Happy New Year!

I watched 'The Return of the Goodies' last night, and it was uplifting to find myself laughing so hard at my childhood heroes. Especially the classic 'Kitten Kong' and 'Ecky Thump' episodes, the latter being responsible for a viewer actually dying laughing!

The only blight on last night's programme was the abundance of C-List talking heads that pop up to explain why something is good. I don't need some twat analysing why summat is 'a classic moment in comedy history'. Just show me and let me judge for myself, thanks very much.

I for one, think the Beeb are nuts for not repeating these shows.

Anyway, the rest of the Stone tribe are descending upon me this evening to let in the New Year. As we're such sticklers for tradition, Jill is laying on . . . Mexican food.

Eh?

Goodies

Goodies as in... yesterday I spent most of the day revising my novella 'The Reconsruction of Kasper Clark'. This was actually the first time I've read it through from beginning to end and, d'you know what? It ain't bad, though I do say it myself. Certainly a lot better than I thought, anyway. I emailed an editor who is putting together a limited edition chapbook -- called "The Butcher Shop Quartet", which is a brilliant title -- comprising of four horror novellas. I was hoping I had the luxury of getting my story critiqued by my lovely cohorts at critters.org, but Boyd (the editor) tells me that the cut-off point for submissions will be around the 10th of January. Which means relying on my own judgement and submitting it as it is. Hmm.

Goodies as in... My website is up and running and looking quite good. I say "quite good" as the logo and menu bar are very basic and could do with more thought going into them, but hey, the content is mostly there. Go take a look. www.mylefteye.net

Goodies as in... yesterday I got an email from Gary Fry, editor and publisher of "Fusing Horizons" magazine. Issue 5, due last January or thereabouts, is finally out next week. "FH" is not just a good market for writers of dark fantasy, it's a great read too. I've missed it. Especially pleasing for me is that two of my micro fictions will feature in this issue: Models and Tasty. Go here http://www.grayfriarpress.com/fusing/index.html and consider buying a copy. If you're into horror and dark fantasy, you won't be disappointed.

Goodies as in... Tonight, the BBC are having a "Goodies" night. People of a certain age will remember the trio of Tim Brooke-Taylor, Bill Oddie and Grahame Gardener will fondness. Complete anarchy and bloody hilarious. A sort of Monty Python, with storlines, more actual jokes and bigger props. I just hope it lives up to expactations. Always disappointing to watch a favourite from yesteryear and think: "What did I see in this? It's crap!"

Where's the snow?

All over Blighty it is snowing, apparently, except here in Stoke-on-Trent. We get a few wisps now and again, but that's all. Bah!

I like snow. Not so much for the snowperson-builiding potential, or the prospect of snowballing or sledging, or even the photogenic vistas. No, I like the snow cos it means I can go outdoors at night and not walk into things. Everywhere is white and bright. Early morning trudges to work are relatively stress free after a good fall of snow. Everyone else is chuntering when I get there as they've just spent half an hour digging their cars free, but I don't care. "Get out and walk you lazy bastards," I say, and they all laugh, kicking me to keep warm.

The snow is my friend.

Back to the writing

Having survived the single-minded attempt to induce a chocolate fuelled diabetic coma, I am back at the computer and writing again.

First off is a quick revision of 'MirrororriM'. This was very well received by my fellow writers in Critters, and I have hopes it will sell one day. It's a comic fantasy piece. Somthing I've had some success with in the past, although markets for humour crop up only rarely.

I have already dumped my next story in the queue at Critters: this is a massive thing called 'The Reconstruction of Kasper Clark'. 13500 words. An absolute bastard to write. I will have to go over it again to make a few changes before it reaches the top of the queue. A lengthy percolation (it's taken a year to complete this first draft) has made me feel very insecure about Kasper Clark. I've grown to mistrust my judgement regarding this individual.

Finally, I've commenced a complete rewrite of an old story called 'Scrodinger's Bug'. I wrote the original way back in Summer 2004, but never really felt that happy with it. But recently I envisaged it in a space colony setting -- rather than a straight horror tale set in suburbia -- and the picture in my head looked a lot more enticing. Alien parasites replacing the Earthbound insects of the original draft.

Poison.

Had a pleasant Christmas Day, all told. Heather was certainly overwhelmed by it all, so that was as it should be. I ate whole turkey or two, as dictated by tradition, and drank a glass or three of Bailey's, Sheridan's, and a couple of shandies (wimp!). But more than anything, I ate chocolate. Mint, orange and caramel, bars of it. White, dark or milk, I shovelled it all in. Bliss!

But I really feel quite strange this morning and I'm sure it's the chocolate. Is there such a thing as chocolate poisoning? I really do feel a mite queer. Dizzy and . . . kinda drunk. Still nibbling the stuff today, but now it's purely in the interests of science and not for pleasure.

Blic!

Santa Claus is God. Probably.

Having a four-year-old is great. Especially at this time of year.

Heather has been amusing me and Jill with her constant evaluation of the forthcoming festivities. She wanted to know how Santa got in.

'Down the chimney, of course,' I said.

'But we haven't got a chimney.'

Very observant. 'He comes through the door, then.'

'Have you give him a key?'

'Hm, no. Not yet.'

She was so worried I've had to hang an ornamental key on the door to put her mind at rest.

She is also leaving out two glasses of Bailey's and a couple of mince pies, for Mr & Mrs Claus, as well a carrot and a bowl of water for Rudolph. I persuaded her that Mrs Claus would be coming as I wanted two glasses of Bailey's and two pies. Jill pointed out that I can help myself to a drink at any time, I don't need to warp our daughter's beliefs. Which is true, I suppose. What can I say? I'm getting caught up in all these lies we tell our kids.

Like this whopper: Santa is everywhere, like Jesus or God. So behave yourself, because if you're naughty, he'll see you and uou won't get any presents!

Every now and again, Heather looks upwards and shouts something along the lines of:: 'Santa, I've changed my mind, I want a Bratz hair braider, not a Barbie one!'

Merry Christmas, everybody.

'Raising Archie' sold

For the third time in three weeks, I'm thrilled to report a story sale. This time it's 'Raising Archie' to Electric Spec. It will feature on their website when it launches at the end of January.

'Raising Archie' went down really well when I ran it by my fellow writers in the Critters workshop, so I've been fairly optimistic about selling it. It's about a guy named Dave who buys a mysterious egg on eBay. It breaks open one night to reveal a stone gargoyle, which (naturally enough) thinks he's Mummy. The problem lies not with the gargoyle, but with Dave's best mate, the straight-laced Jim, who is determined to prove that Archie the gargoyle is a hoax.

My bullshit meter is tingling.

Spoke to a Human Resources officer at work. The government, mindful of redundant pottery workers like myself forming a human scrapheap, are pumping money into retraining. All well and good. And I was paying attention up to the point he started talking about interview techniques:

"So, let's say, you're going for a job at Tescos. Go on the Net and find out as much as you can about the company first. How many outlets they have, where they're opening new stores and suchlike. Then, on the day of the interview, get there an hour early and have a wander round. Talk to a few members of staff, visit the cafe. Get a feel for the layout.

"Do all this so that during the actual interview, when the interviewer asks why you want to work there, you can reply that the company made X billions of pounds profit last year and you want to be a part of that drive; that they have recently opened another store in Basingstoke which is dead impressive; that you love way the the delicatessen is organised and that even the coffee in the cafe is just right!"

The Human Resources officer leaned back, beaming.

Oh God, I thought. If I need to spout bullshit of that calibre just to get a job stacking shelves in Tescos, I may as well give up now. Ask me what I'm doing there and I'll tell em I want some money. "I won't nick stuff, promise. And look, I'm tall enough to reach the top shelves without a ladder. Gizzer job!"

'Tastes Like Chicken'

Happy to report another story sale, and so soon after finding a home for 'Sheep', too.

The story sold is 'Tastes Like Chicken', which will be published early next year in Space Squid magazine. The pay ain't much at $5. But the story is only a hundred words long. So hey, that's 5 cents a word. Semi-pro rates. Damn, I've arrived!

Pending redundancy

I got hauled into the office again at work today. Last time I was in there, it was to be told that I would be made redundant in January 06. Today, they just wanted to let me know that I was definitely going to be made redundant in January 06. Oh, right. I hadn't been aware of any doubt. Still, thanks for clearing that up. With typical working class deference, I said 'Thank you' on my way out. At least I didn't tug my forelock.

