This month Charlotte doesn't hate....

I decided whilst in the bath - sometime before my daughter dropped her chocolate milkshake in it, but after she added a number of decapitated Barbies to 'keep me company' - that I am too miserable. Or rather, I decided that you might think me too miserable and that I should probably balance things out a bit.

Therefore (thought I, whilst batting floating Barbie heads out of the way) I am going to start a monthly 'Things Charlotte Likes'. Then, after the milkshake incident, I decided that might be a bit ambitious, so I'm going with 'This Month Charlotte Doesn't Hate'. After all, the only things I truly like are country hotels that don't allow children, Valium and Stolichnoya.

There is also a chance (she hopes) that this monthly love-in will remind those nice PR people out there, that like my blogging buddies English Mum and Jane Alexander, I too am open to receiving Free Stuff. Perhaps it is my acerbic tone that has put you off sending me Free Stuff? Perhaps you feel that I don't have enough followers for Free Stuff? I can assure you that I actually have thousands of dedicated and loving readers hanging off my every word - it's just that the ones you see here are the only ones who could be bothered who had the time to hit 'follow'.

Please do feel free to get in touch should you want - for instance - my children to test your new yogurt flavours. Or perhaps would like me to trial your new Stop-Your-Husband-Snoring-Before-You-Kill-Him product? You might like me to give my thoughts on the new Range Rover.(Ahem.)Don't be shy.

Alright - on with this month's Things Charlotte Doesn't Hate.

1. The BBC's subtle, tender yet laugh out loud funny 'Rev'. This is the comfort food of TV viewing. I have fallen head over heels in love with Adam, the pocket sized and pint drinking man of the cloth, who talks to God whilst sitting on the loo or washing up and is struggling - just like the rest of us - to be a good man and figure out his place on this earth. His relationship with his solicitor wife is delicious - real, (if rather adoring - so perhaps not that perfect) and the assorted minor characters, including the violently (literally) loyal parishioner and the wide eyed crack addict who turns up each episode asking for money, are well rounded and believable.

I feel quietly comforted by the end of each episode.

2. Rimmel's SunShimmer fake tan. It's cheap (always a plus) and it has warmed up my previously glow-in-the-dark pallor. If I could just remember to wash my hands after using it, I might look almost presentable.

3. Finally, and I'm throwing caution to the wind and saying that I LOVE this - my editor Genevieve Graham-Sawchyn's news that she has signed a two book deal with an imprint of Penguin for her brilliant novel 'Under the Same Sky' plus a future companion book. Hopefully I will get to say that the lady who patiently trawled through my gerunds and pleonasms (yeah, I had to look it up too) is famous. Go Genevieve.

See. I can do upbeat. Just don't expect it too often.

My husband has 2 days before his life's in danger.

There is an ominous pain in my womb. A griping, tightening, snarling and insistent pain.

I'm rather bad at keeping to a calendar, but I suspect this means my husband has around 2 days to find cover before my PMT hits. And boy, since I gave birth to Alexander 7 months ago, does my PMT hit.

I've tried to remind myself in more rational moments that my deep and unshakable hatred for my husband, one week a month, is purely hormonal.

I have no doubt that his myriad of irritating habits and irresponsibility have much to do with it (you see, I'm already in the grip of it - I'm starting to sound like that harpy Liz Jones - a clear indicator of insanity) but as I can usually deal with his leaving his pants on the bathroom floor, not paying any bills and flicking fag butts on my doorstep (Okay, okay - forget the last one. I never forgive the last one) I'm beginning to realise that the Wicked Week in Which I Wish to Wrangle his Wotsits may in fact not be truly justified.

Despite this, I know this is my last chance to discuss my monthly phenomena. In a few hours, I'll start to shed my humane skin and become the were-woman of horror films. Trust me, I'm not a sparkly vampire.

This is it, ladies and gentlemen. The transformation into rabid, snapping she-devil starts here.

We'll reconvene in a week, when I've begun the painful, guilt ridden reformation into normal, understanding homemaker, mother and wife. But for now, watch it.

