Anam Cara

   I get lots of questions about my books and the most asked one is, what’s the influence behind it?

Well, the influence behind Anam Cara is threefold: our fiftieth birthdays, my friend’s marriage breakdown, and a family member’s illness.

   Let’s start with our fiftieth birthdays. My husband Simon is six months older than me, and he dealt with the looming milestone with astonishing dread and panic. Age had never seemed to bother him before – it’s never bothered me – but this birthday carried such weight and anticipation. It wasn’t just a milestone – it was a death sentence. A this is it now, the beginning of the end, moment. I say moment – the build-up lasted a good two years! By the time Simon did actually hit fifty, we were all – the entire family – exhausted from the trepidation.

   I understand, I do. My father-in-law died far too young, at sixty-nine. His father too, and his father before him. And it was something that Austin (my father-in-law) focused on and talked about often. He knew he wouldn’t reach seventy. It was his destiny, his heritage.

 

Simon's parents in 1962

   And so, when Simon became fixated about hitting fifty, and panicking about dying before the last Harry Potter film was out, he managed to talk himself into an even earlier demise, with ease. Luckily for us all, the final Harry Potter film was out two months after his forty-eighth birthday. Thank goodness, I thought, this is the end of his irrational panic. But it wasn’t.

   He’s not an irrational person as such; he’s overworked and in his job as a nurse, sees a great many early deaths and cares for many patients in a bad way, much younger than us. So I can see how it happens. Whereas I have always worked with children. They keep you young. They don’t make you feel old – well, except for when they ask things like, , 'So what did you do in the second world war?' Or my favourite one: 'Miss, what sort of clothes did you wear in the Victorian days?'

   So we got together, the children and I, and planned a week away for Simon and myself, to celebrate his birthday. The obvious destination was Stratford-upon-Avon; it’s where the magic started all those years ago when we were drama students in our late teens. It’s always been our favourite place ever since. There, and the Lake District. Although, the Lake District is our family holiday haunt; Stratford is just for us.

   Three plays at the RSC booked, pubs earmarked, museums noted, and riverside walks plotted, it was set to be a birthday to remember for all the right reasons. And best of all, Simon had no idea about it.

The Royal Shakespeare Company theatre.

The Garrick Inn. The oldest pub in Stratford-upon-Avon, and a perfect place for lunch.

William Shakespeare's birthplace on  Henley Street.

Boats on the River Avon.

   I’d found a romantic cottage in the village of Wilmcote, just outside Stratford, known for being the birthplace and childhood home of William Shakespeare’s mother, Mary Arden. A short drive, or train-ride, from the centre, it was the perfect base. We’d done some of the touristy bits before over the years, with the children, but two places had so far eluded us: Mary Arden’s Farm and Anne Hathaway’s cottage. They were our first two destinations.

Mary Arden's Farm in Wilmcote

Anne Hathaway's Cottage and Gardens in Shottery.

   We fell completely in love with Wilmcote and have been back every year (until Covid happened), staying either at the cottage or the Mary Arden Inn. When I started writing Cobbled Streets & Teenage Dreams three years later, using Wilmcote as the home of my main character seemed the obvious choice.

The Mary Arden Inn, Wilmcote.

   And then towards the end of our holiday, we got the phone call nobody wants. My sister-in-law had been diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer. None of us were prepared for it – we thought she just had ‘flu. ‘What does Stage 4 mean?’ I asked. ‘I asked that, too,’ she said. ‘There is no Stage 5. This is it.’

And so we cried it out, we talked it out. We discussed who would look after my brother. What to do about their children – all grown up, but children, nevertheless. And life took a different turn. Simon and I came home from Stratford, determined not to waste another moment of our lives fretting about growing old.

   I wanted a ring to mark my fiftieth. Something with a Celtic design, preferably made in Ireland, to celebrate my Irish ancestry.

I trawled through the internet, with an idea in my head, and found the perfect ring – a delicate Celtic knot design of interwoven hearts and studded with diamonds – from a jeweller in Dublin called ShanOre. Not only did they have the perfect ring for me, but I found one for Simon too; a chunky silver one, bearing the words Anam Cara. Soulmate.

  I knew instantly that Anam Cara would make a great title for a book. All I had to do next was come up with a story to match the title!

 Not long after, a friend’s marriage broke down. It came totally out of the blue and very dramatically. She and I have been friends since before marriage and children, so it really threw me. It’s the unexpected things that change your perspective, change your life. Make you realise just how unpredictable it all really is, and how we should never take anything for granted. We should treasure what we have that’s good and shed what’s bad.

