He’s the one second from the left, although he’s got less hair and more muscles now. Less hair as in shorter rather than balder.

(Before you get excited, girls, he’s happily married…)

Lawyer by day and punk guitarist by night, witty and intelligent and gorgeous, with the coolest group of friends ever, I’ve always felt half jealous and half happy to have such a cool bro.

He lost one of his friends to epilepsy last year, and so he’s going to run the London Marathon in April to raise money for Epilepsy Action – if you’d like to donate a little bit of money here is his Facebook group (tell him I sent you) or go straight to his Just Giving page (a safe and easy place to give money online). Thanks Lizzie for donating already!

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Today I had an excitable fan message on Goodreads from someone who ‘loved my books but hadn’t read any of them yet’. Not the best way to make a living as a writer, but it was a lovely email ; )

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On yesterday’s theme of space, here is this morning’s Daily Dharma, called ‘Life as it is’:

By accepting the agreeable and disagreeable aspects of life, we are no longer limited by our longing for life to be different than it is. We have all the time in the world, in the spaciousness of every moment.

Michele McDonald, from “Finding Patience,” Tricycle Summer 2004

The spaciousness of every moment. Aah. There it is.

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PS Stu if you’re reading this, apologies – not the most flattering of photos. Just to set the record straight, he’s usually gorgeous.

More snow.

Great fat flakes, which remind me of space invaders circa 1980-whenever. Maybe the mice are trying to dodge them as I type.

I don’t seem to be able to find any space. Not car parking space, or even time, but head space. The kind of space where you sit and let your thoughts wander for half an hour before scribbling something into your journal.

It’s probably because I’m not sure what might be waiting for me in the space. Sadness? Insecurity about my writing career, my future?

I’m going to try and use poetry to get me there. I haven’t sat down with the intention of writing poems for years. I’m in between novels, and although my next character April is beckoning to me, I’m going to ask her to wait a little longer before I tell her story.

Today I’ll take my notebook to a coffee shop and sit. Become quiet. See if any words seek me out.

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Where do you find your space?

Every morning I’m gently awoken by a few chirruping sounds, followed by something landing on the bed, walking up to my head and saying good morning (in cat).

When I ignore the chirruping and go back to sleep, it gets louder and more frequent, just like a real alarm clock.

This is followed by a paw on my hand. Stroking this alarm clock seems to be the only way to turn it off. The chirruping changes to a purr, and then we can both get up.

If I stay in bed too long, he lies down on me so his bum is pointing at my face.

No need for batteries! Runs on dodgy tins of meat!

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I’m sneezing in sixes or sevens. But tonight I’m off to hear some poetry for the first time in a long time. Tomorrow I’m visiting chums in London. And then SALSA!

What do you have planned?

I am yet to be asked on my first official date. My first official date pretty much ever, unless you count the day on the swings and in the snooker hall and at the graveyard when I was 16 (and a very nice day that was too). I haven’t had the need for such things until lately.

Do you wear glasses? Can you clear this up for me?

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All else is tickety boo. I can’t believe I’ve got to wait until Sunday until my next salsa lesson. But I am about to book a salsa weekend away in June. In Pontins, cool.

I haven’t been a writer very much. I’m taking a break between books, and wondering if I might want to try and be a poet again. We’ll see. Poetry is always so difficult to get at, like that pair of tights at the back of your sock draw. Whilst I’m deciding, here’s one of my olden goldy favourites for you. Is that how you spell goldy? Goldie. That’s better.

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That Silent Evening

I will go back to that silent evening
when we lay together and talked in low, silent voices,
while outside slow lumps of soft snow
fell, hushing as they got near the ground,
with a fire in the room, in which centuries
of tree went up in continuous ghost-giving-up,
without a crackle, into morning light.
Not until what hastens went slower did we sleep.
When we got home we turned and looked back
at our tracks twining in and out of the woods,
where the branches we brushed against let fall
puffs of sparkling snow, quickly, in silence,
like stolen kisses, and where the scritch scritch scritch
among the trees, which is the sound that dies
inside the sparks from the wedge when the sledge
hits it off centre telling everything inside
it is fire, jumped to a black branch, puffed up
but without arms and so to our eyes lonesome,
and yet also – how could we know this? – happy!
in shape of a chickadee. Lying still in snow,
not iron-willed, like railroad tracks, willing
not to meet until heaven, but here and there
making slubby kissing stops in the field,
our tracks wobble across the snow their long scratch.
Everything that happens here is really little more,
if even that, than a scratch, too. Words, in our mouths,
are almost ready, already, to bandage the one
whom the scritch scritch scritch, meaning if how when
we might lose each other, scratches scratches scratches
from this moment to that. Then I will go back
to that silent evening, when the past just managed
to overlap the future, if only by a trace,
and the light doubles and shines
through the dark the sparkling that heavens the earth.

Galway Kinnell

I’ve been dancing three times in the past six days.

It’s a whole new world.

People move their bodies in such different ways. Some people look impressive on first glance, but when you dance with them you realise they’re never quite in time with the music. Some men move you like a yoyo. Some are gentle and courteous. And some make a beginner like me feel like a million dollars.

I’m enjoying exercise for the first time in… well, ever. I’m meeting a whole bunch of new people from all walks of life, and I’m doing something that takes me completely away from the world of words and the world of the therapy room. I might as well face it. I’m hooked. I want more!

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Thank you The Book Pedlar for a stellar review – made my day.

In thirteen days time, you will begin to read about my friend Ruth. She is an imaginary friend, but they’re just as real as the real ones, you know.

She will be going through difficult times over the next three months. You’ll be able to read her daily diary here, as she decides to sit for a portrait with the eccentric Russian artist, Red, and embarks on an adventure with photography. You’ll share her life with her as she chooses whether or not she wants to carry on living. What will she decide?

Ruth would love you to become a follower of the blog, and join the Facebook page. You can also sign up to get Twitter reminders (@readthaw, and also @fiona_robyn if you’re not signed up to my general one yet) and if you’re on my mailing list you’ll get a reminder on the 1st of March.

And of course if you can’t wait, and you’d like to thumb your nose at all the people who don’t know what happens yet, you can order the novel now from Amazon UK or The Book Depository if you’re overseas. There are four reviews on Amazon now.

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Fatty is feeling fractious this morning. He keeps making that ‘rrrruui’ noise which means ‘something is inconveniencing me’. The inconvenience is usually that there isn’t any meat in his bowl, but this morning I think it’s just the whole world that feels a bit annoying. We all have mornings like that. I’ll go over and give him a stroke and see if that helps.

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I love the handful of stones post this morning, even if I do say so myself. Scroll down to see the marvellous widget.

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Someone just said f*** on the radio by mistake. He he. I love it when that happens.