Jenny Colgan's Blog
August 7, 2013
Curl up with Rosie and her family as they prepare for a very special Christmas . . .
Includes mouth-watering recipes!
Curl up with Rosie, her friends and her family as they prepare for a very special Christmas . . .
Rosie Hopkins is looking forward to Christmas in the little Derbyshire village of Lipton, buried under a thick blanket of snow. Her sweetshop is festooned with striped candy canes, large tempting piles of Turkish Delight, crinkling selection boxes and happy, sticky children. She’s going to be spending it with her boyfriend, Stephen, and her family, flying in from Australia. She can’t wait.
But when a tragedy strikes at the heart of their little community, all of Rosie’s plans for the future seem to be blown apart. Can she build a life in Lipton? And is what’s best for the sweetshop also what’s best for Rosie?
Treat yourself and your sweet-toothed friends to Jenny Colgan’s heart-warming new novel. The irresistibly delicious recipes are guaranteed to get you into the festive spirit and will warm up your Christmas celebrations.
Standalone sequel to the much-loved and bestselling Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams, winner of the RNA Romantic Novel of the Year Award 2013
April 12, 2013
February 15, 2013
Never Fail Chocolate Cake
This is absolutely the easiest chocolate cake in the world.
You will look at the recipe and sniff and think, hmm,
vegetable oil, but I promise, it makes it all moist and
delicious. You can decide to make it at short notice, always
very useful, and the ingredients don’t even need to be
200 g caster sugar
40 g cocoa powder
120 ml vegetable oil
250 g flour
4 tsp baking powder
1 cup strong coffee (espresso or just very strong)
zest of 1 or 2 oranges
1 tsp vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 180°C/Gas Mark 4. Line baking tin – I use
a loaf tin for this, makes it nice and tidy.
Beat together eggs, sugar, coffee and cocoa powder, and
add the oil gradually; then stir in the flour, baking powder
and salt. Finally add the zest and vanilla extract. Pour into
baking tin, then cook for 40 minutes, but do check it – it
can be very runny. Mine had to go back in for a bit longer.
Ice with nutella. Delish!
The really weird thing about it was that although I knew, instantly, that something was wrong – very, very wrong, something sharp, something very serious; an insult to my entire body – I couldn’t stop laughing. Laughing hysterically.
I was lying there, covered – drenched – in spilled melted chocolate and I couldn’t stop giggling. There were other faces now, looking down at me, some I was sure I recognised. They weren’t laughing. In fact they all looked very serious. This somehow struck me as even funnier and set me off again.
From the periphery I heard someone say, ‘Pick them up!’ and someone else say, ‘No way! You pick them up! Gross!’ and then I heard someone else, who I thought was Flynn, the new stock boy, say, ‘I’ll dial 911,’ and someone else say, ‘Flynn, don’t be stupid, it’s 999, you’re not American,’ and someone else say, ‘I think you can dial 911 now because there are so many idiots who keep dialling it,’ and someone else taking out their phone and saying something about needing an ambulance, which I thought was hilarious as well, and then someone, who was definitely Del, our grumpy old janitor, saying, ‘Well, they’re probably going to want to throw this batch away then,’ and the idea that they might not throw away the enormous vat of chocolate but try and sell it instead when it had landed all over me actually was funny.
After that, thank God, I don’t remember anything, although later, in hospital, an ambulance man came over and said I’d been a total bloody nutter in the ambulance, and that he’d always been told that shock affected people in different ways, but mine was just about the differentest he’d ever seen. Then he saw my face and said, ‘Cheer up, love, you’ll laugh again.’ But at that point I wasn’t exactly sure I ever would.
‘Oh come off it, Debs, love, it’s only her foot. It could have been a lot worse. What if it had been her nose?’
That was my dad, talking to my mum. He liked to look on the bright side.
‘Well, they could have given her a new nose. She hates her nose anyway.’
That was definitely my mum. She’s not quite as good as my dad at looking on the bright side. In fact, I could hear her sobbing. But somehow my body shied away from the light; I couldn’t open my eyes. I didn’t think it was just a light; it felt like the sun or something. Maybe I was on holiday. I couldn’t be at home, the sun never bloody shines in Kidinsborough, my home town, voted worst town in England three years in a row before local political pressure got the TV show taken off the air.
