14th September 1997

Today is the fourteen anniversary of the day my husband died.
It was two weeks after the death of Princess Diana, so the whole world was still in mourning.
It’s been a very long fourteen years during which I have made some massive mistakes, the biggest one being getting married again before I’d had time to recover from losing Gareth.
I do feel though that I’m finally getting my act together again. The move to Leeds, if you ignore the dreadful winters, has all been good and I’m starting to feel as though this is my home. There’s only one thing missing from my life, and that’s love.
People say that when you’re looking for something, it doesn’t come along, but as a writer, I’m always looking, imagining and wondering – what if?
They also say, whoever they are, that until you love yourself, you won’t find somebody to love. Until recently, I could honestly say that I didn’t even like me, let alone love me. Now though, I can sense that things are starting to change. So I’m not gorgeous to look at, I could do with losing half a stone, and my list of imperfections would fill several sides of A4, but maybe, just maybe I’m not as unlovable as I once thought, so Mr Right, if you’re out there, it’s time to make yourself known because I think, at last, I’m ready.
Back in the real world, I’m in My Weekly this week, issue dated the 19th. Remember that whenever you see one of my stories in My Weekly, that means it’s been rejected, not once, but twice by other magazines. It’s all about keeping on trying.
A lot like love I guess.