Not that I'm complaining of course, but since the blasted virus of the other year which  turned out to be  M.E. - necessitating  6 weeks off work and a complete turnaround of my social life - I have lost weight.  Not that I was anything other than a curvaceous, zaftig sort of woman anyway but I have now gone down at least one dress size and sometimes two depending on shops  and frocks and styles. Of course as dress sizes have got bigger over the years anyway I am still a little confused as to what my actual real size is. (You try getting into a vintage 70's size 10 - I tell you if you've got hips, it's an impossibility)* I can get into an American size 8 and fit mostly into UK size 10-12's now but nothing really seems to have changed. I realise my older wardrobe is now quite loose and things I would  live on green tea and toast for a few days to get into for that perfect night out now slide easily on. I  now buy close-fitting outfits which I would otherwise worry about with nary a second thought and don't  worry about taking the clothes off in other than dim lighting and with a Gentleman well-oiled with champagne. But where has it all gone from? The stomach is still no firmly toned smooth, firm layer (blame the disappointments  and surgery) and my thighs aren't  exactly built for speed but I do still wear short skirts and don't frighten the horses while doing so. The bottom may not be as firmly padded - meaning that skinny jeans are now a new-found joy - and the bosom is still more than a handful which again means that corsetry is still a must. (Although with a few strapless frocks I have to be careful when turning round in case something unexpectedly pops out and has someone's eye out). The cheekbones are a little more prominent but you can't tell me I was actually hamster-faced in the first place. I have lost my appetite a little but through not sat in the office all day I am no longer prone to fighting off boredom by visiting the chocolate machine or the cake trolley or just wandering by the biscuit tin in a spirit of enquiry.  And ask a Gentleman whom I Adore and he will tell you that I can quite easily  eat up a storm when he is paying AND still have room for brandy and cheese afterwards.

 But this is not my worry. The real worry, the panic that has me awake at night  (probably adding to the subtle weight-loss regime) is that..... (Brace yourselves, it's a big one)

My shoes no longer fit.

Yes, I have gone down a shoe size. I mean WTF? You're telling me my feet were FAT? The darling Louboutin now slide around the heels and slip-slop, clip-clop off my feet as do most of the other shoes. I rattle around in the boots and with the four pairs of beautiful be-jewelled satin court shoes**  I look like a child playing dressing up in her Mummy's wardrobe. But there is hope. Some of the sandals can be fitted with a tighter application of straps and luckily, the Doc Martens being what they are (i.e a twenty minute struggle to get into them while sat on the floor and cursing) there is no danger of  not being able to wear them again.  Sadly, I am at a loss as to what to do with majority of  the killer heels which make me unable to run for buses, catch trains or walk elegantly without losing a heel in the gutter or it sliding off every fourth step. I mean I can't just abandon them like a basket of un-wanted kittens in the park, but if I do have to replace them all, there is no room to keep 60-odd pairs of shoes just in case my feet get fat again. I suppose I could wear socks with  them but I feel what may look cute on a young slip of a thing going for the 50's bobby soxer look would look - quite frankly - mad on an aging Drama Queen.

It's no use - I'm going to have to start a shoe museum.  And the entry fee can go towards replacing the collection in a smaller size...

 *Gentleman, please don't send me photographs of you trying. It's not half as amusing as you think.... 

** Sorry, but they were on sale and so I bought them in four colours to match various outfits***

***Why am I apologising? You're not the man who pays the bills****

**** And no, I don't have a man who pays the bills. It's all me. But if you want to apply for the post, please contact me with photograph.

 Far be it for me to say that I have the gift of the gab but I appear to be a frequent guest on the local BBC radio these days. I  have done many interviews  in the run-up to Pride,  including the far-too-early- for-a-dramaqueen-who-loves-her-bed 8am slot on the actual day of the festival.  Today, I appear to have been  one of the usual 'Rent-A-Mouth' people on a panel discussion concerning 'Modern Dilemmas'. (And no, it wasn't the hoary old 'Tits V Kitchen?')

 Promising Mummy to be nice to all the other panelists  was possibly one of the hardest things I have ever done but in the end we got in famously and  apart from  - in an old Socliaist sort of way - correcting the Tory when he attempted to tell me that I had 'Proved his Point' there was no real disagreement. And really, it's sort of a no-brainer with some of these dilemmas. You have to do The Right Thing All the time. You have to protect the weak, defend the right of free speech and speak up for injustice.

 But just occasionally, I want to turn into a frothing mad lefty.  And sod the listeners. 

