Sep 24, 2014

Confessions of a Chocoholic by Lynda Renham

A collection of short funny tales and a unique insight into the world of chicklit royalty, aka Lynda Renham. A right comedy of errors if ever there was one. If you're looking for her beauty secrets and fashion ideas you've come to the right place. Read of her intimate sex life, her secrets for staying young and how she keeps her man - just. A fly-on-the wall true account of the life of a romantic comedy novelist, written in her own words. It's all here, the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Publisher Note: We are not responsible for any of the advice given in this book. If you do not look like Lynda after reading this we cannot be held accountable.

Warning: Tena Pads recommended while reading. 

In Confessions of a Chocoholic Lynda Renham is telling the reader some things about her life. She writes about bloopers, irritations, funny situations and topics that all women recognize but never talk about. I loved that, it was enlightening and funny. It must have taken quite a bit of courage to share some of the things she wrote about. The stories made me laugh out loud several times. So many situations Lynda Renham describes are things that many women go through and she has put them into words very well. She's writing about her every day life in an open and honest way and I really admire that. Don't try to read this collection of stories if you don't have any chocolate at home, because you will need it. I read it while eating lots of chocolate cake. 
Confessions of a Chocoholic is currently free on amazon. You should get it straight away if you're looking for something funny and entertaining. 


Here's an extract for you to enjoy!