I bite.

In which I promise to thee my children....

To my dear children.

Here we are at the summer holidays. For you, this is good. For me, not so.
Below are a few ground rules that I feel if we all stick to, may get us through this diff special time.

1. When I promise you that if you do something I will ‘take you to the park tomorrow’, I really will take you to the park tomorrow. Even if it is raining. Though I might have a go at talking you out of it. But if you really blood still want to go, I’ll take you. I’ll even be cheerful.

2. There will be food in the fridge.

4. I will only spend an hour or two on the computer. The other 10 hours a day that I put into writing my new novel and publicising Simon’s Choice will be done late at night when you go to bed. I will not snarl when you ask why I have bags under my eyes and when you mention that I have begun to develop grey hair. It is Not Your Fault. I will remember often that you are five years old and seven months old and most things are Not Your Fault.

5. Leaving wet Weetabix all over my 150 year old pine chest Is Your Fault. Please recognise this to facilitate easier relations.

6. I will somehow find the money to buy Arabella a new bike. You look like you are riding a tonka toy. I’m sorry I’m so poor. I shall try to rectify this embarrassing social situation. You deserve a bigger and better bike.

7. I will not resort to wine or vodka before 5pm. After 5pm in certain circumstances I may find refuge in a small drink. As long as point 5 has not been abused, then I should make it to 7pm.

8. I will not resort to the answer ‘Because’. Your questions will be given due thought and a proper answer will be given. Even when you when you ask me why it is Sunday tomorrow and not Tuesday. Please do not ask me the same question repeatedly. The answer will remain the same.

9. No means no.

10. Seriously, the answer is still no.

11. Whilst I rather enjoy some privacy during my morning ablutions, I will not scream at you through the door when you demand (repeatedly) that I change the TV channel to CBeebies. In return you will respect that when the bathroom door is shut and the shower is not running that I am otherwise engaged.

12. On gaining entry to the bathroom, you will not run off to tell Daddy how much it ‘stinks’.

13. You will never, ever say the following: “Mummy, why haven’t you tidied my bedroom yet?” This comment is likely to incur violence. When you are a mummy, you will understand.

14. I will never say “When you are a mummy, you will understand.”

15. I will try not to feed you chicken nuggets for every meal, but please do attempt to try some of my lovely home cooking. It would be appreciated if you didn’t declare everything I cook (apart from chicken nuggets) as ‘yucky’. Mummies get hurt too.

16. It is not necessary to wear five outfits a day. Wake up, pick one (preferably not an organza and wild silk, hand embroidered frock) and keep to it. The more washing I do, the less money I have for sweets. Yes, seriously.

17. I am still keeping to my ice-cream only on a Friday rule. I know the ice-cream van comes every day exactly fifteen minutes before tea. I am still sticking to my ice-cream only on Friday rule. This is not negotiable. Asking me more than once on consecutive occasions may lead to points 7 and 14 being rescinded.

18. Please don’t invite all your friends to things without asking me. I do not appreciate it when I say that we are ready to go out for dinner and there are six scrubbed and anticipatory faces beaming back at me from the drive. I don’t have much money. The entire neighbourhood do not need to be invited to everything.

19. I love you. I’m rather bad at showing it. I’m not sure why this is and sometimes I fill with a fury best described as religious – but I do love you. You’re great kids – you deserve a better mummy.

Good news. I'm around $28,000,000 richer.

Dear Mr Ubuko, Ms Deo, Mr Akika, Mr Tete, Mr Kones, Ms Kaki and Mr Hassan.

Forgive me for sending this group email – I appreciate that your emails all requested confidentiality but I feel that as you are all in such similar difficulties you will respect each other’s situation. You may, after all, take a little comfort from knowing that you are not alone in your plight.

I really have to tell you that I’m quite overwhelmed that all of you have decided to contact me this morning and that you have each chosen me to help you move $7 million dollars out of Burkino Faso.

