This last week, my Sarah has heard her name being mentioned in the news frequently, and has kept glancing up to the sound of it. “They keep saying my name,” she told me yesterday morning, while I brushed her hair, with the sound of the Sunday news in the background. “They keep talking about Sarah.”

I nodded, but motioned for my husband to turn the news off. There are some things a five-year-old doesn’t need to know about. Some things that can wait to be explained.

Or can they? It was last night, once both our children were in bed, that I suddenly turned to my husband, with worry in my voice. “When do I start telling her?” I asked him. “When do I start telling her all the things she needs to know? All the things she’ll need to do?”

My husband looked back at me with soft eyes, but made no reply.

Because there is no right answer, at the end of the day. There’s no right answer to a question I can’t believe I even need to think about.

Looking at my Sarah, holding my Sarah, I’m reminded of another mother out there who has lost hers. Her daughter, her Sarah, kidnapped from the London streets and murdered by a man in a position of trust. A woman who was, as we all know too well, just walking home. A woman who did everything ‘right’, all the things we are ‘supposed to do’, and still came to harm from a man.

My Sarah has no real knowledge of wickedness yet. Her ideas of evil are formed from fairytales and stories, stories where predominantly a woman (normally old, with magical powers, envious and wretched) plays the antagonist to a princess protagonist. Men in these stories are the wise old fathers, the handsome princes, or the sturdy farmers. In my Sarah’s world, men are figures of love and affection: the adored big brother, the loved Grandfather, the reliable father. In my Sarah’s world, men are still princes on their white horses. They are still kings on their thrones.

All week I’ve been looking at my Sarah and wondering when I burst that bubble. When I start mentioning things like ‘keys between your fingers, ignore the catcalls, don’t go out alone.’ When I start having to warn and remind. When I start having to check and worry.

In a small way, I suppose I already have. Both my children are very aware of my ‘if you ever get lost’ mantra. “Find a nice looking woman, a Mum or a Grandma, if you can,” I tell them, again and again. “Tell them your name and ask for help.”

I never tell them to find a man. It’s always a woman. The seed is already planted in that way.

This last week has made me so desperately sad, so desperately worried and so desperately angry all at once. Women have started to say out loud, “This is not okay.” Women have started to say, “Why are we the ones who are punished?” Women have started to say, “These are the things we have to do.” Is this the first step in a long walk to a better future? I don’t know. I really don’t.

The only thing I do know is that I have a Sarah, and that in fact, every mother of a daughter does. Sarah in Hebrew means ‘esteemed woman’ and that is what we all are.

We’re all a Sarah. We all know a Sarah.

And in these few last weeks, we lost a Sarah too.

I’m going to give my Sarah a big cuddle when I see her after school today, and at the back of my mind, I’ll be thinking of another mother who cannot do the same. I feel for her and her family so deeply.

Because I have a Sarah.

And they had one too.

The post I have a Sarah. appeared first on Sharon Ibbotson.

Friday the 13th, 2020. As chairperson of the local primary school’s PTA, I was running the committee’s AGM and annual quiz night, and had been at the school for hours getting ready. I had twenty quiz packs ready, music and snacks and even – I laugh to think of it now – 300 glass vials with scented cotton inside for a ‘guess the smell’ round.

At six pm, I was standing in a deserted school hall, with doubt starting to creep down my spine. The virus – that virus, Coronavirus, there are patients with it in St Tommy’s, haven’t you heard? – was in the UK and spreading rapidly. Should I have cancelled the AGM? Was it wise to have a quiz night with up to 100 people in a school hall? Should I have let my husband leave for Amsterdam that morning? (He had almost cancelled, and I had been the one to tell him to go, knowing he might not have the chance again soon).

When another committee member arrived, I nearly wept with relief. I was being ridiculous, I decided. There was no way a virus would stop a harmless school event. My husband would be fine. The AGM would go on as planned. But one look at my friend’s face while we discussed ‘the situation’, as we so delicately referred to it, and all my doubts came creeping back.

