Teen Spirit or The Joys of Taking a Teenager on Holiday

Since living in Brittany, we have had several visitors. We always appreciate people coming out to see us and have enjoyed sharing our home and this stunning area of France with them all. At the moment, we have Steve's 19 year old daughter and her boyfriend staying with us. It took me back to a time in 2010, when Steve and I went on holiday in Gozo - a small island off the coast of Malta. We took self-same daughter with us, but at that time, she was only 14, and we all know what THAT'S like eh?

Here is an extract from my 2nd book, Gozo Is the Grass Greener? Which featured an entire chapter about the experience of taking a teen on holiday - it may resonate with a few of you .

Extract from Gozo, Is the Grass Greener?

So why Gozo? Of all the places in the world, Gozo? We had been told that we would love it and were assured that our first experience of the magical island of Calypso as it is sometimes known, would be unforgettable. After all there was beautiful weather, friendly and welcoming people, it was not expensive to eat out and had a charm of its own. Having visited the main island of Malta in the archipelago on three occasions without a hop-over visit to Gozo, we were encouraged to try out this tiny jewel in the Mediterranean as a standalone holiday destination. We were assured it was quieter and less crowded than its big sister, Malta. Yes, it would be a truly unforgettable experience. 

And so it was, that in August 2010, we agreed that we would rent an apartment in Gozo for a week and after some internet searching, we settled on the sleepy looking Xlendi Bay. We also agreed that we would take Steve’s 14-yearold daughter, Sabrina, with us. Unforgettable? We had absolutely no idea what we were in for.

I pause here to shake my head and sigh at the foolishness of that particular decision. Anyone out there with a teenager will no doubt be shaking their head and possibly even wincing as they marvel at our naiveté. Did we really think that we could take an almost stereotypically perfect example of a dissatisfied generation to a small, quiet island where free wi-fi was as remote a possibility as my ever becoming a size 8 again? – bar the starvation diet, of course, where I could actually make it down to an 8.  Like most teenagers, Sabrina had a serious dependence bordering on addiction to internet social websites – not to mention her iPhone, laptop, iPod and junk food. What were we thinking?! 

In hindsight, it was not the best decision we ever made. Mainland Spain or even Florida in the States would have been better options here, but Gozo it was. And I omitted to mention that in addition to the addiction to all things internet, we had four years of stored up, brooding resentment directed at myself as her dad’s evil, new partner who had ruined her life, to add to the mix. 

Anyway, as a glass-half-full kind of person, I was determined to make the best of it, so I set about planning and organising the flights, transfers and so on that accompany any holiday. Steve was texting Sabrina regularly to advise her of what she needed to bring along – lots of swimwear, shorts, tee shirts, something to go out in at night; that sort of thing. He would send her long lists of things needed, painstakingly spelling out every word in longhand as all adults of a certain age tend to do. The texts that came back without fail, however, would just say:

K.

“K?” Steve would ask me with a frown. “What the hell is K?” 

“I think she means okay, darling. She’s agreeing with you,” I would explain. 

“Well, why doesn’t she say so then?” would come the scowling, Neanderthal reply.  

“It’s just the way they communicate, darling. It’s shorthand,” I would add. 

“Well, it’s stupid,” he would growl in return. 

I was already captivated by the photographs of Gozo, with its hidden coves and bays, and the crystal clear waters surrounding it.  I could almost taste that local cuisine: the pizzas handmade in front of you, the locally produced wines and cheeses . . . . . mmm, it was going to be a treat! I wondered vaguely if Sabrina would eat goat’s cheese.

The earliest hint of real things to come was when we got to the airport. It transpired that despite her father’s longwinded, repeated, clear texts of instructions as to what to bring, Sabrina did not, in fact, possess a bikini or swimming costume of any kind – not that pencil thin, teenage girls wear swimming costumes, but you know . . . . . Sabrina announced the issue with that marvellously sullen, stone face which humans only possess between the ages of 13 and 17 years – dead eyed, expressionless and said in a manner which somehow managed to apportion blame to both her dad and myself. 

Steve’s response was to ask me, “Can we sort something out for her?”

My response, however, was to look as if I had just begun to suck a lemon. Actually, it was more like two lemons, a grapefruit and a generous slice of lime.

