So my website goes live today (I hope). I’m hugely grateful to the website designer, Mark Figlozzi at Bizango author websites, for doing a great job, and for, quite rightly, ignoring all of my colour choices. It feels pretty exciting to have a website. It also feels slightly strange, like I forget to shut the refrigerator door, which I often do anyway… a trait that has never endeared me to anyone but my dog.

I’m heading back to Dublin today. Sometimes when I land back in Ireland, I feel an almost overwhelming instinct to get down on my knees and kiss the tarmac on the runway. But I only feel that for a few minutes while I’m still inside the plane. The weather outside always knocks that notion clear out of my head. The wind in Ireland doesn’t feel like the wind anywhere else that I’ve ever been.

My first book for children, Evie Brooks is Marooned in Manhattan, is coming out in Ireland and the U.K on March 3rd, so I’m about to embark on book promotion. I hope that I get to meet lots of young readers. I don’t understand why anyone would complain about getting dumped at the children’s table at weddings. This happened to me recently and it was far and away the most interesting and bravest wedding reception conversation I’ve ever encountered. Having to help my young neighbour cut up his beef was a very small price to pay.

I called this blog, The Horse and Her Girl blog because The Horse and His Boy is my favourite of the Narnia Chronicles. It doesn't  quite belong with the others; it was an outsider book and I have a soft spot for outsiders.  I want to write about random stuff that seems interesting or weird or funny. I just can’t do that right now because I have to go buy more presents for my nieces and nephews. You see, I bought them some cool stuff … to em, share. Obviously, sharing is an excellent thing in the general scheme of daily life . . . but it’s a lousy quality in a gift-giver. I’m a twin and when we were kids -- certain people always bought us one Christmas gift to share –while they always gave our two brothers separate gifts. Yes, I still remember those certain gift-givers’ names . . . and their addresses. I don’t want my nephews and nieces to be making mental notes about me. I understand how long justified resentment can last. I’ll write again soon . . . from Ireland.