More than a week since I last posted which always makes me feel like a slouch. When any of my fave bloggers takes a break I get pretty cross. Don’t they know I check in every morning with my second cup of coffee? And if they shut up shop permanently, which can happen, I feel quite bereft. Of course for writers, who, on the whole, don’t get out much, having other people’s blogs to drop in on is the equivalent of gathering round the office water-cooler. Sad really. I never get an office party at Christmas either. Perhaps I should throw myself one.

I believe I may have a mild case of cabin fever. It’s that time of year. The closer I get to a book delivery deadline the harder I work. I suppose it’s like running the London Marathon and experiencing a boost as you catch sight of Big Ben. Poor Mr F keeps wondering if I’ll ever again be allowed out to play. I tell him, he’ll be the first to know. Like students with exams to get through, I’m full of schemes for what I’ll do once I’m a free woman. But I know from experience that when the moment of freedom actually comes that burning desire to defluff my keyboard/colour code my wardrobe/alphabetize my spice rack will vanish.

I’m kidding about the spice rack. Even if I owned one I don’t think I could be that anal about it. But one of the things I do want to do is make grown-up jelly. In fact I’m rather possessed by the idea. Even the news that jelly is now fashionable hasn’t put me off. These fads take a long time to reach Dublin 6. They’ve practically only just heard about cup cakes around here.

A setback for my Inner Homemaker is currently on display on the deck outside our kitchen. One of my two tomato plants, robust and vigorous a week ago, has a severe case of wilt. I thought it might signal the return of the same snails that did for my potatoes, but there are no snails. Unless they’re being bussed in after dark. So I think this may be just a simple case of tommyrot. 

Triumph in the store cupboard however. My sloe gin is looking very good. Apparently I shouldn’t think of bottling it for at least a month, nor of drinking it before Christmas. Just in time for my office party. Definitely what I’d call slow gin.