My name is Katy. I am so bloody old now it’s not even worth me telling you how old I am. I am heading towards cronehood, but am not yet at the night sweats and zapata moustache stage of proceedings. I would like to say that reaching this age in my life has made me a more profound, more complete human being.
But that would be a lie.
Mostly it has just made me much more intolerant of things. I have less time on the planet so I am determined to put up with less shit.
I am married to Jason. He is very long suffering. He is an intensely private person, and yet he lives with the fact that through the entries in this blog, people know far more about him than he is comfortable with.
He allows me to continue blogging because I have told him it is saving him a fortune in therapy bills and dried frog pills.
I have three children. They are both my blessing and my curse. They force me to work harder at being a better human being. Sometimes I am grateful for this. Sometimes I am bloody livid about it.
I used to have real jobs before the children came along. I was terrible at them. I am the least employable person on the planet. I was delighted when, by the time I had three children I had to leave work to look after them. Then I realised how much effort parenting full time took.
I used to get my revenge by blogging about them. Now they’re older they demand more privacy so I write mostly about the things that make me cross and the things that make me laugh.
Now I’m a writer. This means I stay at home eating biscuits and occasionally jotting down the odd paragraph whilst staring moodily into the middle distance.
I enjoy extravagance in all things.
All things except pooh.
My pension plan involves being a bank robber and living the high life on my ill gotten gains until the rozzers catch up with me. By the time I am in chokey I will be too old to be anybody’s bitch, and can just do an Open University degree in History and potter about in the prison library until I finally keel over.
I loathe close harmony singing, Venetian Blinds, Bakewell Tart and Rice Pudding.
I would like to be a willowy five foot eight with gorgeous skin and a devil may care attitude which drives men wild. I am not any of these things and on a bad day my hair is an homage to Wurzel Gummidge.
IWhen I grow up I would like to be a drummer in a rock band, or Georgette Heyer.