My parents zoned out of earshot, just drifted off like someone tuning a radio. I had no idea if they were there, or if they ever had been. I knew I wasn’t moving, but I felt as though I was squirming and wriggling, trapped inside a bodyshaped prison someone had buried me in. I could shout, but no one could hear me; I tried to move, but it wasn’t working.
The dazzle would turn to black and back again to the sun and none of it made the faintest bit of sense to me as I dreamt – or lived – great big nightmares about toes and feet and parents who spontaneously disappeared and whether I was going crazy and whether I’d actually dreamt my whole other life, the bit about being me, Anna Trent, thirty years old, taster in a chocolate factory.
Actually, while we’re at it, here are my answers to the top ten ‘Taster in a Chocolate Factory’ questions that I get at Faces, our local nightclub. It’s not a very nice nightclub, but the others are much, much worse:
1. Yes, I will give you some free samples.
2. No, I’m not as fat as you clearly expected me to be.
3. Yes it is exactly like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
4. No, no one has ever done a poo in the chocolate vat.*
5. No, it doesn’t actually make me more popular than a normal person as I am thirty, not seven.
6. No, I don’t feel sick when confronted with chocolate; I absolutely adore it, but if it makes you feel better about your job to think that I do, carry on.
7. Oh that is so interesting that you have something even tastier than chocolate in your underpants, yawn. (NB I would like to be brave enough to say that but I normally just grimace and look at something else for a while. My best mate Cath soon takes care of them anyway. Or occasionally pulls them.)
8. Yes, I will suggest your peanut/beer/vodka/jam-flavoured chocolate idea, but I doubt we’ll be as rich as you think.
9. Yes, I can make actual real chocolate, although at Brader’s Family Chocolates they’re all processed automatically in a huge vat and I’m more of a supervisor really. I wish I did more complex work, but according to the bosses, nobody wants their chocolates messed about with, they want them tasting exactly the same and lasting a long time. So it’s quite a synthetic process.
10. No, it’s not the best job in the world. But it’s mine and I like it. Or at least I did, until I ended up in here.
Then I normally say rum and coke, thanks for asking.
A man was sitting on the end of my bed. I couldn’t focus on him. He knew my name but I didn’t know his. That seemed unfair. I tried to open my mouth. It was full of sand. Someone had put sand in my mouth. Why would anyone do that?
The voice came again. It was definitely real; it was definitely connected to the shadow at the end of my bed.
‘Can you hear me?’
Well of course I can hear you, you’re sitting on the end of my bed shouting at me was what I wanted to say, but all that came out was a kind of dry croak.
‘That’s great, that’s great, very good. Would you like a drink of water?’
I nodded. It seemed easiest.
‘Good, good. Don’t nod too much, you’ll dislodge the wires. NURSE!’
I don’t know whether the nurse came or not, I was suddenly gone again. My last conscious thought was that I hoped she or he didn’t mind being shouted at. And I couldn’t remember; had my parents said that something was wrong with my nose?
January 7, 2013
November 5, 2012
Ingredients for the cake
• 110 g self-raising flour
• 110 g sugar
• 110 g butter (or 55g butter 55g margarine for a slightly lighter cake)
• 2 eggs
• ½ tsp baking powder
• ½ tsp cinnamon powder
• ½ tsp allspice
• ½ tsp ginger
• handful of caramelised orange peel
Ingredients for the icing
• 250g cream cheese
• 400g icing sugar
• 150g butter
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
It’s the smell of these baking I REALLY love. Well, okay, and eating them too. Grease your tin, and preheat oven to 180c/gas mark 4. Cream the sugar and butter together. Add the eggs, then sift in the flour and other ingredients and mix till light and fluffy. Divide among the cases (should make about 12) and bake for 20 minutes (check after 15).
I use the mixer for this, cream cheese and butter first, then, when thoroughly mixed, add the sugar and vanilla. Let the cakes cool down before icing, then prepare to be inundated with unexpected neighbours who were passing by and smelled something in the oven. They will pretend they’ve come to borrow a book or something, so be kind, as it is the season of goodwill!
Mouth-watering recipes inside!
As dawn breaks over the Pont Neuf, and the cobbled alleyways of Paris come to life, Anna Trent is already awake and at work; mixing and stirring the finest, smoothest, richest chocolate; made entirely by hand, it is sold to the grandes dames of Paris.
