THE MARCH OF THE PENGUINS
THE GHOST AND
GONE WITH THE WIND
A JUDGEMENT IN STONE
by Ruth Rendell
TINKER, TAILOR, SOLDIER, SPY
by John le Carre,
THE GRAND SOPHY
by Georgette Heyer
THE MARRIAGE MIRACLE
by Liz Fielding
David Attenborough's nature shows. Any and all of them.
Anything with Placido Domingo
Check out Lucy's
Buy Lucy's Romances
This is Flump (short for Fat Lump) and he was the great love of my life. (My husband is very understanding about this.) When he died eight years ago I wrote the following poem -
When I was writing Farelli's Wife I was wracking my brains trying to think of a good climax. It's about a woman in love with her cousin's widower. He loved his dead wife and feels guilty about loving another woman. Then I remembered this poem, and saw how it could be used to resolve the problem. She wrote it to him before her death, releasing him to love again. I had to adapt it slightly to take out dog references, but only a little, and basically its the same poem. The last verse is exactly the same.
That's why Farelli's Wife contains a dedication to Flump in the front.
He was the most beautiful dog who ever lived, and eight years later I still miss him. I haven't been able to take his advice and let him go.
BERTIE 1 & 2
The first Bertie was only mine for a short time. When we went to live in Italy we took him with us. He had a dual personality. He would spend the nights out being ‘macho cat’, fighting all the local toms and loving all the females. (They say the number of black litters born in that area rose dramatically.)
In the morning he’d come home with a smile on his face, curl up in my lap and be ‘Mommy’s boy’. He was loving in the way a dog is loving, endlessly wanting cuddles, and he was terribly upset when Flump, the dog, came to live with us. He didn’t want to share the love, jumped out of my arms and snubbed me for six months.
At last we decided to return to England, and went across for a week to find a house. By that time we had three cats and two dogs. We left them in the house, being looked after by a friend.
But when we returned Bertie was gone. He’d simply gone out one day and never returned. The others were all fine, but we never saw Bertie again.
Maybe he met a sudden end on those dark country roads, but in Italy few of the female cats are neutered, and he did enjoy his fun. So I like to believe he chose to stay among the ladies who appreciated him.
Recently I got another cat and, rather unwisely, tried to duplicate Bertie, even to giving him the same name. But, of course, he’s his own cat, and insists on his own personality. He gives me his company while I’m writing, but on his own terms, and he’s not one for cuddles.
It’s taken time, but we’ve reached an accommodation. He gives the orders, I obey them, which seems about fair.
~ a taste of italy at home ~