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Happy New Year to all of you and thanks for your support over last year, particularly those friends who reviewed one of my stories!
It seems to be years since I blogged and years since I commented on anyone’s blog. It’s not, but I have an excuse for my unsocial tardiness. WordPress insists on changing my settings with the effect that I cannot receive any of your blog notifications, so I apologise for not commenting on those posts I did not get. I will rectify it, or close this blog and start a new one.
I won’t go on at length since I know you will still be working off the Christmas turkey and other accumulated toxins from mistakes made at parties or, bored witless, during lost hours in front of the box.
Northman is now a paperback. It took me an inordinately long time to make it so and the journey was fraught with much hair pulling – although my family, neighbours and total strangers didn’t seem to mind losing so much hair, or grasping at impossible kitchen utensils, so I guess they understand the creative process. Said process, is, I think, an exercise in self-gratification since I doubt I will sell any actual books. Even if I do – at a price of $11.99/ £9.99 – I will only make a few pence per copy; the rest goes to Createspace/Amazon. Financially, it does not make any sense, but it does feel good to have a box full of Northmen and be able to flip, sniff and fondle the actual pages. All is vanity…
The only other advantages I can see is that my local libraries have bought copies, a few literary reviewers have taken a book (they wouldn’t look at an ebook) and soon Thorkild and his Vikings will be marauding in many local bookshops, too. Small fish, small pond is my mantra for 2016. I might even give all ‘profits’ to local charities.
So, if you are considering going paper and you have the time, patience, energy and sheer persistence, do it. I have a book on my bookshelf alphabetically – if not creatively – equal to Hemingway and my children now consider me an author!
Despite my previous comments, it is relatively easy to use the Createspace template for anyone of average intelligence… that may be why I found it especially difficult.
So, if you want any advice about this massive money making opportunity (for Createspace and Amazon), let me know and I will try to help you.
I hope all of my writer friends have a creatively and financially humungous 2016, sell millions of books from their Caribbean beach houses and all of my reader friends find perfect reads all year long!
ps The Northman paperback is not yet live on Amazon, but is live on the Createspace link. https://www.createspace.com/4142282
“Explosive, high impact. Lots of horror, alternative realities, evil entities and battles to overcome evil – fabulous!” Amazon Review
It’s that time again: All Hallows’ or Halloween and the house spirits in my 17th century hovel are telling me to set a novel free. A novel in a hovel, eh? One such spirit was a marketing agent in a past life and says the book has to be my second novel, AND SOON THE SONG. Its seasonal time frame is apt, it’s set in deepest, darkest Derbyshire (besides New York, the 12th & 17th centuries, and the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia) and contains many evils, both human and decidedly un or in-human. Hopefully, these relentless evils are counteracted by goodness, not an easy state for flawed humans to achieve without violence and sacrifice, but it’s wot we got, guv’nor.
Like many Christian festivals, All Hallows’ was purloined from a previous Celtic festival: that of Samhain. It is intended to be a remembrance of the dead in the Christian festival, specifically the good old Hallows’, or Saints. Samhain, in contrast, is to mark the close of summer, the end of harvest time and the beginning of the dark days of winter. The old gods are propitiated in order to ensure survival through winter, necessary without the benefits of central heating or Tesco.
I’d love it if lots of you who haven’t done so download SONG. Reviews are very welcome, of course, since it only has eight to date. If you have a problem with the Amazon download let me know and I’ll try to get you another format. It won’t be available as a paperback until next year. Thank you also to the wonderful folks who have already left a review. You are stars and I truly appreciate it.
SONG came about as the result of a visit to an English country house some years ago mentioned in another thread on here. My visit was a bit odd to say the least, but all true. The character of mad, bad and dead Elyssia is based on a portrait, hanging in the main gallery of the house, of a strikingly beautiful, green-eyed woman. Years later, when I returned to the house, the painting was gone and I was informed that there had never been such a painting at any time during the long history of the house.
SONG sprang from that experience, one I could not, and still cannot, explain. There is more, but you would not believe it. I’m not sure I do.
There are ghosts, Crusaders, The English Civil War, two fractured people, a crazy New York gang member, a slightly mad nanny, an equally bananas butler and a trio of Japanese Tosers driven by their own incorruptible instincts. (Love the dogs – must have been one in a previous existence). The novel is set over 900 years and in two countries – England and America.
