Bernadette Strachan

THE WRITING PROCESS  Some days, nothing happens. Nada. Not a single decent idea, no snappy dialogue, no nothing. What do I do on those days?

(a) Panic. This can be small scale (if I don't finish at least a thousand words today I'll be behind on my [frankly nuts] schedule) or on a more impressive scale (that's it! My career is over! I'll have to sell my hair and pimp out the spaniel to survive!). It's best to get stage (a) over and done with early, so as to move on and…

(b) Rearrange The Things On My Desk. I move the pen pot just so, a millimetre to the left. I twiddle the lamp. I restack the notebooks, in strict order of size. I might punch the gonk. Then I...

(c) Eat. A biscuit, a sandwich, or a whole hog on a spit. I eat when I'm blocked. And when I'm not. I wipe my lips daintily with a starched napkin and I...
 
(d) Work On Something Else. This shakes the brain cells up, stretches muscles that have been inert for a while. But there is a danger – if the Something Else goes too well, then returning to the blocked work can seem like a chore. As a last resort I can always...

(e) Watch Daytime TV. A desperate measure, but oh so moreish. Like Smarties, or heroin. Half an hour of Jeremy Kyle seems like a good idea at the time, but I always need a shower afterwards.

FUDE  Do you know what you need? I'll tell you what you need. You need a foolproof chocolate mousse recipe. I know, because I needed one for years and couldn't find one. Everybody likes chocolate mousse (yes, alright, except for you there at the back who is poised to email me – I accept that it can't be actually entirely true that everybody in the whole world likes chocolate mousse, but go with me here). But chocolate mousse is usually very dark (children don't like that, and neither do I). Chocolate mousse can be a bit of  a bitch,  'forgetting' to set properly when you have company.  So here is a milky chocolate mousse, suitable for children and the inner child. I make it in one big bowl and grown women have been known to cry when they realise they can take as much as they want and not have to pretend to be delighted with a sodding ramekin.

This is a Jamie Oliver recipe, but I substituted elderflower for cognac . As it contains raw egg, don't offer it to pregnant women or the elderly: it's a dinner party, not Russian Roulette.

Melt 225g milk chocolate and 70g butter in a bowl over a pot of simmering water. (You know how to do that, don't you? Good.) Whip 350ml double cream to the point where it's floppy and cloudlike: stop before it becomes clenched and pre-menstrual.

Whisk together 2 eggs and 2tbspns runny honey. Fold in 1tbspn of elderflower presse to the egg mixture. Then fold the chocolate and the cream into this mixture. Be gentle, don't rush, and keep folding until there are no streaks.
Pour into 6 ramekins or one large bowl and chill in the fridge until you need it.

Share it if you must.

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO MAVIS  It's been a varied week for the hairiest member of the family. One afternoon she was sporting a headscarf, courtesy of Niamh. It rather suited her. Another day she went past my study door in a doll's pushchair, pushed by Niamh's giggling friend, Skye. The look of silent pleading on Mavis' face was moving. And funny. But this morning she asserted herself, growling, jumping and protecting the family from a pizza flyer that came through the letterbox.

THE WRITING PROCESS  I wrote my first book, back in 2003, in longhand, sitting at the kitchen table. It felt pleasantly retro. These days I write straight on to a sleek white Apple MacBook. There are always notebooks around, though. I have favourite pens, just cheap ones I buy in bulk on the internet. I enjoy their familiar narrow shape as I bash down sudden inspiration.  I have a study of my own these days, too. It's a pretty room, sticking out from the back of the house, with a window over the desk and french doors out to the garden. It's tiny, yet manages to boast a Victorian fireplace too. My desk is a chrome 1930's boxy design with a leather top. The blind is pink (as befits a romcom writer), the walls are white, and on the chimney breast there is green geometric wallpaper.  There are books crowding shelves, along with box files of paperwork covered in an Orla Kiely print. My favourite photo of my Dad, who died in 1998 (twelve years ago! All that love gone to waste!) smiles from the mantelpiece. Mavis generally snores from a rug on the floor. Niamh pops in slightly too often during the school holidays. Matthew leans on the door jamb a lot, suggesting tea, coffee, an illicit biscuit. I can see the pear tree out of the french windows. And the banal block of flats beyond.

Can you tell how much I love this room?

ENCOUNTERS WITH THE FAMOUS: ROBBIE WILLIAMS & ME
He's in the news again, getting married to somebody called Ayda and teaming up with Take That again: I prefer his slightly bonkers phases when he sees UFO's and buys wolves for the back garden.

Years ago, when Robbie was enjoying the first flush of his solo success, I had a boyfriend who was chummy with Guy Chambers, the uber-talented bloke who co-wrote Robbie's truly memorable stuff. One evening we found ourselves at Robbie's 'pad' (it was a pad, not a flat, trust me) in Notting Hill, awaiting a barbecue prepared by Terry Wogan's son. (Yes! Terry Wogan's son – this sounds as if I was dreaming, but it's true.) The pad was the top floor of a large white stucco house. Every surface was white. The furniture was space age-y white and chrome, huge leather sofas and pristine white rugs.  Tasteful, classy and luxurious, with a long terrace offering a view of a sunset conjuring up pinks and apricots and mauves just for us.

Guy sat beside me on the sofa and said out of the corner of his mouth “What do you reckon is the only thing Robbie chose in this room?” I looked around at the books on art, the striking paintings on the wall, the tasteful furniture. My eye fell on something in the middle of the  white marble coffee table.
“The movable action figure of Darth Vader?” I suggested. Guy nodded.

(BTW Robbie Williams was delightful, if shy. When we left I thanked him for having me and he snorted and said “Ooh missus”. Just like you'd expect him to.)