I have wracked my brains to try and work out how you came to put your faith in me over the many other gullible good people of this country and can only surmise that you have seen my internet blog and feel that my philanthropic support of the school fayre is testament to my charitable character.

What providence brings us together, for I am indeed such a person!

I must admit concern over the appalling frequency with which people of standing in the African nations fall victim to plane crashes. Do you know that in Europe, airplane crashes are very rare? Yet here we are today and each and everyone of you has lost either parents or husbands in air disasters. Really, I think that if the Western world knew more of the worrying statistics in African air-safety, they would do something to help. Is there an ombudsman for air travel in Burkino Faso? If so I highly recommend that you put in an official complaint.

Furthermore, given that all but one of you are based in Burkino Faso, It breaks my heart to see that so many good and wealthy men have been killed in such a short period of time. Burkino Faso must feel cursed to have lost so many fine men all in such identical circumstances.

With regards to helping you reclaim your funds, I am of course delighted to be of assistance. Simply let me know what you require from me and I will help. Would it be useful to give you my bank account details and address? Just let me know.

In your case Mr Akika, I think it is important we move fast before the ‘wicked stepmother’ you spoke of carries out her evil plan to murder you. Perhaps you would like to stay here until the money comes through? If I was to send you the money for your flight then you could sleep on the sofa until the $7million dollars come through.

Ms Deo – I’m so sorry for the loss of your husband. And the fact that you wish to use your 60% of the money to build orphanages and care for your disabled son is so touching. Really, your generosity and humanity brought a tear to my eye.

Unfortunately, I feel nervous about giving financial information over email – there are so many unscrupulous people around! Perhaps you would each be so kind as to give me a postal address where I can send you any information that you require to facilitate the movement of monies into this country.

I have concerns that each of these cases will have high administrative costs and that the accounts that you wish to transfer will not be accessible for sometime. Could you each therefore provide me with a bank account name and account numbers in order for me to wire say, £5000 to each. This should help you in the first instance – though of course I will wish to be reimbursed for this once you receive your share of the money.

What a strange coincidence that each of these accounts have around $7million in them! (With the exception of yours Mr Ukika, which has over $30million dollars in! I admit to some excitement at my forthcoming wealth. God was clearly smiling on me this morning when I chanced to check my ‘Spam’ folder. Thank the Lord I did not delete them!

May I thank you each for choosing me to help you in your respective quandaries. I feel sure that we will each have coming to us what we deserve.

Kindest regards

Mrs-You-Cannot-Be-Fucking-Serious-Castle.

My first review... its rather good.

My first review for Simon's Choice is in - thanks very much to Tiffany, whom I promise does not know me and received no bribes from me. That said, do take a look at her blog: http://tiffanysbookshelf.blogspot.com/2010/07/simons-choice-by-charlotte-castle.html


Simon's Choice, by Charlotte Castle
Posted by Tiffany Harkleroad at 5:27 PM

Dr. Simon Bailey, his wife Melissa, and their daughter Sarah are so close a family unit, they call themselves "Team Bailey". Nothing can stop them not even when little Sarah gets diagnosed with leukemia. The family fights through, and Sarah goes into remission. However, when the leukemia returns full force, Team Bailey is no match, and it becomes clear that Sarah will not make it. Suddenly, everything falls apart, because Sarah is the glue holding it all together; when she weakens, so does that bond. Before you know it, Simon and Melissa have a strained relationship, he is admitting to drinking far too much, and now, he is faced with making the decision no father should ever have to make, about a promise he makes to Sarah.

Very rarely do I have the opportunity to review a book before all the rest of the world is raving about it. Once in a while I get lucky, but never so much as when I found Charlotte Castle. This book is a rare find, a pure treasure, and when it inevitably becomes a best seller, I can say I knew it all along.

As soon as I started reading, I was immediately hooked. The characters of Simon, Sarah, and Melissa pull you in from the very first page of the book, and you end up thinking of them as real people. You love them, at times you hate them, you smile with them, you weep for them. These are not mere characters to Charlotte Castle, you can tell she really loves them; it shows in the writing.