I took a deep breath to prevent words coming out such as, “Why, WHY don’t you have a bikini with you?! I mean your dad told you enough times to bring one.”

I avoided saying such things for two reasons: 1. The words would fall on deaf ears; and 2. It would not have made the slightest difference.

Instead, I swallowed the cocktail of citrus fruit and propelled said teenager towards one of the airport boutiques. Now, for those of you who have never had the dubious pleasure of shopping in an airport boutique, a word of warning: any sign which reads DUTY FREE is to be ignored. It is a lie; a complete lie. It should be translated as follows:

“This is probably the most expensive shop you’ve ever been into. You cannot possibly afford anything in here and the experience will leave you penniless for the rest of your holiday.”

In my life, I have had to stop going into those brightly lit, wonderfully smelling and alluring shops, which drew me like the proverbial moth to a flame, as I was heard to say loudly:

“Duty Free? Duty Free?? I can get this cheaper at Boots the Chemist. Look at the price of this Toblerone! And Tesco’s are doing a 2-for-1 on this. £10! £10 for a box of Roses! I don’t think so.” 

You get the picture, right?

Anyway, I digress – and we had not even left the UK yet. There we were in exactly such an establishment, waited on by women who looked as if they had applied an entire box of Elizabeth Arden product to their faces in one go. The chosen bikini resembled a plaited bootlace crossed with a spider’s web – and it cost £35. I tried hard not to imagine what a similar item might have cost at Primark or TK Maxx, but I could not help it. 

As we left the shop, Sabrina’s internal fashion radar picked up on a trilby type hat and I saw the slightest glimmer of light in her eyes. Pouncing on an opportunity to be popular (damn you, repressed Grammar School behaviour patterns), I asked her brightly if she would also like that hat – and just like that, I found myself £55 lighter in total. I strongly suspected that I was no more popular than I had been 10 minutes earlier. But hey, I tried!

THE hat

Eventually, after the customary three-hour wait at the airport, a flight lasting three hours 20 minutes, a 45-minute taxi transfer to the ferry, a 25-minute ferry ride to Gozo and a final 15-minute ride to the apartment, we arrived. There we also became about another 50 euros poorer as Sabrina possessed a fascinating need to be fed and watered at every available opportunity. I began wondering if she had an inbuilt sense of an impending, worldwide food shortage or something as I had never witnessed a child, a teenager, with quite such a capacity for junk food.  

There had been an almost non-stop mantra of, “I’m hungry, I need a drink.”

It started at the airport, continued on the plane, picked up again at the airport in Malta, progressed in the taxi and reached a finale on the ferry to Gozo. Add to that the inevitable, “Are we nearly there?” and you will get some idea of how frazzled our nerves were by the time we reached our destination. 

As ever, words that sprang to mind – which on this occasion were, “How the hell can you still be hungry, you’ve eaten your own body weight in chicken nuggets?” – were suppressed. 

Instead, anxious not to spoil the holiday, I smiled and asked, “What would you like?”

You know that could not last, right? All that repressed rage. It had to come out . . . . . eventually.

I am not going to dwell too much on events which unfolded during that week. It was a bit like Groundhog Day, a never-ending loop of:

a) I don’t like this/that (fish in the sea, seaweed, the menu, the heat, Valletta, whatever)

b) I want egg and chips (in every single restaurant)

c) I’m bored

d) I don’t like swimming in the sea (Of course, you don’t!)

e) This bikini doesn’t fit (I’m sorry, my response to this is censored)

f) I don’t want to do that/go there

g) I’m bored

h) Can we go back to the apartment now? (No!)

i) I’m sitting next to Dad

j) My phone’s gone flat (What? You didn’t bring a charger? Really? After all those texts your dad sent reminding you to bring one!)

k) I’m bored; l) I can’t sleep (Try being quiet)

m) It’s too hot (It’s August in the Med. What did you think?)

n) I need a drink

o) I’m hungry

p) I’m bored

q) Can I have some money?

You get the picture. The effort of suppressing my murderous emotions became a daily battle. On one occasion, I had to go for a long walk, during which time I marched around like a demented marionette and actually had a panic attack with the enormity of the task of holding it all in. By day four, Steve was apologising. 

Through clenched teeth, I was saying things such as, “Do NOT, under any circumstances, ask me to do this EVER AGAIN!” 