My new home

Not that there was anything wrong with the AOL blogpage, but this place looks like it has a lot more potential for personal customisation. See, my partner-in-crime on the BADASS HORROR project, the infamous Chris J. Hall, is building me a virtual edifice at www.mylefteye.net (that is, if he can go five minutes without stuffing food into his face), and this blog will then be customised to look a part of that.

Badass cover

Here it is. Probably the finished cover for the forthcoming anthology. Chris has asked me to write some cover blurb for the back cover. So far I've got 'Mad, bad and dangerous to know'

Legally blind

Went to se the eye specialist today, a preoccupired Geordie who muttered to himself all the while. Good job Jill went in with me, I hardly caught a word he said. Anyway, he examined me and declared me 'legally blind'. This, apparently, is not the same as medically blind (or how would I be reading this?), but it does mean I'm eligible for some benefits and/or assistance. Something of a relief with redundancy coming up in the New Year. While I was there he lasered my right eye to burn away dome cloudiness developing in the lens sac. Too soon to tell if it's made any difference as my vision is so blurred from the eye drops they put in. Hardly use my right eye anyway.

Christmas Concert

Knocked off work a couple of hours early today so I could witness the spectacle that was the School Christmas Concert. Heather was a snowflake, and had to say the line "Whoops-a-Daisy would not let the snowflakes melt, and always took them back to Heaven!!!" Note the three exclamation marks. Heather boomed. A star in the making.

What story the children were presenting I have absolutely no idea. I've played back the video I took, twice, and still it eludes me. Something about a king getting a gift, snowflakes melting and an angel called Whoops-a-Daisy. Joseph and Mary sat in silence holding a plastic Jesus while some shepherds fidgeted in the wings. It was all very Peter Greenaway.

'Sheep' penned

I sold another story this weekend: my psychological tale of lycanthropes and misfits, called 'Sheep', to dredtales.com. A fair few puns spring to mind, like penning stories, or the shear delight at finding a home for it . . . but thankfully decorum prevails.

Badass Horror closed to submissions

At long last, the Badass Horror antho I'm co-editing with Chris Hall is closed to submissions. The publisher is quite happy to go with the stories we have, although I still feel a couple more would help balance the content. As he's paying the bills though, he calls the shots. I don't know when the book will be a reality, as Chris has got to sort out all the formatting, a task I'm only too happy to leave to him. Maybe Feb/Mar next year is possible.

No more Badass. Aah, the relief.

DNA

This year, what with having an mp3 player and all, I've been listening to audio books from the library. Helps to while away those working hours, y'know. Hands busy, brain in freefall. Anyway, as an advanced Xmas pressie off my brother, I've treated myself to a boxset of the original BBC 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' radio plays. I've read all of Douglas Noel Adams's books, the radio scripts, watched the TV shows, even read Neil Gaiman's 'Don't Panic' and MJ Simpson's biography. I'm a fan. But, I've never actually heard the original radio plays that spawned the whole shebang.

They're brilliant fun! Well, the first 3 discs are anyway. That's all I've heard so far.

The thing that's really struck me is, I know from Neil Gaiman's 'Don't Panic' that these were written with a tight deadline, with DNA not really knowing what he was going to do from one week to the next. And yet the sheer abundance of comic sf ideas he throws out, he could have written a hundred short stories. I don't admit confessing, I listened to the first three discs (series one) in awe. I've heard people say that DNA was just lucky, that he managed to wrap up Monty Python humour in shiny SF clothing and pass it off as something new. To which I say a hearty Bollocks! I mean, all those segues from the HHGG (played wonderfully straight by Peter Jones) sound as fresh now as they must have done nearly thirty years ago. I cannot think of a single writer of comic SF who has come close to the HHGG.

DNA dried up in later years, suffering writer's block, famously watching deadlines go past with a whooshing noise . . . You'd never guess it hearing those first radio plays. S'quite sad, really..

Building societies can be nice

I spoke to my financial advisor yesterday (yes, I have a financial advisor - a pukka independent one too) about the disappointment over my new mortgage rates, and he said give em a ring. But, I said, if they've told me that the rate is 6.5% then surely that's what they are offering? Not necessarily, he said. Ring em and tell em it's not good enough. So I did ring em, and they offered me 5%, just like that. Did I want a tracker mortgage, fixed rate, over 2, 3, 5 or 10 years....? They couldn't have been more helpful. They were brilliant. So why didn't they outline these products to me, rather than automatically choosing a shit one on my behalf?

Don't these people ever do anything in the customer's best interests anymore?

Probably not. I remember the aggro of changing my mortgage over to a the current lender a couple of years ago. I got a letter from the previous lender informing me that as I was curtailing my mortgage with them before it was due to finish on the 6th of November, I would have to pay a fee of £800. WHAT?! But I'd told the new lender not to start things until the old one had ran out. I got the number and phoned the solicitor taking care of the transaction on behalf of the new lender, and he said "So you want me to hold fire until the 6th of November?" He was fully aware of the termination date, and that I'd have to pay a penalty, but he had still gone ahead and started the new mortgage on the 2nd of November. For the sake of waiting four days, he nearly landed with a bill for £800. And all the parties concerned knew this! No one said "Hang about, this is mental! I'm sure the client doesn't want to pay £800 when in another 4 days he can move for free." They just couldn't be arsed to act in my best interests.

And they wonder why no one trusts em anymore.

Oh God. I've turned into a Grumpy Old Man.

Tonsil & eye updates and mortgage blues

Jill's having a rough time with her throat. It's nearly a week since the op to remove her tonsils and she seems to be in more pain with each passing day. Her throat has bled a little this last two days, but this is normal apparently. Just the scabs coming away. Yuck! What's also normal according to the literature they sent her home with is bad breath. Jeeez, it is stomach-churningly awful!

The staff at the eye clinic were true to their word, and I now have an appointment to see a specialist next week. This is good news, so I just knew summat bad would have to come along (I'm becoming a regular pessimist aren't I?).

Hey, what's this? A letter from the building society who, with less than a month to go on my contract with them, have decided to tell me that when the new year kicks in, the rate they gave me two years ago will cease to be effective and my monthly mortgage repayments will hop up a few brown and blue notes. Don't worry, they say, they'll take care of the direct debits, I don't need to do a thing. Great! Thanks a bunch. I am free to look elsewhere, of course, but get another lender sorted out in three weeks?! Well, maybe I could have done, but there's now the small factoid that I'd be damn lucky to get anyone to give me a mortgage now the redundancy is a certainly come January 2006. Damn and bugger. They could've given me a little more notice than this, I'm sure.

The same as it's ever been, but peculiar

After a weekend spent trying not to think about the looming, post-Xmas redundancy, I had to go to work. Which felt really strange. Nothing had changed, of course, apart from me. I had to keep telling myself that if I work out my 90 day notice, I have yet another 4 months left at Tams.

Some good news: Jill phoned the eye clinic and stressed my need to see a specialist, sooner rather than later, and they said they'll pull my records out and see if they can kinda steer me to the head of the queue.

Finished the Jasper Fforde novel 'The Big Over Easy' today. I had a few reservations about this book to begin with, as it was billed as more of a crime novel than the wonderful Thursday Next series. I needn't have worried. Marvellous stuff. Mr Fforde, you're a genius.

Deal with it

Yesterday I downloaded and played a Half-Life 2 mod called -- with no imagination at all -- 'Leon's Maps'. Then I bumbled around with an old story, seeing if I could get it to work. Then I read a submission to the BADASS anthology, making a few changes as I went along in case Chris Hall decides to accept it. So what I did yesterday, in short, is turn my back on all my woes. Eye problems and redundancy . . . sod 'em for now.

Next week however, Jill is going to phone our GP to make an appointment: I need a referral to see another eye specialist at Hartshill Outpatients. I really need to get in the queue for laser treatment or I will be the same situation I was this time last year - seriously hindered by cloudy vision on top of the ususal shitty effects of retinitis pigmentosa.

Jill will also ring the ENT department at the Outpatients to make an appointment for me to be fitted up with a new ear mould for my hearing aid.

A union man is coming on to the factory to advise me on my rights re. the pending redundancy and the possibility of retraining. Then, I suppose, I need to get myself down the Jobcentre to look into the whole situation of re-employment and/or benefits. I know I'm entitled to some assistance, but the thought of asking for it . . . well, it makes me unhappy.