“They’re going to close the schools,” she said with a shrug, like it was already a done deal and didn’t really matter anyway.

“Maybe I should cancel,” I replied fearfully, gesturing around me, but my friend only shrugged again.

“People are already on their way. It’s too late.”

We then did what most of Britain – if not the world – did that week. We opened up our wine, and started to drink.

The quiz night went on as planned, and we had over 100 people, in the end. All hugging, laughing, drinking and sharing food. Afterwards we spilled into the local pub, ordering more wine and getting slightly tipsy. I hugged my friends goodbye at around 11pm, before walking home and tiptoeing into my house to pay my babysitter.

I remember that night vividly because it was what I consider to be the last ‘normal’ night of my pre-Covid life. The Sharon on that night – smiling, merry, only slightly tinged with worry – had no idea that my husband would return home with Covid and have to spend nearly six weeks in and out of bed, completely wiped out, his eyes bloodshot and red, coughing horribly. The Sharon of that night couldn’t conceive of a world where the schools would close and I would have to spend the best part of the next year homeschooling my children. The Sharon of that night would have laughed at the thought of only seeing my family once over the next twelve months. The Sharon of that night had no idea of what was to come.

I’ve been lucky this last year, in many ways. We haven’t been financially affected by the pandemic. We have a large garden in which the children can play. I could afford to pay the black market prices flour, cocoa powder and yeast went for at the height of lockdown v.1. But more importantly, my husband, sister and mother all recovered from their Covid infections, while I either didn’t catch it, was asymptomatic, or had a mild infection (I still don’t know). So many other people haven’t been as lucky and they all have my sympathy and virtual hugs.

But wow. What a year. Just after we woke this morning, still lying in bed, my husband gave me a cuddle. “It’s been a year since I was in Amsterdam,” he whispered. “It’s been a year since all this began.”

I nodded, but I’ve long since stopped counting in things like ‘time since’. I’ve learnt now the best way to go forwards is to count in ‘days until’. I’m shielding, so I know I have twenty-one days until I can leave my house again, maybe do my own shopping at the local supermarket. I know that I might – just might – see my family at May half-term, and that it’s eighty days until then. In a way, the Covid19 pandemic has made me reset how I look at life. There are some good things to take away from all this, and one thing that has been reinforced is just how much I prioritise my family, and time spent with them.

My children are – for the time being, at least – back in school, so work-wise I’ve picked up where I left off. I’m working simultaneously on two holiday romances, both interlinked and set in the same town. I’m occasionally working on a gift story for a friend. And I’ve finally – finally! – started another contemporary romance, one that’s set during Covid19.

It’s been a year, but there is so much to look forward to.

The post One Year of Covid19… appeared first on Sharon Ibbotson.

You’ll know what ‘the look’ is of course, everyone does. It’s that expression of doubt mingled with a little disbelief that crosses someone’s face when they think you’re doing something absolutely crazy. Crazy like, say, writing a winter novel set in an ice creamery.

But there is method to my madness, I promise (there generally is, though sometimes I have to look really hard to find it).

When I first sat down to write ‘Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery’, two things happened. I happened to check Facebook, and this memory cropped up:

It’s my daughter Sarah, from when she was about two years old, standing outside of the Globe Theatre in London and eating chocolate ice cream.

I smiled widely on seeing the image, as parents tend to do, before closing Facebook down and going back to my work. But after five minutes of sitting, my laptop on, and words not quite leaping from my mind to the page, I went back to Facebook and opened up the image again.

You see, in my original plan for ‘Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery’, River worked in a book store. She was going to be the deaf woman with a love of words, and each chapter was going to be named for a famous romance (at my wedding, incidentally, I gave out favours that consisted of a vintage tea cup and saucer filled with Australian sweets and a tag which had a famous romance quote upon it. I slaved over those for weeks, picking and choosing over one hundred of my favourite quotes about love). But looking at the image of Sarah, eating her ice cream in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, it was like a bolt of inspiration trickling down my spine.

