OMG. Do Thursday evenings get any more exciting than this??!!

I’ve just discovered that those canny wee devils at my favourite cupcake porn site, Crumbs and Doilies, have a competition running in conjunction with Ollie & Nic to win not only a box of cakes, but a gorgeous little shopper bag…

You have till 14th March to enter.

Knock yourself out I say.

I'll tell you what, the blinking time is just shifting along these days... one minute it was the festive season (which I'm sure I forgot to report on...), then it was My Husband's 40th birthday (which I'm sure I forgot to report on...), then it was Valentine's Day (which I'm sure I forgot to report on...) and bang - we are in March.

What I can tell you though, is that The Brightest Star in the Sky has had me hooked for a week, and despite my desperate dragging it out attempts, I finished it this morning on the way to an appointment in Southampton.

You know what? I didn't get what that bold letter thingymagig was you know, until almost right at the very end... and whilst I only cried the once (a miracle for me with a Marian in my hands) they were right good fat cleansing tears that left me feeling calm and happy.

She has a knack does Ms Keyes. A gift, a knack, whatever you want to call it. But she writes like a dream, creates believable characters, makes you laugh as well as cry and draws you deep into the story till you can't bear to put her books down to go to work, go to bed or go to the dinner table.

66 Star Street is a converted house with 4 flats, and this story intertwines the lives of all the inhabitants - soon to be 40 Katie and her workaholic boyfriend Conall, angry taxi driver Lydia and her Polish flatmates, telephone psychic Jemima and her gardening son Fionn and married couple Maeve and Matt.

And yes, whilst some may argue that so much "life" would never happen in such a small space, and such a small amount of time - I don't care what those people say. They can go to hell on a spacehopper as far as I'm concerned.

By hook or by crook you should get yourself to a shop this weekend and buy yourself a big gold hardback edition of this book, stop off at the supermarket on the way home for a couple of sticky buns and a nice bottle of something pink and fizzy, then whack your slanket on, turn off the phone and the TV, turn up the heating and curl up on the sofa with Marian till Monday. Enjoy.

Good old New Work. A rather spiffing competition is currently running on our website to win a fabulous weekend to New York, including flights with Air France and three nights at the Hotel on Rivington…. I can’t enter, damn and blast it, but YOU can. Go on. You know you want to!

Treat

For a variety of reasons, I haven't been buying any books... firstly, cause there is no room at the inn, secondly, cause He threatened divorce if I did, and thirdly, cause I still have many piles of unread novels awaiting my attention....

However, to celebrate the so-far-so-good success of my New Year Diet (I know, I know - but 8 lbs in 3 weeks ain't too shabby!) I went and treated myself to...

The Truth About Melody Browne

The Gift

The Brightest Star in the Sky

Twenties Girl

Guess how excited I am now they've arrived.... I will spend some time stroking them, and then decide which one to start first later on today.

Those lovely people at Random House have launched a couple of online competitions to tie in with the Paperback release of the hotly anticipated new book from Sophie Kinsella… There’s one comp to win a big bunch of Benefit goodies and another to win what looks like a very nifty necklace . I’ve entered both, cause after all, you’ve got to be in it, to win it!

I remember reading The Lovely Bones whilst stuck on reception at The Big W. I remember being incredibly moved and upset by it, and absolutely in awe of the writer’s ability to make me believe the story and the characters wholly and completely.

I haven’t read Push. I hadn’t even heard of Push till I read a newspaper interview with the author a week or so ago…and thought, crickey, that sounds awful…..

I’ve now seen the movie versions of both (don’t ask me how, or I expect I will end up in jail).

Precious (based on Push) is one of the most moving and upsetting films I have seen in many a moon, and I completely and wholly believed all the characters (including one played by my favourite crazy Pop Tart – Mariah Carey) and the story.

