Letters to Peanut Free on Kindle Until Tomorrow

Dear Readers

A couple of weeks ago I announced that my wee e-book would be out soon and so here it is:


My pregnancy and motherhood diary written as letters and poems because there is nothing more beautiful than:

  • the art of writing letters.  Not emails or tweets or text messages but filling a plain sheet of paper with scribbles and doodles and whatever else you may want to put in a letter.
  • poetry– poems often stay with me for a very long time after I have read them and words and images haunt me like friendly ghosts.

In Letters to Peanut I wanted to catch the emotions that come with first discovering that you are going to become a parent in nine months and then with grappling with sleepless nights, leaking bras and the first twelve months of being a mother (as well as the occasional panicked feeling of ‘Is this for real? I’m actually allowed to be responsible for another human being?)

But it is not all panic! There are times of immense joy that I would love to share with you. The first scan, steps and that first time Peanut made it clear that a chip off the floor was a delicacy worth three Michelin stars unlike anything I cooked.

Here is one of my favourite haiku poems from the book.  I wrote it during long and sleepless nights when the whole world seemed to be fast asleep apart from me, Peanut and a curious fox:


together we learn

the night language of foxes

And for the book romantics out there – print copies will be available in a couple of weeks (formatting takes a bit longer).

This is my very special and magic moment – introducing Letters to Peanut to you and it is FREE for you to download until Saturday 9 November!

I will also be sharing my experience of self-publishing over the next few months so watch this space.




P.S. I would love to also thank everyone for the amazing support so far.  And a big hug to Helen Braid – a very talented and patient cover designer.

Post Comment Love

Letters to Peanut E-book Out Soon!

Here is how it started…

Dear Peanut

One day you will ask me what you were like as a baby and whether you have always hated broccoli.  And if it is not you who asks this, it may be your psychoanalyst.

I will not always have the answers you want.  You know the score, too little sleep and too much gin have done some damage to your mother’s already distressed brain cells so I have scribbled down all my memories of you in the first year of your life.

This is the story of your beginning.




And here is a sneak preview of the cover designed by Helen Braid:


I did it – took the plunge and typed up all my poems and letters written first to the ‘bump’ and then to the newborn Peanut.

Letters to Peanut will be available on Amazon very soon.

So watch this space!




Post Comment Love

101 Lives of a Sofa


Some like the brown leather ones.

Or the oddly shaped like flying saucers ones, designed in high fashion labs.   Not a stitch out of place and watch out if you come near with a bar of chocolate or a glass of red wine.

Others go for the white ones that twist and turn like the Milky (Motor) Way in their living rooms.

We all search for the right one.

Some like piles of cushions scattered everywhere, with no greater plan or reason.

Others like well–matched rows of embroidered squares and circles.

And some like cosiness, comfort and low-maintenance, and the odd crumb.  So do I.

Every sofa tells a story and here is ours.

First there is the smell of spilled morning coffee and rushed routine.  A stash of cornflakes hidden by Peanut, just in case.

The sleepy hollow in the left corner from the time when I carried my boy under my heart and needed those frequent naps or just liked to lie down with my eyes closed and listen to the birds chirping and cars rushing while stroking the Bump.

A few marks where Peanut chose to wipe his nose.  Sorry about that. I know I should take better care of you but a part of me thinks that your shabby looks make you more special.

Some days Teddy 1 and Teddy 2 invade all the sofa space.


All these crumbs and cornflakes, chocolate stains (proof of my late night writing) and hollow spots tell stories about our family.

Stories of fun games and pillow fights.  Laughing out loud.  Building dens.  Cosy evenings after long days; our feet up, plates on our laps and lazy chats.

Of Peanut squeezing through with a book, or two.  Our goodnight reads and singing along to In the Night Garden songs.

Of holding hands when life on the small screen gets too scary.  Of resting my head on BlueBeretDad’s shoulder and falling asleep when the football is on.

Of us mastering the baby babble, making plans for our future and listening to someone playing bagpipes in their garden.

Our sofa is not just another piece of furniture.

It is not about purpose and function and order.

It is more of a friend, though frayed around the edges.

It is a hiding spot for our memories.

Disclosure: This is a sponsored post and I have received monetary compensation for writing it.   All words, images and sofa memories are mine.

Life’s Quirks and Oddities


A year ago I started writing a novel.

It was on the top of my List of Things I Want to Achieve in Life at Some Point Before I Die (And Before the Baby Arrives). This goal was not to become a famous author or to get published (although, I wouldn’t mind either, ehm…ehm).  It was to overcome my fears of inadequacy and to stick to my guns.

Sometimes the writing was all tears, sweat and toil and sometimes the words were pouring out of my soul straight onto the pages.  Even when I only scrawled a sentence or two I was excited to see my first great novel grow alongside Peanut inside me.  Often I was typing to the rhythm of him punching my ribs and he still is fascinated by the sound of me hammering the keyboard.

Pregnancy was a very happy time and a very scary time.  There were days when I was mourning my soon to be lost complete freedom to do whatever I want and whenever I want.  I convinced myself that I was no good mother material, mainly because I had always been dodging other people’s sprogs.  At the same time I could not wait to meet this little person who loved to jiggle and wiggle (but why always at five in the morning?).

The days went by, I grew bigger and more ball-shaped and more pages filled with my “nonsense”.  I can’t sew.  I can’t knit.  I can browse the Internet for deals on baby paraphernalia (psst, and I’m good at it).  So I did that for months.  I liked getting lost while following the myriad of old railway paths around the old harbour in Newhaven and whispering to Peanut about Sartre and superiority of Ben &Jerry’s ice cream over any other ice cream in the world.

Then one Saturday, BlueBeretDad raced the car through the sleepy streets of Edinburgh and around 4am we entered the birth centre as two only to twelve hours later leave it as three.

The plot’s twists and turns intertwined with my own upheavals.  Everything was new, a big question mark hanging over our heads, more often than not with no answer to follow.  After having read countless baby books, BlueBeretDad and I went for the “make it up as you go along” parenting approach.  It has been working for us just fine. Phew.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation and exhaustion or maybe a natural turn of events, but I dropped my writing. Just like that.  The more Peanut grew and surprised us with new skills (Look, he can touch his foot) the less I had and wanted to say. I felt as if all the words I had in me had been consumed by motherhood.

Somehow, with Peanut becoming more independent (as in causing mischief when no one is looking) and me becoming a more relaxed parent, the door to my inner writer’s room unsealed.  I started by undusting my notebook and writing an odd word here and there. Then I kicked off with scribbling down a few poems (bad ones I ‘m afraid) and odd paragraphs of peculiar thoughts whenever I found a minute or two. I stopped watching TV (still make an excuse for some car crash telly when my brain cells crave mindless entertainment) and went back to basics.  Writing.  Not judging. Letting stories happen.   And this is how, ten months after Peanut joined the BlueBeretFamily, this blog was born.  I would not be here typing this tale down for you without my wee boy.  I would not have it any other way.

My novel is still waiting for that last chapter.

My fingertips are still itchy.

Happy First (soon to come) Birthday Peanut.

We love you very much.