In Which Keith Finds His Inner Hemingway and Ivy Regresses to Potty Town

The novel is limping forward but I seem to be able only to write camp, nobby comedy or black nights of the soul. I don't like my characters yet. It is in fact quite difficult to write a book. Who knew? It is, however, fun to sit around with Keith reading out snatches of our attempts to each other.

How I love my oddball husband. He has found his inner Hemingway and is getting drunk on Cointreau every night and hammering out pages of his novel, a coming-of-age tale about a young nerdy physics student. He is really finding the voice of a character called Choo Choo Delaney. I am equal parts admiration and concern at his ability to inhabit the soul of a ritzy middle aged boiler.

Life at home with Ivy and T-Bone has been a bit full-on. Ivy is covered in some sort of allergic hives and has missed a couple of days of pre-school. No idea of the cause. Ted is throwing objects around the house like a lunatic discus champion, and remains obsessed with the colour yellow. We pulled the potty out of the shed for him. He's a little confused by it but Ivy has greeted it like a long-lost friend. Three times this week she's handed me the plastic insert and said 'I did a big poo in that Mum. You'd better give it a wash.'

Otherwise, life at home on holidays is paradise. Today I made asparagus, poached eggs, home-made Hollandaise and fresh-baked bread for lunch, and Keith and I played footsies on the couch while catching up on the hilarious stylings of Curb your Enthusiasm.

Hope your Nerd-vembers are travelling well too.