It’s a huge shift from the chocolate factory she worked in at home in the north of England. But when an accident changed everything, Anna was thrown back in touch with her French teacher, Claire, who offered her the chance of a lifetime – to work in Paris with her former sweetheart, Thierry, a master chocolatier.
With old wounds about to be uncovered and healed, Anna is set to discover more about real chocolate – and herself – than she ever dreamed.
September 24, 2012
This is not for gingerbread men, which is more of a cookie recipe as it has to stay hard and crunchy. And it is not for gingerbread houses, unless you have endless time on your hands and (let’s say it quietly) are a bit of a show-off who would rather their cakes were admired than devoured. No, this is old-fashioned soft, sticky gingerbread. It doesn’t take long to make, but you’ll be glad you did. NB Oil the container before you fill it with treacle. Otherwise you and your dishwasher are going to fall out really badly. 50g white sugar 50g brown sugar 120g butter 1 egg 180ml treacle 300g self-raising flour 1 tsp baking powder 1 tbsp powdered cinnamon 1 tbsp powdered ginger (or a little more if you like) 1/2 tsp ground cloves (I just threw in a ‘lucky’ clove) 1/2 tsp salt 60ml hot water Preheat oven to 175°C/gas mark 3. Grease a loaf tin or square baking tin. Cream sugar and butter together (you can do this entire thing in the mixer), then add the egg and the treacle. Mix the spices, baking powder, flour and salt. Fold in to wet mixture. Add the water, then pour into baking tin and bake for 45 minutes. You can sprinkle icing sugar on the top, or make an icing glaze, or just slice it like it is – proper yummy, sticky Christmas gingerbread. Serve liberally to people you like.
This is not for gingerbread men, which is more of a cookie recipe as it has to stay hard and crunchy. And it is not for gingerbread houses, unless you have endless time on your hands and (let’s say it quietly) are a bit of a show-off who would rather their cakes were admired than devoured. No, this is old-fashioned soft, sticky gingerbread. It doesn’t take long to make, but you’ll be glad you did.
NB Oil the container before you fill it with treacle. Otherwise you and your dishwasher are going to fall out really badly.
50g white sugar
50g brown sugar
300g self-raising flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tbsp powdered cinnamon
1 tbsp powdered ginger (or a little more if you like)
1/2 tsp ground cloves (I just threw in a ‘lucky’ clove)
1/2 tsp salt
60ml hot water
Preheat oven to 175°C/gas mark 3. Grease a loaf
tin or square baking tin.
Cream sugar and butter together (you can do
this entire thing in the mixer), then add the egg
and the treacle.
Mix the spices, baking powder, flour and salt.
Fold in to wet mixture. Add the water, then pour into baking tin and bake for 45 minutes.
You can sprinkle icing sugar on the top, or make an icing glaze, or just slice it like it is – proper yummy, sticky Christmas gingerbread. Serve liberally to people you like.
The scent of cinnamon, orange peel and ginger perfumed the air, with a strong undercurrent of coffee. Outside the rain was battering against the large windows of the eau-de-nil-painted exterior of the Cupcake Café, tucked into a little grey stone close next to an ironmonger’s and a fenced-in tree that looked chilled and bare in the freezing afternoon.
Issy, putting out fresh chestnut-purée cupcakes decorated with tiny green leaves, took a deep breath of happiness and wondered if it was too early to start playing her Silver Bells CD. The weather had been uncharacteristically mild for much of November, but now winter was truly kicking in.
Customers arrived looking beaten and battered by the gale, disgorging umbrellas into the basket by the front door (so many got left behind, Pearl had commented that if they ran into financial difficulties, they could always start a second-hand umbrella business), then would pause halfway through wrestling with their jackets as the warm scent reached their nostrils. And Issy could see it come over them: their shoulders, hunched against the rain, would slowly start to unfurl in the cosy atmosphere of the café; their tense, anxious London faces would relax, and a smile would play around their lips as they approached the old-fashioned glass-fronted cabinet which hosted the daily array of goodies: cupcakes piled high with the best butter icing, changing every week depending on Issy’s whim, or whether she’d just received a tip-off about the best vanilla pods, or a special on rose hips, or had the urge o go a bit mad with hazelnut meringue. The huge banging orange coffee machine (the colour clashed completely with the pale greens and greys and florals of the café itself, but they’d had to get it on the cheap, and it worked like an absolute charm) was fizzing in the background, the little fire was lit and cheery-looking (Issy would have preferred wood, but it was banned, so they had gas flames); there were newspapers on poles and books on the bookshelves; wifi, and cosy nooks and corners in which to hide oneself, as well as a long open table where mums could sit with their buggies and not block everybody else’s way.
