I'm just a little bit excited about it.

Sometimes verbalising things can be terrifying. 

"I do", at marriage for one, is a life long commitment.

"You're wrong," "I don't agree" and "I'm sorry" are all personal struggles for me.

"I love you" is a big one. So is a, "I don't love you anymore". 

I never ever can bring myself to say, "you have food in your teeth!," even thought I probably should. I personally have toothpaste around my own mouth about 80% of the time, so I know I appreciate the honesty of others in that area. But still, why can't I ever do the same?

Point being. I'm writing a book.

What?

I'm writing a book. It's currently 17 A4 pages in, and it all started about a week ago. I had an epiphany moment at work and then literally spent the rest of shift jotting down space arrows and ideas, as the links kept forming, and my brain kept thinking. It in fact moved too fast for my little fingers, and a little while later - with a deep breathe and a small rest - there is was. 

The idea I had been stewing over for months, literally, all of a sudden had a few loveable characters and a plot.

A what? A PLOT! The arch nemesis of my writing degree. 

I'm pretty excited about it but still, typing those words are still terrifying.

I'M WRITING A BOOK.

Here's a little, tiny taste:

"I remember the moment so clearly, when it finally became official. I was slumping by the microwave, watching my oatmeal, no – porridge, rotate and rotate around and around. The oats, festering up into a porridge mass, I never understand it. But then it happened, my daughter, Laura, she came down stairs; and it became official. I am, in fact, the worst mother of all time.

Over the past 16 years of her life, I have been gathering evidence to prove that fact, but on this particular morning, it did it, because I thought it {and if I’m honest with myself, not for the first time}; my daughter is a whore.

Gasp away, and shudder, because true or not it’s out there. The thought was there, and there she was; in shorts I couldn’t see beneath her over-sized tank top, a “top” which drooped just low enough to show off most of her lacy black bra. A black which matched the roots of her straw “blonde” hair. And to make matters worse, you know my second thought? Cake-faced raccoon child.

My daughter was a cake-faced raccoon whore, and right there, I officially became the worst mother of all time."

EEP! (and sorry mum about my use of the word "whore")

In other news, THIS happened.

And pretty much explains in video form why I love my youth team so much.

I'M WRITING A BOOK!

watch this space.