#WelcomeToRobinsEnd
A slow descent into fictional chaos. Weekly.
October 2025 marked the start of something ridiculous and exciting: I soft-launched my debut novel-in-progress on Instagram with zero chill. And then I kicked off a weekly series to introduce you to the world behind it, one charming disaster at a time.
This is where it all comes together. Instagram posts, chaotic captions, book snippets, characters both beloved and deeply unhinged—collected in one place.
Scroll down.
Get to know Robins End.
Don't mind if you stay.
Writing Update
I haven’t touched my manuscript in about ten weeks.
Life. You know. Bit of a nightmare. Anyway.
Today I opened it again. Started pulling it apart. Keeping what matters. Cutting what doesn’t.
Trying to remember why I started this in the first place.
And then I found this.
A note I wrote to myself back in February 2025.
And—annoyingly—it made me happy.
So happy I felt morally obliged to share it.
So here you go.
I’m still here. Still writing.
Still dragging this story into existence.
Because this book?
It’s not going to be another soft, easy little romance.
It’s going to make you laugh. And cry.
And swoon a bit against your will.
And it’s going to mean something.
Meet Bertha | Knows everything. Says most of it.
Next up in the local line-up: Bertha.
Runs the post office.
And the rumour mill.
Perm set. Lipstick on. Gossip locked and loaded.
She knows who’s dating, who’s lying, and who’s using the wrong bin.
Filter? Never owned one.
Bertha doesn’t do subtle.
She flirts like a like it’s your problem now.
Comments without hesitation.
Winks without shame.
And somehow—everyone lets her get away with it.
Especially Rupert Blackmore.
She openly comments on his… assets.
He acts unimpressed.
But makes her drinks just way she likes them.
Before she even asks.
Always has.
Mutual exasperation built on years of weird fondness.
And honestly?
We’re all here for it.
Bertha On Page
‘I am doing drinks tonight,’ Bertha said, sounding weirdly smug about it.
‘Blackmore called in sick. Can you believe it?’
Meg snickered—because Rupert was walking up behind Bertha at that exact moment.
Bertha didn’t notice. She was busy holding court, one hand already occupied with her own drink and the other gesturing like she was conducting a scandal.
‘I think this is the first time ever. Man’s like a bloody statue. I didn’t think anything could put a dent in that body. Shame, really.’
Meg raised her glass. Trying to keep a straight face.
‘Tragic.’
Rupert stood behind Bertha by now. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
‘You know, Bertha—if you’re going to talk about my body, at least do it to my face. You know I like the feedback.’
Bertha let out a full-body shriek. Spun. Clutched her chest with drama.
‘Lord above, Blackmore! Don’t sneak up on people like that—I nearly spilled my gin!’
Rupert arched an eyebrow.
‘With the amount you put in, it would’ve taken out the grass.’
Bertha narrowed her eyes.
‘I’ll have you know this is a perfectly balanced pour.’
He reached out, took the glass from her hand before she could stop him. Took a sip. Considered it.
‘Too much tonic. Not enough shame.’
Bertha snatched it back, like he’d insulted her dog.
‘You’re very lucky you’re pretty.’
Meet Walter | Pub's barometer of normal.
Aye. Time we talked about Walter.
He’s the pub’s barometer of normal.
First one in. Same seat. Pint. Paper. Stew. Daily. Without fail. (Apart from that one time he fell out of a cherry tree and broke his leg. But that was twenty years ago. Doesn’t count.)
He likes peace. Routine. Reading the news—without commentary. Ideally without anyone photographing their pint.
So lately? He’s been — enduring.
Because now there’s social media. People discussing their emotions. Musicians in the kitchen. And customers who don’t know you can’t just sit anywhere.
And then Pippa goes: ‘We cannot open tonight.’
Because of a little soot.
Jesus wept.
But, you know. Door was open. So Walter came in. Sat down. Asked for a pint. Like a normal person.
Walter On Page
‘We cannot open tonight,’ Pippa said.
‘The chimney is an actual fire hazard. You have to get this fixed.’
‘We’ll just leave the fire out, then. Where’s the problem?’
‘The problem?’ Pippa threw up her hands.
‘The problem, Mum, is that this isn’t fixing anything! This is ignoring the issue at hand.’
‘No—this is prioritising.’
Pippa scoffed.
‘Writing things on a list until it’s three pages long is not prioritising! That’s procrastinating!’
The air between them crackled. Havoc had stopped mopping. Nobody moved.
Gladys stood, face proud, head held high. And Pippa was not about to back down.
‘Evenin’.’
All heads turned toward the still-open pub door.
Walter shuffled in, settling into his usual seat, tapping on the bar.
‘Pint, when you’re ready.’
‘We are not open,’ Pippa snapped.
Walter glanced at the open door, then back at her.
‘Looks open to me.’
Pippa closed her eyes, mentally counting to ten.
Meet Gladys | Landlady. Bringer of stew, sage, smoke, and strange passwords.
You’ve seen the list.
Today—meet the person who kept adding to it. Relentlessly.
With emojis.
With underlines.
With feeling.
Gladys Pembroke.
Landlady.
Moonchild.
Currently out of action with a broken arm— (birdhide ladder. Don’t ask.)
Keeps her passwords in Comic Sans. Burns herbs in the fireplace. Never lets the fire go out. (‘Fire is life,’ she says. Nobody argues.)
