saucy steaminess. Agents and writers formed a queue for the job, as the main stream profitable market was obvious to all. My various TV projects, resulting media coverage, and an avid interest in the sex industry means that a book of my memoirs, carefully written should be exceptable for the large outlets such as the big supermarkets, who now sell the majority of books in the UK.

I’d had a woeful, and failed attempt at having a book written previously.  The ghost for that offering struggled to find ‘my voice’ and the whole thing was a wash out. This time I chose my ghost carefully, and we got to work.

6 months of work passed and it was time to sell to the publishers. At this point, my agent whom I was sharing with the ghost decided she’s rather not be involved in the prostitution genre. Fair enough, but a bit late notice.

A few more weeks of drama, bored with all the silliness, I signed with a new international literary and TV agency. They read my meagre blogs and my shopping list,  and over a nice cup of tea they told me that they considered me perfectly capable of writing my own book. By now, I had wasted so much time and energy on 3^rd parties that I was open to the idea. Motivated by a smart office, and images of book signings and applause I headed off home from my meeting in London full of literary zestiness.

It was when I turned on my lap-top and sat staring at the screen I realised I had no idea what I was doing. I’m not a person who lives to write. I have no story burning inside me fighting to be told. I admire those people, like I admire those who find the strength to work with children, but that’s not me.  I could stand up in front of a room of 1000’s and tell my story and funny jokes, but sitting alone typing it seems not only confusing but painfully dull.

My first instructions were to write an outline of the chapters. Ok. What does that look like then? I had no idea, but my helpful agent explained they wanted about 20,000 words, which would include 2 sample chapters, and a chapter outline of the entire book. You’re kidding? No, she wasn’t.

Ok.  The book would be about 80,000 words, and they want it for the same deadline as the professional writers were panicking about.  Outline and sample chapters by early September, completed manuscript by Jan. Edits until Feb then off to be printed, or whatever you call it. I have no idea, as I’m not yet at that stage! You’re kidding? No, they’re not.

How many words on a page? How many words in a chapter? How many chapters in a book? I had no idea. I’ve got a rough idea now, but I’m learning fast.

Chapter 1…. Where to start? I have no idea. This is not my idea of fun. I get a headache and go out.

Chapter 1…. No, still no idea, I’ll go to the gym for a bit.

Chapter 1… I’ll do the dishes and make a coffee and think about it.

Now, not only am I not a writer, but I’m fighting my personality. I’m consistently in-consistent. I’m a starter, an ideas person, not a day by day, bit by bit get it done kinda gal. When I’ve started something, if someone else can’t finish it then I walk away and do something else.  It sounds fun, but you do end up wasting half of your life. Tortoise and the hare. You know.

I realised that I do most of my thinking in the bath, or walking my dogs. My dogs have short legs, and less motivation than me, so dog exercise is a leisurely business, conducive to thinking.

I started to write slowly. ‘’don’t re-read’’ friends would tell me. ‘’Just let it flow.

‘’Write in the past tense’’ the agent said. How do I do that? I know what the past tense is in theory, but I mix my tenses with my metaphors. Keeping it all past tense is impossible. I don’t get it at all.

I seem to write best in the mornings. I suffer hideously from migraines, and although still fairly young, and optimistically  frisky have had several strokes, which make it difficult to sit at a desk as it sets my headaches off, so I have to lie down to type.

So, I lay in bed until lunch time with my laptop on my knees at a jaunty angle. Day after day. I feel like I should be ill or recovering from the plague. I never even lie in normally, so this is most peculiar. It’s not nice. I feel stale and stodgy, and guilty for lounging about doing nothing.

On one dog walk the penny drops that writers write. Yeah, I know, but up until then it felt wrong writing for hours. If I was going to write a book, I would need to sit still and write a book. Like doing a proper job.  Blimey! What a revelation.  

I then decide that if I work on the book for the morning, then get off my bed and go out for a bit. Walk the dogs etc I’d feel ok to do a bit more from 4 -6 pm. I feel like I’m getting somewhere. Hurrah!

I get grumpy if I’m interrupted by visiting family, and wave them away. I work frantically for 3 days and make myself ill.  I then grind to a halt and doubt sets in. I sent my first few chapter outlines to the agent to review. If its rubbish I’d rather know now than in 2 months and hundreds of hours time. I hear nothing and do nothing. A week passes. I’m getting pissed off. No emails, no calls nothing.

My daughter checks the post box and brings in a huge rain soaked envelope from the literary agent. She has done it the old fashioned way, and written the corrections by hand and posted them.  There are very few corrections. Just ‘please write in the past tense’. So I go back through and put ‘ed’ on the end of everything and get going again.

Today I have emailed 24,000 words of chapter outline to the agent. I’m stuck now with the sample chapters, and my bum has gone numb from sitting still. I’m looking into new ways of progressing. Maybe by dictating my stories into a machine.  Typing makes me want to kill myself.  A dear friend who has a career coaching business has stepped forward to help keep me on the straight and narrow. I’ve decided to blog my journey for 2 reasons, firstly my blog is being neglected as I’ve only got a small brain, and no room in it for both book writing and blogging on other subjects, and secondly, I know lots of other people want to write books and don’t do it. Well, I’m useless, so if I can get it done anyone can!   Let’s see what happens now!

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