Oh what a difference a few days make. Last weekend I was having fun at the festival. Running around backstage, enjoying the hot sun, relaxing with friends, (hopefully doing good and helping out all and sundry) talking to the press -  even doing a brief TV interview and ultimately, partying til dawn, missing breakfast and wondering exactly why it seemed a good idea to go to  three parties  the night before. (Losing the odd  member of the entourage along the way, I ended up in a club with  just a core of six of us. Two of us left at four am leaving the others to party till dawn. Never saw them again)

This weekend is spent in the hell-hole that used to be my home. The kitchen is a shell, everything is packed away and I will be reduced to attempting haute cuisine for ten days or so with just a microwave and toaster. The kitchen equipment is in boxes spread around the house, the diningroom sideboards have been stripped of photographs and carries an assortment of cartons containing crockery and of course, stupidly, I put the booze in a large box underneath the dining table and crammed other boxes in and around it.*

So,  for the next two weeks while they knock down ceilings, build units, plaster walls, re-thread electrics, lay floors and tile worktops, I will be adrift in my own house

I can see I will be making my favourite thing for dinner for a while.

Reservations.

* But cleverly thinking ahead, I kept the corkscrew in easy reach. 

Well Harrogate was great fun. There were unfortunately, no murders. Nary a power cut either, necessitating a negligee clad huddle in the lobby under flickering candle light wondering Who Was Missing.

There were however, lots of free books, lots of parties and I am living proof that one can live on canapes and wine. Oh and the friendly person in the corner looking like a be-spectacled science teacher was always Jeffrey Deaver . I have had autopsies explained to me by Kathryn Fox with the aid of a cuddly Grommit and a table knife and Tess Gerritson ominously pointed out that a lot of people wake up in the morgue..... Robert Crais quite turned a girl's head despite wearing a hideous tie which he quickly admitted belonged to Harlan Cobden, not him. Stuart Macbride and I shared a smoking habit - he drew something quite silly in my book - and I got mistaken for 'someone in publishing' by an editor who got quite puzzled when he saw a non-crime book in my handbag and asked how much I had paid for it. £6.99, I said. He was quite amazed that I got in under £7k and wondered if I'd like to work for him. Well it was a publishing party and I was wearing killer heels so maybe that's where the confusion came from.

All of the authors I met, despite writing stuff that would turn your hair grey*, were throughly nice, friendly, mild-mannered people who were not frightening in the least, despite having to sleep with the light on after reading their books. But Andy McNab was the complete opposite. Nice books, just right for a bit of escapist readin but damned frightening in the flesh. And he nearly broke my hand when he shook it.

And I met Simon Theakston. Yes, of Theakston's brewery. Who gave me free beer and is offering a two-year readership up in Masham. I think I'm in love.

*Must book in with Maurice & Stefan to make quite sure I am pristine however

I missed out on the festival at Hay-on-Wye this year. It was back in the days of office work and well, after my damp and dreary experience last year and being a Delicate Little Hot-House Flower at the best of times I ddin't make too much of an effort to go. (And frankly sweeties, I could have recreated the experience reading a book while standing in the flower-bed mud in the back terrace these past rainy weeks.) But I am missing the literary life a tad. I want the joy back in my veins of chatting to authors and picking up those lovely, fresh new books and breathing in the smell of them.

So this July I am off to Harrogate. The Crime-Writers Festival is a three-day event as part of the larger International Festival. This time there will be no outdoor, windy, cold and rainy marquees to sit in, no rivers of mud to endanger the heels and no chance of catching trenchfoot in the surroundings that rival a rainy Glasto. It is all being held in comfort of the Crown Hotel. And as I have booked into the self-same hotel for the duration, I may even be able to wander down in a froth of satin negligee and take my breakfast Earl Grey while discussing the finer points of autopsy findings with an author or two. I'm also expecting a power cut, a murder or two and possibly a bit of amatuer sleuthin' (as Lord Peter Wimsey might say)

With such well-made plans, what could possibly go wrong?

I have taken advantage of a new ironing service. They come round in a van, pick it all up and return it the next day.

 The name? .............Iron Maidens.

That'll be Dirty Deeds Done Cheap then. 

 Well it made me laugh. 

 Please don't think I am complaining.* I love the work I'm doing for Nottingham Pride at the moment. I'm enjoying being back into the media whirl, sending out my finely crafted press notices, talking to jounalists and  giving out radio interviews. I'm hounding celebrities for prizes and gifts and donations, going to meetings, giving suggestions and generally running a tight campaign.  But the down side of it means that my usual hedonistic round of pleasure and London has been regretfully put aside. My diary is squeezed and complaining of exhaustion - and not in the usual way either.