   And so, I combined the three separate situations – hitting fifty, dealing with an illness, and going through a breakup – and set about putting Anam Cara down on paper.

   The main character, Brianna Hillingdon, is a mum of three. She’s dealing with a new way of life now that the children have left home. She’s also dealing with that milestone birthday. We all deal with change differently but the shift from full-time mum to mum with an empty nest, is a pretty powerful one, and the emotions I went through when it was my turn, mirrored those of my friends and family in the same position, and that is reflected in how my character deals with it, too.

   Although we live in the seaside town of Bournemouth, I’ve always been in love with the Purbecks, in particular, the village of Corfe Castle. It’s picturesque, full of charm and very friendly.  The perfect location for my novel. It was our first outing beyond Bournemouth when Simon & I first arrived here in 1985. We took the open topped bus across the chain ferry, through Studland, and on to Corfe Castle. It was pouring with rain by the time we arrived, so we abandoned the castle grounds and camped out in the National Trust tea rooms, huddled by the fire, until the neighbouring pub opened. Yes, back then all day opening hadn’t been thought of yet. 

Corfe Castle, from God's Acre burial ground, West Street.

National Trust Tea Room, The Square (by the castle entrance)

   Corfe Castle became our go-to place, as did Studland, and it was always my dream to live in either village. But my dream house required a lottery win, which hasn't happened so far. So we made do with days out; activity days at the castle, Halloween trails on Studland beach, celebration treats in the National Trust tea rooms , and spending pocket money in the gift shops and village post office. As the children got older, our visits are more for long walks & hill climbs, and ice creams on the beach at Studland or by the river at Wareham. 

Studland beach looking towards Bournemouth & Poole

Studland beach looking towards Old Harry Rocks

Wareham Quay & The Old Granary

   The house I used as Brianna’s home on West Street in Corfe Castle, is real. It was on the market a few years ago for a tidy sum (more praying for that lottery win) so I was able to collate the information from Rightmove, adding my own imagination and plans of how I would change things if it were mine.

Brianna's house.

A walk down West Street, up to Corfe Common.

The Common at the top of West Street stretches across to Kingston

   The other main character in Anam Cara is Niall Feenan. His character came about after an interview I heard with the actor, Cillian Murphy. He talked about wanting to be a musician but opted for acting instead because he didn’t feel confident enough to pursue his dream career. It worked out rather well for him I think. I found it interesting to hear somebody so established, and so talented, talking about vulnerability and fear of chasing what he really wanted to do. That fear of failure gets us all, including the likes of Cillian Murphy. 

   I gave Niall the voice of Cillian Murphy and the ancestry of my family from Cork and Dublin. And his surname, Feenan, is one of my grandparents’ names – as is Murphy, incidentally. Brianna’s three children, Patrick, Sean and Kitty, are also family names.

   I chose to make Brianna American because my ancestors from Cork wanted to move to the promised land back in the 1800’s, but only half of them could afford it. The rest stayed in Ireland, some eventually working their way over to England but never reaching their dream of joining family in America. So I wanted to explore the idea of an American-born Irish woman leaving her homeland in pursuit of her ancestral roots.

   And Brianna’s love of the Famous Five books as a child – that was mine. The obsession with Julian – also mine. And that was partly why Simon & I moved to Dorset, to follow in Enid Blyton’s footsteps. She had a home down here and before that, would stay in Studland each year on holiday. It’s a beautiful place. The sun really does shine here … most of the time.

   

Anam Cara is available now from Amazon. 

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Sankta Lucia

 

What a year this has been. Nothing like the one any of us had planned, that’s for sure. And the range of intense emotions we have experienced has taken its toll. I have no doubt that we will be sharing stories of 2020, and how we survived it, for many years to come.

For me, not being able to see my children for so many months has been unbelievably difficult. I’m so used to hopping on a train to London or nipping up North on the motorway, or waiting excitedly at the station to greet them when they come home. The house has been particularly quiet this year. Thank goodness for technology! We have had endless video chats and family quiz nights, and flooded messenger with pics of treasured daily walks, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle. And judging by my Facebook feed, the rest of the nation has been doing exactly the same thing. By April, we were saying, ‘Let’s have Christmas in the summer when lock-down ends’. By the summer, when it did indeed end, we were so appalled at the mass invasion to our hometown, Bournemouth, that all thoughts of Christmas quickly disappeared. The children stayed put, we stayed put, telling ourselves it would all be fine by December. ‘Never mind, at least we can all get together as usual for Christmas’, we said by way of reassurance, knowing full well that any plans made this year have no guarantee of actually coming to fruition.