The Lovely Bones is one of the biggest disappointments ever to grace the silver screen… and I’m putting it in the same box I put PS I Love You and Confessions of a Shopaholic, two other brilliant books absolutely massacred in the movies…

I can only imagine how fabulous it must be to be a writer who’s book gets optioned (I believe that is the phrase), and then some bigwig Hollywood Producer dude promises you script approval and the like….and the royalty cheques must help with the gas bill. But, it must be like having your leg ripped off by a hungry hippo when you finally see your baby in all its post production glory at a red carpet preview screening and they’ve fucked it right up….

Oh, the weather outside is.....

What a beautiful morning we had yesterday....




What a fucking shit evening we have today....

I was so upset to read on Marian Keyes website today that she is suffering terribly with depression and can’t eat, sleep,write, read, or talk to people at the moment.

Please do, if you can, leave a message of support on her website to make sure that she knows just how very much she has loved and respected by all her readers.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Like the rest of London and the South, I have been sludging around since the middle of last week moaning about the weather and the knock-on effect it has had on your normal, every day services and the like... roads are fucked, trains are fucked, blah blah. But. It does n'arf make for some pretty pictures.

An Ode to The Girls

We're here to celebrate Melly's birthday and what a year it's been,
New Baby Chase, a new country house and my very own wedding ring.
A year of good fun and great laughs, but also tears and loss,
We've shared it all, the good and bad, and always found time for a goss.

I love you girls, one and all,
You pick me up whenever I fall.
You accept my flaws, of which there are many,
And for all my crazy thoughts, you never fail to offer a penny.

Next year will be a cracker, I feel it in my bones,
So let's enjoy it all, and try and limit the moans,
We really do have so much to give thanks for,
Please feel free to stop me if I become a bore...

Next year we celebrate 10 long years together,
And I know our lives have changed and altered forever,
But I miss you girls, so here's my plan,
I know we have the Birthday thing of which I'm a fan,
But how about a regular date, on a recurring theme?
A something TBC every month, are you keen?

Either way let's raise a glass, say thanks and pray,
That we all get up tomorrow to play another day,
And as one year ends and another begins,
As Delboy would say, she who dares, wins!

In less than 4 weeks we will be celebrating the start of another New Year. 2010 will see me hitting my 40th birthday. What on earth has happened to those years....where on earth did the time go?

As you know, I wasn't feeling a great deal of love for October, and whilst we've had some more good stuff these past few weeks - the mood is still somewhat somber in the Virtue household...but I did meet beautiful Baby Chase Bailey, the newest addition to The Girls. Such a pretty little doll, she's gorgeous... look.

and we put up the smallest desk top Christmas tree and started to get some festive cheer...

I have high (too high maybe?) hopes for December. I'm catching up with some old friends this week for drinks, I have some seasonal Ballet fun planned for Friday, we have the last Birthday Lunch gang extravaganza on Saturday...then next week there is a night out to The Union with my two spectacular author friends, an early Christmas lunch in Kent, some Christmas Eve drinks with The Mother and then the 4 day Lard-Fest begins with more turkey and Brussels action than any one person should be made to endure...

You know what you’re going to get with a Jackie.

Sex. Scandal. Shit hot movie stars, and drug dealers, and rock gods and hookers…and Poor Little Bitch Girl has all that, and so much more.

There are some great new key players – Denver Jones – LA based attorney at law, her secretly pregnant best friend Carolyn – caught up in an affair with a Washington Senator, old friend Annabelle Maestro and her junkie boyfriend Frankie, and the gorgeous son of Lucky Santangelo – Bobby – who went to school with all three of them.

When Annabelle’s movie star mother, Gemma, is found dead – husband and fellow movie star Ralph is quick to bring onboard Denver’s law firm to protect him. Then Annabelle and Frankie’s secret business venture becomes very public just before the funeral and Carolyn’s slimy Senator lover is hatching a dastardly plan, while Bobby is caught up in everyone’s business…

What fabulous tangled webs Ms Collins spins for the reader. I love her books, I love her characters, I love everything about ‘em…

The latest very best thing...

Last night, We, the girls from work, otherwise known as “The Circle of Trust” went out for a spot of dinner at Awana down Kensington way.

Food was good. Nice bit on wonton. Healthy option veggie stir fry thing. Non-healthy trio of choc mousse for dessert. Good. But, here’s the thing. Awana Hibiscus Champagne cocktails at £10 a pop. Sweet lord. The absolute very best drink I have sipped in many a moon.