So, more Half-Life 2 it is then!

Havin' me stuffin' knocked out

A lot's gone on today. I'll kinda just list things cos I reckon I'll be coming back to these topics again and again.

Jill came out of hospital, sore and tired, but in better fettle than expected, so that was good. S'bout the only good thing that's happened today, though.

I dropped my hearing aid at work and shattered the ear mould, the part that goes in my ear.

I was able to confirm for myself that the difficulty with reading I've been experiencing lately is due to a cloudiness developing on my new lenses. That will need laser treatment to correct.

I was told that on 6 January next year I will be made redundant. Expected, maybe, but still a massive blow. 22 years, and I'm to be turfed out.

I have been waiting for an appointment with my eye specialist since April. It should have come round in September, then November . . .I phoned up today to see exactly what the delay is: he's left. I have to start all over again now, going through my GP for a referral.

As I said at the beginning, I'll enlarge on these occurrences, just not right now.

Jill's tonsils are out

Just back from the hospital where a dozy looking Jill was tucked up in bed, whispering and wincing in equal measure. She was wheeled into surgery about 2 o'clock this afternoon and came round about 5 ish sans tonsils. With luck, she will be home tomorrow morning. Mum is stopping over tonight so I can get off to work in the morning and not worry about Heather going to school. Times like this make you realise just how wonderful and important family is.

Unrelated to the above, but worth noting is today was the day the company director met the union to discuss the reduncies he wishes to make on the factory. With perfect timing, his new company car arrived, a rather swish new Mercedes to replace his five-year-old Alfa Romeo. Can't help feeling that someone is taking the piss.

Tonsils to go.

Jill goes into hospital tomorrow to get her tonsils removed. A tonsilectomy is one of those ops which in the young is -- snick! -- all over and done with in a few minutes. The older you are though the more complex the op becomes. Jill has had several bouts of tonsilitis and each bout (so the specialist told her) leaves scar tissue behind, which must also be removed along with the offending glands. Coupled with this is the fact that Jill's tonsils are HUGE. They're like bloody golf balls at the back of her throat. That dangly bit that nobody know the name of actually sits on her tonsils. It'll take more than a swift snick to remove them. She is, quite understandably, bricking it.

Technophobe

Back to work today as the blotches had all disappeared. To be greeted with the news that the firm is once again in consultation with the union about getting rid of another 15 workers. Happy Xmas!!

Anyway, I watched 'The Gadget Show' on C5 last night. Jason (the bald geek) wnt to South Korea, which was recently recognised as the most connected country in the world. Japan came 2nd, no surprises there. South Koreans enjoy Broadband speeds of 100mbps. Makes my 1mbps look a bit sick. And to think that BT were recently getting excited about testing a 24mbps connection in some parts of London. Let's face it, we are way behind.

While there, Jason visited LG, (the fifth largest electronics manufacturer in the world) to look at what we can expect in a few year's time. Wafer-thin TVs are just around the corner, as was the slim TV screen that was completely wireless and operated perfectly so long as it was within 35m of the base unit, or sender. And in 2010, LG reckon they will have cracked hologram TVs. Jeez. Makes you wonder, with all this rampant development, if it's worth upgrading for a few years. Anything you buy seems to be obsolete -- or last year's technology -- before you've even got it home and set up properly. I'm still baffled by anything more complex than analogue and five terrestial channels.

Flat packing

Yesterday, the blotches subsided to a level where I felt I could handle tools, so I had a go at assembling some wardrobes and drawer sets we've bought for Heather's bedroom.

Carefully read and familiarise yourself with the instructions and check the contents. Okay, I need to use 6 x #13 shallow head pilot screws first. Are these diddy little screws the ones? Or these other diddly little screws? They look damn near identical to me! So I went through the conents list and worked out that ther were a total of 34 of the tiny screws, 20 of one sort, 14 of the other. I had 33. I'm gonna hate this, I thought.

Hours later ....and step 36: Slide and tap home the wooden dowlings in the side fins. Grunt, they 're a tight fit but... tap, tap, tap, split! I phoned the shop who hardly let me finish before telling me they'd send some more fins. Methinks this is a common occurence, which gives a modicum of comfort. Taking no chances, I shaved the dowlings down with a craft knife for the other fins and they went in a treat.

As I write, I've still another unit -- a set of four drawers -- to put together. Oh, joy.

Still blotched

The dreaded blotches have spread, so where as yesterday I was white with red blotches, today I am one big, boiled lobster boy.

The worst place seems to be my hands, which feel tight and swollen and itch. My bottom lip is also badly swollen and deserves the appellation pendulus. The corner of my eyes feel dry and sore and, yup, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. I've also got a sore throat and feel quite wheezy, so I reckon that all this is some sort of weird response to a viral infection. Viral infection. No one has colds these days, they have a virus or a chest infection or the flu. A cold just doesn't cut it in the 21st Century.

But I've had to cancel a dental appointment, so it ain't all bad.

Blotches

It's just gone nine o'clock in the morning. I should be at work! But . . . I've got blotches.

Blotches. A rash I used to get quite often when I was a kid. Big patches of raised skin in random shapes from just a couple of inches in size to great big landmasses that cover my entire arse or back or belly. This morning I'm covered from head to toe. My eyelids are swollen and my lips look like Mick Jagger's. It's not itchy so much as warm and sensitive. Which makes it sound like something Speilberg would film, but it's not that interesting really. Then again, he did AI so maybe he would.

When I got it as a kid Mum would whisk me away to the doctor's. He would examine me, say "Um" a lot and pack me off home with a bottle of medicine. I had some this morning, and that lovely minty taste just melted away the years. Hmmm... Piriton.

What causes it? Search me. The doctor's opinion was some sort of allergy to a foodstuff, maybe strawberries(?!), but that's never really stood up to close scrutiny. Stress was also mentioned as a possible factor, and one I'm more inclined to go with. I've had blotches three times as an adult, and both the previous occasions were presaged by highly stressful events. The first time was after a motorcycle ride around north Wales with some of my brother's mates, who all had quick tackle while I was bouncing around and tying myself in knots on a soggy Kawasaki GT550. The next day: blotches. The second occasion was discovering the Friendsreunited website. Oh dear.All those dark memories of being an awkward teenager, the loneliness and of being a square peg in a round hole surfaced . . . in blotches. If ever I needed a lesson in the power of the mind then this was it. Dwell on the past for a couple of hours and whumph, blotches. No coincidence, surely.

Still not sure what's sparked this bout off. I can't think of anything obvious, beyond the every day hassles of getting to and from work with the aggro of what lies in between, so maybe it was something I ate.

Now then, when did I last eat strawberries?

Shortage of Badasses

This anthology I'm helping Chris Hall put together, I expected us to be snowed under with submissions. The publisher, Dybbuk, is putting up a $50 advance for each writer, which is not an amazing compensation for hours of toil, but it is pretty generous by small press standards. It's a reasonable carrot . . . and look, no stick!

We are getting, on average, two queries a week. And sadly, most of the stories I've looked at so far are woeful. I read a lot of unpublished work in Critters and, it has to be said, the standard of writing in that online workshop is far higher than that of those in the submissions we've been getting for Badass Horror. So even if I wasn't already convinced of the merits of joining a writers' workshop, I would be now.

Another problem, I feel, is Chris's chosen theme - Crime horror. While there are a lot of people writing horror, not many of them really explore the criminal side of it. Having someone murdered does not give a horror story a criminal element. Murder and death are almost a prerequisite in horror fiction, but we don't automatically label all horror crime. There is a distinction here that most submitters are choosing to overlook. The book is listed at Ralan.com, the first port of call for most genre writers looking for a market. Maybe we'd have more success if we could reach crime writers? I suspect crime writers would find it easier to cross the border into horror than vice versa.

Dead Kopf!

I was browsing the writers' market website, Ralan.com, today, when I noticed that Kopfhalter! (German: Head holder) magazine has gone belly up after only three issues. This saddened as I had a story called 'Memory Bones' in the debut issue. The editor, Keith Gouveia was great to work with and I was contacted by a photographer -- he had been commissioned to illustrate the story -- to see if there was anything I wanted to see in his photo. I requested daisies and lo! I got daisies. I felt like a star! Notable contributers included Kevin L. Donihe, Kurt Newton and Irving Washington, with a reprint of the classic 'Sleepy Hollow'. I looked forward to seeing the finished magazine with glee.