There is violence of all varieties, a forbidden love that breaks the bounds of ‘decency’, and behind it all looms the massive presence of Hearthstone Hall. As one reviewer, my friend and fellow author Mari Biella, says, “Hearthstone is a character in its own right…” and she has it, precisely.
Anyway, less flagellation of the deceased equine, if you have time, download it. If you do not, then I would appreciate any reblogs or mentions to friends, family, complete strangers, your dog, cat…. If none of the above, then the old gods, Chan and my house spirits have your address…
I shall, of course, be dancing naked – except for sturdy brogues and a woolly balaclava – around nearby standing stones on the feast of Samhain, but only if the weather is pleasant and nobody else from the Derbyshire Tap Dancing & Inappropriate Public Nudity club turns up.
More Amazon Reviews:
“There is evil here, and it is really frightening.”
“All the characters have flaws; some benign, some crazy, some indescribable, this really is your worst-ever nightmare.”
“Thoroughly recommend this book of terror; DO NOT read before bed though, pick an afternoon.”
This a good post describing the daily struggle to get words onto paper, or electrons onto the ether, or whatever… since I haven’t written a blog post in a long time, it makes me look good, as if I were actually awake.
ps. I haven’t read the author’s writing guides, so cannot comment on them.
As many of you will know, Susan is the author of the bestselling Mindjack series, and lots of other books too, including the highly regarded Indie Author Survival Guide – the second edition of which has just been released.
She’s also releasing a companion book for more experienced authors in mid-July which has the intriguing title of For Love Or Money: Crafting An Indie Author Career and it’s available now for pre-order.
Here’s Susan on how to stay sane in a crazy (self-publishing) world.
Susan Kaye Quinn:
I fight a war every day.
My adversaries are distraction, fatigue, and the demands of ordinary life. They include things I love (my husband and children) and…
View original post 1,828 more words
A couple of weeks ago I read the third installment of a series I really loved. I will refrain from sharing the name of the novel and its author.
Like any reader, as soon as I finished reading, I wrote my review. When I tried posting it on Amazon (I did buy the eBook, just like any normal and decent human being would), I received a rather concerning email.
I will not share the screenshot of the email as it does contain the title of the book and name of the author. In its place I have copied the body of the email below.
Dear Amazon Customer,
Thanks for submitting a customer review on Amazon. Your review could not be posted to the website in its current form. While we appreciate your time and comments, reviews must adhere to the following guidelines:
Here I was, thinking I had included an…
View original post 972 more words
Firstly, if you celebrate it with a religious perspective, or because you like the taste of mince pies and the consequent indigestion, have a terrific Christmas! There is nothing like that good ‘ole post Christmas fug to remind us of our mortality and what we have left undone.
Secondly, a few kind souls have pointed out to me that my novel ‘And Soon The Song‘ is a bit confusing at the beginning. They qualify this by saying that it all ties up in the end, but using the Amazon ‘look inside’ facility readers might not understand what is going on. I agree with them and had some misgivings at the time of writing, so I’ve changed the beginning around a bit without altering the storyline in any way. It now begins in the present and although it is still complex, should be a little more easily understood, despite spanning 900 years and having a cast of thousands in the first few pages….
For those of you with time on your hands, as I know you will have just before Christmas (sure) and who enjoy Gothic horror, it might be worth a look.
My next story is about two characters alone in a room with a chrysanthemum.
Like that’s going to happen.
AND SOON THE SONG
SEPTEMBER, 1995 – HEARTHSTONE
The blades of the helicopter beat the black air and it slid into the Guinness dark night: a toy against an infinite backdrop of grinning stars. Soon, the ululating cadence of violated air had died away and Hearthstone Hall was silent once more.
Inside, away from the butler’s lighted pantry where an old man sat humming, a tangible darkness swept along the corridors, bleeding through the ancient walls, enveloping the cold stone, and felt only hunger and need.
After so long away, it was time. Three were close and three were far away.
Softly, it began to sing. First to the man, Marcus, in the helicopter, but he was lost in a mind storm of thoughts and needs of his own and there was no entry, then to the woman, Elyssia, sinking in darkness, and joyfully the song entered her with ease, as it had done so many times before.
She would come. And in her madness she would call the others. The girl, the boy, the dark man and the other one: those necessary. They would have no choice, for they would all hear the song and then the hunger could be assuaged.
Lost to the gaze of God, Hearthstone waited.