Nevertheless, the tree went up early this year in mid-November, on my birthday. And so a new tradition was born. Whether I actually stick to it in coming years remains to be seen but it brings a sense of hope, of joy. And provides me with a new backdrop for video chats and photos. There’s something restful, magical, about sparkling tree lights and a bit of glitter.

When the children were younger and their joy for the season boundless, I used to follow the Swedish tradition of keeping the decorations up until January 13^th - Knutdag - as we had done when I was a child but I got a little tired of well-meaning neighbours pointing out my tardiness and reminding me of the bad luck to follow. So I shifted to the English tradition of Twelfth night and then, as the children grew older, opted to clear it all away on New Year’s Day; welcoming January with a tidy house. 

All things considered, I got a good deal at Christmas in my younger years. We celebrated Swedish-style on December 24^th with presents, biscuits and glögg; not forgetting the impressive array of traditional food, although to be honest, I tried to steer clear of the jellied pigs trotters and brawn (otherwise known as ‘head cheese’; presumably because it’s made from a pigs head) and the dreaded lutfisk. Once smelt, never forgotten. It’s a hard one to describe; it’s not quite rotting fish, it’s not quite ammonia, but somewhere in-between. Not unlike the smell of fox pee on rusty metal (if you’re lucky enough to have a rusty bin that foxes pee on, you’ll know what I mean). Basically, lutfisk is white fish soaked in lye – because, why not?  I remember the bucket of soaking fish would be shut away in a cupboard for days – presumably in a bid to retain the smell in a confined space – and would be checked on regularly by my mother, or her mother when she popped round for a visit. It baffled me as a child; the amount of preparation that went into such a disgusting dish. So I stuck with the sill (pickled herring), meatballs, ham and sausages. One thing’s for sure, the Swedes make full use of a pig at Christmas. And fish. And it was all prepared at home; no chance of nipping out to Ikea to grab a bag of balls from the freezer. The baking alone is a mammoth task and my mother would start the biscuit bakes in November, ready for the first Sunday of Advent, although the celebrations really kick off on December 13th – Lucia dagen. It’s a big day in the Swedish calendar.

 The origins of the Lucia tradition can be traced back to the martyr St Lucia of Syracuse (283-304), known as the patron saint of the blind and of virgins, whose name means ‘light’, along with the Swedish legend of Lucia being Adam’s first wife. It’s said that she consorted with the devil and her children were invisible infernals. The custom of Swedish Lucia seems to be a blend of both legends. And it has changed somewhat over the years.

 

     “In the old almanac, Lucia Night was the longest of the year. It was a dangerous night when supernatural beings were abroad and all animals could speak. By morning, the livestock needed extra feed. People, too, needed extra nourishment and were urged to eat seven or nine hearty breakfasts. The last person to rise that morning was nicknamed ‘Lusse the Louse’ and often given a playful beating round the legs with birch twigs.  In agrarian Sweden, young people used to dress up as Lucia figures (lussegubbar) that night and wander from house to house singing songs and scrounging food and schnapps.”   (source Sweden se culture & tradition)

 

The white-clad Lucia first made an appearance in the 1760’s and by the 1900’s was the more popular tradition, banishing the lussegubbar to the history books. Lucia and her procession, bearing gifts of biscuits and buns, was a more acceptable form of celebration and remains so to this day.

 

 

Being the only girl in our family, from a very early age I would be dressed up in a long white dress, balancing a wreath of candles on my head and a laden tray of baked goods in my hands, and parade for family and neighbours with my brothers close behind, dressed in similar white gowns, white cone hats and carrying candles. A standard sight in Sweden but quite a novelty for my London family. We sang a small selection of traditional songs, tunefully accompanied by my older brother on his recorder, with a record playing softly in the background to boost our infant voices. Warm glögg was offered round by my mother, and after our singing and biscuit offering duties were done, we too were allowed a small cup of glögg each. Just the one. But we were allowed to eat the raisins and almonds from everybody else’s discarded cups; we were secretly convinced we could get tipsy on the wine-soaked raisins. Maybe we did. I always slept well on Lucia night.

