I don't know if it would work in grown up life, and being with the right lucky person could mean you could get away with driving a bit too fast through roadworks (one of my two only conscious bit of lawbreaking) or paying your income tax late, (my other, but actually my accountant doesn't let me get away with that any more).
Anyway, back to this year's new term; back in London, I have made lots of resolutions, like keeping my desk tidy (very unlikely) dealing with my in-tray promptly (even more unlikely) and brushing my dog Clemmie's ears (she's a King Charles spaniel) every day, instead of leaving half Richmond Park in them for weeks. Oh and backing up what I write every day, instead of once a week or whatever; I once lost five thousand words because there was a power cut overnight.
We had a very good August, lots of visitors to our cottage--mostly children, but the occasional brave grown ups-- and Enid Blyton-like activities, riding, cycling, picnics on the beach, sandcastle and moat-building, and a new game which one of our guests--another writer-- christened Extreme Paddling. Extreme Paddling, should you wish to try it, is dashing from cove to cove on a windy day, beating--or rather not beating--the waves as they crash in. We have the perfect beach for this, nicknamed by our family the Enid Blyton Beach, a mass of coves and rocks and huge caves you can explore, some of them linking and forming tunnels from one to the next (more opportunities for Extreme Paddling). And then lovely long evenings in the cottage, putting the world to rights, drinking too much wine and mulling over possible plots and characters...
Anyway, I ended the holidays at an annual Gower Charity event, the Macmarathon, when people do a sponsored cliff and beach walk, 22 miles long, some of it really tough: raising money for one of my very favourite charities, Macmillan Cancer Support. It takes place every September, and every year, more and more wonderful people do it--almost a thousand registered this time-- and every year it raises more money. I'm ashamed to say I've never actually walked it, but the Committee very flatteringly asked me to sign certificates for the triumphant arrivals, saying they'd done it; I was supposed to be one of the celebrities, but in truth, there was far more excitement and interest in Alun Wyn Jones, the Welsh International Rugby player, who was sitting next to me. And justifiably so: he's extremely charming and handsome as well as hugely talented, and a great local hero.
Still, quite a lot of people did ask me to sign their certificates as well, and I found myself engaged in all the usual discussions about my characters (you'd have thought people would have been much too exhausted to care about such things, but astonishingly they weren't) and the very familiar requests to write a fourth book about the Lyttons. One day I shall have to give in, I think, even though Lady Celia has died; several people said they thought Jenna was a matriarch in the making and could take over from her in due course. I'm not so sure, but she was certainly (along with Fleur in An Outrageous Affair and Jocasta in Sheer Abandon) one of my favourite characters ever, and I would like to know what happens to her. (As I've explained before, I never know what happens to any of my characters until I write the books.)
I am very much into the new book now, (managed to write a bit in between the Extreme Paddling!) and still enjoying it hugely; it is really starting to take on a life of its own, and fascinating new people keep wandering into it. No clues at all I'm afraid, except that it's not contemporary, and may well take me to New York, and possibly the Southern States for a bit of research. Oh, it's a tough life: but somebody has to do it......