Waited for the guests.
Waited for the children.
Alone in the gloom, Elyssia cried black tears of remorse, as she did every night.
All gone now. She’d lost them all. Her two babies and the man for whom she would have given her life. All because of a misunderstanding – a teeny-weeny misunderstanding. It was not fair. She pounded the walls of the room and felt her fists sink into the walls.
“Please turn the light on.” The soft walls, the soft floor and a ceiling that sucked the sound away muffled her voice. “I want you to turn the light on. Now.” But no one came, and the night was so long.
The children did not come to see her, and that made her cry, but Marcus had probably told them to ignore her. It was the sort of thing he would do.
“Children, let me out. Daddy is a bad man, an absolute shite, but I can save you from him. Listen, you remember this…” and she sang, her voice muffled in the room: “I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week, beneath the apple trees, I thought my eyes were big pork pies, and my nose was Stilton cheese…” But she couldn’t remember any more of the silly words and anyway the children had gone.
Thomas and Charlotte. Bad children.
Very, very bad children.
I will have to punish them. I will definitely have to punish the other one – the one who ruined my life.
She heard the crooning of the song and for a moment it stopped her gnawing at the thick canvas edge of the door frame and gave her an overwhelming sense of serenity. From that serenity she remembered what had to be done.
Hearthstone. Marcus, her husband. Her son, Thomas. Carlos, the dark man. The other one. And sweet little Charlotte. From the memory came purpose.
The Christmas Ball.
She knew she could get out now. After twenty-four years, they trusted her. Trusted her to be sensible and not piss in her pants, kill people or try to escape.
Escape? Not through the front door. Oh no.
They would never, ever let her out, even though the medication was curing her, they said. So, it would have to be the special way. The way they couldn’t stop.
When they turned the lights out she felt under the bed for the piece of sharp plastic she’d broken off the plant pot and fingered the jagged edge.
Therapy, gardening. An interest, gardening.
An escape route, gardening.
It was easy to find the pulsing vein in her throat and then to plunge the plastic into it. She was surprised how painless it was after the initial sharp prick. She moved the plastic around in her throat to enlarge the hole, feeling the warm blood pumping over her hands as if an invisible drummer were co-ordinating the beat.
The cell door seemed thinner now.
She stood, surprised to find that the blood had stopped. There was no more. The dead woman lying on the bed had it all: a poppy on the sheets.
The door was locked, as always, but it was ridiculously easy to just slide through it.
“Children?” She stepped into the corridor. “Children? Are you there? Mummy’s coming home. Right now.”
JULY, 1191 – ACRE, THE HOLY LAND
Richard’s red hair flamed in the hot sun, his double-handed sword flashing like a turning salmon against the cloudless sky. Behind him, the solid bulk of St Anthony’s Gate rose and around him the bodies of black clad warriors tumbled, arms gone, heads cleaved, as the sword hewed them into the afterlife with righteous passion. Spread for a mile across the field of conflict, beneath the massive walls, the knights of eight Christian nations and their armies drove the enemy back, back to the desert, back to the mountains, into the sea, away from the gates of the recaptured city of Acre.
The stench of the layered dead rose from the battlefield, mixed with the reek of vinegar and urine and Raoul de Courcy drank it in, his own sword beating against the soft flesh of the dark Musulmen in a coruscation of silver and red, adding to the pile of the dead and the dying. Carving a way through the retreating warriors, he was soon at Richard’s side, the king towering over him, the light of killing in his ice blue eyes.
Despite himself, Raoul was, as always, awed in the king’s presence; the man was a giant and his sword the hand of God, or rather the hand of Pope Gregory VIII, but the king’s brother, Prince John, had ordained what must come next, so Raoul slipped the curved and ornate Khanjar dagger into his left hand as he shouted “Coeur de Lion, Coeur de Lion!” and ploughed his sword through the guts of yet another of the horde of Salah-ad-Din. As he twisted the sword from the screaming man, he fell backwards onto Richard, his dagger aimed for the gap between armour and tabard, but Richard, swinging his broadsword through the neck of a grizzled Ayyubid veteran, slipped on a blood streaked shield splattered with greasy intestines and staggered. Raoul’s killing blow met only empty air.