Will be getting myself along to the nearest Lakeland for some of them hibiscus flowers in a jar asap to recreate the wonderment at home over the Christmas season. Oh yes I will.

We, The Girls, went out

on Saturday for an early celebration of Natalia ChimmyChanga's birthday. There was dancing. And drinking. And a lot of laughing. And chips on the way home.







I swear, life gets no better than laughing with your mates. The ultimate Prozac.

There was a time before Twitter

Back in my day, and by that I mean the late ‘70’s, early ‘80’s, people – ALL people – had respect for authority. We didn’t bang on about respect having to be earnt; we just didn’t fuck around with the police. Or teachers. Or our parents. That was just the way it was. You didn’t break the law. You went to school to learn stuff. And what your parents said, went.

There were 3 TV channels. Just three. It didn’t mean you were deprived. Or poor. You didn’t call ChildLine and claim you were being victimised. And there was one TV in the house. In the front room. And you watched what your family wanted to watch. And you turned the channels by GETTING UP. No remote. And no Freeview. Or satellite. No streaming. No MTV. No video. No DVD. No Blu Ray. No HardDriver recorder. No IPlayer. No nothing. And we just got on with it. And at the Government-decided bedtime a thing called a test card came on, and that was that. You turned it off. And went to bed.

There was a time before people comparedthemarketdotcom for the fastest broadband they could get at home. I’ll tell you what – there was a time before most workplaces had a computer, let alone every home. I hear talk of the Government proclaiming that a family has a right to fast internet connection at home. Seriously – an actual Human Right. Laptops and PC’s at home weren’t even thought of when I was a girl. I typed on an Olivetti word processor at work in 1986, and I was considered ahead of the IT game.

Of course there was crime. And kids being a nuisance. BUT. There weren’t any hoodies who would literally kick your head in if you looked at them. ASBO’s didn’t exist. Child burglars didn’t successfully sue a homeowner when they fell over and cut themselves whilst trying to break into their house. Kids didn’t sue their parents for damages cause you were sent to your room. There was no naughty step.

There was rubbish, and litter and trash. But you didn’t get fined by the local council for putting a piece of paper in the rubbish. Your tax paying dollar didn’t go towards printing a manual for road sweepers on how to pick up fallen leaves. (PS – there wasn’t any council tax… there wasn’t any poll tax either come to that!). And you know what, all the litter got collected. No fuss. No nonsense. Job done.

Your NHS contributions actually paid for your dentist and doctor fees. And you could actually get to see a doctor or dentist as well when you were poorly.

You had to wait till you got home to talk to your friends on a LANDLINE. There was one phone in the house, normally in the hall by the door. And it had a lead, that plugged into a socket. In the wall. You didn’t have a mobile, or a Blackberry. You didn’t text. There was no facebook or friends reunited, or myspace or twitter. There was no Youtube. There was the News at Ten. And there was a Newspaper. And that’s where you found out what was going on in the world.

You didn’t have a Wii. Or a PSP. Or an Xbox. Or a Game Cube. Or Nintendo. Or anything. If you were lucky you had a Merlin or a Pacman. But mostly you went outside. And played with your mates. Or stayed at home. And made something. With glue and paper and old cereal boxes. Or you painted. Or read. A book. Or an annual. Or a magazine that didn’t have air brushing or celebrity gossip….cause there weren’t such things as celebrities. You had people who were famous for actually doing something great. Not just being famous for sleeping with someone else. Or wearing less clothes than someone else. Or eating grubs in the jungle. I know!

There was no gluten free. People weren’t wheat or dairy intolerant. Jamie Oliver didn’t tell Schools what to feed our youth. You ate what you were given or you stayed sat at the table (Yes, in my day people ate at a table) till your bum went numb and it got dark outside. No-one talked about 5 a day. Or nutritional value. And let me tell you – we were healthier then than most kids seem to be these days. Child obesity was never discussed and there certainly wasn’t an epidemic of it.