My contributer copy arrived. Was it as good as I hoped? Well . . . it was one of those quirky publications that you just knew was destined for a hard time of it. It featured bizarre and unfathomable cartoon strips and off-the-wall formatting with lots of half-blank pages. Nice, glossy magazine with good production values, but ultimately, I felt, too arty to succeed. I'm sorry to be proved right.

Issue 1 is now downloadable in pdf format. Click on the link below. Read the cartoons by all means, but if you understand them, keep it to yourself. My story is quite possibly the least insane thing in there.

http://www.coscomentertainment.com/KopfhalterNo1Vol1Ver3.pdf

Dreams

Some people claim they never dream, or at least, they can't remember them if they do. They should be so lucky. I seem to be cursed with a very good memory for dreams. Take last night's (please, take it!).

A Russian cookery program. The chef says "Tonight I show you how to make toffee apples, Russian style!" He flipped the lid on a deep fat fryer and poured in sixteen two-pound bags of sugar, giving it a good stir to mix with all that smoking fat.

"Now, we take from the freezer a crow. The bird doesn't have to be frozen, but it peels better." He then picked up a potato peeler and skinned it.

"Voila! Now we stick a stick up it's clocoa and drop it into our sugar-fat and wait for ten minutes. Here are some I made earlier!" And he held up a tray of crow-shaped toffee apples.

It was a silly dream. Martin Luther King had better ones, it has to be said. But it's a typical kind of dream. The night before I was trying to convince Abraham Lincoln that I was from his future and trying to sell him a poppy for Remembrance Sunday. The night before that I was riding a motorbike through a field of strawberries, and as I bumped them, giant strawberries would float up like balloons.

The thing is, I think Heather has inherited all this oddness. Even now Jill is in her bedroom trying to calm her down. The poor little mite is soaked with sweat, crying and babbling about monsters in her bedroom. It's probably the Russian chef she's seen. He was ugly.

I'm not sure I can even spell palaeontology

Strange how things come about.

Something that cropped up a couple of times in the critiques for 'The Uinta Incident' was the science (in this case, palaeontology): some readers felt it was weak, implausible, wishy-washy. But I had deliberately kept it vague for the simple reason that I hate boring scientific explanations -- whether reading 'em or writing 'em. That and my knowledge is only that of the average layman, of course. In my story scientists potassium-argon date fossils and then use a time machine to go back and grab the animal as it comes to rest. Look, just take it as a given, will ya, folks.

But some folks won't. A fossil is just a cast or an impression, somebody said. Potassium-argon dating is inaccurate said another. Time travel? said yet another. Ha!

I need a friendly palaeontologist, methinks.

Later. Completely at random, I clicked on a name in the Critters biography page. Name of Geoff Habiger. My dad's name is Geoff. That's why I clicked on it in that bored, distracted way.

Geoff has moved from writing to publishing (Artemesia Publishing www.apbooks.net ) and, believe it or not (and I wouldn't blame anybody for not believing this) turns out to be a paleontologist and invites folks to contact him if they need assistance on related matters.

Now this is odd, I thought. But ... this is also GREAT!

Geoff's response to my questions -- I included the relevant passages from my story -- was nothing short of heroic. This is a man who knows his subject inside out and clearly delights in enlightening the great unwashed, like myself.

The upshot is, the science in my story was okay to begin with. Fossils can be casts, impressions or organic in nature -- not, as Geoff pointed out, it really matters in my story. But it's nice to know these things, and I'm sure as hell gonna casually drop this in somewhere.

K-Ar dating, like any radiometric dating, is only accurate to within a given range. But who's to say how accurate methods will be in 40 years time, which is when my story is set? He even offered some viable directions such methods may take. Oh, but he cheered me up, did this man.

All I need now is for someone to prove time travel is really a stroll in the park and I'm made. Failing that, I'm happy for my science fiction to be labelled fantasy.

There's always a way out. Just click randomly.

The Uinta Incident critiqued

I've just had my story 'The Uinta Incident' critiqued by my co-writers in the Critter writers' workshop. The advice I receive from my fellow writers is invaluable . . . usually. This time, though, it appears that, while almost everyone enjoyed the story, almost all of them thought it was broken. But not to worry cos they all knew how to fix it. Except, as luck would have it, their advice varies wildly. There is always a degree of contrariness when you get feedback from a couple dozen folk, but this is probably the most severe case yet. For every person that felt the pace was too slow, there was someone else complaining that it felt rushed. Some folks said I over did the exposition and needed to trust my readers more: "Let the reader work it out for themselves" I was urged on several occasions. Fine, except there were a heck of a lot of people complaining that I didn't explain things enough and left them floundering in the dark!

There doesn't seem to be one common thread I can grasp and work on. I need some time to think about this. What is perplexing is that I have already submitted this story to a magazine. I wouldn't normally submit prior to it being critiqued, but there was a submission window and it closed October 31. I'm not very confident it'll be accepted now.

I have popped another one in the Critters queue, called 'MirrororriM'. After that, well, I was hoping to have my novella 'The Reconstruction of Kasper Clarke' finished, but it continues to give me the slip.

You read it here last.

I had a story published Sunday. It was mailed out to all those lucky subscribers of 'Flashshot'. The idea here is to write a story in no more than 110 words. And subscibers get one emailed to them every single day. Some are a bit naff, to be honest, and some are even more naff. Mine, however, was brilliant. Seriously. See for yourself. BTW Ricky Gervais would be my choice for the main role -- he did such a great job in The Extras.

BIT PARTS

Barry found the studio, eventually.

“I’ve come about the bit part,” he told the man at the door.

“Which part’s that then?”

“Stu?”

“Ah, yes. Let me take your coat. Filthy night. Cup of hot chocolate?”

“Nice,” said Barry.

Later, mug in hand, he asked the same man if he needed to audition.

“No need, mate.” He nodded to the vat. “Just improvise.”

Barry eyed the steaming vat under the lights. He’d wondered about that since his arrival. Strangely tired, he felt unable to resist as the man took him by the arm. “You’re the stew,” the man said, “in ‘Cannibal Soup III’ Finish up your cocoa, you’re in next.”

Tom-Toms in ma head.

A whole week has gone by without me injuring myself. No rogue lamp posts or errant walls, parked cars or shifting kerbs have conspired to ruin my day. Although I did cut my shin on a chair in Longton library on Saturday morning. Black, steel framed chair on dark carpet, see? Well, I didn't. See, that is. "Oops!" I said while thinking "Bloody bastard!" as one does. My own fault for trying to escape reading to Heather in the children's corner. She always asks me to read the same book: Bumpus Jumpus, Dinosaurumpus!. I mean, you try reading lines like "Tyrannosaurus crashes in, gnashing his jaws. WALLOP! on the ground go his big back claws" without raising your voice. Or "Shake, shake, shudder ... near the sludgy old swamp. Everybody's doing the dinosaur romp!"

I get these drums bangin' in ma head and ma feet start tappin'... I have to go and read a copy of Computeractive! magazine to earth myself.

Distractions

Another week at work done and dusted. Hello Weekend, pleased to make your acquaintance.

I am, generally speaking. feeling a little more chipper than I have in weeks gone by. I keep telling myself that, while anxieties about my uncertain future are understandable, letting them ruin the here-and-now is plain dumb. There will come a time when I can look back on this period in my life and I will kick myself for not making the most of what I've got. I can earn a living, and read books, watch TV, use this computer, even fetch Heather from school . . . So that's my new mantra: less bitching, more do.

Obliged

I watched 'Batman Begins' last night and thought that, on the whole, it was rather good. Christian Bale makes an excellent Bruce Wayne-cum-masked vigilante and the film faithfully represented the spirit of the comic books. Tim Burton's films, while possessing the required glossy darkness, were too . . . well, Tim Burton. As for Joel Schumacher's cobbled efforts [pun intended], the less said the better.

Anyway, I was watching 'Batman Begins', when the obligatory car chase made its inevitable appearance. And that got me thinking: it's almost impossible now to say 'car chase' without preceding it with the word 'obligatory'. If it's an action film there has to be the obligatory car chase, only as you are obliged to say obligatory, it's really an obligatory obligatory car chase, right? The point I'm making is . . . um, there is no point, I suppose. Other than I wish they wouldn't do obligatory car chases. They are boring. Even when they are on motorbikes a la 'Matrix Reloaded' or 'Paycheck' they see me wandering off to make myself some cheese and crackers or put the kettle on.