Because River, of course, had to work in an ice creamery. She just had to. I knew then and there that she would work with food and flavour, and that each chapter would be named for a flavour relevant to the content of that stage of the story. Chapter one, ‘strawberry’, is named for a basic ice cream flavour, followed by ‘apple’ and ‘orange’. But as the story opens up more, and as we learn more about River and Cohen and the events which shaped their lives, the flavours grow more complex too… from ‘jaded green tea’ to ‘sunflower seed’. Jaded Green Tea, in particular, was a favourite flavour of mine. I lived in China for a time, and the character of Rushi was inspired by my neighbour there, this charming lady:

I have back story about every single flavour River ever invents in the novel, most of which I cut in editing, but I’ve saved for myself in my ‘cut but not forgotten’ word doc. Jaded Green Tea, I decided, River invented after the death of her adoptive father, and I originally had a scene written which showed Rushi crying while stirring a batch of the ice cream, mourning her husband and the love of her life.

The more I wrote of ‘Hanukkah and the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery’ (I wrote a chapter or two over an eight week period) the more I learned about ice cream in general. I’ve always been a fan, and my husband will remember (hopefully fondly) the first part of our honeymoon, which we spent in Venice, where I dragged him from gelateria to gelateria so I could try different versions of melon ice cream (and yes, there is a reference to this in ‘Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery). I also dragged him on a walk across the city so we could see a) where the courtesans once displayed their naked bodies for sale and b) where they filmed Indiana Jones, so it wasn’t entirely an ice cream based trip.

I’m a meticulous researcher when it comes to my work, and one of the earliest facts I discovered about ice cream was that the modern ice cream, served in a cornet, was actually invented by a Victorian woman named Agnes Marshall (who also invented the earliest version of the modern ice cream dispenser). And learning this warmed my heart, because I loved the idea of my heroine River, deaf but independent and running her own business in London, working with a product invented by another independent woman who was from London (Agnes Marshall, by the way, also was the first to suggest using liquid nitrogen in ice cream making, which is how celebrated chef Heston Blumenthal makes his today).

I also discovered that Ben and Jerry, of the famed ice cream brand (and Jewish men too, like Cohen in my story… in fact, Ben’s surname is Cohen) set up their first store in Vermont (known for snow and cold weather) because they themselves learned that ice cream in served in a cold climate is proven by science to warm the body up. Also, did you know that Ben Cohen suffers from an inability to smell or taste food? That’s why Ben and Jerry’s normally is served with chunks, because he tastes things by texture. This was another fact which made me smile… I had River, my deaf heroine, expressing herself through food, something Ben Cohen did too.

So next time you’re out on a cold and snowy day, maybe instead of reaching for the mulled wine or hot chocolate, you could reach for a scoop or two of ice cream? (or ice cream in hot chocolate, which I heartily recommend – or even better… a scoop of Vanilla bean gelato served with a measure of hot espresso poured over it, or – better still – a measure of hot espresso mixed with Irish Whiskey. Trust me).

My book is out in THREE DAYS, would you believe it? I’m so excited to share this story and discuss more of the details about it with you. Next week I’ll be posting a blog about deafness and BSL, and the week after, a blog about Hanukkah and Judaism, so hope to see you here again soon.

The post Ice cream in December? Really? appeared first on Sharon Ibbotson.

What happened to Christmas? No, what happened to January? Actually, scratch that, where did February go?

I have to admit to having been a busy bee these past two months, and March looks like it will be just as insane. My husband and I were sitting down yesterday to merge our calendars and worked out that this week we’ll only be at home together one night out of seven. Which is clearly crazy, but and indication of just how busy we are. We both sighed when we realised we probably wouldn’t really see each other again until Thursday, but my husband, who is always my absolute rock, gave me a kiss and, with his best Bogart voice, told me that ‘We’d always have Paris.’

