Who is Victoria Twead?

I was born, the middle child of three, in Dorchester Hospital, Dorset. Apparently I was unplanned, but I suppose my brother's arrival two years later was even more of a shock to our parents.

The photo shows the hospital, although I imagine it is disused now. I also believe there is an archeological dig going on there, although I may be wrong. I do know that Dorchester is a rich source of Roman and earlier artefacts.

My father was stationed at Bovington Camp at the time, but the Army moved us to Bonn, Germany, six months later. I don't remember much of this time, except that we had a German nanny, red squirrels and I rolled rabbit droppings down a bank in the garden, like marbles. Of course I learned to speak German and by the time we came back to England, I could speak almost no English.

My parents rented a little cottage in the village of Corfe Castle, Dorset, while they house-hunted. The photo shows the street, although not the house, that we lived in. Our house was thatched and we could hear mice scuttling about in it at night.

My big sister and I went to the village school and I quickly forgot most of my German and spoke English instead.

My parents eventually found a house they liked in Wareham. It had belonged to a priest with an unfortunate drinking problem. To hide his habit, he buried the empty bottles in the garden and my parents were unearthing them for years.

My sister and I were now sent to a little Prep school in Dorchester. I remember making daisy chains in the school field, playing 'horses' with my friends and putting a drawing pin on Nigel Boldwood's chair. (thumb tack?)

When I was 11, I was sent to an all-girls boarding school in Bournemouth. I loved it. The school was set in woods where we played 'tin-can-bosh' and we had midnight feasts and kept frogspawn in jam-jars. Looking back on it, it was very like Enid Blyton's books. During the holidays, I went back to Wareham.

At the age of 13, I left the boarding school and was enrolled at the Grammar School. I studied as little as possible (unless it was English or Art) and scraped through with 'O' and 'A' levels.

During holidays and weekends, I had an assortment of jobs. I was a (very bad) waitress at The Old Granary, pictured in the photo. I was a (very bad) chambermaid in a small hotel. I worked in an animal sanctuary where my jobs included milking a goat with a phantom pregnancy and force-feeding a gannet that was afraid of water.

Then on to Teacher Training College, as it was known by in those days, in West Sussex, and it was there I met my husband. We married in 1977 in the church pictured in the photograph. The church is St Mary's and famous for having a fish on top of the spire.

I qualified as a teacher but did I want to teach? No. Instead, I welded fire-guards, worked in a children's home and toured France and Spain on the back of my husband's motorbike. (Triumph Tiger 650 for anyone who's interested.) In St Tropez, we arrived at the campsite at night and pitched our tent in the dark.

Imagine our astonishment in the morning when we unzipped the tent and discovered nobody was wearing any clothes. Not a stitch. In the 1970's this was pretty awesome.

Then the kids came along and we settled down. I finally decided to teach and got a job teaching English at the High School, where I stayed for 12 years. My husband exchanged the motorbike for a set of golf clubs.

After 25 years had passed, my husband and I realised we had drifted apart and split up. The children had left home and life was about to begin again.

At the grand old age of 44, I was having to re-invent myself. Scary, but pretty exciting. By that time, I knew what I wanted. The children were settled, and I only had myself to please. What did I want to do? I wanted to WRITE!

But how could I write and still pay the mortgage? The answer was clear - the property ladder! So I mortgaged my house, bought another, and did it up.

Joe had entered my life by then, and encouraged and helped me. He was in charge of the electrics and plumbing, I did the carpentry, tiling and decorating. I also carried on teaching.

We sold that house, and bought another. Same again; renovated the house and sold it.

One day, I broke it to Joe that I wanted to abandon England and move to Spain...

"Huh? What's the matter?" Joe's words were blurred with sleep, his eyes still closed. Rain beat a tattoo on the window pane.

"Joe? Are you listening?"

"Uhuh..."

"When you retire, I want us to sell up and buy a house in Spain." Deep breath.

There. The bomb was dropped. I had finally admitted my longing. I wanted to abandon England with its ceaseless rain. I wanted to move permanently to Spain.
Sleep forgotten, Joe pulled himself upright, confusion in his blue eyes as he tried to read my expression.

"Vicky, what did you say just then?" he asked, squinting at me.

"I want to go and live in Spain."

"You can't be serious."

"Yes, I am."

Of course it wasn't just the rain. I had plenty of reasons, some vague, some more solid.

I presented my pitch carefully. Our children, adults now, were scattered round the world; Scotland, Australia and London. No grandchildren yet on the horizon and Joe only had a year before he retired. Then we would be free as birds to nest where we pleased.

And the cost of living in Spain would be so much lower. Council tax a fraction of what we usually paid, cheaper food, cheaper houses... The list went on.