I've borrowed 'The Aviator' to watch next. I daresay it will have an obligatory plane crash.

Kasper Clarke is a pain in the . . . neck

There's this story I've been writing, on and off, for nearly a year. 'The Reconstruction of Kasper Clarke'. This story (11500 words and rising) is becoming a millstone around my neck. I've lost count of how many times I've given up on it, only to go back to it convinced that I have the missing 'something' to make it work. I've written half a dozen stories or more meanwhile, but this one somehow dodges my best efforts to nail it down. Worse, with continually picking it up and putting it down, I suspect it is, if you will forgive the writerly jargon, bitty.

Did you know Jack Kerouac wrote 'On the Road' in 14 days? And that Bret Easton Ellis wrote a 4,000 page draft of 'Less than Zero' in a month? Hell, the only way I could match that sort of output would be to lodge a pebble on my keyboard, although I doubt 500 pages of bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb would find a market. Then again, people seem to enjoy Dave & Leigh Eddings.

So what is the secret of high productivity? Well, Kerouac was addicted to Benzedrine most of his adult life, and Ellis was in a crystal meth haze when he did that monumental draft of 'Less than Zero', so maybe narcotics is the answer. Hmm. Think I'll find a pebble instead.

"It was a dark and stormy nightttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

That was toss

Any cheer stored over the weekend fizzled within ten minutes of getting to work this morning. No lights were on in the factory. Well, some were on, but none of them were anywhere near where I needed them to get myself down to the mouldmaking shop. Not as bad as on a previous occasion where I had to stand around like a spare prick at a wedding for twenty minutes until someone chanced by, but bad enough. I used to have a couple of allies who always thought to switch them on just before I clock on but they've both had their hours cut and no longer start earlier than me. It's a minor thing, I suppose, but that is what makes it all the more annoying and disheartening.

Anyway, that's enough of that. I took the British Citizenship test today. You know, that one the government have devised to see whether immigrants are 'British' enough to stay in this septic isle. The questions feature things like the TV license, jury service and emergency numbers . . . Guess what? I failed. Which is slightly perplexing, really.

Do I feel better? Well, kind of . . .

It's Sunday night, 10:30. The weekend has been a mixture of the usual humdrum non-events that make up life's rich (ho hum) tapestry -- a visit to the library, a stroll round Longton and a cuppa in Tescos, playing Half-Life 2: Lost Coast, going MFI for stuff to furnish Heather's room, having the siblings down for tea (Saturday), going to Mum's for tea (tonight), a bit of reading and writing . . . all much of a muchness but it does help to wind down. It's familiar. It's comforting. Above all it's numbing. I don't feel the stress I know will inevitably arise the moment I step out of the door into pitch blackness tomorrow morning. It's like weekends put a little good cheer in the bottle and Monday mornings drain it. By Tuesday I'll probably have blundered into another lamp post or fell over a bag of plaster at work and will be truly pissed off with my lot again. It's beginning to dawn on me that the main problem is trying to work at the same speed that I always have done. This is the curse of piecework. Run around like a blue-arsed fly and thou will get a reasonable wage; slacken off just slightly and watch thy gross pay tumble. Maybe I should slow down so I don't feel like my eyes are out on stalks. I'm sure it's the effort of concentrating on where I'm putting my size 12s -- something other people can take for granted -- that makes me so tired all the time.

Long time, no post

I've been seriously down just lately. So down I had no desire to be putting my feelings/thoughts up here. Things crystallised yesterday when walking to work in the dark. I collided with a lamp post. Haha, except it hurt more than just my face and kneecap, or even my pride for that matter. It honed all my anxieties of an uncertain future. There will be a day, not far off now, when it won't need to be dark for that lamp post to spring out in front of me. I've been aware of the ramifications of my eye disease for many years now, but it's always taken a backseat, because I've told it to: Get back there and SHUT UP! Now though, or just lately anyway, the spectre of blindness (Cliches R Us!) is riding shotgun and will not be silenced. "See him, he's 45. You'll have about 40% of your vision when you're his age. What are you going to do? Certainly not doing what you are now. How long d'you think you can keep working for? 3 years? 4? Maybe now is the time to pack it in and try and retrain? But what about the money? Who will support the family? How can you live with being blind? You'd be better off dead! 25% when you're 50 and total darkness at 60: that doesn't seem so far away, does it?"

It's a bastard, and no mistake.

Escape Pod

I haven't mentioned it for a while, so here's a plug for the podcast, Escape Pod. SF and Fantasy stories free to download as mp3s. Play 'em while you work, drive or walk. Brilliant. They aren't just amateur hacks they're broadcasting, y'know? Last week's offering was the World Fantasy Award winning 'Don Ysidro' by Bruce Holland Rogers. Or was it Bruce Roger Holland? Roger Bruce Holland? Doh! I forget, but click on the link to the right of the screen and find out for yourself.

Heavy

I haven't felt like updating the blog for a few days. But then, I haven't felt like doing much of owt this week. Hardly written anything, bar a little revision of a couple of stories. Done a bit of gaming, deciding that -- after an hour or so of playing the demo version -- the new FPS game F.E.A.R. isn't for me. Reading The Borribles by Michael de Larrabeiti, but not particularly keen. Listened to an Iain Rankin audio book, 'Broken Hearts' written under the pseudonym Jack Harvey, and found it all pretty lacklustre. Watched the movie 'Paycheck', and a waste of nearly two hours that was. Had a couple of stories rejected; the better kind of rejections, the ones that say they enjoyed the story BUT they don't feel it fits the theme of their book/magazine et ctera . . . . but a rejection is always a blow. Dear, dear. Oh wait, watched 'Sin City' and yep, I thought that was okay; more than okay in fact, it was pretty darned good. And, completely unrelated, but while I'm looking for positive things, Helen and Mark got the keys to their new house, so that's pretty nice; I know Helen's been dead excited waiting for the 'completion date'.

Carry on Doughnuts

I got the results to a blood test I took a couple of weeks ago, and everything's normal. There had been concerns about sugar levels, but apparently sugar levels in the blood do fluctuate quite a lot, so the previous test I took - indicating high blood suger - was probably just a spike and not representative of my overall blood suger levels.

Still on a medical front, my little buddy (I bet he loves me saying that) Chris Hall, came out of hospital today after his operation. I think he's got something like three or four months off work now. Plenty of time for him to whip the BADASS anthology into shape, yes?

The Motorcycle Diaries (part 4)

My fourth bike was a Yamaha XS250C, the C denoting 'custom'. Custom here meant a nod to Harley Davidson-styling with glossy black paintwork, a stars-and-stripes badge and lots of shiny bits hanging off it. The engine was very basic under all the glitz: a four-stroke, air-cooled parallel twin, and mine wouldn't even run properly. I took it to the local bikeshop to get the carbs balanced, as I'd read that the carbs went out of synch and caused poor performance. They charged me a(cliched) princely sum for the service, but the bike still ran no better. I still had my 125 at this stage and that would easily outrun the XS, even two-up! The XS was a heavy, ugly pile of crap.

So I started to customise it further. The halogen spotlight conversion for the crappy original headlight was a sensible modification (and indicative of my failing night vision), but alas, the only sensible mod I made. There followed a new badass seat (wider and more stepped), spiky, chrome-plated nuts and bolts here and there and a silver eagle mounted on the headlamp dish.Oh, dear. It must have looked like something the biker out of the Village People would have fancied. Christ, I had a near-miss there.

My brother Steve took a look to find out why the bike was so underpowered and found one of the carbs had a split diaphragm. A replacement rubber and wey-hey -- it was still a heavy pile of crap, but at least it had two lungs. And yeah, so much for the carb-balancing service of the local bikeshop. Huh.

I slid off the XS a few hundred yards from my mum and dad's house.. Nothing on the road to fetch me off, no warning wriggles from the bike, it just gently dropped to the ground spilling me and several hundreds pounds worth of photography equipment I was carrying. I wasn't hurt but the way it just low-sided at a moderate lean angle made me distrust the XS even more. Time to sell it and move on to bike number five.

