Make a little room in your summer holiday suitcase for the new Annie Valentine, as How Not To Shop comes out on 13th August.

At the AK Bell Theatre in Perth, I served my first ever time on a discussion panel this month.  Is The Love Story Dead? Discuss. It was a really interesting and enjoyable evening. Great to meet writers Ewan Morrison and Sharon Blackie as well as the incredibly well-read Dorothy Macmillan, Stuart Kelly and Ajay Close. Just as soon as I’d sipped down my second Buck’s Fizz to quell those public speaking nerves, I had a great time!

I’m going on a library tour in September… more details to follow next month. Hope I can catch up with lots of readers.

The rest of June has been all about two of the Very Important Males in my life: my son and my Dad.

On the same day that my son went off on his first week-long school trip to an outward bound adventure centre thingy, my Dad went into hospital to have his hip replaced.

Oh what a lovely amount of fretting and stressing I did! Will Sam have enough socks? Eat enough fibre? Survive the abseiling lesson? Will Dad have enough books to read? Eat any hospital food? Survive the operation?!!

Good grief it was stressful. My Mum and I got through much more wine and cake than usual, I can tell you.

However, the week ended. Sam came off the bus looking tall, brown, grubby and ridiculously chirpy. He was absolutely fine – apart from a neck rash brought on by a combination of ‘slurping on midge repellent like gravy’ (his words) and not washing properly (well, he is newly 11!) And apparently abseiling – which he’d been slightly worried about – was the best fun ever.

Dad came out of hospital the following day and went home to the farm along with crutches, a raised loo-seat and various other gadgets.

He has always been the fittest, healthiest person I know. Up until two years ago he was still running (he doesn’t jog, he RUNS!) and he looks after a herd of 80 cattle, so the ever-increasing hip problem has taken some time for him to adjust to.

I have no idea how Mum is going to keep him resting for six weeks. There is already talk of how soon can he get back on his bike (his new hobby now that he can’t run!) and my Dad’s usual competitive streak  means he will want to make the fastest recovery from the operation ever!

More news next month when I get back from New York! Yes, I’ll just say that once again… when I get back from New York!!

Every day I bundle myself up into thermal long johns, jeans, sheepskin boots, thermal top, woollen jumper, fleece hoodie (oh the glamour… you can see why I write about department stores and fashion, can’t you?) I practically sit on top of the heater at my computer and mainline tea, but I’m still cold, deeply, bone-chillingly cold, most of the time. I may even get those fingerless mitts to use at the keyboard… actually no, that would be sad.

Apparently, according to my exercise-ist husband, this is because I need to get fitter and get the blood circulating round my chilly, long limbs. I say: ‘yes I will go to the gym, I will go out for a run, just as soon as it’s bit warmer out there!’ Until then, I am sitting on top of my radiator with a cup of tea and not moving.

My dog, Jimmy, feels the same. He is so cold some days that he wraps himself up in his fleece blankies and will only come out for food.

He’s right, February should be declared National Duvet Month and we should all just be allowed to stay at home and do a Jimmy until it is over.

It was beautiful down there: dazzlingly blue and turquoise seas, big waves, long, sandy, deserted beaches. It really is a very special place.

Being brave or foolhardy, I’m not sure which, we booked in for a family surfing lesson. First of all, this involved wetsuits, for everyone. The four of us looked like – remember that kids’ film about the family of superheroes, The Incredibles? Yes that was us, except we were armed with a huge yellow surfboard or giant banana.

It turns out that surfing is quite scary (to begin with, especially if you’re convinced your 6 yr old is about to drown) not to mention exhausting. Muscles I’d never felt before were left aching, but we all worked very hard for our gorgeous surf instructor, yes him of the sea-bleached, tousled hair, a mahogany sea-tan, rippling surfer muscles… I’m sorry, I noticed, I’m only human.

When he referred to my not quite so rippling husband as ‘The Big Fella’ I had to giggle, but I wasn’t laughing quite so hard when he referred to me as: ‘Mum’ !!!! Oh. My. God. That is crossing a line. I’ve clearly got to the age where handsome young men start thinking of me as ‘Mum’. This is deeply, deeply tragic. And I have to say, I didn’t think I was wearing my wetsuit so badly. All that treadmill running had paid off slightly.

I didn’t manage to stand up on my board, but I did do a lot of body boarding which was brilliant. On the beach there were loads of properly old ladies (ie older than me) in suits with board, just grinning from ear to ear. Because it is brilliant fun. This is clearly the secret to a British seaside summer, you’ve got to get in and get wet. Never mind the weather!

