Wotcha, all 3 mates who are subscribed to this feed. Happy 2011! I can't believe I haven't blogged since October but better late than never, eh?

Well, last time I posted, I was feeling pretty bloody miserable. And guess what, I'm drowning in a tide of chest pains and Woody Allen style paranoia, ergo...get blogging! There's something about being slightly fecked off that makes you want to write a journal-style moan, isn't there? Cathartic. I think that's the word.

Oddly, however, I'm not really fed up at all. Since I last moaned publicly, I've been signed to a leading literary agency to write a detective series. How fannytastic is that? And my agent is just wonderful. She's posh, she swears, she's funny and she loves shoes. Brilliant. I've also written a pilot for a TV drama series. It couldn't get better... apart from getting a commission AND an advance and suddenly finding myself in possession of a nice lump sum - minus 15% of course. I could spend 80% of my time staring into the fridge and 20% writing best-selling this, that and the other, instead of sitting in a darkened subterranean office, picking my nose and getting double vision as I complete fundraising applications that I feel certain will fail.

The kids are well (touch wood), the husband's hair is still thinning but I've come to terms with it. He's still a looker and I can always superglue some cotton wool to his head when he's asleep. My mother is behaving reasonably well. I haven't had to throw her out of the house during dinner for...ooh, about three weeks. So why have I got chest pains? Why is the hypochondria taking hold? Is it hypochondria? Maybe I'm genuinely ill. I have a furry tongue. Is that a sign of heart disease? The doctor felt my boobs and said they were fine but the pain's still there.

This is the test of time: I'm training for the Great North Run in September. My agent, who is also a keen long distance runner, reminded me that people die on the Great North Run. So I'm thinking, if I don't kark it in the next six months whilst I'm training, it was probably happiness-induced paranoia - the fear that good times will be snatched away from me and replaced with death and decay - and not heart disease or a tumour. I'm getting anxious just thinking about Brian Cox's observations in "Wonders of the Universe" that the cosmos is dying...

OK, on that pointless whingeing note, I'm taking my kids to a disco in aid of a charity to fund research into Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Perhaps next time I blog, I will have solved the riddle of the chest pains or else I'll be dead and blogging from the other side. Happy times!