The Devil's Fauna

'The Devils's Fauna' has gone through Critters. Plenty of people looked at it and, with only one exception, it got the thumbs up. Plenty of useful comments. Nothing to prompt a major rewrite, just a few sentences to trim here and there, and some others to beef up, but like I said, nothing major. What has surprised me is that not one person out of the twenty or so that have read it said they identified what the creature -- the usurper -- revealed at the end of the story, actually is. Some seemed to think it was a kind of worm or alien thingy, or maybe a parasite, but no one recognised the description of a brown crustacean with a soft corkscrew body, pincers and pinkish legs as that of a hermit crab without its shell. I only mention this now because prior to submitting it to Critters, I fully expected opinion to be divided between those that saw it was a common hermit crab (these readers liking the story) and those that wouldn't twig what the usurper was (and thus not like the story). But, it appears no one recognised the animal and apart from one dissenting voice they liked it anyway. I needn't have worried. Just need to find a home for it now. Anyone know of a nice roomy whelk shell, currently unoccupied?

Thumbs intact

Underlay laid under successfully in about an hour and a half. The laminate flooring is taking . . . a little longer. I foresee a few gallons of midnight oil burning away here. If anyone tells you it's easy, that it's just click, click, click and it's done, hit 'em for me, will you? Better still, send 'em round here with a sharp saw and steel ruler.

Disappointed with a book I ordered from the US. I've waited months for it to arrive: James Barwick's 'The Kremlin Contract', as new with dustcover. I carefully removed it from the padded envelope to find it as new sans dustcover. Damn and bugger! Have sent a whinging email to the sellers, but don't hold out for much luck.

Blind cobbler's thumbs

In a few minutes, after typing up this, I am going to put some underlay down in preparation for the laminate flooring. The last time I did anything comparable was the carpet tiles in the conservatory, and that went okay as I was extremely careful. Careful because the time before that, laying tiles in the kitchen, the craft knife jumped out of my homemade guide and sliced across the top of my thumb. I lost about a half inch of thumbnail and very nearly the tip of my thumb with it. It bled and it throbbed. For days.

I'm going in. Wish me luck.

Only when I laugh

Chris Hall has emailed me from hospital. They supply the inmates -- sorry, patients -- with a bedside TV-cum-computer thingy. Typing on it is a pain, he says, but at least he has something to keep him occupied. On a more sinister note, he adds that it doesn't permit access to joke websites. Why is this one wonders: Is it because that many joke sites carry content of a dubious nature or that the Health Authority at Hull don't have a sense of humour? Or are they more concerned about patients busting their stitches and all those bits the surgeon has spent all morning rearranging dropping out?

Hmm.

If you're reading this, Chris, don't worry, mate. I'm sure you're in safe hands.

I'm Gandhi, and bloody proud of it.

Was looking at Jonathan Eyers's blog this morning, and he mentioned something called the political compass site. Now, I'm as apolitical as can be -- all politicians are inherently self-serving fat bastards, okay? -- but my interest was piqued enough to take the test. Result: Left-wing libertarian. It places me in exactly the spot on the sample graph as Mahatma Gandhi.

http://www.politicalcompass.org/

Have a go. But if you end up rubbing shoulders with Stalin, don't come crying to me.

I am about to embark on a healing of the rift between the north, south, east and west of this beautiful country of ours. Cockney will speak unto Geordie, Brummie unto Glaswegian and Cornishman unto Yorkshireman. Interpreters required. Shaved heads and outsized robes not essential, but preference will be given to applicants with own sandals.

I missed my calling.

Maybe I'm still being insecure, but . . .

A comment to a posting I made earlier this week (Maybe I'm insecure but . . .) has got me thinking.

While I agree with jeyers comments, I can't help measuring a story's worth by whether it finds a home in a mag or book. See, that sense of 'knowing a story is good by ones own standards' only goes so far. There's some stuff I wrote two or three years ago that I thought was brilliant. I look at it now and think 'ho-hum'. I'm sure all budding artists feel that. If not, it probably means they are stagnating.

It's only when an editor has waded through hundreds of submissions and plucked mine out as the one they were after -- and offers a payment, no matter how small -- that I can stop tinkering with that story and consider it finished.

But then, maybe it's just me: maybe I need the latent praise that comes with a story's acceptance for publication to keep me writing. I truly admire writers that do it purely for the joy of it -- and by that, I mean those who (despite being good) never submit their works, anywhere -- but I can't do that.

The axe has swung

10 redundancies were made at the factory, yesterday - 9 women and 1 bloke. Many of the women affected didn't seem too put out. I think they just came to work for a bit of pocket money or to get them out of the house. Rather them than me.

How long the company can limp along for remains to be seen, and it is limping now. Badly. So the axe has swung, and thankfully I wasn't underneath it ... this time.

Introducing Chris Hall

I've mentioned Chris Hall a few times on this blog -- he's the main guy in the BADASS HORROR project. I just came into thing as a sort of glorified proofreader and probably overstayed my welcome. Anyway, he's now got a tidy little blog he designed himself and the link is down there on the left. Go say hello, tell him I sent you and have a laugh at the picture.

Chris goes into hospital next Monday for an operation -- to sort out his ribcage as I understand it. He'll be out of action for a few weeks while he recuperates, and again next year when he goes back in to have a plate (or rod or something) removed. I wish him well.

Maybe I'm insecure, but . . .

I'm pleased to have sold another story. The money isn't anything to shout about -- it's not anything to whisper about either, come to that -- and it's not that I go weak at the knees when I see my name in print. Nope, the reason it pleases me, is that until a story gets that editorial thumbs-up, you've no real idea whether the story is good or not. It is a golden rule in writing: don't ask your friends and relatives for their opinions on your stories. Or rather, don't rely on their opinions. After all, what do they know?

Consider this: all those people you see making a complete twat of themselves at the Pop Idol or the X-Factor auditions are there because people have told them they're good. Friends and relatives who are, presumably, neither deaf nor cruel, have encouraged their nearest and dearest to go on national TV and completely humiliate themselves. What makes this writer different? Well, until he gets that editorial thumbs-up, not a great deal sadly. So that's why I'm glad to sell 'No Dogs Allowed'. Before yesterday, I only thought it was good; today, I know it's good.

Sugar sugar

The doctor tells me that my blood result revealed a slightly higher than desireable level of sugar in my blood. As there's no history of diabetes in my family, there's probably nothing to worry about, but I've got to take another blood test -- this time after fasting -- just to double-check. Does this mean no more doughnuts? Aargghh! Stay tuned.

On a more positive note, I heard today that a story I submitted to the TWISTED CAT TALES anthology has been accepted for publication. The anthology is coming out February next year, published by Coscom Entertainment. My story is called 'No Dogs Allowed'.

Mix-up

About 8 weeks ago I went to see my GP with a pig of a headache that wouldn't go away. I'd put up with it for about four days then decided to see my doc about it. I mentioned some other flu-like symptoms, such as uncontrollable shivering and aching joints, so he sent me for a blood test, to see if there was any underlying cause, especially as this was the second time this year I've suffered from it. I phoned the surgery about a week later: no results. Tried again after 10 days: no results. I thought 'Sod it'. I figured that if anything was wrong with me they'd call me.

They did, or rather they wrote to me. Would I make an appointment as soon as possible? I did. For today. Monday the 19th at 4.10pm. Went, only told that no, my appointment is for Tuesday the 20th. How I laughed, ho bloody ho . . . along with all the people in the waiting room, who really shouldn't be listening, should they?

So I've another day to wait to see what they found in my blood. What's the betting that when I get to see my GP he'll look at me and ask "Right then, Mr Stone, what can I do for you?" He will, I know he will. And I will be sorely tempted to smite him one upon the nose.

Mix-up

About 8 weeks ago I went to see my GP with a pig of a headache that wouldn't go away. I'd put up with it for about four days then decided to see my doc about it. I mentioned some other flu-like symptoms, such as uncontrollable shivering and aching joints, so he sent me for a blood test, to see if there was any underlying cause, especially as this was the second time this year I've suffered from it. I phoned the surgery about a week later: no results. Tried again after 10 days: no results. I thought 'Sod it'. I figured that if anything was wrong with me they'd call me.

They did, or rather they wrote to me. Would I make an appointment as soon as possible? I did. For today. Monday the 19th at 4.10pm. Went, only told that no, my appointment is for Tuesday the 20th. How I laughed, ho bloody ho . . . along with all the people in the waiting room, who really shouldn't be listening, should they?

So I've another day to wait to see what they found in my blood. What's the betting that when I get to see my GP he'll look at me and ask "Right then, Mr Stone, what can I do for you?" He will, I know he will. And I will be sorely tempted to smite him one upon the nose.