Because in early February, we left the kids with my Mum and went to Paris. We’re both huge fans of France and French living, and although we travel to the continent regularly, we never seem to go to Paris (unless it’s my annual trip to Disneyland Paris with the kids, which I don’t think counts as ‘Paris). So this year we decided to make an effort to visit the French capital, taking the Eurostar, staying at a boutique hotel in Montmartre and doing as many ‘touristy’ things as we could squeeze in. We walked to Sacre-Couer and then took the Metro to Odeon and walked around the Luxembourg Gardens. From the Luxembourg Gardens I made my husband walk all the way to the Eiffel Tower (spoiler, that’s a long walk) and then wait till sunset to see the light display (another spoiler, it rained just as it started!). The next day we went to the Louvre early and we spent the next six hours looking at artwork. Neither my husband or I are art lovers as such, but the Louvre is charming and it was a wonderful place to visit. More than that, they had Venus de Milo pop figures in the gift shop (I told you I wasn’t an ‘art’ person) that I lusted after for a good ten minutes, before my husband reminded me that I’m not a ‘things’ person and it would be just be something else to dust in the house.

But Oh, aren’t they pretty?

The next day we went to Versailles. I have always, always, always, always, always wanted to visit Versailles. I’m an absolute history nut, and Versailles has been top of my bucket list for a very long time (next trip will be Rome). And Versailles is spectacular, so pretty, so engrossing, and I spent the entire day with a smile on my face. We walked all over the palace grounds, right along to the Petit Trianon and to the Queen’s theatre and grotto (and no, my husband will not build me my own personal grotto in the garden, for one thing, the council would probably have words and for an another, he already built me a greenhouse).

On our final day in Paris we visited a restaurant across the road from a casino. Now, I’m no gambler (I’m too competitive and barred from family games, go figure) but I had to take a picture of this casino, because it reminded me strongly of my next book which I can now announce will be published in June!

Yes, my next book is complete and I love the story. I cannot wait to share it with everyone, honestly and sincerely. This book has a special story behind it, which I will share closer to publication day. And my heroine this time has red hair… a colour I would love to have, if my hair weren’t so strongly blonde and hard to colour (red dye makes my hair go pink sadly).

Writing wise, I’m in the throws of a Christmas story. I’ve found this book a hard nut to crack, but keep the words coming by simultaneously writing a story for a friend (when I get blocked I ask friends to give me a prompt and that gets the words flowing again… this friend- an Australian- asked for a particular story which I would personally have never written myself but am finding fascinating, and happily, the enthusiasm travels to my other works. So for any writers out there, if you ever suffer from writer’s block on one work, just pick up your pen and try another… you’ll be surprised at how quickly the words may come). Luckily, I’ve also had a great writery meet-up with some pretty inspiring authors… the absolutely lovely Fi Harper, Carol Cooper, Liz Harris, Bella Andre, Sophie Weston, Janet Gover, Lucinda Lee and Henriette Gyland. They were all happy to share stories and we managed a forty five minute writing session which reinvigorated my love for my current WIP. They’re all absolute stars and I adore them.

I have some lovely events coming up so hopefully I’ll be able to update soon with more news and writer-talk. I’m also going to review another classic author from the romance genre… Anne Mather, whose back catalogue I’m slowly working through.

Love and sunny days to all, Sharon.x

The post And so it’s March… appeared first on Sharon Ibbotson.

I haven’t written a word in… oh, too long. And if I don’t write for long stretches, I tend to get waspish, antsy, frustrated and snappy. For me, writing is a way of letting out emotion and feelings.  And if I can’t write, I get bottled up, which eventually ends in an explosion of bitterness, tears, and resentment, usually directed at my husband (who I love, and who puts up with it because he knows exactly what’s going on in my head).