Abruptly, the battle was over and an eerie silence descended on the battlefield, only broken by the flapping of flags, the crackling of bodies in the final stages of consumption by Greek Fire and the diminishing sounds of retreat. Richard lowered his sword, blood pooling under the tip, as the last of the Musulmen scattered from Acre, pursued by a band of Knights Templar led by Grand Master Robert de Sablé. The Templars streamed from the gates of Acre on horseback, pounding the dead and injured to pulp under the hooves of their giant warhorses. The cracking of bones and the strange susurration of bursting flesh was lost within a thunderous roar, like the toppling of a thousand stones, as Richard raised his sword to the men surrounding him, a huge grin spreading across his bearded face.
Raoul slipped away into the crowd of soldiers and moved towards the gates of the city. He was disappointed. Richard’s death promised, at the very least, rich lands in England or Normandy and his sadly bastard branch of the noble and powerful de Courcys – of which he was the only remaining representative – was almost bankrupt and in severe peril of losing their small lands in Derbyshire, England, acquired by Raoul’s ancestor, Armand, in 1066.
A smile crossed his thin, ratlike features as he slipped through the gates against the tide of troops and into shadow. He ran his lips over blackened teeth and his green eyes glittered in the darkness. There would be another chance to do the bidding of his master, John, but for now the captured children of Acre awaited his pleasure.
MAY, 1977 – ST JOHN’S, NEWFOUNDLAND
The playful slap of waves against the hull of a small boat is a pleasant sound on a summer day in a flat calm. It is not pleasant in a force ten gale. Neither is it playful.
Six miles off St John’s, on the coast of Newfoundland, Elton Chelford heeled the thirty-two foot yacht ‘Windfall’ into the howling storm and prayed.
That day his gods were not listening.
The wave came from nowhere. It towered forty feet above the boat and smashed down with the force of an angry leviathan, tearing the fibreglass hull in two.
Briefly, Elton saw his wife Marjorie tumble past him in the foaming water as the ‘Windfall’ sank. She seemed to be attached to the yacht and he could see why. Rope from the windlass was wrapped around her neck and she followed the yacht into the depths like a dog on a leash.
Above the thunder of the waves he heard a thin scream.
His thirteen-year-old daughter slid away from him in the swell, rising and falling, her mouth an ‘o’ of distress.
Below him, Marjorie’s face was almost lost in darkness.
“I’m sorry,” he shouted to his daughter and heard her scream once more, before she disappeared in the trough of an enormous wave. “I’ll just get your mom, hold on,” he said to himself and had a surprising thought that he had just uttered the last of all the words he was ever going to say.
Only the stern of the yacht was visible now. Taking a deep breath, he dived to the fading yacht, to Marjorie, ever falling under the great, green Atlantic Ocean.
TOMMY THE BOY, 1971
Tommy’s first memories were of the woman with sparkly glasses. Anything before that was a grey mist.
“He doesn’t understand.”
“You can’t expect…” The woman with the sparkly glasses and watery blue eyes pursed her lips in a thin line and glared down at the boy. “It’s not just for now. You know that, Thomas.”
“Mmm.” Tommy couldn’t look at her dinosaur eyes. He tried to read the reversed sign on the frosted glass door. Social something.
The man with the red nose cleared his throat. “Rosemary, it’s no good telling him this. He’s only six.”
I am, thought Tommy. I’m six, I am.
Glasses sniffed with a thin nose covered in shiny brown marks. “Boys are all the same. No backbone.”
Tommy saw her eyes crinkle cruelly and thought that they should be green like a sea witch, not blue.
“Look, he’s crying, Mr Garvey. See?” Her shoulders moved back in a gesture of righteousness. “Crying.”
Tommy was and didn’t know why. It was just welling up in him like sick, and the tears made her glasses look like big electric lights, like a lighthouse on a rock in the sea, in the dark. Her head swivelled in response to his thought and she bent over him. Her breath smelt of mackerel.
“Be a man, Thomas, you’re not the only one in this particular predicament, you know. If you can’t remember anything, it’s probably not worth remembering.”
“Leave the lad alone, Rosemary,” Rednose interrupted. “It’s hard enough on him, broke both legs for Chr…” He put his arm around Tommy’s shoulders and patted the boy’s striped cotton tee shirt, as if it were a dog that he didn’t know. “It’s all right, old man. You’ll soon settle in, lots of lads your age get… well, lose their parents, you’ll like the Gables.”
