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Sunday, 1 July 2018

Christmas. Cold, imagination only goes so far

This is torture and it happens to me every year.

I am writing a Christmas book. Now, I think the people of Britain should employ me to write Christmas books (although, I suppose, in a roundabout way, they actually are, because if they buy my book it's a bit like being employed by them. Just as long as they don't ask me to clean their windows or cook dinner or anything) because it seems that as soon as I start writing about Christmas the temperature climbs into the twenties and the sun is relentless.

Although I do have to admit I started this book (currently called The Discovery of Christmas, but that will no doubt change) it was November. It was cold.

It felt proper Christmassy. Although on Christmas day it was actually sunny and dry but we won't talk about that.
Now I am getting towards the end of the book. It's still Christmas in book world. Only a few weeks have passed booktimewise. However, here in the real world it's July, the sun is beaming down, even the dog won't go out in the garden and my butter has melted.
If you look closely, you can see my butter melting
So here I am, trying hard to conjure the image of storm lashed coastline, a bare house with sleet pelting the windows as two people huddle up against the cooker to keep warm. With all my windows open and the dog belly-up on my feet.

It's unfair. I spent the last seven months absolutely frozen and now I need to imagine 'absolutely frozen' it's bikini weather. I bet if I suddenly send my leading couple to a desert island, the rain will cascade down and not stop for a fortnight. So, if any farmers would like to sponsor my writing, I will gladly adjust my book settings in order to bring forth whatever weather they desire.

My next book is set back in Yorkshire in a damp spring. So, be prepared for next spring to be the driest on record, will you?

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