Thank-you’s. As many of them as I am capable of offering. For little boys that talk too much and little boys who love football too much. For the geranium oil I have sprinkled into sesame oil so I could rub a medicinal dose of joy into my hands. For pear and ginger soup and home-made bread. For a bedroom freshly painted and pictures hung to remind me of who I used to be. For the man with paint on his hands and a hacking cough. But not of course for the hacking cough. For honey and lemon to sooth it. For this book and this one and this one. For Pinterest and my Mum. For a huge blue patchwork quilt and eyes that droop and remind me when it’s time to sleep. For the Apple Mac sitting on the spanking new, terribly modern, glossy white desk sitting in my bedroom. I know! Modern me!! For colour that hides the grey, Call the Midwife, Miranda Hart and weekly conversations that remind me that I’m Ok. For a darling silly little novella to read at bedtime, hearts stuffed fill of crushed lavender swinging from my headboard, lavender and musk burning in the living room and my signature scent. For yearning and aching and pining for something I might never have now. For a back stretched over a white exercise ball and hair falling into my eyes. For my little Jimmy. For Marilyn Monroe and Whitney Houston. For all those women whose flame burns too brightly for them to bear. For rhubarb and custard Haribo, a spotty milk jug, and a hug at then end of the day. For piping hot radiators and drafts blocked with ribbon wrapped blankets. For today, tomorrow and all my always