Smiling, people would take a while to make up their minds. Issy liked to go through the various things they had on offer, explain what went into each one: how she crushed the strawberries then left them in syrup for the little strawberry tarts they did in the summer; or the whole blueberries she liked to use in the middle of the summer fruits cupcake; or, as now, making customers smell her new batch of fresh cloves. Pearl simply let people choose. They had to make sure Caroline had had enough sleep or she tended to get slightly impatient and make remarks about the number of calories in each treat. This made Issy very cross.
‘The “c” word is banned in this shop,’ she’d said. ‘People don’t come in here looking to feel guilty. They’re looking to relax, take a break, sit down with their friends. They don’t need you snorting away about saturated fats.’
I’m just trying to be helpful,’ said Caroline. ‘The economy is in trouble. I know how much tax avoidance my ex-husband does. There’s not going to be the money to pay for cardiac units, that’s all I’m saying.’
Pearl came up from the basement kitchen with a new tray of gingerbread men. The first had been snapped up in moments by the children coming in after school, delighted by their little bow ties and fearful expressions. She saw Issy standing there looking a bit dreamy as she served up two cinnamon rolls with a steaming latte to a man with a large tummy, a red coat and a white beard.
‘Don’t even think it,’ she said.
‘Think what?’ said Issy guiltily.
‘About starting up the entire Christmas shebang. That isn’t Santa.’
‘I might be Santa,’ protested the old man. ‘How would you know?’
‘Because this would be your busy season,’ said Pearl, turning her focus back to her boss.
Issy’s eyes strayed reluctantly to the glass jar of candy canes that had somehow found their way to being beside the cash till.
‘It’s November!’ said Pearl. ‘We’ve just finished selling our Guy Fawkes cupcakes, remember? And don’t make me remind you how long it took me to get all that spiderwebbing down from Hallowe’en.’
‘Maybe we should have left it up there for fake snow,’ wondered Issy.
‘No,’ said Pearl. ‘It’s ridiculous. These holidays take up such a long time and everyone gets sick of them and they’re totally over the top and inappropriate.’
‘Bah humbug,’ said Issy. But Pearl would not be jarred out of her bad mood.
‘And it’s a difficult year for everyone,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ve told Hermia the pony may have to go if her father doesn’t buck up his ideas.’
‘Go where?’ said Pearl.
‘To the happy hunting grounds,’ said Caroline promptly. ‘Meanwhile he’s going to Antigua. Antigua! Did he ever take me to Antigua? No. You know what Antigua’s like,’ she said to Pearl.
‘Why would I?’ said Pearl.
Issy leapt into action. Caroline was a good, efficient worker, but she definitely lacked a sensitivity chip since her husband left her, and now he was trying to cut her maintenance. Caroline had never really known anything other than a very comfortable life. Working for a living and mixing with normal people she still tended to treat as something of a hilarious novelty.
‘Well, it is nearly the last week of November,’ said Issy. ‘Everyone else is doing red cups and Santa hats and jingle bells. Frankly, London is not the place to be if you want to escape Christmas. It does the most wonderful Christmas in the world, and I want us to be a part of it.’
‘Ho ho ho,’ said the fat man with the white beard. They looked at him, then at each other.
‘Stop it,’ said Pearl.
‘No, don’t!’ said Issy. She was so excited about Christmas this year; there was so much to celebrate. The Cupcake Café wasn’t exactly going to make them rich, but they were keeping their heads above water. Her best friend Helena and her partner Ashok were going to join them with their bouncing (and she was very bouncing indeed) one-year-old Chadani Imelda, and Issy’s mother might come too. The last time Issy had heard from Marian, in September, she’d been on a Greek island where she was currently making rather a good living teaching yoga to women who were pretending they were in Mamma Mia. Marian was a free spirit, which was supposed to make her romantic, but didn’t always make her very reliable, mother-wise.
And then of course there was Austin, Issy’s gorgeous, distracted boyfriend with the mismatched socks and the intense expression. Austin was curly-haired and greeneyed, with horn-rimmed spectacles he tended to take on and off again a lot when he was thinking, and Issy’s heart bounced in her chest every time she thought of him.