You knew a lot less about the inner workings of things like public bodies, and organisations and Big Business. And quite frankly you didn’t care. MP’s probably were spending our money on beer and chips, but we never knew so we couldn’t be outraged by it. There was no Tax Payers Alliance. There was no Political Correctness. No Human Rights. People just got on with it. Living. Most normal, average people just wouldn’t dream of doing something that would physically, mentally or emotionally hurt another human being. Call me old fashioned, but I really miss that.

If you pissed someone off by saying something they didn’t like, you said sorry… or you didn’t. You didn’t get lynched. Or sacked. Or jailed for it. You were allowed to not like people for whatever fucking reason you wanted. People who supported a different football team. Went to a different school. Liked different music. Whatever man. That’s freedom of speech.

I’ll tell you what. It’s not as good today as the old days you know. We may be advancing with every passing day in science and technology and you know, other stuff. But in my opinion society has gone to the dogs. And instead of trying to “inspire the world and lead the construction of a new global order” Gordon Brown and all his other useless, money grabbing, lying toad colleagues in The Government could look a little closer to home and fix Britain, cause from where I’m sitting, its all turned to shit.

Don't patronise popular fiction by women

Genius column on the Guardian website today …

Don't patronise popular fiction by women.

I'm fed up with seeing some of our best novelists written off as 'chick lit' – you don't see the same belittling line taken with male writers. Until May, I had two jobs. I was a writer, with three novels out, and I was an editor at one of the biggest publishers in the UK. I was lucky enough to work with many bestselling authors, but eventually writing won out, and now I am a crazy person sitting in my pyjamas eating jaffa cakes and wondering from where the crying baby in the basement flat suddenly materialised.

When I was an editor, my books were in the genre known for some reason as "commercial women's fiction". We – my colleagues and fellow publishers – loved these books and knew the truth, which is that books bought by women prop up the book trade, and that we should be proud both of the product itself and the diversion it gives hardworking people who want a good read. Now I've left, I'm looking at it from the other side – and what I see alarms me.

I am passionate about this kind of writing, but it seems to me to come in for an extraordinary amount of bile and patronising comment which I rarely see applied to novels by men in the same vein. Books – both fiction and non-fiction – reflecting women's lives, whether young or old, are labelled. Hence "chick-lit": often a derogatory term used to mean books by young women drinking chardonnay and being silly about boys, without the thought that novels by women about women might accurately reflect their lives and thus have merit or, at the very least, relevance.

It winds me up that books about young women are seen as frivolous and silly, while books about young men's lives that cover the same topics, are reviewed and debated, seen as valid and interesting contributions to the current social and media scene. Take anything from Toby Young's How To Lose Friends and Alienate People to The Contortionist's Handbook to Toby Litt or David Nicholls's One Day, or the works of Dave Eggers and Jonathan Lethem. Often these books are far more sensationalist than those by the authors' female counterparts: about how many women the protagonists have slept with, how many drugs they've done, what a crazy nihilistic time they're having in London / New York. I'm not saying they're bad books: Jonathan Lethem is one of my favourite writers and One Day is probably my book of the year. I'm just saying they aren't belittled and dismissed in the same way on the grounds of their subject-matter.

The truth is, women happily read books (and watch films and TV) aimed primarily at men. That's because women buy more and read more, full stop. They read thrillers, travel books, biographies – and yet the majority of these books are marketed for men. Women know they'll like it and give it a go. They'll happily pick up a copy of Porno, with a plastic female sex doll on the front. But men rarely try women's fiction, because they've been conditioned to think they can't pick up a book with a pink cover.

It's a real shame, because if you want to read someone who reflects women (and men's) lives with authenticity and sharp observation, someone whose books will absorb you and make you cry, there are so many options. You can do no better than Lisa Jewell or Emily Barr, or the high priestess of "commercial women's fiction", Marian Keyes. For me, The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank is note-perfect, one of the best books of the last 10 years. Lauren Weisberger's The Devil Wears Prada is like a thriller of first-job hell, it's so tautly written. And Jennifer Weiner (Good in Bed, In Her Shoes, Little Earthquakes) is a genius. Her books are totally gripping, beautifully written, heartbreaking and hilarious. But I have yet to see a review of her which reflects this, except in magazines like Heat, which takes its commercial fiction seriously.