As the story unfolds, you are totally invested as a reader. I literally heard the dialogue in my head, which was fun because I got to hear it in a lovely British accent. And I swear at times, I could feel Porridge, the dog, snuggling at my feet. The story wraps around you like a blanket on a rainy day.

Stories about illness, particularly in children, can be difficult, but not once was the story maudlin. I love the paradox of the doctor unable to heal his own child, struggling with his faith all the while. I think the grieving process is so accurately captured, but in such a touching, beautiful way. We do not know, until the end, if Simon will decide to keep his promise, and I absolutely love the beauty in the closing scene. I read it through a wash of tears.

I think that anyone who has children, or has a special child in their life, would love this book and relate to it. Similarly, anyone who has lost a loved one to the ravages of terminal illness will find comfort and realism in the story. Womens literature fans would love it, medical literature fans would love it. And if you like Jodi Picoult, you will love Charlotte Castle.

...Good huh?

Bugs and Bloggers

Husband now has sick bug and baby has diarreah/diorrea/diorrya/diarriah - sloppy poos. The place is a veritable germ-fest and I'm beginning to feel slightly guilty that it may be because I've done very little housework this week. Oh, alright. Bugger all housework. I do have a book to promote you know.

I'm going to finish this post and arm myself with every anti-bacterial trigger-spray known to Tesco and go into battle against the bug. Door handles and light switches will not be spared. Any lurgies in this house have only minutes left.

Of course it will all be competely pointless. Arabella will pick it up at school if she doesn't get it here and I can expect another Exorcist/Victoria Falls extravaganza in the middle of the night when she power pukes from the top of her cabin bed, all down its ladder and across most of her room.

Lucky me.

In other news:

Simon's Choice is currently doing the rounds of book bloggers and so far is bringing in excellent (dare I even say 'rave'?) reviews.

I am however trying to contact 'mummy bloggers' as this book deals with issues surrounding parenthood and I feel that it could be of interest to their readers. Whilst book bloggers seem to be great at getting back to you, sadly mummy bloggers not so. Perhaps as they, like me, are up to their armpits in nappies and school projects - but if any of you happen to have a blog and a spare moment - please do drop me a line. (mrscharlottecastle (at) yahoo (dot) co (dot) uk

Right. Germ warfare....

In which I snarl about husbands and bin men.

I have bravely risen from my death-bed, following 24 hours of either food poisoning or the world's most vicious tummy-bug. Whichever it was, I can highly recommend it. I'm at least half a stone lighter.

Having made my way downstairs this morning, weak and gaunt (oh alright, maybe gaunt's pushing it a bit. Thinner. Less fat. Possibly with one less chin.) I was less than delighted (though not very surprised) to discover that nobody in this house has seen fit to pick up a single thing in the day and night I've been out of action. It's taken an hour to rediscover the sitting room rug.

Honestly. I realise that my husband took the kids to the park yesterday. I know they all went to the pub. I understand he had to go to the shop a couple of times and I sympathise that he had to feed the baby. But would it really, REALLY have been so hard to pick a few toys up? Or put things back in the fridge? (There is a reason, Simon, why your coffee tasted queer this morning. Milk is best kept COLD.)

Plus, the Refuse Refusal service (or bin men as they used to be called) have refused, yet again, to take my refuse. This time it was because I own two wheelie bins. Despite the fact that the council actually provided (and apparently have 'registered' the second bin) I was considered greedy and under-hand and they have left my stinking receptacle to rot for another two weeks until I have this row with them again. Decomposing nappies and mussel shells, do not make a pleasant odour. We shall see what Captain Refuse Refusal, with his bright yellow bib and clipboard has to say next week.

I suspect that Extremely Peculiar Neighbour Number One has something to do with it - I'm sure I saw a yellowing net curtain twitch whilst I dragged the stinking full bin back into the garden, but that may just be paranoia.

For now, I'm off to tackle the kitchen and remind myself what colour the washing up bowl is.