That's not how I'd do it.

I recall Garry Kilworth saying, either in an interview or in personal correspondence during my 'Spiral Words' days, that once you become a writer, your enjoyment of reading suffers for it. You're forever thinking "That's not how I would do it".

It's dead true. It was brought to mind this morning after I'd done a critique of a story in the Critters online workshop. I'd spent twenty minutes or so correcting any typos I came across and offering my opinions (for what they're worth) on this writer's story. When I'd clicked on 'send', I thought I'd check out his bio on the Critters website, and there found quite a long treatise on what this guy thought was good and bad about science fiction. He said he'd read Dick, Niven, Pohl, Cordwainer Smith, Clarke, Asimov et al, but found them lacking and, somehow, not quite right. So this is a wannabe with no publishing credits picking fault with the giants of the field. Join the club, bud.

In the past week I've read 'Earthlight' by Arthur C Clarke and 'Lord of the Flies' by Wlliam Golding. Clarke first: I found 'Earthlight' staid and boring. Clarke did some of his finest writing in the fifties and sixties, but this novel I felt was merely a short story with lots of padding. Impressive florid descriptions don't paint a picture on the inside of your eyelids. As for all that soul-gazing, give me a break! I found myself unable to engage with the moon dwellers' plight as Earth waged war with the Fderals, using the moon as a battleground. Now Golding: 'Lord of the Flies' is a terrible book. I don't care what anybody say, it's crap. Pointless dialogue punctuated by those infuriating long dashes, and an almost complete lack of dialogue tags had me tearing my hair out. I'm sure it's a terribly worthy story about civilisation breaking down, with each of the characters representing different aspects of society (oh, very clever) but the story sucks. Or at least the telling of it does. My version of 'Flies' would have complete sentences, far fewer dashes and dialogue tags. An injection of humour wouldn't go amiss and oh, less of those pretty but meaningless descriptions of the scenery too. As Jim Royle would say, 'Classic, my arse.'

The point is, though, I would probably have found the shortcomings (as I perceive them) quite forgiveable five years ago. But now, I expect everything I read to be far better than anything I could do myself, especially when it comes with the weight of Clarke's or Golding's name on the cover.

What shall I read next? I fancy a Pratchett. Now there's someone who amazes the hell out of me. He's got a pile of money bigger than St Paul's Cathedral (his words, not mine) so it's no longer cool to like him, but Pratchett has yet to be equalled in the field of humorous fantasy. I shouldn't think there are many writers shaking their heads and saying "Nah, I wouldn't have done it like that" and a lot more saying "I wish I could write like this!"

Rumours

Well, I got to work without mishap. Only another hundred-and-something days to go 'til light mornings come round again.

A lot of scuttlebut floating around on the factory. Everyone seems to have some inside knowledge, but it's all a crock of shit. Has to be. The only people that know what's in the pipeline are the ubermensch on the board and the boys and girls from the union, and they aren't going to share it with us. No way. We just have to sit tight and sigh deeply when the bullet hits the next man. Do I think I'm in the firing line? I'd say I'm feeling 50% pessimistic (or optimistic, depending on how you look at it).

Dark mornings

Today was probably the last day this year I will walk to work in daylight. There was just that hint of blue in the sky at 6am, and a pale white band on the eastern horizon to help me see by. Tomorrow it will be pitch black (to my eyes, at least), and stay that way for my morning walks to work until March next year. The thought kinda depresses me. Colliding with lampposts and telegraph poles, missing kerbs and stumbling into inconsiderately parked cars will be my lot for the next six months. I could get a taxi, I know, and it's not just the expense that puts me off. There is a stubborn streak in me that impels me to get to work under my own steam . . . even if the prospect of it causes butterflies in my stomach.

Maybe.

The firm I work for has announced that redundancies will have to be made in two weeks. As soon as I read the memo on the notice board, I thought That's me gone. I've always felt reasonably secure, but for the past twelve months it has become apparent that only four mouldmakers are required by the new stripped-down company I work for. And I'm the fifth mouldmaker. I've been there 22 years, which would work out at a settlement of about £6000. Not much is it? And as for reemployment elsewhere, it's going to be an uphill struggle finding someone to take me on when I tell them - and I will have to tell them - that I effectively have less than ten years of 'useful' vision.

So those butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of stumbling to work for the next six months may be premature.

The Motorcycle Diaries (part 3)

Directly opposite to my sindow at work is a petrol station, and despite the proprieters banging the price up to a quid a litre, there have ben queues all day long. Which makes a pedestrian like me feel quite smug. If everybody had a Honda C70 -- 2000 miles on an eggcup of petrol -- we wouldn't be in this mess.

I sold my Honda C70 after it let me down while taking my test. This was just spite really, or maybe impatience to get my leg over a proper bike. But either way I sold it and bought a Yamaha RS125. I bought it from new for £600, at a time when most 125s were in the region of £1200, mainly because it wasn't fashionable like the DT or RD models. Like those it was a single cylinder 2-stroke, but air-cooled whereas they were water-cooled. My only real memory of this bike is riding it home from the shop: it felt enormous. I really felt as though I had to stretch to reach the bars. The bike was pretty small really, the 'BIG' effect was down to me being accustomed to the even smaller Honda C70. It was a pretty reliable little bike, apart from an annoying tendency to refuse to start when hot -- probably due to fuel evaporation or something -- and it got me through my test. Although a full license meant I was no longer restricted to 125cc, I kept the little RS for my daily transport for another year before selling it.

The next bike was another Yamaha, and a complete pig!

Soft touch

I'm doing the dishes when the phone goes. Jill answers it. "Mike, it's a lady from the World Wildlife Fund."

Oh, bugger, they'd found me at last.

When I moved house eleven years ago I neglected to inform the various animal and environmental charities I donate to. The reason for this is I can't say no to someone on the phone. I could, on accasion, ignore the begging letters (and that's what they are, let's be blunt) and even return the raffle tickets unsold, but the phone calls . . . never could deal with them.

But I am older now, and wiser. I threw down my sponge and picked up the phone.

"Mr Stone?" She has a lovely cultured voice. "Can you spare me five minutes?"

No, I'm busy. "Yes," I say. "No problem." Damn. First blood to them.

The woman then launches into a five minute monlogue about the dangers facing the forests of Borneo. "The Orang Utan could become extinct in the wild within ten years, Mr Stone. We are determined not to let that happen."

"Quite rightly," I say.

"So would you like to make a contribution?"

Be strong. "No." Wow. I just said no. Way to go! "That is, not at present. I'm a little strapped for cash at the moment and . . ." This is perfectly true. The recent building work has wiped me out.

"That's okay, Mr Stone. Would you consider increasing your yearly membership fee?"

"By how much?" No, don't ask questions, just terminate the conversation.

"Well you are currently paying £24 a year."

"So if I was to add another . . ." I name the first figure that pops into my head. Jill raises her eyebrows at me. I shrug. I know I've crumbled.

I go on to make some agreement about the WWF using my taxes to increase any donations by a third, and probably agree to extra newsletters, catalogues and raffle tickets. I say probably because by this time my defeat is total. I'm saying yes to everything. I even hear myself giving them my email address.

"That's wonderful, Mr Stone. Can I say on behalf of the WWF how nuch your generosity is appreciated."

"You're very welcome."

"Would you mind if we contact you again by phone?"

"No, not at all. I look forward to it."

Just not cricket

The Ashes has, apparently, got the nation gripped. We are all tuning in to radios, glued to our TV or scanning newspapers for up-to-the minute reports on those sporting heroes in funny hats.

Are we balls. I don't get cricket. Never have done, and doubt I ever will. There's too much standing around. Yesterday I was reading how the visiting Aussies may be beaten by the weather. If they can't amass enough runs by the time rain or poor light stops play then that's it - England have won. I'm speechless. The sport (I don't actually consider it a sport, but for the sake of convenience will refer to it as such) has just dived even lower in my estimation. So it's not enough that most of the players just stand around looking on, only touching the ball if someone tosses it to them to pass to the bowler, who then spends twenty minutes polishing it and making his run up, chucks it at the batsman, who stops it and that's all the action over and done with for another twenty minutes . . . it's not enough that it's so tedious to watch, they all sod off home if it starts spitting and say "Oh, let's call that one a draw, shall we?" For God's sake!