The original record is still going strong after fifty years

 

One of my favourite memories of living in Sweden was congregating with my class (and some eager parents) at 6 in the morning to serenade our teacher with coffee and Lussekatter (saffron buns in the shape of a curled up cat but more resembling the letter S). Of course it had been pre-arranged with his wife but he had absolutely no idea. A sound sleeper, despite having a new baby, he was completely stunned to find 20-plus children in his bedroom when he woke up. We sang our rendition, then sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, talking nineteen to the dozen, while his wife busied herself with distributing cups of juice – and coffee for the adults. We were still buzzing when the school day started a few hours later. Our teacher however, was distinctly groggy for the rest of the morning. The rest of the day involved a whole school Lucia assembly, a procession down the street to the local supermarket where we sang for the staff, and an evening performance at one of the boat restaurants in in the heart of Stockholm. For the latter, we earnt some money for our pending school trip along with as many biscuits as we could eat.

Lussekatter

In comparison, Christmas Day celebrations back in England seemed less exciting, particularly on the food front. For a young palette, sausages and meatballs outshone sprouts and parsnips by a mile. But I loved Christmas at Grandma’s in London. What she lacked in biscuits and marzipan sweets she more than made up for with love and cuddles. As ever, her house was full of laughter and song as a dozen bodies rubbed shoulders in front of the fire, and the Quality Street tin did the rounds along with Grandpa’s best whiskey. And sherry for the aunts.

I’m not sure if my grandma - or her mother before her - celebrated Nollaig na mBan, the Irish tradition of ‘Women’s Christmas’ or ‘Little Christmas’. On January 6^th, the last day of Christmas, the men take over household chores giving the women a chance to get together and have a celebration of their own. I hope that with a husband, three sons, and two brothers who lived with her for their entire adult lives, Grandma took advantage of it and had a well-earned day off.

 

                                     Happy Lucia Day! God Jul! Merry Christmas to you all!

The tradition of Lucia features in my latest novel, The Box. I love to use personal experience when I’m writing stories, along with using family names. The character names of Majbritt and Annika are a loving nod to my great aunt and her daughter, with whom I spent many happy holidays, including Christmas.

Click here to find The Box on Amazon

A Night to Remember

    The day had finally arrived – March 6^th 2019. Bryan Adams was playing the Bournemouth International Centre. I’d been waiting for months; well, years actually but only months since buying the tickets. The Bournemouth International Centre (known as The B.I.C.) is a great venue, has a capacity of just over four thousand and is perfectly situated on the sea front. It has hosted some big names over the years and regularly brings our seaside town to life with awesome music. We’ve accompanied our young children to McFly and Busted, sent the older ones off alone to Prodigy and Pendulum; there’s been Ultravox, Human League and Midge Ure for my 80’s synth-mad hubby (and his not-so-keen-on 80’s synth wife) and finally I got to see my childhood crush/obsession, Donny Osmond, a couple of years ago. 

The BIC, built in 1984, on the right. To the left, the Pavilion Theatre, built in 1920's

   All in all, The B.I.C. delivers every time. And last night was no different. Greeted by friendly bag-searchers and equally friendly merch sellers, then shown to our seats by smiling ushers – I think I’d be smiling too if I had their job with all that music for free – put us both in an upbeat mood for what promised to be an amazing night with Bryan Adams. Our front row seats in the upper balcony meant we had a walkway in front of us leading to the exit and toilets but a clear view of the stage as the lower tier dropped just beyond the walkway. It was a prime position for people watching (because that’s what I love to do) as they passed by to take their seats. It was great to see a mix of ages although I’d guess that 90% were our age, just a few years younger than the man himself; people who’d grown up with him, followed his career, and delighted in his success like a proud sibling. Yes, a great crowd had gathered to celebrate his Shine a Light tour. There was a real buzz of excited anticipation as the auditorium filled up; comrades in arms, sauntering in with brimming plastic beer glasses, programmes and coveted tour t-shirts.

   With no support act, the concert kicked off with a bang as we raised the roof cheering our hero onto the stage. He was incredible, his energy boundless, his enthusiasm infectious and his voice timeless. Classics such as Summer of 69, Run to You, Everything I do, and 18 Til I Die spurred rusty voices into life, decades-old lyrics tripping off our tongues as if we had learnt them only yesterday.