Today - as most days recently - I  am cramped over the laptop on the sofa, ignoring the blandishments of Mad Frankie to go out and play at squirrel-hunting (they appear to be playing 'chicken' with him on the garden fence this week) and - with much regret and sulking - I have  had to turn down the chance of a  lovely literary day in London today. Lunch, a private showing, and the possibility of an evening in town.

 I'd better get my reward in heaven 'cos I sure as hell won't even get a snog of out this lot..... 

*Well maybe just a tiny, tiny kvetch.. 

I am in danger of turning into a crabby old woman. Lots of reasons but it's raining, my kitchen is costing more than I expected (I need a new ceiling? And let's have it hand-painted by scores of magical elves while you're at it) and I can't believe I've still got the heating on in June.

And there are trolls around. Trolls abound in this cyber world evidently and I have no idea how to get rid of them. Now trolls are Swedish I think (Or Scandinavian certainly. Don't ask me, I'm fine on the Greco/Roman gods and have a vague grounding in Celtic myths and legends but anything else I'm lost on. There's obviously a gap in my reading somewhere) and the only thing I can remember is that they reside in the Frozen North and live under bridges. Or in tunnels or similar. (As I said my details are a little hazy) Certainly a place where the light has yet to reach which probably explains their aversion to coming out and being spotted and therefore removed. So how does one get rid of them? (Look don't ask me, mention Scandinavia and I get all confused with hot geysers and Fingals  Cave and go off on a tangent about The Hall Of The Mountain King)* I must admit the only reference I have to them is the Three Billy Goats Gruff and all I can remember is that the Troll seemed incredibly stupid to me and was bested in the end.

But I tell you what darlings, in my lovely new be-sequined heels, you won't 'arf tremble when you hear me trip-trapping over the bridge....

* Or is that Emmerson, Lake & Palmer? 

Now I witter on about things being wonderful and fabulous and divine - even when just applied to a cup of tea or a darling handbag. But Friday night was FABULOUS. Amazing. Wonderful and breathtaking. There are no superlatives suitable for such and event.

I saw Liza Minnelli on stage. In Nottingham. I expected to have to be... well... generous about her. I expected to have to make allowances and just appreciate all that she was instead of what she is if you take my meaning. From her first show-stopping number and the standing ovation on her entrance, to her endless, effortless singing and dancing, ending up with her singing her heart out a cappella, I was captivated. My eyes and ears were hungry for more, more more. She was not a washed out torch-singing diva with a past we had come to see, this was pure energy and class and a consumate entertainer. Her voice soared and had lost none of its range, her actions seemed natural and her warmth and happiness at being on stage and performing, genuine. At 62, her legs were gamine and worthy of someone half her age and her banter - including sly swipes at her own oft-mentioned bad husband choices and 'liquor and pills' - did not seem scripted or trite. She looks like her Momma the older she gets, she sounds like her Momma at times but she is always, always, herself. Liza-with-a-Z

I hope to God I look like that at her age. Hell, I wished I looked as good as that now...

So much good karma and my heartfelt thanks, love and devotion to Mike who kindly took me along as his guest.

Now in the not-so fabulous category, obviously Liza sucked all the wonderfulness out of this world and sadly, sadly, Yves St Laurent has died. I shall be wearing my YSL jacket in his honour today. It is fittingly, black grosgrain silk. (Vintage darlings, vintage).My wedding dress in red satinn was a YSL style and pattern, and was a classic design of his from the 80's. If you remember all those crazy, crazy 80's fashion years, you remember the bad stuff. But HIS designs stood out from that melange. Classic lines, beautiful cuts and never out-dated. Ah! now there was man who could dress a woman....

 The joy of not working continues unabated. The sun is shining, the ironing is done (though not  by me I must admit)  the cat is happy, contented and happy to see me,  the fridge is full and there is champagne galore to be found. There are Gentlemen I  Adore in abundance and more trips to be made.  I am in danger of turning into a Disney/Pollyanna type heroine, constantly  talking to the little bluebirds dancing around my head, trilling away as I go along my way and gernerally being so nauseatingly chirpy that I expect all who see me will long to hit me with something large and heavy and guarenteed to take the smile off my face.....

 And the reason? Well, quite a few (see above) but  these   darling boots put the icing on the cake really. An afternoon spent with a  Man I Adore who showed his worth by  not only waiting patiently while I tried them on but also insisted that  my life would be worthless without them.  I tell you, sometimes days don't get any better than that .

 Of course the only problem now is what do I wear with them?