And don't get me started on the criminally undervalued women writers of the previous half-century: Dorothy Whipple, Elizabeth Taylor, Barbara Pym, even Joanna Trollope, who I think should be taught for A-level, she's so good.

It amuses me when people say, "Oh, it's a bit like Jane Austen", to denote a writer of romantic novels or sharp-eyed stories about mousy young women (Barbara Pym is always being compared to Jane Austen, I guess because they both write about spinsters. She's nothing like her.) There's something a little patronising about the tone of it, whereas books by young men are compared to older male writers as if it's a coronation, a welcoming to the literary canon. And quite often I'm left wanting to go – huh? I don't get it. There's room for both. And I know which I'd prefer to read.

In May next year, Hodder will be publishing a brand new hardback from the ever satisfying Mike Gayle The Importance of Being a Bachelor which I finished at the weekend.

Oh My - what a cracker. I love, love, love Mike’s books, and have been a firm fan since back in the days of My Legendary Girlfriend some 10 years ago. This bad boy concentrates on the three Bachelor boys – bar owner Adam who is persuaded by his mates that WAG’s and Page 3 girls just aren’t the right type of girl to date anymore, Luke who has baggage to deal with before he can move forward with fiancé Cassie and then poor old youngest son Russell, in love with a woman he can’t have.

There is something about a dude writing books about relationships and love and stuff that I find fascinating and fabulous – and the other perspective he brings in the never ending Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus debate is refreshingly frank.

Gingerbread Latte versus Skinny Latte with a ginger syrup shot‏

From: SJV
Sent: 09 November 2009 15:32:05
To: ukinfo@starbucks.com

Hi

As a valid and loyal customer of Starbucks for some 10 years, I am writing for clarification of your pricing policy for the above.

A venti skinny latte with a shot of gingerbread syrup should cost me £2.90 (£2.60 for the coffee, and an extra 30p for the syrup).

Why then do I have to pay £3.45 for the exact same thing, despite not wanting the cream, and infact having to specifically ask the barista to “hold the cream”?

As someone who buys a coffee every working day of the week, and will be having a skinny latte with ginger syrup shot for the entire Christmas season, I am fearful that I will end up being some £30 out of pocket just because of your “Winter Special” marketing gimmick.

I look forward to hearing from you.

With kind regards

SJV

I have found myself with very little to say of late. I fear I have S.A.D. to go with the bog standard O.C.D.

It’s not that I am particularly peeved. Or miffed. Just a bit sullen. And sulky. Almost grumpy I would say.

Don’t get me wrong. There was some good stuff in October. We had The Niece to stay for a weekend which was fab and we took her to see Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs which was great fun. I met up with my old work buddy’s from the Big W at Ayoush and had a Moroccan feast. I had The Girls over for a Saturday night with dinner and The X Factor. I met up with my two gorgeous author chums at The Union Club again and got happily squiffy. I then had one of them (together with her husband and little girl (who is quite beautiful)) over for Sunday lunch. Me and The Husband had a day off together and chill-ax’ed on the sofa. I did some baking. And some bike riding. And almost finished my Christmas shopping already. I kept on top of the never ending chores. We watched Up and I cried my eyes out. And I even found the time to paint my nails.

But.

It’s just all overshadowed by the constant darkness. Literally.

Any one else find themselves feeling miserable?

Recipe for Scandal is the brand new title publishing in January from New Work by the ever popular Debby Holt – she of The Ex-Wife's Survival Guide , Annie May's Black Book , The Trouble with Marriage and Love Affairs for Grown-Ups. Do you notice a theme here? Anyway. We have a beautiful package, the author has a huge following and is an extremely popular short story writer with over sixty stories published in women's magazines including Women's Weekly and The Lady. She writes great books, full of middle aged ladies having a whale of a time, and this one will be brilliant to curl up with on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate and a few Nice biscuits.