   Despite showing our age, we all produced our up-to-the-minute smart phones and held them aloft with synchronised swaying of arms to the beautiful strumming of Straight From the Heart, shining a thousand lights in tribute to Bryan’s dad who sadly passed away last year – something he shared with us in a touching moment when he talked about the inspiration for his album Shine A Light. His music brought about a roller coaster of emotions; igniting forgotten memories, reliving our youth, realising our future, missing absent loved ones, regretting the speed in which life hurtles along and yet, singing with abandon because we are in that moment very much alive and young at heart.

   There was just one downside to the whole night. The brimming plastic beer glasses: hastily consumed and hastily refilled before the concert started, and indeed, also once the concert was in full swing. With all the free-flowing alcohol and not such cast iron bladders, it meant a steady stream (no pun intended) passed by, a mix of concentration and urgency on their faces as they realised their folly. One woman swayed as she got up from her seat, steadied herself on her walking stick and tottered towards the toilets, only to stumble and fall inches from the exit. Similarly, another chap stood up and he too fell down but didn’t even bother to attempt standing up again – he just crawled slowly towards the door.

    Directly in front, a woman sang along enthusiastically all the while recording the concert on her phone, turning occasionally to hug and kiss her partner, and down the drinks he fetched. Throwing her hands in the air in joy at the first bars of Whiskey in a Jar, her phone was catapulted from her grip. A frantic groping around under her seat amounted to nothing. Her partner shrugged and mouthed ‘leave it for now’ to which she angrily shouted, ‘well f**k you’, prompting him to crawl along the aisle looking for it. Phone found, ten people disturbed in the process, she kissed her partner and carried on singing, oblivious to the shocked (sober) faces and amused (drunk) sniggers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a moaning Minnie, I found it all quite funny but I did feel sorry for the scores of people forced to repeatedly play the ‘stand up, breath in, sit down’ game as fellow fans precariously edged their way along the aisles to relieve themselves, then go for a top-up of beer and repeat the cycle, all the while missing the band that were playing and singing their hearts out on stage.

   Compromised co-ordination and dodgy bladders aside, we had a fantastic night. Simon has a new-found love for Bryan Adams, and I have revised my Mother’s Day wish/hint list to include some old Bryan Adams albums missing from my library. We got home late; inspired, uplifted, happy and content. And bursting for a pee.

V for Veganuary

Those that know me will probably roll their eyes and sigh, ‘here she goes again’ at the title of this blog. I’m not a preachy vegan or a pushy one; I would never dream of making any carnivore feel bad about what they eat, but if you ask me why I don’t eat meat or dairy, then I will tell you exactly why. I’m not good at dressing it up; the meat industry isn’t pretty so why pretend otherwise. It seems in the last few years, a large percentage of the population are agreeing with me, and meat-free is no longer a lifestyle choice exclusively for ‘weirdos’. And I am loving that Veganuary is now a thing – a popular one at that.

I’m not a huge tweeter but I do regularly check my Twitter feed to catch up on the people I follow. Among  my favourites are, Peaky Blinders because it is the best thing on tv: Peter Egan - self-explanatory really - he’s one of the nicest blokes on the planet, although obviously nobody can top my lovely husband for that title but Peter Egan comes pretty close; Shirley Hughes because who doesn’t love the Annie and Alfie stories and besides, she illustrated some of my favourite childhood books, the My Naughty Little Sister series. My older brothers gave me the books for my eighth birthday as a joke I think but the joke’s on them as I absolutely loved them, and in turn passed on that love for them to my children. But the one I am currently enjoying the most on Twitter is Chris Packham, as he documents his journey into veganism. I love Chris Packham anyway; he’s another all-round top bloke for many reasons besides his willingness to commit to Veganuary. His struggle with finding alternatives to cheese and chocolate, and scouring labels for hidden ingredients, and his exclamations of  ‘why put milk in this?’ make me smile; it is a struggle I know and identify with all too well. Even thirty-one years on, I am still checking labels and scrutinising new products for those hidden extras that somehow sneak their way in.  

