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Tuesday, 14 June 2016

Swamp Thing, Can't Buy Me Love, and Tom Hiddleston. Because..why not?

Another quick, late blog - oh dear, I do hope this isn't going to become a 'thing'... I mean a thing, like something I do often, not a 'thing' like a big blobby swamp monster.  If my blog should become a 'thing' then I hope it would have the decency to be a pale, thin, quite picturesque wafty thing, not all green with tentacles, because that would be just SO obvious.

All of the yeses
*wanders off for a bit of a lie down*

Anyway, how do big blobby swamp monsters like the one above eat their dinner?  How do they find their mouths?  I have enough trouble managing to poke food into my own face, and that's got a pretty straightforward arrangement of features - yet I still manage to get a large percentage of any given dinner down my front.  All those tentacles must be a nightmare, especially if you were eating spaghetti, you'd find you'd eaten half your own face, surely?  And the sauce would get splattered everywhere, you'd have to redecorate after a tomato-based meal...

Okay.  So my blog isn't a swamp monster.  Unfortunately, neither is it Tom Hiddleston. But it is where I tell you about things, so now is a good time to mention that 'Can't Buy Me Love' (which was originally published as 'Reversing Over Liberace', but has been updated and generally re-titivated) is out on 28th of June, from Choc Lit, for your Kindle.
So in two short weeks this little lovely could be on your reading device!  Go on, buy it now.  Or I'll send Cthulu round.

You're not getting Tom Hiddleston.  He's mine.

Thursday, 9 June 2016

I say a sad farewell...

Sorry this post is late. It will also be short and sweet.

It's a memoriam for the biggest, best old dog that ever lived - children's friend and protector, my companion through life for fourteen years, village guardian and general all round Good Dog.

He left us on Monday, quietly and without fuss as he did everything, and will be much missed not just by our family but by an entire community.

Go and chase those rabbits on the other side, Dylan, my best old boy.  Fetch those balls and run through the sea.  I know I'll see you again.

RIP, the Best Dog In The World

Monday, 30 May 2016

All by myself - socks on my head and an illiterate poltergeist

I've got the house to myself now.  Oh, it probably won't be forever, but certainly for the foreseeable future it's me, three dogs, five cats and enough slugs to make the carpet look as though it has the sort of interesting raised, silver pattern that you would be delighted to see on any book jacket.
This isn't my exact carpet, you can tell from the lack of stains, but this is the approximate effect

And you know what?  It's FANTASTIC!  Being alone, not the slugs.

No more trying to set a good example to the children by putting washing away immediately, clearing bowls and plates, tidying up after myself!  No more watching incredibly rubbish TV because of 'majority decisions'. No more writing with one eye on the clock, waiting to be disturbed.

I can now live like the utter slattern I really am.  My inner slob is running free (and quite often un-underpanted, because the dogs don't care what I'm wearing)!  I can eat nothing but sandwiches and cereal if I want! (I don't, because I don't much like sandwiches, but I can if I want to, and that's what matters).  I can wander around the house in nothing but a dressing gown and a pair of socks on my head....actually, no, I've always done that, it's part of being a writer, sorry.  I can buy a packet of biscuits and they are still in the cupboard when I want one!

More to the point, I can write whenever I want to.  Apart from the necessity of going to work to actually earn money, the rest of my time is completely my own.  Of course, this means that I sit down with the full intention of working (that Christmas novella isn't going to write itself. I know this, because I've tried leaving the laptop switched on when I wasn't around, and the only words that appeared were 'Gnfugggjjjjjjdfjkl;afe  ngerw231123'.  Either a cat on the keyboard or my poltergeist is illiterate) and look up four days later to find that my tea has gone cold and I've read my way through the entire Fortean Times message forum.  And I still don't have any pants on, my socks are still on my head, and the postman is poking me with a stick through an open window because he thinks I might be dead.
The cup of tea in question. Yes, I know it says Coffee on it, but I'm spontaneous like that.
So, if you'll excuse's been nearly thirty years since I last lived on my own, and I've got a backlog of eating rubbish and watching 'Rosemary and Thyme' to catch up with...