Tommy the boy, Tommy the child, Tom the man, squirmed away from Rednose and put his hand in his pocket to touch the silver shilling. The treasure. It was real. It meant something. He glared up at them both, fighting the tears, knowing that tears were what they wanted, what they expected.
Rednose moved to a brown desk and sat on it with a sigh, shaking his head, but Glasses moved back in and frowned at Tommy, her searchlights crackling with coldness. “Don’t you look at me like that, boy. You’re no different…”
Tommy could feel the cold fire sweep from her eyes and numb his brain. But he knew and she didn’t.
“He is,” Rednose interrupted softly, “Oh, yes. His father is a very important…” The man stopped as if he’d swallowed a rock.
Father? Tommy tried to remember but the thought was like a frightened mouse and it made his head hurt. He gripped the treasure more tightly; that was real.
“What’s that he’s got? In his hand.” Glasses pulled Tommy’s hand from his trousers and tried to prise the little fist open.
“It’s mine,” Tommy said, “Not yours.”
“Show me. Please?” Rednose made no move to force him so Tommy opened his hand. The silver shilling gleamed there: the one with the head of the King.
“Give it here.” Glasses held out her hand.
“It’s only an old shilling, Rosemary. It’s probably all he has. Not even legal tender anymore.”
Glasses sniffed. “They’re not allowed money at the orphanage.” But she lowered her hand, and sniffed again.
The warm, frightening familiarity of the messages from the future washed over him and he felt reassured.
“You’re going to die soon,” he said to her and it was only a whisper, “in Africa.”
They put him on the special coach to the orphanage and forgot him.
Five months later, at the precise moment that the number 14 bus hit Rosemary Arless just outside the Fulham Road tube station, she did not think of Tommy. She was, in fact, thinking of the red carnation she had just bought from a flower seller and was so entranced by its redness that she stepped into the road without thought.
Unaccountably, she remembered Tommy when the black bus driver leant over her and she realised that although he was talking, she couldn’t hear him, only a distant patter of drums. She tried to clear her nose and there was the exotic odour of limes. Everything was so red and warm. She smiled. Tommy was wrong. It was going to be a good holiday.
TOMMY THE BOY, 1978
Seven years after Rosemary Arless and Rednose sentenced him to the orphanage, and a year after Elton and Marjorie communed with the Atlantic, the creaky messages were arriving thick and fast for Tommy. Trouble was, most of the time he couldn’t figure out what they were about. It was like watching old TV films with long dead actors in them. And they were all about pain, grief or death. The messages were not happy messages. Someone always had to suffer.
Invariably at the end, when the little puppet humans had run or stamped or screamed across the tumbling images, there was the dark haired girl with the name of a boy, (Chaz? Charles?) her mouth screaming a big ‘O’. She was the only consistency. He wanted so much to help her, to save her, but all he could do was watch her mouth open wide in a soundless scream.
Today, after finding Stick Jensen industriously beating up a sickly boy, by the name of Pimple, Tommy cracked the bully’s nose in a relatively fair fight – except that Tommy used a house brick to counter Stick’s forty pounds weight advantage – and he felt his brain tighten and creak, as if tuning up for the messages.
Inside the recreation room, he leaned against the old oak bookcase in the library, heart pounding, took out a roll-up and felt the headache coming, the one that always came after the door in his head opened; but it was only a twinge and he allowed himself a restrained smile of pleasure.
“One day I’m gonna chew you up Buchanan, you little shite. Strawberry fuckin’ jelly, you.” Stick, flame red hair falling over his acne-damaged face, leant round the door, but didn’t enter. “Strawberry fuckin’ jelly.”
“Not on one leg you’re not.” Tommy said, flicking on his cherished brass Zippo – stolen from one of the posh kids who made short appearances at the orphanage – and lighting up. He could hear Stick thinking, reminiscent of the grind of a Stone Age cart.
“Twat, you are,” Stick said. “Two fuckin’ legs, see?”
Tommy smiled to himself. Stick was spent like a spinner on the pond. All used up. He was a Gables boy, wild until he hit the wall of a displeased Guardian – like old Claybollocks, former Marine and built like a tank – then he was a pussycat.
The rest? Just fucking apes. Tommy liked that expression. It was always the worst thing he could think of, the worst thing to be.
