Saturday, 14 April 2018

Is it just my imagination?

I had to accompany someone to the hospital today.

    Upon looking over my shoulder in the car park, I found someone looking over mine.

   

   When you get really close it's just someone's sloppy brushwork, but If it was him then it's a very comforting feeling. 

    If it turns into a shrine, then it'll be a very expensive one. It costs about a pound a minute to park there.

Thursday, 12 April 2018

I discovered something I forgot about.

A few years ago (I can't remember when since I already converted the MS to TextMaker and erased the original registry date,) I wrote this. It was going to be a long novel which is why I probably lost interest at page 47.

    Curiously, its going to be a Scifi novel. I might start it up again, since just for a change, I know how it will end.

    Spitfires and black holes: who'd have thought it.



The Spitfire’s death was fiery and extended.
     After an uneven descent punctuated by several barking coughs from its smoking engine, the aircraft’s undercarriage began to unfurl from its uniquely shaped wings. Or at least part of it did. One wheel descended properly, in jarring counterpoint to the other side: a jagged strut protruding starkly at an angle the designer had never envisaged. That and the shattered tail boded ill for the once beautiful but now mortally crippled aircraft.
      The pilot must have been injured and missed the both emergency flares, his peril compounded by the Luftwaffe raid of the previous night which had destroyed both radios. In a furious attempt to do something the fire crews raced forward, blue lights flashing and sirens bellowing in a futile attempt to keep up.
    Moments later one wheel gently touched the wet and newly cut grass of the improvised airstrip. For a few seconds longer its final flight remained serene before the fractured wheel strut dug in, slewing the plane in a sweeping cartwheel until the opposite wing tip touched the ground. The wood and canvas frame held briefly, long enough to pivot the entire machine back into the air one last time before the wing finally snapped off at the fuselage, hurling debris in every direction as the plane lurched downwards. Beneath the eruption of fuel, coolant and oil the shattered aircraft finally halted on what was left of its right side. The silence lasted but seconds as the high octane fuel made contact with something hot. The resulting explosion enveloped the entire structure in a billowing cloud of smoke and steam and fire.
  

Sunday, 8 April 2018

I know; I'm a wimp.

I tried the blog a few times with the new format but I hated it.

    Maybe I'm just getting old. In fact, according to she whose name must be whispered, I'd make Methuselah seem young in comparison. There's no point in arguing. I've been trying it for nearly thirty five years and never won yet.

    Anyway, enough of that guff. I have a few days off. What shall I do with myself.

    I could paint (badly) or I could get on with the new book.

    But I know what I am going to do. I might have mentioned in passing that my scooter was terminally damaged in the snowstorm of a few weeks ago. Well as it's the beginning of the new tax year, and I'm broke I had to replace it, but with what I could find rather than what I wanted.

    What I ended up with is another scooter, but one with an enormous engine. so today, despite the rain I'm going for a ride, just like I used to when I was young and had a real motorbike - and a life.

    If I survive and return, I'll do something constructive later.

    Or maybe I won't. There's a marathon NCIS on TV this afternoon. 

    It's a tricky one.

Friday, 6 April 2018

Something new.

Now that spring is here - allegedly, I thought I'd try something new.

    Hence the change in blog format. She who grunts at me from downstairs occasionally, says that it's fine. I think it's a little frantic. Anyone with any view please let me know.

    I saved the original format. I just hope it really was saved, because if I realise that this one's rubbish and I can't get it back it's going to take me months to remember what it looked like.

    Now that I'm taking a break from writing for a few days I thought I'd really get to grips with the new painting program. Here's the result. Clearly it's not finished and I don't know if it ever will be.

    Another thing about my new cheapo painting tablet. It actually makes pressure sensitivity on GIMP work, and that's something I've never been able to achieve before.


Wednesday, 28 March 2018

Lost my mojo.

What exactly is a mojo?

    Well, whatever it is - I've lost it.

    Can't be bothered to advertise my new novel upon which I've bestowed so much love.

    Can't be bothered to begin the next one.

    Can't be bothered to paint.

    I think I've spent so much time struggling for a chance to do all three, that now, when it's been handed to me on a plate, I just can't do it.

    On the plus side, there is a new episode of NCIS on tonight - ho hum.

    I think it might be because my daughter is pregnant.

    I'm happy about that because she is. It's just that my little princess is no longer small enough to send to bed early if she misbehaves. She's a woman now and can tell me exactly where to shove it if she chooses.

    And if one more person joyfully tells me just what fun it is to be a grandad I may just slaughter them.

Monday, 26 March 2018

I may have got this writing malarky wrong

For months I've been immersed, nay, drowning in my new book, Sods Law. Now, less than a week after publishing it, am I going hell for leather trying to advertise it? Well, er no. All this time I've been writing, rewriting, and trying to make it the best thing I've ever written. And now I'm starting the new book.

    As I may have mentioned, I'd love to be filthy, stinking rich, but I just want to write. Don't get me wrong, I will make some (feeble) attempts to advertise Sods but the new one is burning a hole in my head.


    And I've just worked out out my villain is going to carry out his dastardly deed.


    Haven't quite worked out out my hero is going to foil him yet - or even if he will. 


    Can't wait to find out.


    Here's a passage from Sods Law I really enjoyed writing. Just another display of my juvenile humour but I like it.