I was a big My Naughty Little Sister fan   

  

I was about six when I innocently asked my dad, ‘why is it called lamb chop?’, not expecting the answer I got (my dad didn’t dress things up either). Horrified, I stubbornly refused to eat my dinner. Equally stubborn, my parents presented me with the same meal, re-heated, the next day. And the next. And the next. Clearly, food safety wasn’t their top priority. I made it through the week, surviving on school dinners; I didn’t even think to question what they were dishing up. Sunday arrived and the roast chicken was carved. I had become very wise during that week and realised that if a lamb chop was an actual lamb then you could bet your bottom dollar that roast chicken was in fact an actual chicken. When questioned, my dad confirmed my surmising and again I refused to eat. I was made to sit at the table until I did and again the whole re-heated dinner cycle played out. But I wouldn’t cave; I refused to eat an animal. The following weekend, we had pork chops. I knew for a fact there was no animal called pork and I breathed a sigh of relief as I tucked in, barely concealing the hunger I had been trying to hide all week. My dad watched me and smiled. There was something about his smile that stopped me in mid chew. An uncomfortable, prickly sensation crept over me as the penny dropped, quickly followed by frustration at how many things we ate consisted of an animal, and anger at being duped by the naming of various meats.

I talked the whole thing over with my grandpa as we wandered up his garden path; I felt sure he didn’t know how we were being tricked into eating animals as he was such an animal lover himself. He lamented the fact with me and then skilfully diverted my attention to his cluster of paeonies; the fat buds about to burst into a beautiful, pink, blowsy display, as they did every year. I pondered on and decided to continue my rebellion against meat. But even the most determined six-year-old can grow weary and eventually I gave in and reluctantly agreed to conform until I was old enough to leave home. By then I had conditioned my mind to blot out what it was I was consuming.

I focused more on the other aspects of living cruelty free, ie cosmetics and household products. The Body Shop more or less dominated the market back then, and their prices reflected this, so a substantial chunk of my wage went on all toiletries but at least I smelt good. Ecover were new to the market with their lovely smelling cleaners and not so lovely smelling washing detergent, and so the two brands became our household staples. It wasn’t until the mid-eighties that my husband and I changed our diet dramatically overnight. It was because of a goose called Matilda that my brother dished up for Christmas dinner. As he relayed the tale of how she had bitten my sister-in-law’s brother, and consequently needed to be taught a lesson, two questions popped into my head as I dashed to throw up in his bathroom: how was chopping her neck teaching her a lesson – how could she possibly learn from that - and why had it taken me so long to be so utterly repulsed by what I eat. Once back home, we emptied out the cupboard and fridge of all meat and dairy. I went the whole hog; no leather goods, no gelatin, no fish, no additives derived from animal or fish. Overnight the kitchen and wardrobe became as cruelty free as the bathroom.

There's a growing range of eco friendly, vegan products on the market now.
Ecover is still a firm favourite of ours

Our first cookbooks in the mid-80's. A far cry from the varied,
colourful choices today

 And so our journey into vegetarianism began. I can’t say we were totally vegan as the lazy part of me didn’t cut out hidden dairy, such as in mayonnaise, margarine, biscuits and of course, chocolate. I did try the dairy free margarine available but it tasted like rancid grease. Things have come on a long way since then! It’s only in the past couple of years that the market has made it so much more palatable to be vegan, not to mention, accessible. Everywhere now has vegan options of some description. And so I shook off my lazy mantle and my ‘but I’ll miss chocolate’ mindset, and cut out all traces of dairy from my diet. Surprisingly, only two months later, I noticed a marked difference in the arthritic joint in my foot. The inflammation surrounding the joint reduced dramatically giving me more mobility. I’m not saying a vegan diet is a cure for arthritis (although wouldn’t that be a blessed thing) but what I am saying is that eliminating all dairy has without doubt eased the inflammation. The other health factor I have noticed is I’ve gained weight! Probably due to my quest to replace chocolate and cake with vegan options. There are so many to try, so many ‘oh look, it’s vegan!’ moments at the bakery counter, that it’s no surprise my waistline has increased. The joy of vegan mince pies from Asda, vegan donuts from Co-op and ‘accidentally vegan’ Oreos are all taking their toll. Never mind; with my improved foot mobility I can get more exercise to burn it all  off …

The little extras that I need in life

There’s a great deal of debate and new findings being released with regard to the environmental and ecological impact dairy farming has, and while I am very environmentally aware and adopt as green a life style as I can, my main driving force for vegetarian & veganism has always been based on my love for animals and the abhorrence of the cruelty inflicted on them for our gain, be it food, fashion, cosmetics or ‘sport’. Our four children have been vegetarian from birth and our youngest is a committed vegan, and with her help I have discovered Follow your Heart Vegenaise to replace my Hellman’s fix, and Pure dairy free margarine in lieu of my old favourite Olivio. Cheese is not such a big deal for me – as soon as I cut it out I stopped missing it, but chocolate … well that is still an ongoing quest to find a substitute that hits the spot.