Perhaps I should rewrite the second novel I ever wrote; one that I lost interest in after the twentieth edit. It took me three months of research to get the facts right and I thought it was pretty unique at the time.
What's beginning to change my mind up is that nobody has ever written one just like it. Here's the first chapter - hopefully one that would make people want to know more.
It had been an uneventful evening in their quiet bungalow on the fringes of Dartmoor, right until the point that the snarling, horribly enraged tiger burst through the lounge door and bit off Ethel’s son’s head. By most people this would have constituted an act of considerable annoyance. Ethel, however, simply waved away her son’s cries and watched her soap obliviously.Besides, the evening before, the three headed snake slithering greasily through the central heating grate only to swallow her Jack Russell hadn’t even provoked a flicker of surprise by either she or her husband Fred, sleeping off six pints of bitter oblivious to the giant scaly cockroach burrowing free from the top of his balding head.‘Come on, up to bed Robert.’ Ethel said, taking off her glasses at the closing credits and rubbing absently at the painful indentations on the bridge of her nose. Eleven year old Robert, curiously unaffected by the savage attack, considered arguing. After all it was Friday and there was no school tomorrow, but his mother’s voice was firm. He knew that particular tone of old. She’d been tired and unusually irritable lately - as they all had. Even he, five stone of youthful and normally unquenchable vigour, sometimes found it difficult to climb from his bed at the moment.After a dutiful peck on his mother’s maggot covered cheek, and deftly avoiding the roaring torrent of water now pouring through the fireplace, he climbed slowly up to bed and pulled on his pyjamas, too tired even to be irritated by the smelly gorilla that had taken to sleeping with him lately.