I have all these ideas in my mind swirling around, and zero time to spend writing them down. Without that morning work session when my daughter is at pre-school, my entire routine is thrown. I don’t get to go for my morning swim or run or yoga session, so that I feel sluggish all day. I don’t get my writing done. I don’t get that time to go over paperwork, or my admin, or anything really. And by the time 9pm rolls around, when I would normally turn on my laptop and work again, I’m too exhausted from having cared for a toddler all day. That, and the fact that this time of year is jam-packed with activities for my family.

Actually, I don’t mind the activities so much. In the last three weeks I’ve been to the theatre with friends (to see ‘A very very very very very dark matter’, which I don’t recommend on account of it being a very WTF? kind of play), a night which ended, as my nights out seem to do, with me cuddling one friend in the back of an Uber at 2am completely inebriated, before getting into bed and waking my husband up to discuss light fittings (I know, I know… but what can I say? He’s a patient man and he indulges me). I’ve been to see my son’s Christmas play not once but THREE times, because as Chairperson of my PTA I need to be there to sell raffle tickets and muster up support (and my son had a solo part this year, and he sang beautifully, a talent he emphatically did not inherit from me). My mother has been to visit and we’ve been into London to look at the Christmas lights, as well as into my local town to finish up shopping for Christmas day. I’ve been to Canterbury to see my nephew sing and play violin in his school orchestra, which was amazing, on account of the orchestra being ultra-talented and also because it was my nephew, who I adore. I’ve been to the RNA London chapter’s Christmas lunch, which was lovely, and I got to sit next to Maggie Sullivan (who has my dream job as resident author for Coronation Street) and hear all about the next book in her series. I also got to speak with Lucinda Lee about the Avengers (harassing poor Fi Harper in the process into seeing the entire MCU series of films) and generally fangirl with her for half-an-hour. I’ve been into London Bridge (my favourite part of the city) to meet with my Best Friend Forever and have noodles and Christmas coffee with her (she’s going back to our hometown in Australia for Christmas so I won’t see her to the New Year now sadly). I’ve also had an impromptu wine and cheese night with my neighbours where I possibly drank a little too much red wine and ate more mince pies than can be good for me.

Rather amazingly, my husband also took me out in this period. He surprised me by texting me in the morning with instructions to ‘glam up’ and meet him in London that afternoon from a particular train. He then met me at Charing Cross, kissing me under the Christmas tree, before taking me out for Mexican food and Margaritas (he knows me too well) to see ‘The Book of Mormon’ (which was irreverent fun and I loved every minute of it).

I still have, unbelievably, a North Pole Tea Party to attend tomorrow, as well as the Year Six Church concert, and then another Christmas party on Friday evening. This weekend I have a visit to Santa booked in, as well as our annual visit to the Pantomime. And then… finally, after what feels like weeks of preparations and parties and visits and decorating and Christmas baking, we have Christmas itself.

I love Christmas Day, but I’ll be glad when January rolls around and we can get back to routine. I’ve outlined my Christmas 2019 and Christmas 2020 novels, and I need- and I mean need- to start writing the 2019 one ASAP.

I know how terribly lucky I am. I have a husband who loves me, two children, a publishing contract, fabulous neighbours and friends (two of whom are a delicious mix of both), and a wonderful family. This Christmas my children will wake to a house full of family and presents under the tree. I already know what my gift is this year: my husband asked me what I wanted, and I said ‘Something French’ (I am a not-so-secret Francophile). So he’s taking me to Paris, for a purpose other than Disneyland, so I can finally see Versailles and the Mona Lisa (I skipped it on my first Paris trip, spending all my allocated time in the Louvre looking at the Etruscan artifacts in the basement (I’m also a not-so-secret Ancient History fan). I’m so, so lucky. I read somewhere once that the cup of gratitude provides the sweetest drink, and I never really understood that. But now, I can definitely say that yes, to be grateful in happiness is definitely sweet.

And I wish the same for everyone else.

Have a holly, jolly Christmas.

With love and gratitude, Sharon.x

P.S And if any of you see me mucking around on Twitter in the New Year instead of writing, set me straight, will you? Please?

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