Tuesday, 28 September 2010

The small matter of my impending death.

I appear to have contracted Man Flu.

Not only do I ache all over, I have an overwhelming need to tell everyone about it. Given my compulsion to groan theatrically every time I move, I’m pretty sure that it’s the same illness my husband had last week. Not as bad of course (I’d never be stupid enough to go into competitive illness with a man – nope, theirs is always worse) but I’m still feeling very frail.

I have only managed to crawl from my sick-bed to the computer as Simon is at work and the baby has to be watched. If I break off suddenly mid-blog-post, you know what’s happened. For the record, I should like my gravestone to read “I Told You I Was Ill”. Like Spike Milligan.

As I may well be dying, this seems the perfect moment to mention another little thing that is bothering me. My novel, Simon’s Choice, has sold approximately – oh yes, that’s right – bugger all. Despite the reviews being gold plated, I’m just not shifting books.

Clearly my death is going to be very hard on my children and there will be funeral expenses. New Orleans jazz funeral bands are expensive to fly over from the States and the hire of six prancing black carriage horses with black plumes does not come cheap. Furthermore, I hear Elton John charges quite a lot for singing that song about candles and wind and stuff.

Therefore, I’d be much appreciative if all you lovely people could toddle over to Amazon.com and buy my book. I don’t suggest you get it from Amazon.co.uk, who have lost the plot and are charging £22.50 for it – which is far too much. Instead, should you be in the UK and fancy it, send me an email and I will attempt to sign one and have it posted to you, all for the bargain cost of £12. (Postage included.) The handwriting may be a little shaky but on the other hand, if I die, you should double your money when the book’s value rockets.

I am going to expend my last whisper of energy by putting links below. Should you for any moment have doubts about buying the novel critics have called ‘unputdownable’. ‘the next Jodie Picoult’ and ‘the best book I have ever read’ (yes, seriously. I was snorting into my coffee too) then picture the forlorn little faces of my children as they stand in rags by my graveside, wondering where their next meal will come from and whether the cat will fit in the slow-cooker.

Forgive me, dear reader. My strength is failing me. I must shuffle back to the sofa and watch Desperate Housewife reruns. Remember that I loved you all. Or I loved the ones that bought my book, anyhow.



Or EMAIL – mrscharlottecastle (at) yahoo (dot) co (dot) uk

Saturday, 11 September 2010

In which your heroine turns 30 and has a terrible row with her mother....

Let us deal quickly with the birthday.

I enjoyed it.

I remember some of it.

I swear it took me longer to recover from it.

I'm pretty sure that I didn't take any of my clothes off in public - though considering my husband's insistance that I passed out in our hotel bedroom "way before he came up" I'm impressed that I still managed to wake up with my knickers hanging off the dainty and tasteful chandelier in our bedroom. Perhaps I treated myself to a striptease of myself? No wonder I passed out... probably in horror.

I should probably mention, as per recommendations from my lawyers, that I have never met that goat, either previously or during my bithday party celebrations.

So - here I am. A bit older, my liver a bit more scarred, much fatter, possibly a bit wiser (do not, for instance, drink Sambuca after three double Courvoisiers) somewhat wrinklier and, well... a bit more at peace with myself, actually.

Yeah - I know. You're not here to listen to me having a good time. You want misery. A little angst. And I'm just the girl to give it.

Yet... here I am, poised to tell you of the dreadful row I've had with my mum and suddenly... I seem unable to bother. I keep rolling my eyes and shrugging my shoulders. My fingers refuse to dart across the keyboard in excited irritation.

Do you know what?

Perhaps I really did grow up.