I’m willing to bet you weren’t abseiling off the top of the John Radcliffe Hospital – unlike my friend Sara, who conquered her fears for a truly deserving cause: Support for the Sick Newborn And their Parents. Sara and Richard’s daughter Abigail spent her nine weeks of life there, and I’ve seen at first hand what a phenomenal job the staff of the Special Care Baby Unit do.
I can confirm she made it down all 7 storeys (eek!) in one piece: well done, you brave thing you! She’s already made her fundraising target and then some, but if like me you spent your Sunday morning blearily trying to get your head around the hour change, you can still donate here.
I’ve just devoured Hilary McKay’s Saffy’s Angel, which won the Whitbread in 2002 and deserved it utterly. I can’t imagine a ten-year-old girl who wouldn’t fall in love with the whole family. And now I’m rereading Woolf’s To the Lighthouse for the umpteenth time, having spent an insomniac early morning, half-asleep, quoting bits to myself. Oh dear, brain, what are you doing?
Project Poppy is finished! Done! Double-spaced, page-numbered, and sent off into the email-y ether! Phew. I’ve still got a wall full of notes, and the ending is still not quite right, but I’ve reached the point where I have to stop pulling out the loose threads in case I accidentally unravel the whole thing. Now to spend several days eating jelly tots and trying to think of titles. Ooh, and of course looking forward to My Invisible Boyfriend‘s publication on Thursday. I like this week already.
Burning my was-going-to-be-delicious soup (parsnip and ginger, sniffle); getting cross in shops about ‘girls are nurses, boys are doctors’ dressing-up costumes (it’s 2010, you twonks!); really looking forward to the holidays (Doctor Who! chocolate! playing with small children! DOCTOR WHO!).