The door pinged again, unleashing another torrent of customers: young women in to have a sit-down after some early Christmas shopping. Their bags overflowed with tinsel and hand-made ornaments from the little independent shops on the pretty local high street, and their flushed cheeks and wet hair meant they brought the cold in with them in a riot of shaken anoraks and unwrapped scarves. Perhaps just a quick chain of fairy lights above the coffee machine, thought Issy. Christmas in London. Best in the world.
Christmas in New York, thought Austin, looking up and around him, dazzled. It really was something else; as dramatic as people said. Early snow was falling, and every shop window was lit up with over-the-top displays and luxury goods. Radio City Music Hall had a tree several storeys high and something called the Rockettes playing – he felt as though he had fallen through time and emerged in a movie from the fifties.
He adored it, he couldn’t help it. New York made him feel like a child, even though he was supposed to be here very much as a grown-up. It was so exciting. His bank had sent him here on an ‘ideas-sharing exercise’ after the American office had apparently requested somebody calm and ‘not a bullshit artist’. It appeared New York had tired of its crazed, risk-taking bankers and now desperately needed anyone with a reasonably level head to hold things together. Austin was disorganised and a little impatient with paperwork, but he rarely made loans that went bad, and was very good at spotting who was worth taking a risk on (Issy had most definitely been one of those) and who came in spouting pipe dreams and the latest management jargon. He was a safe pair of hands in a financial world that, increasingly, appeared to have gone completely crazy.
Issy had helped him pack, as otherwise he couldn’t be rusted to keep hold of matching socks. She’d kissed him on the forehead.
‘So you’ll come back full of amazing New York know-how and everyone will have to bend and scrape before you and they’ll make you king of the bank.’
‘I don’t think they have kings. Maybe they do. I haven’t climbed up to those esteemed heights yet. I want a gigantic crown if they do.’
‘And one of those pole things. For whacking.’
‘Is that what those are for?’
‘I don’t know what the point is of being a king if you can’t do whacking,’ pointed out Issy.
‘You’re right about everything,’ said Austin. ‘I will also ask for fake ermine.’
She had gently pinged his nose.
‘What a wise and gracious king you are. Look at me!’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I’m balling socks for you. I feel like I’m sending you to boarding school.’
‘Ooh, will you be my very firm matron?’ said Austin teasingly.
‘Are you obsessed with whacking today, or what? Have I just had to wait all this time for your disgusting perv side to come out?’
‘You started it, perv-o.’
She had driven him to the airport. ‘And then you’ll come back and it’ll be nearly Christmas!’
Austin smiled. ‘Do you really not mind doing it the same way as last year? Truly?’
‘Truly?’ said Issy. ‘Truly, last year was the best Christmas I’ve ever had.’
And she had meant it. The first time Issy’s mother had left – or the first time she remembered clearly, without it getting muddled in her head – she was seven, and writing out a letter to Santa, being very careful with the spelling.
Her mother had glanced over her shoulder. She was going through one of her rougher patches, which usually corresponded with a lot of complaining about the Manchester weather and the dark evenings and the sodding leaves. Joe, Issy’s grampa, and Issy had exchanged looks as Marian paced up and down like a tiger in a cage, then stopped to look at Issy’s list.
‘My own piper? Why would you want a piper? We’re not even Scottish.’
‘No,’ explained Issy patiently. Her mother had no interest in baking and relatively little in food, unless it was mung beans, or tofu – neither of which were readily available in 1980s Manchester – or some other fad she’d read about in one of the badly mimeographed pamphlets about alterative lifestyles she subscribed to. ‘An icing piper. Gramps won’t let me use his.’
‘It’s too big and you kept ripping it,’ grumbled Grampa Joe, then winked at Issy to show that he wasn’t really cross. ‘That butterscotch icing you made was pretty good, though, my girl.’
Issy beamed with pride.
Marian glanced downwards. ‘My Little Pony oven gloves . . . My darling, I don’t think they do those.’
‘They should,’ said Issy.
‘Pink mixing bowl . . . Girl’s World . . . what’s that?’
‘It’s a doll’s head. You put make-up on it.’ Issy had heard the other girls in her class talking about it. That was what they were all getting. She hadn’t heard anyone wanting a mixing bowl. So she’d decided she’d better join in with them.