And they were all rubbish after all, himself included: the ones who’d been passed over by the male/female combinations who came to the orphanage behaving as if it were a supermarket. When he was eight he’d hoped, tried to look happy and cheerful, combed his hair neatly, scrubbed until his face hurt, and worn a clean shirt so that someone would take him, so that he could have a mum and dad again; but there was something about him that they didn’t like, something in his eyes that said trouble and they’d go for the ones with blue eyes and blonde hair, not the black haired boy with brown eyes smiling manically like a pre-pubescent anti-Christ.
Then he’d started to hate them. Those people who picked a child like a dog from the pound. It became satisfying to watch some prospective parents take on an angelic little thing when the kid was harder than seasoned oak and thicker than pig shit. Now he was thirteen, the supermarket shoppers didn’t even see him anymore and that made his hatred a comfort.
But despite this dubious comfort, he felt envy as another child was driven away through the gates and when he was alone he would turn the silver shilling over and over in his hands until his chest felt tight and his eyes got stupidly wet. The same questions always, repeated like a tired old song. Why did my mum and dad throw me away? Why can’t I remember their faces? Who are they? Where are they? But when he tried to imagine their faces he felt the trembling edge of the headache approaching, the signal for the doorway in his head to open and it soon became the only thing he feared, tied in with a remembrance of two people whom he knew that he would never, ever, meet.
Poor old Stick and all the other lads were the same: discarded, unsatisfactory, badly made crap. It gave them all a mutual hatred, a commonality, a brotherhood. He switched on the television, sitting down with his back to Stick. His head creaked again.
Not just the leg, but the diamonds too. Poor Stick.
Stick stayed in the door for a minute but Tommy did not look around knowing that most of Stick’s anger was dribbling away. Later, he thought, later. But it came to him that he would never see Stick again.
Tommy heard him leave and for a moment felt a great weight on his chest, a sort of sorrow was how he described it to himself, a sorrow for poor, old, tough Stick. Poor, old, tough, one-legged Stick.
“I’ll look after the dog, Stick,” he murmured and didn’t know what he meant, but he could see it – big, black, with weird eyes, and a funny name.
Some hours later, by the pond in the grounds of the orphanage he watched an old pike, maybe fifteen pounds, circling in the weeds, watched as it snapped a minnow in its jaws with barely a movement of the savage head and he thought of Stick.
Poor, old Stick.
The first part would be soon.
Several people had said I needed a celebrity to promote my books. Her Majesty didn’t even reply and the lesser Royals were decidedly sniffy. Richard and Judy laughed out loud. Oprah pretended not to understand my English accent and thought I was stalker. I could have had several soap stars who, for the payment of a suitable fee, would, without even reading them, endorse how terrific my dog thinks my books are (The one with dogs in it is a particular favourite).
It made me realize why soap stars and other celebrities are paid so much. They are telepathic. All of them. And it only requires money to induce this power. But, my £2.73 was apparently not enough, despite a firm promise of a chicken pie and mushy peas plus a year’s subscription to the Derbyshire Times. I find this refusal to trade almost incomprehensible. The mushy peas are worth an endorsement alone and who could refuse a chicken pie that has the exciting prospect of containing genuine chicken, if you get a good one.
So having been turned down by a chap who once played ‘man in bar’ in an episode of ‘Neighbours’ and a lady of the evening who was drinking sherry in the park but had once been an intimate friend of a relative of Sir Larry Olivier before her fondness for sherry put the kibosh on a potentially profitable relationship, I was left with only one alternative.
I decided against selling my organs – which are not in saleable condition anyway -and instead dropped the price.
Halloween, or All Hallows Eve, is on October 31st. Both AND SOON THE SONG and NORTHMAN have ghosts in them, so I thought why not celebrate a good old Celtic feast since both books contain the odd dead Celt. I know. It’s a tenuous link, but since my disappointment in the lack of a reply from the Queen, I’ve not been thinking straight. Ghosts galore for Halloween, it is!
I know those of you who have not yet read either book will rush out immediately and buy both. It makes sense. Or rather, it makes sense to me. I will forgive those who don’t, but I cannot believe such wonderful, beautiful, charming, intelligent, discerning people of taste like you could refuse an offer like this.
I know that last sentence was a little OTT. I’ve noticed hyperbole has become my bedfellow recently. I put it down to a newly acquired limping ability gained by tearing a calf muscle whilst chasing a strange and madly defecating cat out of my orchard.
At the time I was astonished by how many words I knew to describe the cat, and bizarrely none of them were related to anything remotely feline.
I’m rambling now, so I’ll get my coat.