I know, I know, you don't hear from me for months and then, there I am on every available social media outlet with yet another book!
Sorry. It's happening again. This time it's a book called Home on Folly Farm, set up on the Yorkshire Moors (which, please note is NOT THE SAME PLACE as the Yorkshire Dales, as many people seem to think. And neither is it where Heathcliffe pratted about while Cathy did her droopy 'he'th juth tho handthome' rubbish. No. Those places are over the other side of the county and every time someone mentions the Brontes in connection with the Yorkshire Moors, they collectively rotate in their graves).
It features sheep. Lots of sheep. Too many, according to one reviewer, I'm not quite sure what she thought the book was about when it's got sheep on the cover and it's about a farm, Maybe some people don't want to read about the piles of poo and being up all night end of farming. I know those who live in cities often have a view of farming that is all picturesque and lots of gambolling through daisy-strewn fields in pretty dresses, but that's not farming, that's a perfume advert. Farming is far more grubby than that. And tiring and hard. Animals die. Things leak. People shout. Sometimes people leak and animals shout and things die.And that's the kind of farming I write about, so beware if you just want pretty buildings and sunshine.
This is it. You can pre-order it here, and it releases on 16 March, which is very very soon and I ought to go and buy a cake or something to celebrate. Maybe I'll buy a sheep-shaped one...