‘You put make-up on a plastic head?’ said Marian, who had perfect skin and had never worn make-up in her life.
‘For what, to make her look like a tramp?’
Issy shook her head, blushing a bit.
‘Women don’t need make-up,’ said Marian. ‘That’s just to please men. You are perfectly fine as you are, do you understand? It’s what’s in here that counts.’ She rapped Issy sharply on the temple. ‘God, this bloody country. Imagine selling make-up to small children.’
‘I don’t see too much harm in it,’ said Grampa Joe
mildly. ‘At least it’s a toy. The others are all work tools.’
‘Oh Lord, it’s so much stuff,’ said Marian. ‘The commercialisation of Christmas is disgusting. It drives me mad. Everyone stuffing themselves and making themselves ill and trying to pretend they’ve got these perfect bloody nuclear families when everybody knows it’s all a total lie and we’re living under the Thatcher jackboot and the bomb could go off at any moment . . . ’
Grampa Joe shot her a warning look. Issy got very upset when Marian started talking about the bomb, or made noises about taking her to Greenham Common, or forced her to wear her CND badge to school. Then he went on calmly buttering the bread they were having with their turnip soup. (Marian insisted on very plain vegetables; Grampa Joe provided sugar and carbohydrates. It was a balanced diet, if you included both extremes.)
Issy didn’t bother sending the letter after all, didn’t even sign her name, which at that point had a big loveheart above the ‘I’ because all her friends did the same. Two days later Marian had gone, leaving behind a letter.
Darling, I need some sun on my face or I can’t breathe.
I wanted to take you with me, but Joe says you need
schooling more than you need sunshine. Given that I
left school at fourteen I can’t really see the point
myself but best do what he says for now. Have a very
lovely Christmas my darling and I will see you soon.
Next to the card was a brand-new, unwrapped, shinyboxed Girl’s World.
Issy became aware, later in life, that it must have cost her mother something to buy it – something more than money – but it didn’t feel like that at the time. Despite her grandad’s efforts to interest her in it, she left the box unopened in the corner of her bedroom, unplayed with.
They both woke early on Christmas morning, Joe from long habit, Issy from excitement of a kind, although she was aware that other children she knew would be waking up with their mummies and probably their daddies too. It broke Joe’s heart to see how she tried so hard not to mind, and as she unwrapped her new mixing bowl, and her lovely little whisk, all child-sized, and the tiniest patty pans he could find, and they made pancakes together before walking to church on Christmas morning, saying hello to their many friends and neighbours, it broke his heart all over again to see that some of her truly didn’t mind; that even as a small child she was already used to being let down by the person who ought to be there for her the most.
She’d looked up at him, eyes shining as she flipped over a pancake.
‘Merry Christmas, my darling,’ he had said, kissing her gently on the head. ‘Merry Christmas.’
September 21, 2012
Issy Randall, proud owner of The Cupcake Cafe, is in love and couldn’t be happier. Her new business is thriving and she is surrounded by close friends, even if her cupcake colleagues Pearl and Caroline don’t seem quite as upbeat about the upcoming season of snow and merriment. But when her boyfriend Austin is scouted for a possible move to New York, Issy is forced to face up to the prospect of a long-distance romance. And when the Christmas rush at the cafe – with its increased demand for her delectable creations – begins to take its toll, Issy has to decide what she holds most dear.
This December, Issy will have to rely on all her reserves of courage, good nature and cinnamon, to make sure everyone has a merry Christmas, one way or another. . .
Indulge yourself and your sweet-toothed friends with Jenny Colgan’s new novel, simply bursting with Christmas cupcake recipes and seasonal sugar-fuelled fun.
May 22, 2012
Jenny Colgan, who’s been described by The Observer as ‘sharp and witty’ and by New Statesman as ‘sharp and hilarious’ (there’s a theme there) lists amongst her favourite things ‘Stewart Lee, Jon Ronson and Spanx’.
With Meet Me At The CUpcake Cafe set in a Stoke Newington cake shop, Jenny’s joining the Stoke Newington Literary Festival on Sunday the 3rd of June to talk about writing fiction for women, the ‘chick lit’ label and, surprisingly, her exciting new Doctor Who gig!
More information and ticketing via the Stoke Newington Literary Festival website.
March 30, 2012
Take a listen to Rosie Hopkins, now also available as an audio book!
Listen to a sample: