Book update

Jacket now approved! (After some unseemly to-ing and fro-ing over the 'author photograph'.) And now I'm about to sign off the final proof - which is terrifying and wonderful, all at once. When that's all in the post I can start getting on with the best bit about publishing a book - planning the launch party. September 25th - get ready!

Country Weddings

Spring has sprung, the lambs are bounding (I even went to a Masterclass on Sheep Keeping), the flowers are blooming and the country is one big festival of....weddings. Sorry I've not been on this lately, but I've been too busy trying to kiss my fellow wedding-attendees. This is harder than it sounds when you're both wearing hats with outsized brims and Posh-tribute sunglasses. Add to that the tribulations of pulling high heels out of the soft lawns at every step and eating a puff-pastry asparagus ca-nap (no-one says 'canapay') while sipping/glugging too much free champagne. Ah, it's life at the coal face, I tell you.

I've been lucky enough to have gone to two wonderful examples of country weddings - both of which were fairly 'townie in the country' (or 'TIC'), which made for style and groove but no pretension, which made them both as enjoyable as fresh peonies in a milk bottle in the kitchen. If you know what I mean.

The first was set on an extremely blowy cliff, with large yurts set up in between the ruins of Hastings Castle.'If the winds get higher than 45mph,' said the tent-erectors to the bride's parents, 'you'll need a Plan B.' There was no Plan B, so there we all stayed, freezing but jolly happy and warmed by the fire in the smaller yurt, or dancing in the bigger one. The bride looked fab in a short and floaty white chiffon Amanda Wakely number and the groom looked extremely relaxed.

The second was by the Norfolk Broads on one of those perfect May days that makes you wonder how you could ever even think about living in any other country. The marriage blessing was by the river, and the priest sat at a trestle table, covered with a white cloth and candlesticks and in his dark sunglasses looked thrillingly like a member of the Mafia. The couple exchange grouse chicks instead of rings, and the children - who seemed to reproduce in numbers and certainly noise and overexcitement as the day wore on - played with unashamed, unsupervised bliss. You could hear them splashing into the river, running into the woods or playing a game of 30-a-side football. We ate hot jacket potatoes and cold beef and danced to the groom's teenage son's band. We gave thanks and praise.

Eggsellente

A little quiet lately as I had to recover from 'skiing' in Courmayeur. I don't know the technical term is for my antics on the top of a mountain, but hysteria and sliding down on my arse is probably the kindest. Back in Blighty, we had Easter in the country, which felt just like Christmas as it snowed (I staved off the phobics by staying inside). The olive oil is still cloudy but at least four days of the heating being on meant that by the end of Bank Holiday Monday I could feel my toes and fingers again.

Mud & The City is beginning to feel like a book now. I've been checking over the editor's marks and even caught myself laughing at one of my own jokes - which must be a good sign. And I found my mother's engagement ring, which I thought I'd lost (it was in an egg cup) - perhaps another positive omen. Now it's my last week at Country Life before I fling myself into the abyss of freelancing. Very exciting. If anyone's watching........keep your eye on this space.

Cough, cough

I've been a bit distracted from my laptop by the incessant coughing, sneezing and general wailing emitting from my own self for the past fortnight. As I don't really believe in illness, I've been casting around for the suspect that inflicted this misery upon me. Was it that dodgy sniffer on the tube? The red-faced baby who came to brunch? Sick-building syndrome? In the end, I think it's just pure cold. Cold in our house that is. Apparently, we live in the coldest house in the country. The frost in the garden in the morning is beautiful, but less enticing when it is still there at lunchtime – especially when it has melted in every other garden around us. If I left the butter in the fridge it would be easier to spread on my toast. I know that our kitchen never even approaches the accepted 'room temperature' because the olive oil is permanently cloudy (read the label at the back). We light the fire, which is bliss, but requires a Hansel & Gretel forest to keep it burning. Plus you can only warm up (even scorch) one side of you at a time. Hot water bottles just mean that you either have a lump of scalding plastic on your legs or on your stomach, while the rest of you tries to thaw out. I'm going skiing next week. I think this is my version of a holiday in the sun.

Bump in the night

Being a proper fey town mouse, with a strong strain of sympathy for Buddhism, I am especially squeamish about killing things. After a few months of regular country weekends, however, I began to learn that you just can't be this way in the hinterlands. First it was the spiders, sucked up by the hoover. I don't mind spiders but I do mind their sticky webs coating every nook and cranny in the house. Not long after that, I ordered poison to be poured onto the wasps' nest – it was just too close to my favourite picnic spot in the garden.

But Friday was the night of the first big kill. Driving back to our house from the station in our heavy Land Rover we saw a rabbit run out. Too late, it hesitated and too late we braked. There was the unmistakable bump of a newly squashed Peter Rabbit beneath the tyres. I am sorry, but we left it for dead. I have been reassured that rabbits die quickly (they easily get heart attacks) and perhaps a fox would eat it, so its life wasn't entirely without purpose. Not to mention that there are more rabbits breeding than even Brangelina can manage to adopt – we can spare one or two to the tarmac.

Oddly, the thing I was surprised to note was that I didn't cry or even get too upset. I must be more country than I thought...

Out to lunch

We had a rare bit of fun on Sunday - a friend came to lunch, with her younger sister and a tiny baby boy. Both my friend and I are townies and we found that arranging a lunch in the country is not as easy as looking at the tube map. There were complicated instructions on the phone, then she downloaded more instructions off a route planner. She got almost to the house and then asked someone the way, but they sent her in the wrong direction. Several phone calls later (bad signal in the country means the phone keeps cutting out) my slightly harrassed friend arrived. We wolfed down our lunch (farm chicken, roast potatoes, farm shop carrots etc - all had to be planned early the day before because nothing open on Sunday and most of the good stuff gone from the shops by 1pm on a saturday) and then it was time for her to head off again. Still, she appreciated the log fire in the dining room and her baby was particularly taken by a brass candlestick holder we removed from the piano for him to play with. Ahhh.

Conquer the Castle

Just discovered today that Sky TV are doing a series about six 'dedicated city slickers' attempting to learn some country ways. I can't believe that two weeks at the beautiful Atholl Castle is as 'gruelling' as they promise but apparently someone who has a pet rabbit has to skin one for lunch (not the actual pet, I'm assuming). Anyway - check it out: http://www.stv.tv/content/tv/conquerthecastle/episodes/1
I'm going to see if I can't wangle a visit on behalf of the book.