I’m pleased to say that my gay erotic short story, The Delaneys and Me, is now up at Amber Allure Press although it’s not published until Sunday 18 April. I’m noting it now as I’ll be away on holiday at that point so won’t be blogging until I get back.
And I’ve uploaded the final part of Chapter Ten of The Prayer Seeker’s Journal where Michael is still dealing with the ex-wife.
Finally in this section, there are two haikus this week, which I hope you enjoy:
Grey heron flying,
painted across the bright sky:
harbinger of spring.
The peace of water
sinks into my skin: sunlight,
air and deep silence.
I had a very enjoyable time representing Vulpes Libris at the Sceptre Press Book Bloggers party at the Hospital Club Bellini Bar in London on Friday afternoon. Thankfully I don’t think they quite realised which Bookfox I actually am, or they very politely ignored it, and we all had a very good time talking with passion and commitment about books. We stayed so long that they had to throw us out in the end. Plus we all got a book goody bag, hurrah – thank you to the lovely Polly et all for that. It was nice also to meet some of their newer authors and fellow-bloggers too. I was on my best behaviour and said nothing about my thoughts concerning their new and distinctly dodgy marketing approach, but I was on the other hand (sorry, in-joke!) happy to say that I was very much enjoying the proof book they sent me, hurrah! I hope we can all do it again sometime, and that other publishers might take the proverbial leaf from Sceptre’s party book. Speaking with my failing-would-be-mainstream-writer hat on though (ah how well it fits me), it was really incredibly refreshing to have any kind of conversation at all with a mainstream publisher that doesn’t involve them either ignoring me, laughing at me or insulting me in suitably bitchy fashion, ho ho. And, yes, all that has happened in the past. Thank goodness I’ve now found publishers to whom my work is far more suited, eh. Saves all the pain really.
Yesterday, Lord H and I did a quick recce to find out how to get to Kingston Hospital – as I have to go to see my nice gynae woman there on Wednesday and I’ve been hyperventilating for days about the terrors of having to find somewhere new. Having done the journey once though, it looks fairly straightforward and the only real problem (apart from the inevitable traffic) is going to be finding someplace to park when I’m there, groan. Wish me luck …
We then went on to spend a very pleasant day at Barnes Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust, where we managed to spot sand martins, a little ringed plover, a great black-backed gull and lots of great crested grebes – all new for this year. I was also thrilled to see my second butterfly of the year – a common white. We spotted a beautiful peacock butterfly on the neighbour’s chimney earlier in the week … Plus Barnes actually had chicks, including some gorgeously bizarre moorhen chicks – and yes they really do look like that. Amazing.
Meanwhile, we’ve suffered the appalling disaster of yesterday’s disappointing Dr Who episode – it felt like a nine-year old had been allowed to write it with no supervision and was, frankly, laughable. We trust the writer has been cast into the mouth of the beast, and that next week’s offering will have at least more class. I can only admire the actors for not running screaming from the set, sigh … Mind you, there is one good thing that came out of it – Lord H thought the idea of casting naughty schoolchildren into the Mouth of Hell where they are never seen again was a brilliant idea and all schools should take it up at once. That’ll teach the little beggars not to learn their sums, eh …
Talking of which, we have survived the traumas of being responsible for coffees at today’s Family Service!! Pause for applause – go on, you know you want to. We practised our polite religious smiles before we went and they seem to have done the trick. It was, to be honest, less problematic than I’d feared, though we did have to sing a wretched Graham Kendrick song. Deep sigh. He must be the only songwriter around who’s utterly unable to put the right number of words in a tune, and it’s all so relentlessly glittery and bland. I did find myself turning to the song again to see when he was born (1950, if you’re asking) and therefore when he might retire from the fray, but then thought that was probably way too bitchy even for me. Surely not! I am indeed the soul of loving kindness and warmth. Well, in my dreams anyway …