Sunday, 4 March 2012

What do dentists and the current WIP have in common? The answer is pain...

Stayed up until nearly 3 in the morning drafting the third novel.  Have now well and truly passed the half-way mark on the sequel to Stockings and Cellulite.  Thanks to the lovely emails received begging to know what happens next, Cass, Morag and Nell are reunited and this time they have a brood of babies.  Yes, Cass was most definitely pregnant at the end of Stockings.  What happens next?  Well Morag might now be a yummy mummy but she’s still a sexual predator; Nell has also popped a sprog and is struggling to get back into both her jeans and a routine, while Cass is juggling weaning and getting her head around the reappearance of Selina, the glamorous Nemesis who did her best to split Cass and hubby Jamie up last time around.  And if Selina has her way, this time she’ll do it permanently.  Yes, we’re talking murder.

It is a nuisance that when in the midst of thinking up murderous plots, real life gets in the way.  The telephone interrupted one particularly drug-induced chapter (the character being under the influence, not me) with my son calling from university.  ‘Hello darling,’ I trilled, ‘how lovely to hear from you.  How are the dental studies going?’  ‘Stressfully,’ barked Robbie.  ‘My uniform is too big.  I look like a shepherd in a nativity play.  Clinic is in ten minutes.  What can I do?’  Mothers are meant to solve these problems instantly.  Even from the other end of a telephone.  My son didn’t appreciate being told to put a tea towel on his head and laugh it off.  Ten minutes later he’d bashed my credit card and bought a smaller uniform.

And talking of dental matters, I had to visit the dentist this week.  Fifty quid to spend five minutes in a reclining chair that goes up and down and have a little mirror whizz around the mouth.  ‘All looking super Mrs Viggiano,’ twinkled the dentist.  Naturally his own pearlies were whiter than white and one could almost see the accompanying little star bounce off an incisor.  Actually I don’t begrudge my dentist a penny.  He’s had a terrible time with me over the years thanks to an in-built fear of the dreaded drill and a low pain-threshold where root canal work is concerned.  That and overdosing on Marathon Man.  Utter torture.

Which brings me full-circle back to the writing.  Because the insufferable Selina is about to dish out a bit of torture herself...

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