I am for ever being told I ought to make my blog into a novel.
'You have such a way with words,' Mr Grigg tells me.
'If I didn't live here I think you'd made it up,' Mrs Bancroft says.
'You write much better than some of the people on The Observer,' an earnest Pelly Sheepwash says.
And little Tuppence, dear elfin Tuppence, she of the leggings, Goth gloves and an asymmetric bob, smiles a big smile and says: 'Just go for it Maddie.'
Doggers on Bluebell Hill, dreams of Gingsters pasties stuck where the sun don't shine, a begonia allergy and a cast of colourful characters as long as Mr Grigg's tongue when Posh Totty trots past, it's all here.
The trouble is, I need a plot.
And I think I've lost it.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
Sitting in a railway station...got a ticket to my destination. So, here I am, sitting in an old railway carriage. It's at Station Kit...
Broadchurch fever is gripping the nation. Well, at least it seems like that around these parts. I'm sorry not to have written abou...
Over on A Dorset Year , I'm enjoying the beauty in nature in a world gone mad. As my famous ancestor, Ernest Hemingway , would have...
I was trawling through the internet the other day, looking for something specific, when I came across something completely different. ...
On the first day of the New Year, brave souls in fancy dress head for the sea at Lyme Regis in the now traditional ‘Lyme Lunge’, organise...