  ‘Teach them to come barging into our house,’ Doris growled, sniffing the air suspiciously, but clearly with more things on her mind let it go. ‘Who were they?’ she demanded wrenching open drawers and cupboards before tossing the shopping in and slamming them with as much violence as she clearly wished she’d been able to visit upon their three recent visitors.
  ‘Don’t know.’ Arnold really didn’t know and had no wish to share the room with an angry Doris and a rack of carving knives. Whether she would actually have assaulted them was another matter. Most of their annoying visitors, like Jehovah’s Witnesses and representatives from the council usually got the message before his wife had recourse to violence. Chantal turned to leave but halted at a voice, an oddly strident and excited voice. Even Arnold froze in surprise since it was the first time he’d heard more than two consecutive words emanating from this particular mouth without either of them being obscene.
  ‘I seen ‘im before.’
  ‘Oo?’ demanded Chantal, obviously more able to decipher what passed for English from her friend. As if to forestall any more complaints from her father concerning her own grammar, a sly wink on Waynette’s blind side reminded him of their previous conversation on said matter.
  ‘That geezer outside. He’s a copper, a real minger.’ Interested now, Chantal turned to her friend with a smile.
  ‘Which one? There was three.’
  Perhaps surprised with her own outburst Waynette grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant expression, but being the first Arnold had ever seen from her he decided that anything was better than nothing.
  ‘The one what was in your face. Seen that tosser before.’ Having rediscovered the art of speech Waynette’s face became animated and with a surprisingly nice smile it was almost easy to overlook the strange clothes she was wearing, most of which he noticed, belonged to his daughter.
  ‘When have you seen him before,’ said Doris, her stern voice enough to dampen Waynette’s euphoria somewhat.
  ‘Told you. He’s a copper. Came to our place after mum’s new boyfriend moved in.’
  ‘The one what reads all those dirty mags? Or the one that tried to do it to...’
  ‘That one,’ Waynette said smiling nastily. ‘Won’t be doin’ that again for a while.’
  ‘Wait a minute. I’m getting lost.’ Arnold felt his head spinning. It might have been confusion or a vague memory that the sausages he’d eaten just a short while ago had been out of date by nearly a week. Waynette’s smile of derision returned to the one he remembered so well.
  ‘He knicked my mum’s boyfriend. But it took three of them,’ she remarked with obvious approval.
  ‘When, why?’ Doris stuttered apparently unconcerned by their grammar.
  ‘Ee’ was growing skunk in our garden shed. Would have been alright,’ she said with regret, ‘except that the next door neighbour’s dog went in chasing a fox, and when it came out dragging one of the plants, it was stoned. Weren’t half funny.’
  ‘One of the plants?’ asked Arnold, only vaguely aware of what dope was because he’d heard it mentioned in one of those real life cop shows on the telly. As for skunk he had no idea.
  ‘Yeah, but that weren’t the best bit. He ran off with it and dropped some by the foot of another copper what was nicking the ice cream bloke for selling beer to the kids.’
  ‘And they took him away?’ Chantal asked, entranced with the whole scene.
  ‘Yeah, but they had to let him go in the end.’
  ‘Why?’ Doris’s voice clearly displayed her disgust.
  ‘Well they couldn’t prove that mum’s boyfriend had grown it. So they let him out, but not until they’d given him a kicking for slashing in the cop car.’
  ‘Slashing?’ croaked Doris in confusion, but only long enough for Waynette to simulate the action to Arnold’s barely concealed amusement.

Saturday, 24 March 2018

Finally it's here.

Along with a suitably tawdry cover Sods Law is finally finished and on Amazon.



    It took umpteen edits but finally I believe it to be error free. Amazon picked up fifty speeling mistakes but thankfully they were just our version of English versus that spoken on the other side of the Atlantic. I did consider using American English as I did in my Old Geezers series. But they were set in America and the characters were American. Sods law is set in England so I decided to leave it be.

    It concerns Arnold Pratt's painful reinsertion to life. After twenty years of sitting and watching television, suddenly being pursued by three police forces, and the Security Service for crimes he didn't commit, the bodies begin to mount up. Pretty soon he's going to have to make a decision. That's if Petunia doesn't do for him first.

    Here's a couple of excerpts to whet, and hopefully not dampen, anyone's decision to have  look.


  ‘I hope you’re not going to leave this place in ruins.’
The voice came from behind and startled him. It seemed to be emanating from the considerable backside of his wife swaying from side to side as she cleaned the interior of the oven. He closed his eyes, and mind, to ancient emotions. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Doris, or that in her own way, she no longer cared for him, but such things were a dim and distant memory.
  ‘It’s me,’ he said making for the kettle.
  ‘It’s you I was talking to,’ said her gently rolling posterior. Speak about talking out of your —. He stopped himself mid-thought. She would know. She always seemed to know what he was thinking so it was better to leave such opinions deeply hidden before she caught him.


   The shock as a dazzlingly bright beam hit him squarely in the eyes caused him to flinch. Just that tiny movement caused him to fall backwards, scrabbling madly with his arms but only succeeding in dislodging himself and sliding down even further. As he came to a halt it was with a clang. A strange noise to hear down there. But it was indeed a clang. Slowly bracing his foot against something hard he turned, pointing the phone and it’s laser like beam towards what he’d hit. His immediate scream of terror prompted his fingers to let go for with a second yelp of terror he dropped the phone which landed on his foot and promptly went out. This was a mercy because Arnold had no desire to light it again. He’d just seen something from beyond his worst nightmare. And it was less than three feet away.




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