Meanwhile, while I was eating pasties and ice cream on Sennen beach near Land’s End, my glamorous sister-in-law was on holiday in New York. Yes, she’s newly single, she’s still child-free, so she decided to book herself a glam singleton holiday to NYC.

Obviously, with the dollar on the skids, everything seemed incredibly good value and she had a very nice little shopping time to herself. Discount shoes, an adorable little Coach handbag and so on.

However, she did report back on a really quite terrifying trend. Every one in NYC carries a beautiful bag, OK, we expected that. In fact, we’d have been shocked if they didn’t, but, here is the but… despite the 35 degree heat, despite the bags and the manicured hands and the incredible designer clothes (smart, smart Prada skirts, nipped in blouses, groomed hair) guess what lots and lots of women were wearing on their feet? High Jimmys or Manolos, I hear you answer and I know, I’d have guessed the same. But no, apparently the coloured, patterned, mid-height Wellington seems to be the footwear of choice!!!! Bizarre!! Is it comfortable to walk about NY in mid-July in calf height wellies? Is it a status statement: I have a really big garden/ allotment/ home in the countryside. Well, whatever the reason… they’re definitely not wearing calf-length wellies for style.

I asked if she at least had a pic for me to post, but she said every time she saw one of these wellie-wearers walk past, she was so shocked, so stopped in her tracks by the sight that she never got it together to take a snap.

Being stared at in disapproval for your fashion faux pas reminds me of being in Paris, aged 19, inter-railing. I was probably wearing a t-shirt, grubby shorts and possibly even hiking boots. This chic Parisisan woman, walked towards me, in the typical Paris outfit of slick, skinny black, smooth hair, sunglasses, and just gave me this look. Her eyes travelled right up and down me and then her face registered this pinched look of horror – making me feel about two inches high.

The last time I was in the south of France, I thought the French women looked a bit frumpy to be honest. All that striped blue and white top business. I mean, it’s quite cute when you’re under ten as holiday wear, but come on!

Obviously I couldn’t post a word yesterday, the first officially decent day of the year, because I was doing what every self-respecting Scottish person does at the slightest hint of sunshine: staying outside all day in the skimpiest summer clothes to be found in the back of the wardrobe. Yes, that slightly mouldering pile of things unworn since last August.

Now everyone, apart from me because I am a ‘Mediterranean olive’ type, is already burnt. Can you blame them?? No sun for six, seven months, then a full on, factor 20 blitzer of a day without the slightest warning and no one was going to go off to the chemist’s for sunscreen because they might have missed it. That’s how the weather is here: it could all change in the blink of an eye.

Today, the second official day of sunshine, I have been out and about noticing the alarming variety of confused summer outfits there are out there because no one has been summer shopping and summer clothes are not worn out in a season up here, believe me.

So in just a short tour of the high street I’ve seen more long fishtail dresses (1980s? early 1990s?) than I’d care to mention. Especially bad in olive green. Then there was the girl in the matching printed blouse and printed shorts worn with dark wool tights and MBT trainers… and another in a bright lime green vest dress with baseball boots and the palest Scottish skin you can imagine.

Let’s not leave the men out of this: three quarter length black trousers, sandals, grey socks, white t-shirt, black jacket and monumental beer belly left one third exposed. Mmmmm… you’d think I was making it up, but sadly not.

Personally, I kept my jeans on. It may have been sunny but I wasn’t taking any chances. The weather can change in a blink of an eye.

The only person who looked really good in her new summer wear was my totally style-and-fashion-gifted daughter.

One look out of the window this morning and she went to her three school summer dresses (she bought them herself at last year’s school fete for 50p a pop). She held each one up in turn in front of herself, picked her favourite, then selected white socks with a blue and white check trim and a matching blue hair-clip.

I am constantly learning from her. She always chooses her clothes in a few co-ordinating colours: pink, purple, blue, some red, but nothing else. She is always prepared: buying dresses well ahead of summer and she always cares about the details: the matching socks and clips.

I think the style gene has skipped a generation and gone from my mother, straight to Claudie.

PS The summer holiday is booked…. Cornwall!!!!!!!! (You will have to read the last April post to know why that is tragic!!) No sooner had I booked it, than I was on another writer’s website reading how she’d spent four weeks in Cornwall where it drizzled every single day. AAAAArgh!