Nine months later

Clementine, I hear my vast audience of readers cry loudly, Clementine, where have you been? Why oh why have you posted nothing of your domestic exploits since last March? Are we to be left for an entire year with no news of your jam making, cake baking, husband-placating existence?

Thank you, I whisper shyly behind my demure, wifely veil, you're too kind, but my husband really doesn't like me writing about our lives in a public forum (meanwhile, women in hijabs have full-time jobs outside the home and write books about how free they are. Am I missing a trick here?)

Don't worry, the vast audience replies, there are only three of us and we all know you're only a fictional character.

Indeed, I say, and I know all three of you personally and see you quite regularly, so this thinly veiled fictionalisation of my mundane life has slipped down the list of my priorities. In fact, it's buried in the garage freezer underneath last year's blackcurrants.

Good lord, we thought you'd made those into jam long ago.

No, my friends, neither blog nor blackcurrants have morphed into life-sweetening miracles. Both became unappreciated chores, hence the garage freezer. However, the last nine months have seen developments that leave me with a stark choice: go raving mad, develop an expensive shopping habit (Sarah tells me it's very therapeutic), or resurrect the blog.

Thank you for reading. I'm off to make some jam.