It was a matter of moral courage and fortiude that I did not turn on the computer over the Christmas break but devoted myself instead to family matters. It was a good idea at the time and in years to came may well prove beneficial. For the moment all it means is that the boys are fed, the cards are displayed (hey loookit everyone, I have friends ) and the underwear is out of the drier. I was so smug.

Than I turned on the computer and realised that I also have have insider knowledge on the price of shares and leads on where to buy my viagra.

WHO IS SENDING THIS SPAM????

Someone in the ether is out to inform me....

Happy '007

This morningI received a letter informing me that the unabridged audio rights worldwide for The Jigsaw Maker have been sold to Oakhill Publishing ltd- available April-June. What a pleasant way to start the weekend.

I can't imagine what it will be like to listen to my words, my characters from someone else's mouth. It's probably like hearing yourself on tape for the first time.

I always reckoned I knew my own voice - deep, light Irish acccent, calm - but somehow the tape distorted it. There was anothervoice, higher, the accent more pronounced, disturbingly familiar while being unrecognisable. I listened a few moments before asking who the other woman was and wondered why I hadn't spoken yet. Even then the penny didn't drop.

I know Lizzie in The Jigsaw Maker; I know how she looks, how she moves; I know what shesounds like.

Or I think I do.

I travel to Ireland Wed.to meet the pr lady who will help me launch Soft Voices Whispering in Ireland. Reviews so far from this side of the water are positive so my hopes are high for a response in the counrty where these stories are set. Then there'll be a frenetic three months before I have to settle down and begin to think of what happens after Polishing off the Cherries is finished.

Actually, I know already.

Just before christmas I visited a woman I met and liked at her workplace. She restores church furniture in a huge warehouse/barn in Molesley. There's something very disturbing about wandering around amidst altars, tabernacles and pulpits. What I really wanted was a confessional - a must for a writer who cannot escape her spiritual awareness however hard she tries. Some of the stuff was beautiful, some distressed and forlorn. I fell in love everytime I turned my head but it was the small dusty item shoved under a stool that caught my eye. The owner was amused at my choice but I recognised it straight away.

About ten years ago I watched an old lady comb the candle tray in a church with her fingers. I wasn't a writer them but I knew straightaway that one day this would mean something. When I bent down in that warehouse in Molesley to pick up my find, I knew what it was.

I'll tell you once I get the first three chapters written.

So it works.

For weeks I've been drip feeding the blog, wondering if anyone really looks at blogs that crop up in the ether and suddenly someone from the past appears. Wonderful! Cyril is a friend from Aberdeen days who worked in the same school as I did - I was the Irish supply teacher; he was the French assistant. Good to have you back.

So, a weekend in Ireland and I'm out of kilter. If home is where the heart is then mine is split. 26 years in the Uk hasn't dulled my passion for Ireland or my feeling that it's home but 26 years in the Uk has brought a husband, three sons and a cirle of good friends...and that's home too.

Guess I'm lucky.

When Sandra held up the Writers Forum Magazine and said, 'Have you seen this?'I nodded. I've seen it lots of times and think it's a good read. She looked surprised as if my reaction was odd. Then I saw why.

On the front cover a photo of yours truly smiled out at me and above it, the captionWily old birds hit out at chick-lit. Oh dear - is that what I am now - a wob?

The article was written by Helene Parry, a very friendly interviewer who came one hot summer's day and asked lots of questions. She'd done her research and was familiar with both my work and my publishers - Transita. I thought she was nice; she thought I was a wily old bird.