Joe listened closely and I watched his reactions. Usually, he is the impetuous one, not me. But I was well aware that his retirement fantasy was being threatened. His dream of lounging all day in his dressing-gown, writing his book and diverting himself with the odd mathematical problem was being exploded.

"Hang on, Vicky, I thought we had it all planned? I thought you would do a few days of supply teaching if you wanted, while I start writing my book." Joe absentmindedly scratched his nether regions. For once I ignored his infuriating habit; I was in full flow.

"But imagine writing in Spain! Imagine us sitting outside in the shade of a grapevine writing our masterpieces."

Outside, windscreen wipers slapped as cars swept past, tyres sending up plumes of filthy water. Joe glanced out of the window at the driving rain and I sensed I had scored an important point.

"Why don't you write one of your famous lists?" he suggested, only half joking.

I am well known for my lists and records. Inheriting the record keeping gene from my father, I can't help myself. I make a note of the weather every day, the temperature, the first snowdrop, the day the ants fly, the exchange rate of the euro, everything. I make shopping lists, separate ones for each shop. I make To Do lists and 'Joe, will you please' lists. I make packing lists before holidays. I even make lists of lists. My nickname at work was Schindler.

So I set to work and composed what I considered to be a killer pitch:

- Sunny weather
- Cheap houses
- Live in the country
- Miniscule council tax
- Friendly people
- Less crime
- No heating bills
- Cheap petrol
- Wonderful Spanish food
- Cheap wine and beer
- Could get satellite TV so you won't miss football
- Much more laid-back life style
- Could afford house big enough for family and visitors to stay
- No TV licence
- Only short flight to UK
- Might live longer because Mediterranean diet is healthiest in the world.

When I ran dry, I handed the list to Joe. He glanced at it and snorted.

"I'm going to make a coffee," he said, but he took my list with him. He was in the kitchen a long time.

When he came out, I looked up at him expectantly. He ignored me, snatched a pen and scribbled on the bottom of the list. Satisfied, he threw it on the table and left the room. I grabbed it and read his additions. He'd pressed so hard with the pen that he'd nearly gone through the paper.

Joe had written:-

- CAN'T SPEAK SPANISH!
- TOO MANY FLIES!
- MOVING HOUSE IS THE PITS!

For weeks we debated, bouncing arguments for and against like a game of ping-pong. Even when we weren't discussing it, the subject hung in the air between us, almost tangible. Then one day, (was it a coincidence that it was raining yet again?) Joe surprised me...

Joe and I found a derelict house in a tiny village in the Alpujarra mountains, not too far from Almería. The village had one tiny (usually closed) shop, a church and a square. But the villagers were larger than life, extraordinary people who genuinely welcomed us.

The move to Spain was eventful. Our removal lorry reversed into the village fountain in the square, smashing it beyond repair. Luckily the villagers were very good about it and we owned up to the Mayor who didn't seem particularly worried.

For the first 3 years, we worked on our house. It was a labour of love and extremely hard work as the walls were a metre thick and made of lumps of rock held together with mud.

Somehow, we were pressed into keeping chickens in our orchard. Before long, we were selling eggs to the village ladies.

We acquired a little cockerel. BIG mistake! As he matured, he became aggressive and was convinced everyone was after his harem. Although only 10" high, he turned out to be probably the most dangerous cockerel in Spain and attacked anything with a pulse. Cocky was an absolute devil, a source of great amusement for the villagers, but a constant embarrassment to us.

Living in the village was a complete culture shock, but a delight. In fact, we had so many adventures, and came to know and love so many villagers, that I started making notes.

Finally, the house was finished, and I had time to pursue my First Love - WRITING!

'Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools' took a year to write and I chuckled as I wrote it, reliving the events I was describing. Like when we entered the annual village Pudding Contest, and the time we flooded the cemetery. I added photos and some Spanish recipes.

Joe was my fiercest critic and checked every word I wrote. I joined some Writers' Circles and let strangers read my writing for the first time.

Imagine my astonishment when 'Chickens' was awarded the HarperCollins Gold Star! So now I'm waiting to see it 'in the flesh', as it were. I've been told it will hit Amazon and the shops in November 2009, and I CAN'T WAIT!

Click here to enter the Free Monthly Draw and win a signed copy of 'Chickens'.

'Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools' is now available as an eBook for Kindle, Sony, etc. $4.95 Click here.

What am I doing now? Well, enjoying life, mostly! We still keep chickens although Cocky is no longer with us. (Poor Cocky came to an unfortunate end, but you'll have to read the book to find out what happened!)

Joe's started writing, too, and we have plenty of visitors to stay.

I'm enjoying Squidoo and am delighted to be a RocketMom.

I have another book planned, but first I want to see how people like the first one. If you'd like to read some more excerpts, click here or here.