Sandra Harris Writes

  AND NOW FOR SANDRA HARRIS’S DIARY… BY SANDRA HARRIS. © One of the inescapable things about being a writer is the urge to unburden yourself of your doings, thoughts and feelings on a regular basis to your public, by which I mean the handful of people who might be kind enough to read your blog. Enjoy my free unbosomings pertaining to the month of February of which we are, thankfully, about to take our leave. I hate February, and normally view it with the distaste which one might normally reserve for, say, a persistent itch on the sweaty underside of Satan’s ball-bag, or something equally odious. (And I’m not even gonna mention Valentine’s Day  and the Bridget Jones’s Diary film series coming to an end forever.) For one thing, the weather was diabolical, or Dia-bollock-le, if we keep with the theme of the Devil’s genitals. For about ten days, there wasn’t so much as a ray of sunshine. Now, I normally consider myself a Goth who lives only for the short, dark days of wint...

WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS NOW, IS LOVE, SWEET LOVE... BY SANDRA HARRIS. © Well, another Valentine’s Day is here and yet another postman is laid up in bed, possibly for days if not weeks, after humping all my cards, flowers, boxes of chocolates and other tokens and tributes of love and esteem to my front door from the postal van. The poor fella. I must remember to write him a card and drop it round to his house later. If it’s anything like last year, however, I expect his distraught wife will come to the front door and cry buckets about how Harry- that’s his name, Harry- won’t be able to work for weeks with his ruined back thanks to my post-load and what are they supposed to live on and how do I live with myself knowing that my beauty, charm, intelligence and sex appeal has broken yet another poor postman who, after all, was only doing his job…? It can get very trying, being so charismatic and sexually irresistible all the time. It’s not like how you guys think it is. It’s really not...