The Green Man is hers. And the day she discharged herself from hospital (‘Dreadful place!’) the pub finally exhaled again. Especially Walter. He’d been starving.
Gladys On Page
Gladys smiled and drifted toward the fireplace. She added logs to the fire and gently poked the embers. Pippa could swear the flames leaned toward her mother like a cat rubbing against its owner’s ankles.
‘You could have called! I would have picked you up.’
‘It’s fine, Pippa. I got a taxi.’
In passing, Gladys reached for a box on the mantle, took a pinch of herbs, and sprinkled them into the fire. And just like that—the Green Man smelled like home again.
The Green Man | The List.
Welcome to The Green Man.
Low ceilings. Stone floors that stay cold even in July.
A fire that never goes out.
The smell of rosemary and woodsmoke, wrapping around your senses like memory.
Music curling through the beams.
It’s home to Pippa.
(It’s also kind of home to Walter—but we’ll get to that.)
Is it cosy? Yes.
Is it in good shape?
Well—there might be a few things to fix.
One or two. Or forty-three.
Today: meet the to-do list from hell.
Handed to Pippa, with all the casual menace in the world, by Rupert. On day one.
Book Snippet
Pippa ran her eyes down the list and it just got worse.
‘Find out where the pub is actually losing money?’ she exclaimed.
‘Sort out supplier invoices?’
Hastily, she flipped the pages to the back of the list, where a stack of invoices was attached. With a drowning feeling, she flipped through invoice after invoice and the never-ending pile of shit her mother had left behind. Feeling quite giddy, she put the list down.
‘This is ridiculous. How is this pub still open?’
Rupert leaned back against the counter, burying his hands in his pockets.
‘Sheer spite, I think.’
New Character Unlocked | Ollie.
Okay. By now we’ve established a few things about Pippa:
- She has a complicated relationship with customer service.
- She hates Michelle Finch with the heat of a thousand suns.
- She has a type (black T‑shirts, long hair, probably owns vinyl).
- She still insists she doesn’t work in PR even though she deals with Nyx Vorn on a daily basis.
But here’s what I haven’t told you yet: Pippa’s a mum. Enter Ollie Pembroke—sixteen, selectively helpful, perpetually starving, loud as hell on a gaming headset, and somehow always in a hoodie even in July. Eating like a raccoon. Monologuing through Discord. Absolutely zero shame about his mum’s Buffy obsession or her taste in bands older than the internet.
Pippa’s not your average mother. Ollie’s... well… Your average teenage boy. Their dynamic? Less nurturing parent, more deeply exhausted housemates trying to keep each other alive. Especially when one of them won’t stop yelling tactical advice at 1:30 a.m.
Ollie On Page
When the alarm went off at 8 a.m., Pippa seriously considered just dying. Her head was pounding, her spine had left the chat, and everything in her body hurt in ways she didn’t have names for.
She’d crawled up the stairs last night expecting silence. Instead, she found Ollie fully entrenched at the kitchen table: hoodie on, headset locked in place, laptop glowing with warzone energy. Empty crisp packets. Half a bottle of Coke. Expression of pure murder.
Pippa collapsed into bed and tried to sink into unconsciousness.
But Ollie was mid-match, mid-rant, and apparently mid-nervous breakdown.’DEAN. Stop camping the window! You’re making us a target — MOVE, YOU LITERAL CRAYON!’
At 1:37 a.m., she yanked the laptop from under his hands and sent him to bed with the kind of look that promised future consequences.
Meet Havoc | Nyx Worn.
You've met Michelle.
You've met Pippa.
Now meet the walking PR disaster she's somehow responsible for (—and she doesn't even work in PR...)
Havoc.
Real name: Nyx Vorn.
Musical genius.
Instagram menace.
Eyeliner: mandatory.
Shirt: optional.
He just went Live from a hotel room floor.
And Pippa?
Pippa is one phone call away from actual murder.
Havoc on page
There he was in all his messed-up glory, sprawled on the floor of some hotel room.
Shirtless, hair a wild mess of blond strands tangled from a night that clearly never ended.
His eyes, bloodshot and still glazed from whatever the hell he’d been on,
locked on the camera with a dazed, lopsided grin.
Eyeliner smeared.
The faint traces of alcohol still lingering in the air around him.
Nyx lifted a hand and waved lazily.
‘What’s up, my beautiful lost souls?’
His voice was deep, a slow drawl full of whisky-soaked rasp.
‘I’m just here, y’know, havin’ breakfast—or not.’
Pippa’s heart dropped to her stomach.
Her grip tightened on the phone.
‘Not good, Nyx,’ she murmured under her breath.
Havoc leaned back into the mess behind him,
revealing more of the cluttered hotel room—
and the camera picked up a flash of something.
Or someone.
Meet Michelle Finch | Making Pippa Forget Her Will To Live.
You’ve met Pippa. And Rupert. And Basil.
You like them. You’re rooting for them.
Now meet Michelle Finch.
Business owner. Childhood nemesis.
Kit’s new girlfriend.
Still somehow always the prettiest girl in the room.
And no, of course she didn’t leave a passive-aggressive Google review.
That would be petty.
Michelle On Page
Michelle Finch. In a light yellow sundress.
Looking like spring and daffodils.
She took in the smoke, the sand, the sheer hideousness of everything.
Her eyes landed on Pippa—and her face split into a grin of pure, malicious glee.
She didn’t even try to hide it.
'Love what you’ve done with the place,' she said.