Lovely Gozo

One day, it was agreed that Sabrina could have 10 euros to spend. However, she asked if we could keep it for her until she returned home and get £10 sterling instead. Okay, I could go for that (watch this space). I remember so clearly the day I finally cracked. We had been sitting outside a hotel on the waterfront having a drink.

Sabrina said, “I’m still thirsty, can I have another?”

I had gone inside to check out the rooms and to take an opportunity for some solitary hyperventilation. I was determined that Steve and I would return alone to relax and have a holiday which did not involve being pecked to death 24/7. When I emerged, Steve informed me that Sabrina had asked where I went, so he had explained to her that we might return for another holiday.  

Her response had been, “Yeah, bring me.”

That was it! I could feel all the pent up, bikini-buying, week-of complaining rage coming up like a volcano. And it all come out.

“WHAAAT?! Bring you with us? Bring you with us?? Are you serious?? I am never, NEVER bringing you on holiday again as long as I live and breathe! You’ve done nothing but complain the whole time; nothing suits you.”

I suspect my eyes were bulging at that point and I think I spat out at least once. Anyway, I was certainly not done yet. I continued ranting and raving about teenagers in general, my lack of finances following the trip and on and on and on. When I was done, there was a small silence, after which Sabrina responded with a nonchalant shrug.

“Yeah, well, I only asked,” Sabrina continued, “I’m bored on my own. Next time, let me bring a mate with me and it’ll be better.”

Oh. My. God. Had she really just asked me to let her bring along another teenager? That provoked a fresh outburst.

I spluttered, “Bring a mate? Bring a mate??” (I seemed to need to say a lot of things twice). “Why on EARTH would I do that? It’s bad enough with one teenager, never mind two of you! Oh yeah, let me bring TWO teenagers on holiday, then I can really have a nervous breakdown!” 

Steve sat quietly through it all with that bemused, “I wonder why this is happening” look men get.  

Me on a far away bit of rock hyperventilating!

The reality of it all was that it had, in the main, passed him totally by. However, by the last evening of our holiday, Steve too snapped after a particularly tricky evening during which he had, against his better judgement, allowed Sabrina to have a cocktail (bad idea). Steve had bundled his daughter back to the flat with the accompanying warning:

“And I don’t want to hear another peep out of you all night, do you understand?”

I patted his arm in silent sympathy as Steve lay rigidly in bed staring at the ceiling, quietly hyperventilating (it really did help). 

Despite me looking like a cross between Bet Lynch and the Michelin man, I had to include this absolute classic of a photo - see how happy the teenager was? Ha ha, sorry Sabrina, I couldn't resist 

Somehow, we got through the journey home, albeit with lots more feeding and watering along the way. We eventually got to the moment of dropping Sabrina off. As she got out of the car, she turned to me and cleared her throat. Ah, I thought, she’s going to apologise for her behaviour or, at least, say thank you for the holiday.

But Sabrina looked at me. Just as cool as you like, she said:

 “You owe me a tenner.”

My nervous breakdown was complete.

Ahh but we all played nice in the end 

Gozo Is the Grass Greener is available from Amazon;

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B011L7LLIA/ref=pd_sim_351_4?ie=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=5NXVG352WKPMD0GM09QY

I have also written two other books to date

Known to Social Services and its sequel, Caught in Traffick. Both available via Amazon

Visit my website; www.freyabarrington.com 

Freya

Ache Rattle and Roll - Renovations Interrupted

It has been some time since I wrote a blog. This is for a couple of reasons;

One; We have had visitors over the summer for several weeks. This has been wonderful of course, but has led to weight gain, lethargy and general idleness in relation to all things relating to our renovation, here in Brittany.

 Two; I hurt! No wait ............ we both hurt!

A great time with dear friends

The realisation that my body had begun to betray me in the worst possible way kind of kind of crept up on me.

I used to be a very fit person. I left school at 16 years of age and went to work in a racing stables, where their idea of keeping the gals fit for duty, included tying lead weights to your legs and making you run everywhere – I kid you not, they really did that. Never occurred to me to complain!  I used to ride 5 or 6 lots of fizzy racehorses 6 days a week, plus all the mucking out, grooming etc that accompanies caring for horses. My career continued in other yards, as did my fitness.

I had three children and boinged effortlessly back into shape once I went back to the stables and worked it off.  My weight hardly ever crept over the 8 stone 2 mark and I was always a size ten.

The rot began in my mid 30’s when I ceased my outdoor work and went to University (I was a late bloomer) and qualified as a children’s social worker.  Contrary to popular belief, children’s social workers are not out there snatching children day and night – though it WAS part of the job. No, most of the time, you will find us in an office, behind a desk, trying to get to grips with the latest version of the software they have given us. We are the ones peering at the screen, squinting and usually cursing.

As any office based worker will tell you – there is always cake and there are always biscuits in there. It’s kind of an unwritten law. Often, no one knows how they get there – they just manifest on the spare desk in the office and you scoop them deftly up as you pass, saying, “When these are gone I’m not eating any more cakes”. This statement is accompanied by hysterical laughter from your colleagues; at which, you become offended and say, “What? I mean it” knowing full well that you will fail in your resolve the moment the next chocolate brownie appears.

It doesn't help living in France where these delicacies are so yummy

Anyway, that’s when it all began. I gained weight at a horrifying rate. Can I just pause here to ask why I can gain several pounds in less than a week, and yet to lose that same amount of weight it will take me at least a month? Why is that? 

My clothes became tighter, and after making a feeble attempt to chase an errant 14 year old who had escaped from his foster placement, I also realised how unfit I had become. This particular episode ended with me trying to save face and saying, “I’m not chasing you Ryan” (Why are they always called Ryan?) and standing still trying to look professional and not gasp for air, while hoping at the same time that my pelvic floor had held.

I joined several gyms at various times; it always ended badly - with me aching more than ever and feeling an abject failure as I tried in vain to work out surrounded by younger fitter bodies. I also never got to grips with that early morning workout, followed by a shower in an overheated changing room, which left me sweaty, cross and, with all those full length mirrors, more disillusioned that ever!

I then noted a deterioration when I was getting out of bed in a morning. I’m fairly certain that this simple task never used to be accompanied by sound effects! I sounded like my grandmother – a lot of old lady type oohin and ahhing as I straightened up, along with comments as to the current state of my back. Something like this;

Oooh my back’s aching this morning I don’t know what I’ve done. I didn’t really do anything yesterday did I? Why should it ache like this? Ouch that really hurts.

The above statements are made as I make my way to the bathroom, walking in a manner resembling a slightly disabled hermit crab, while emitting more sound effects.

Sigh.

The next thing to betray me were my fingers. Once so nimble, plaiting 2 or 3 horses in less than an hour in readiness for the races, typing quickly, making pastry and much more. Suddenly, they ached. I would wake up in the night flexing both hands open and closed in the vain hope that it would effect a cure.

It didn’t.

Steve was in no better a state. He too has always been fit and well. Ex-military, karate, running, boxing, and building – the man was fit! Suddenly, that had all changed and we would have the most unromantic conversations in the middle of the night which went something like this;

Me; Do your hands ache?

Steve; Yes, they do, both of them actually. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s all that drilling I did the other day – flex flex

Me; Yes, maybe that’s it. I wonder why mine are aching so much – flex flex

Steve; My knee’s hurting too – bend bend

Me; Oh no, really? I thought that was getting a bit better – flex flex

Steve; No, if anything it’s worse – bend, bend, flex flex

You get the picture!

I recalled my mother speaking words of doom as she warned me darkly of things to come, the things I could apparently look forwards to as an “older” person. “You wait till you’ve got all these aches and pains” she would mutter as she walked in a now depressingly familiar crab like manner holding her back. “It comes to us all” she predicted gloomily. 

I refused to admit she was right, and continued in my flexing, oh and the taking of supplements.

This is a new thing, and something I thought was reserved for people who read over 50's magazines and shop at Marks and Spencer’s or Holland and Barrett (ok ok I shop at them both). I began scouring the Internet for answers to the achy finger issue. Ha! Here, this is clearly what we need – Cat’s Claw. Not literally the claw from a cat you understand, but a supplement called Cat’s Claw. I sent for some of course, along with Omega 3 oil and other marvelous little pots of promise.

Steve and I then had slightly different, but no less romantic discussions;

Me; Do your fingers feel any better since we’ve been taking those tablets? Flex flex

Steve (looking thoughtful while flexing) Hmm, not sure, maybe a little

Me; I can’t tell; my fingers still ache

Steve; Mine do too, but maybe we’ve not taken them for long enough – flex flex

Me; Yes, I’m sure you’re right, we’ll have to keep taking them and hope they work – flex flex because my fingers really ache.

And so it goes on. The treacherous aching fingers, the horribly creaky backs, Steve’s knee, which in reality needs surgery, but as our French health cards have yet to materialise, this is a vain hope. With a poignant smile, I recall the days when we could refer to our knees as the left one and the right one, instead of the good knee and the bad knee!

I have also developed problems with my shoulders and arms aching – this is not least due to the fact that our beloved rescue dog Merlin pulls like a steam train on a downhill track. I mutter at him as he propels me along, “No wonder I ache with you wrenching my arms out of their sockets five times a day”. He wags and keeps going, certain that I am enjoying the hunt as much as he is 

Our beautiful Griffon Bleu De Gascogne, Merlin

And so, we press on, Steve with his knee support, me with my huge leather gloves for extra grip on the steam train hound. We take our supplements, we flex and we hope improvement is around the corner.

Steve keeps on going

Some aspects of getting older are no fun at all, but as a dear friend of mine always reminds me, the alternative is not so attractive, so we’ll be grateful for what we do have rather than lament the failure of our once fit and well bodies.

Ah well, I’m sure it’s time I took some tablets

                   ------------------------------------------------------

My latest book Caught in Traffick is now available via Amazon. The book is the sequel to my bestselling debut book, Known to Social Services. Set in Thailand and focusing on the organised crime of child traffickers; Caught in Traffick takes a fictional, yet horrifically realistic glimpse into the dark underworld of the ruthless traffickers.

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Merlin the Hound Dog is a short story about our rescue dog, available as a download via Amazon

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www.freyabarrington.blogspot.com

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Thanks for stopping by

Freya 

New Novel about Child Trafficking Titled "Caught In Traffick" Now Available

I am absolutely THRILLED to announce that my long awaited novel CAUGHT IN TRAFFICK is now available from Amazon and other outlets as a paperback and a download. Please follow the link below;

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Caught-Traffick-Freya-Barrington-ebook/dp/B01L80IVJM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1472539404&sr=8-1&keywords=caught+in+traffick

The sequel to my debut book Known to Social Services, Caught in Traffick picks up the story of Diane Foster; the social worker who was unfairly vilified for the death of a baby on her caseload. Diane is with her partner Ethan Montana in Thailand on a working holiday when they unwittingly become entangled in a complex and ruthless network of organised crime and child trafficking, which stretches from Bangkok to Pattaya.

The terrifying experiences of the children, and those striving to secure their liberty, provides a gripping and startlingly disturbing glimpse into the world of child trafficking.

Thousands of children worldwide are sold, kidnapped or simply given into the harrowing and frightening world of child trafficking, from which few escape. I wrote Caught in Traffick in the hope that the book will raise awareness and perhaps even challenge people’s views on this most heinous issue.

Thank you for the ongoing support.

www.freyabarrington.com

www.freyabarrington.blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/freyabarrington

Twitter: @freyabarrington

Freya

Book Information

In Freya Barrington's previous book, 'Known to Social Services', Freya Barrington gave us a frighteningly realistic insight into the harrowing world of the child protection social worker. Based on her own experiences, the book was a revelation and occupied the number one spot for social work books on Amazon UK within weeks of release and went on to win the autobiography/biography/memoir section of the 2015 London Book Festival and received an Honourable Mention at the 2016 Paris Book Festival. 

'Caught in Traffick' is the sequel to 'Known to Social Services', and continues the story of social worker Diane Foster. Set mainly in Thailand; Diane and her partner Ethan are on a working holiday, blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking against the beautiful backdrop of white beaches and glorious monuments. When four-year-old Darcie Taylor is abducted from a crowded beach, Diane and Ethan find themselves sucked into the horrifying world of child trafficking. When Darcie’s abduction is followed closely by the kidnap of another child, there can be no doubt that a well co-ordinated gang is operating in the area. 

