The world from my window

A woman's relationship with her hairdresser is something very special. Mine has taken me through my short and spiky phase twenty five years ago to sleek bobs and many things in between. She's encouraged me when I wanted something different and berated me when I just went in for a trim. 'Go for something different, go on. You want to be a funky monkey not boring.' And I always went for something new, at least twice a year. I valued my ears so went along with what she said. My hairstyle changed more often than the tyres on my car. Friends and colleagues would get used to it and then, bloop, I changed it again. But for the last few months it's been the same. Boringly the same. I wanted to grow it long, you see, so I could have it like Meryl Streep's Mamma Mia hairdo for my Big Fat Greek Gap Year. I figured it would be easier that way, rather than having a new cut every six months. My hairdresser pleaded with me. 'Have it cut. You're too old fo...

I am for ever being told I ought to make my blog into a novel. 'You have such a way with words,' Mr Grigg tells me. 'If I didn't live here I think you'd made it up,' Mrs Bancroft says. 'You write much better than some of the people on The Observer,' an earnest Pelly Sheepwash says. And little Tuppence, dear elfin Tuppence, she of the leggings, Goth gloves and an asymmetric bob, smiles a big smile and says: 'Just go for it Maddie.' Doggers on Bluebell Hill, dreams of Gingsters pasties stuck where the sun don't shine, a begonia allergy and a cast of colourful characters as long as Mr Grigg's tongue when Posh Totty trots past, it's all here. The trouble is, I need a plot. And I think I've lost it. That's about it. Love Maddie x