Can’t stop long. Am reading Anne Boileau’s Katharina Luther, Nun Rebel and Wife, which is amazing and I’ve got to finish it for book club on Tuesday afternoon, when the author herself is coming to deliver a talk on Katharina Luther and her book. Actually we’ve all known Anne for a long time, as a member of the congregation of our neighbouring church and by another name – her real name. It’s great to read a very local author.
In the meantime – and on a much smaller scale – my article on church bookshops (Do We Need Bookstalls Inside Churches?) has been published in the January edition of Together magazine (Together being the journal of CRT (Christian Resources Together), which supports all Christian publishing.) Of course, one and only husband found a SPAG, a word omitted – my besetting sin, since I started writing stories at junior school.)
It is now the end of Christmas. Today is 6 January, Epiphany, the last of the twelve days of Christmas. First thing this morning, OOH and I took down the decorations and put the tree outside. They’re all in bags now, waiting to go into the attic. I do love watching the Christmas lights on our Christmas tree, but there’s something very refreshing about seeing the house uncluttered by cards and dangling Christmas lights with trailing electric leads. The days have started getting longer and lighter, really, honestly… well, a bit anyway. Not so nice is having to prepare my lessons tomorrow.
So, it’s down to work and down to writing… I hope. Dear Reader, you saw my writing schedule in my previous post. First thing is I have to write a blog post for the Association of Christian Writers More Than Writers blog for Saturday, 13 January. However, already every day life is intervening. I’ve just had to pay £300 on my car. I took it into my usual garage to get its indicators sorted out, only to be told, by the mechanic, that all my tyres were almost illegal. Seeing as I will be taking my poor little car to the same garage for its MOT in a couple of months, I had to get it sorted out. Ouch, says my poor old bank account. Ouch. When are you going back to work, it asks, and when are going to be able to feed me again?