A chance meeting with the Director of Social Services Nicholas Bishop leads to a shocking revelation about the man who is still Diane’s most senior manager. Together, they become embroiled in a dangerous web of subterfuge and corruption, where organised crime syndicates and depraved sex offenders engage in a desperate battle of wits against those dedicated to their downfall. Trapped within this labyrinth of immorality are the children, who are sacrificed on the altar of greed and perversion for financial gain. With the gang’s tentacles reaching across to England, Diane is shocked to find herself faced with some old adversaries. With gripping twists and turns, hair-raising rescue attempts and heart breaking tragedies which leave you in despair; 'Caught in Traffick' will open your eyes to the disturbing underground world of child trafficking.

A Taste of Things to Come; a sneaky peek at the first chapter of my forthcoming novel Caught in Traffick

The time fast approaches for the release of my latest novel, Caught in Traffick. While we wait, I thought you might like to get a taste of what’s to come in this fast moving and gripping story of child trafficking in Thailand. Here is a tiny glimpse into Chapter One.

****

The beach at Jomtien, was crowded with tourists doing what tourists do. They sunbathed, swam, drank cocktails, and played with their children on the fine white sands. Screams and shouts of laughter emanated from the banana boats out on the Gulf of Thailand, filled with willing passengers who had paid for the dubious pleasure of being flung off into the warm blue ocean. A string of ponies, sweated in the hot February sun, carrying their cargo of small, equally hot children. No one paid any attention to the old man in the wheelchair, whose feeble demeanour was a signpost of his advanced years. He was simply an old man of no account who had been pushed into a shady spot by his nurse, to enjoy the warmth of the late morning sun. He wore a large straw hat, which obscured his face. Underneath the hat however, the Old Man’s deep set eyes were keen and searching, and the unsuspecting people on the beach could not have guessed the sinister purpose of his presence. Their indifference would be costly, for the Old Man had played this game many times before and was as sharp as he was cunning. 

The Old Man observed the tableau, which played out before him; with his shrewd eye for detail, he already knew where all the main players were situated. He knew the beach well, and had already committed many details of today’s particular scenario to memory. It was with good reason that the Old Man was known to the people who sought him out, as “The Watcher.”

He watched the fishing boats go by as they made their way back to the fishing ports. He watched the waiters making cocktails behind the gaily decorated bars, he watched two lovers kissing on the white sands, mistaken in the notion that they were hidden from view by the garish umbrellas. He watched the hippie types who still came to the area to smoke a little dope, get high and remember the good old days. He watched the parents; but most of all, as a hawk watches its prey, he watched the children.  His seasoned eye was drawn to one family in particular. Two parents with two young children, a blonde haired girl wearing an eye catching pink and white polka dot swimsuit, and a younger boy. Their father was swimming in the sea, leaving mother tending to both children. The Old Man watched and waited, knowing that the opportunity would arise as it always did. It had been over six months since the Old Man had been out hunting like this, and he felt his pulse quicken in anticipation. He had travelled with special purpose from his home in Bangkok, with one thing in mind and now he had it in his sights.

A woman approached from his left hand side; she was a pretty young thing, dressed as a nurse; she attracted as little attention as the Old Man. She said nothing, but bent down to rearrange the blanket over his skinny legs. As she did so, she glanced up at him; “Soon” he whispered in an almost indiscernible voice, “It will be soon, stay close, and be ready.” The woman melted back into the crowds, but her sad eyes stayed constantly on the Old Man. She waited, as he waited; the sweat ran down her back in rivulets betraying the anxiety she felt at her situation.

The minutes ticked by.

Somewhere on the beach, a child cried out in pain. The woman did not turn her head to look; her eyes were fastened on the Old Man, knowing that this could be the moment. The Old Man had heard it of course, but unlike the woman, he fixed his gaze on the unfolding drama on the beach like a hawk on a mouse. The boy had wandered off and fallen; the mother turned, spoke briefly to the girl, and ran to her son. People instinctively turned their heads in the direction of the crying boy, some continued to watch as his mother comforted him, some smiled in sympathy, and no one, but no one had eyes on the girl; no one that is apart from Ruang Sak Yunram. 

****

I hope that has whetted your appetite J

The book is the sequel to my first book Known to Social Services and should be released very soon, possibly before the end of August, but no promises. Caught in Traffick will be available from Amazon as a paperback and a download. It will also be available from certain book stores.

I will of course keep you posted, but you can sign up to follow my blog direct at;

www.freyabarrington.blogspot.com

Or visit my website;

www.freyabarrington.com

Or Facebook

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Freya