Category Archives: Stockbridge

Lunacy, Lance and Lycra

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Hear all about it – lend me your ears.


Wow! What a Tour de France we have had in England. Dense crowds of cheering Brits lined the roadsides. Six million selfies were snapped with the hurtling peleton as a backdrop. 

I haven’t been blogging because I’ve been working at my day job as an audio editor for my company Gallo Romano Media. We picked up a fabulous job to do an audio book all about the Tour de France. I now know things a woman shouldn’t know about what riders used to do with Nivea Cream.(It wasn’t exactly applied where the sponsors intended). I also know a lot more about the history of France and Europe and the juicy scandals and skulduggery surrounding some of the old time stars. Lance has got some catching up to do believe me. 

The book “The Tour de France – The Inside Story” by Les Woodland is brilliant. My man – Oscar Sparrow, did the audio in his performance poet French Italiano mode. To get into the mind set he rode the Tourmalet and the Col de Marie Blanque on a Tacx simulator. Taking the heavy breathing off that track was tough. 

Dropped H – well what ever makes you ‘appy

Getting away from the editing desk on our tandem was wonderful. I had completed a whole twelve miles before I had to take a coffee break in the ultra posh town of Stockbridge in Hampshire. The dropped H from the sign is in honour of my French/Cockney accent. Well – it’s an ‘otel innit. I reckon they took it down for me so that I didn’t feel out of place.

If you’re in to politics, sex, scandal and bikes keep an eye out for out latest audio book which will be out soon. If you fancy winning a free copy click here.



Emma Thinx: Friends, Romans, Cyclists – lend me your rears





Oh Autumn – Love Child of Spring

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Oh juice! Oh fullness; Oh grown love-child of Spring !

Season of mists and mellow novelists; Ah yes Autumn it is. Cold arrows of rain drench my heroine’s passion as I sit here trying to write about rising sap and hormone inspired springtime lust.  I always find it easier to write during the actual season where my characters are. Trouble is, it would always be Spring or Summer. All that northern writhing on rugs in front of open fires has always seemed hazardous to me and you have to be careful about where you catch sparks and chilblains. 

Torn wings of toil, mortal beauty in the last sun.


England is the most wonderful of countries. Yesterday I cycled to the country town of Stockbridge and sat in the warm sun watching an alien tweed clad upper class world go by. I stopped and watched the last late cygnets in the river Test. Four deer startled and ran through the sun dappled woods where the bluebells will bloom in May. I long for them now and for their prophets – the snowdrops. 

Today is cold and the last swallows fill their tanks before hitting the gas pedal and heading south. Geese begin to gather at the starting line. Soon enough it will be out to work in the dark and home in the dark. Perhaps I should strategically place a furry rug in front of the open log fire and do some research. No fire – no problem: I could paint some flames on a radiator in the lounge I guess.

Willows overhang a sun warmed river Test. 


In these last days of pseudo summer I took some pictures. Once upon a time I could have done a poem but that gift voucher is long ago spent on frippery, anger and hoover bags. 



Emma thinx: If it’s going, let it go. Just keep hold of the string.