Mwah, Mwah.

I was given an award for blogging today.

Somebody actually took the time to say that they liked my blog and that i deserved an award for it.

Bloody hell.



So, thankyou again, (Very) lost in France.

It really did make my day.



I told Sy about it.

'I've got an award for my blog.'

'Which bit?'

'All of it, i suppose..'



He doesn't look too thrilled. He say's he's really pleased, but i know different.

You see, there is one thing i left out out of one of my earlier posts-(Eating, drinking...some things i have found out about my writer..)

Don't ever think that you might be able to write too- Your writer will not be able to tolerate this.
There is no room in your house for two egos.

And i think i might be on the verge of breaking this cardinal rule.
Only difference is, i'm not doing this for money (actually, at this point in time, neither is Sy, so he shouldn't be moaning really.)
And, i don't really believe i can write (he knows he can.)
I write the way i talk (without the accent, obviously)- there is no reasoning to my ramblings and no proper grammer either. I talk at a hundred miles an hour, draw breath only when i feel dizzy and start to turn blue, and lose track of what i'm talking about very quickly.

It's people like me that create the nightmares of chatshow hosts and English teachers.

Sy's Writers Guild award takes pride of place on a shelf above the telly in the sitting room.
Now and again, when he's had too much scotch and there is particularly bad police drama on the box, he will trundle over to the shelf, pick up the award, look at it lovingly and tell the world (well, just me normally) about how crap telly is these days and that 'they don't make drama like they used to.'
But his language is a lot more colourful.
And he also reels off his 'hitlist'- but i can't name names at any of the corporations, for legal reasons.

I thought i might print off my little award and sit it next to Sy's.

But then he might think i'm getting ideas above my station. And we can't have that.
I'm now going to go back to the kitchen and carry on with the ironing.

I know my place.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx