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
The Beetle’s trundled more than eighteen hundred miles across Italy and France, with cars and lorries tooting both in frustration (it takes...
Once upon a time, a long time ago, I was a child in a meadow with a woodland circle of beech trees around me. And there was clover growing i...
Once upon a time, when I was fit, I cycled up to the most wonderful place on earth. It's in West Dorset and, when you get to the to...
We slipped out of the hallway, Martha the dog and me, edging past baskets of logs, boxes of things for a village event, a dog crate and musi...
They say that good things come in threes... Well, two good things have just happened to me, writing-wise. There's a feature about my...