You Have Seventy-Two Hours to Shoot the Computer
A few weeks ago our Internet connection died. If I had known the hassles that were
ahead of us I seriously think I would have emigrated to Australia. It surely wasn’t that
bad, I hear you say. Oh trust me, it was worse. But as usual, I digress. So let me go back
to the beginning. It all began on Sunday night. Andrew was trying to move his server onto
something called The Cloud. Now, don’t ask me for any more information. As far as I am
concerned his server and the cloud are his business. Suffice it to say that he runs a business
from his office at home and had some concerns about his personal server going down, so
that particular evening he was trying to move everything onto the cloud. Not a cloud in
the sky you understand, although for as much as I know it could well be. Again I digress.
Trust me, the server and the cloud are not really important in this story. The next day we
both toddled off to work. In my case I toddled downstairs to the couch which is where I
was working on my latest bestseller. You’ve read all those of course haven’t you? I stop
work about lunchtime and set off to Sainsbury’s, as you do, and fight my way around the
aisles. I know exactly what I want but nothing ever goes to plan does it? Something in the
Sainsbury’s supermarket had blown up that morning and so their freezer department wasn’t
working properly, and for some reason it affected their spit-roast chickens. I did query the
connection but no one seemed to know what it was. I quickly re-planned dinner and headed
for the fish counter. Finally, I get to the checkout where the queues are a mile long and
patiently waited my turn. I reach the front and am faced with an assistant and his twenty
‘Hello, how are you? Would you like bags for your goods?’
Actually no, I thought I would carry the whole trolley load in my skirt, or better still, in a
basket on my head.
Of course I want bags. But before I can answer ...
‘Do you have your own bags? Do you need help packing?’
No, I don’t have my own bags and no, I don’t need help packing. I mean, do I look
helpless? And before you ask, yes, I have sex three times a week or more if I am lucky. Of
course, he didn’t ask about my sex life but you know how it is? And yes, I have a Nectar
Card but no, I forgot it, and no, I don’t need to complete a form for a replacement. What an
ungrateful woman you think I am. Well yes, but I just want to get home and I know they are
only doing their job. But really, if you have more than three things in your trolley, then you
need bags, right?
Next, that thing that makes me cringe. Along the conveyer with a thump come my
apples followed by my pears. The bag of flour splits slightly as it is thrown along and the lady
behind me gasps. Oh no, I will have to say something and then he will ring the bell and then
I will wait forever for someone to get another bag. I sigh and push it into my carrier. I really
don’t have the time. I pay and smile when he tells me to enjoy my nice things, like I have
just bought an iPad rather than mackerel and salad. Ah well ... I drive home, lumber inside
with my shopping bags and put the kettle on. Now, you can already tell that I am not in the
mood for anything more dramatic than the teabag splitting. No luck for me. I see the
answerphone is bleeping like crazy and the Skype phone is flashing like mad and there is a
loud screeching coming from Andrew’s office. I feel an overwhelming temptation to flee
while there is still time. I enter the office warily, and prepare myself for the horrors that
await there. The computers are consistently rebooting themselves in an effort to re-
establish connection, and the answer machine is flashing menacingly. Poor Bendy quakes
behind me and attempts a purr but it comes out a bit shaky. I feel like Bendy and I have just
stepped into a horror movie. I listen to the messages with a sinking heart. Andrew’s
customers can’t access the server. I phone Andrew and pop two painkillers in case. Pre-
empting a headache is always a good idea.
‘We have no Internet connection,’ I say.
‘Not to worry,’ says my calm husband. ‘It’s probably the router. I’ll sort it out when I
get home.’
Bendy is given a handful of cat treats to calm him down while I overdose on the box of
Ferrero Rocher we had bought to take to friends at the weekend. I can always buy another
box on the way, right?
Andrew arrives home at six and by ten-thirty we still have no Internet connection. We
have fitted a new router, which doesn’t work, and have irate customers who cannot access
their files. We phone BT. Well we actually phone India, but that’s the same thing isn’t it?
We think the woman tells us it is the router. Now, I am not being racist here when I say we
cannot understand her. It is just a fact that we simply can’t understand her accent, or the
man who follows her, or the woman who follows him, and we apologise profusely for asking
them to speak a little slower. Andrew repeatedly tells her that it isn’t the router to which
she responds,
‘Good, we agree it is router.’
Hello, are you talking to us? We finally give up and phone our Internet provider. There
is a thirty-minute wait. Forty-five minutes later someone answers and thirty minutes later
after we have turned the router on and off several times we are told the problem will be
‘Someone will contact you in seventy-two hours. In the meantime should your
connection resume please contact us.’
’Seventy-two hours,’ I repeat in a strangled voice. For God’s sake, you can’t leave us for
seventy-two hours cut off from the world. What are we going to do? How will I get onto
Facebook? How can I send a tweet, or update my blog? Andrew slaps me round the face and
I calm down. (Obviously he didn’t slap me round the face but it sounds dramatic, doesn’t
it?) So, we wait seventy-two hours. During that time I visit PC World and buy a dongle to
get connection through the phone network but it costs me five pounds just to surf Amazon
for ten minutes and five of those minutes are spent waiting to get into Amazon in the first
place. How did I ever cope years ago? Can you remember what you did before the Internet
existed? Anyway, as usual I digress. So, finally, one afternoon seventy-two years later,
whoops I mean hours later, our provider texts to ask if I would like to phone to get the
connection back on. Even with a thumping headache this sounds good to me. The guy was
called Mark and this is how our conversation went:
‘Hello, how are you?’ asks Mark.
‘Fine,’ I reply.
‘I need to go through the router settings with you.’
‘But we have done that already?’
‘I have nothing on the system that says it has been done.’
‘Well, I assure you we did.’
Lesson number one, do not argue with them because ... The phone goes dead. Now I am
not saying they do this on purpose, I mean why would they? With a thumping head I redial
and wait fifteen minutes. While we wait, let me tell you something about Andrew’s office. In
two words it is A Mess. Now, believe it or not, he knows exactly where everything is in here.
And believe it or not, I don’t! I fumble around all the papers trying to find the old router. I
then fall over objects as I try to plug things in while the whole time Bendy, who has picked
up the atmosphere, is meowing around me and trying to get the airing cupboard door open
with his paw.
‘Mark speaking, how can I help?’
‘We got cut off.’
Silence. Oh no!
‘Are you there, are you there?’ I say, mildly hysterically.
He politely gives me a web address to type in. I start typing.
‘Are you in?’ he asks
‘Not yet.’
Was that a tut I heard?
‘The web page is in Italian,’ I exclaim.
‘Why is it in Italian?’ he asks.
Well if I knew that ...
‘I don’t know,’ I reply honestly.
‘The best thing to do now is turn your router off, wait a few hours and then turn it on
A few hours? Why does everything take hours with these people, whatever happened to
‘But, we have done that already and ...’
‘The best thing is to wait until your husband gets home. He can phone us this evening.’
Wait till your husband gets home. Oh do I see red or do I see red? I stand up angrily, fall
over the cat and curse. The phone goes dead. I am so livid I want to sue them. It has been
four days now and so far all we have done is buy new routers and turn them on and off.
Where is the engineer that everyone talks about? I decide it may be best to leave it to the
husband. In fact, neither of us do anything and the next day it is back on. Of course it goes
off again a week later but I really don’t want to put you through all that again. You will be
pleased to know that after another seventy-two hours, copious amounts of chunky Kit Kats,
a study clear out and a tranquilised cat, we finally got a BT engineer out, and he discovered
our 80-year-old wiring had gone rotten. But of course, we all know it really is the router
don’t we?

1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed this book when I read it too x


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