I'm so excited, the happy wanderer - aka J - returns tonight from his first term at uni and I can't wait to see him. He hasn't been home for 12 weeks and although I'm used to my two travelling without me with their father, the longest I haven't seen him until now was five weeks and that was bad enough. So, his bed is made up, favourite food being prepared and I'm about to go shopping (well, after I've walked his grumpiness on the beach) and fill up the fridge and cupboards with all the things he loves to eat.
Yesterday I fought through the hoards of Christmas shoppers to WHSmith and bought a new Pukka Pad, which means that I'm about to start my next book. Now, I know that it's all well and good writing these damn novels - this will be #6 - but surely the point of writing books is to submit them in an attempt at getting published. I have promised myself that I will do this, but when do you know if your work is good enough to submit? It's scary stuff. I think for Christmas I should be asking Santa to bring me a hefty dose of self-confidence.