15th August 2021

 A difficult week. I’ve gone the gamut of feeling completely worthless, from the lows of feeling everything I write is a waste of time, to feelings of personal rejection by everyone, and on to the nadir of ‘what’s the point’ syndrome. But then came Thursday. Not normally a day I relish. Everything bad in my childhood seemed to happen on that day of the week. When grandma went missing and we got that phone call from Belgrave Road police station, it was Thursday.  Ever since that day, we eyed that heavy black telephone, with its twisted brown cord, with fear and trepidation. And when the infernal thing jarred us awake, especially on a Thursday, no-one wanted to answer because we knew what would lie behind the sweaty listening piece.  Yet more bad news. Even today, when our fixed line rings or my iphone hums its tune, I feel sick with dread. But last Thursday we’d been invited to a lunch club. Would have been churlish to refuse just because of some foolish childhood angst, so we went.  I’m so glad we did.  Diners there looked genuinely interested in me and my writing. Readers were buying my book. One was even interested enough to ask how, with my latest novel, alternate pages were headed with author name on each left-hand page, title on the right, and how I’d found the cover image. My answer: a professional formatter, of course. I couldn’t have done it. Thank you Mr Interested. You just might have buried my Thursday syndrome once and for all. Will let you know next Thursday….