All the radios at work are tuned in to the Ashes, which means my mp3 player has seen even more use than usual. Been listening mostly to the band Snow Patrol and an audio book by Barbara Vine called 'The Blood Doctor'. Never read one by the writer also known as Ruth Rendell, but I have to say I'm bowled over (groan) by how fully her characters are fleshed-out. Can't remember ever feeling that I know people as well as I do these in this novel. I will add Vine/Rendell to my reading list, I think. Or at least add her to my audio books-to-borrow-from-the-library list.

Spelings and sintax

At Dybbuk Press's behest, I have contacted the artist Dave Magitis, asking him if he can furnish us with some roughs for the BADASS HORROR cover. Browsing the guy's site, I came across this:

http://www.damagitis.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/epitamy.htm

Epitamy? Epitamy? Is that some kind of made up word or is it meant to be epitome? If it is supposed to be epitome (meaning a perfect example of) then this book's title has to be, well, the epitamy of badd speling. Look at the extract on the right of the screen for more examples of od spelings and sintax. Rest assured, this story will not be going in BADASS HORROR -- no matter how appropriate it may appear!

Reality check

A lovely sunrise this morning. It stretched all around the east to pinken the skies to the north and south as well.

At 6.10, just as I was about to leave for work, Heather came into the conservatory. I sat her on my knee and we shared the peace and quiet, talking in hushed tones. She told me she was going to hurry and get dressed so that she could get on with the painting and glueing she'd started the evening before. Then she was going have breakfast and watch some telly, cut out some shapes and make a collage. "Sounds lovely," I said. "I wish I could stay at home too." I set her down and opened the door. This was the dangerous bit. I saw her bottom lip trembling. "Don't cry," I said. "I'll be back in . . . nine hours!"

Oh dear.

Tears, tantrums, kicking and screaming. Rending of garments and carpet chewing. Jill came in and told me I was setting a bad example and pushed me out. Heather looked on, nonplussed by it all.

Okay, so that last bit's a lie, but never let the truth spoil a good story, that what I always say.

'Humankind cannot bear very much reality.' T.S. Eliot.

Which as good an excuse as any for me to go away now and write some lies (or fiction as it's more popularly called) and play some of that Half Life 2 mod I've been raving on about this past couple of days, MINERVA: Metastasis.

Oh, nearly forgot, I just sold the film rights to my first published short story 'Memory Bones'. Sam Raimi is coming round to the bungalow tonight to go over some of the finer points. S'true.

Message to Valve

Dear Makers of Half-Life (and all you HL modders as well - listen up!)

We don't all possess the keen eyes of a carrot-fed hawk on vitamin A supplements, so can we have less night-time levels please, or those dismal unlit interiors. And while you are about it, how about making that crosshair a bit bigger, or at least give us the option to make it bolder. Dreamcatcher did with 'Painkiller', and Croteam gave 'Serious Sam' a big bold cross to line up on all those pesky hostiles intent on world domination, so what makes you different, huh?

Yours sincerely, blah blah blah.

Half-Life 2 Heaven

I'm in Half-Life 2 heaven all over again. I got immersed in this game - and the revamped original, Half Life: Source - when I was off work with cataracts at the beginning of 2005 (I could see well enough to shoot the combines and headcrabs, but the driving sections were a bitch). I actually felt sad when I completed the games.

I bought it from Amazon, using a free £20 voucher I had. It came in a big tin box complete with tee shirt and booklet. I sold the box, tee shirt and book on eBay for £19. Sound, eh? But I kept the games. I just love shooting things, see. And hitting the dead bodies with a crowbar to watch the ragdoll physics in action is pretty cool, too.

There's a contradiction here. I used to cry at school if I saw a fight, while all the other kids would be forming a circle and chanting Scrap! Scrap! Scrap! I detest boxing or kick-boxing or any variation of those combative sports. I feel slightly panicky when I see violence in films and I've switched off the news more times than I care to remember, unable to stomach all those scenes of war, violence and tragedy.

But yesterday, when I found the mod called MINERVA: Metastais I installed it, booted it up, and within minutes was experiencing that familiar thrill that comes from sneaking up behind a guard and killing him with a single headshot.

And then pounding him with a crowbar, just to check he's dead.

Sunday morning . . . aah. Work tomorrow . . . booo!

Last day of the holiday. Back to work tomorrow, and that will be it til Christmas. Bleugh.

I haven't wallowed in any self-indulgent writing chatter for a while. Time to put things right. Work-in-progress, 'The Devil's Fauna', is in the queue at Critters. It's set in a similar world to a previous story of mine called 'Sacred Skin'. That story proved pretty successful, being published at bloodlust-uk.com and in the Cold Glass Pain anthology, edited by Chris Hall - and I was recently asked if it could be included in a 'Best of' anthology but I haven't heard anything of that since. Be nice if 'TDF' was as well received. We'll see.Once TDF has been critiqued, I shall put 'The Uinta Incident' through the same process. I wrote it early 2004 and, after it had been critiqued, I rewrote and submitted it to several pro markets. It got bounced back. But I did get some good advice from a couple of editors. TUI it seemed, was nearly a sale, but these two editors felt I hadn't explored the human consequences of the disaster that takes place at the end of the story. Expand it, they said. Tell us what happens next. It's taken me a long time, but I've finally figured what happens next. So now TUI is 5000 words compared to its former 3000, but has considerably more depth; albeit at the expense of much darker feel. Is it better? I'm sure all those lovely critters out there will be only to happy to tell me. And while I consider those two stories drafted, I have two more to complete. 'The Reconstruction of Kasper Schrodinger' (a satire on the cosmetic sugery industry) and an as yet untitled one about two guys recovering from their experiences in the Great War.

Unpublished tales languishing in submission hell are: 'Pretty Useless Says', 'No Dogs Allowed', 'Raising Archie', Sheep', The Emigrant', 'Four Minutes and Counting', 'Schrodinger's Bug' and 'Pig on a Motorcycle'. It would be nice if one of them found a home. I've also sent out 'Clob' as a possible reprint.

Getting a handle on things

I'm trying to - mentally - push the BASDASS anthology to one side. I'm over the diappointment of a couple of days ago and the whole experience has made me realise I'm getting too wrapped up in it. Chris has introduced me to a great artist http://www.damagitis.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/ who might be more to the taste of Dybbuk Press. I don't put this guy in the same league as Player, but some of his work inspires me. Also on the plus side I've just read two submissions from the reliable Messrs. Paul Finch and Ronald Damien Malfi. Chris will have the final say, but I enjoyed them immensely.

But enough of that.

The bedroom was fitted out yesterday. Wardrobes, bedside cabinets, chests of drawers, a plush dressing table for Jill and a wonderful computer workstation for me - all sliding platforms, ingenious cable tidys and cubby-holes. Everything tickety-boo, until I pulled off one of the handles a short while ago! £5k and they skimp on a friggin' screw long enough to hold a handle on properly!! The bedroom people will be getting a phone call.

PS D'you see what I did with the heading? 'Getting a handle on things'. Geddit? Getting a handle on things . . . Oh, please yerself!

Coming undone

What a rapid about-turn. The proposed publisher of the BADASS anthology hated Stephen Player's sketches. Or rather he saw them as unsuitable. His feeling is that we need an "action shot" on the cover. I told Stephen the news and he bowed out with the good grace I expected. He's a professional, and it's not like he was doing this for the money. The link in yesterday's entry, to the rough sketches he did for us, no longer work. I'm so disappointed not to be having a 'Player cover' when one seemed in the bag, I was tempted to pull out of the antho last night. But that would have been chucking my toys out of the pram and unfair to the writers counting on us to deliver their stories. Instead I waited 'til I'd calmed down and told the publisher that in my opinion we just made a huge mistake. Whereas we could have had a striking cover that looks a million bucks, we may well end up with something amateur-ish, like many small-press anthos have. I don't think Dybbuk Press really undertsand the direction of the antho. He's citing Hubert Selby Junior and 'Last Exit to Brooklyn' as possible influences for BADASS, and Chris and I are looking at more dark and pulpy, Frank Miller's 'Sin City', gangsters and crime, a supernatural or fantasy element a big bonus.

Also, partly due to the publisher, both Chris and I had the irksome tasks this morning of notifying writers that we were having to drop their stories. One of them was dropped because the antho has changed direction since her story was accepted at the beginning of 2005 - that's probably my fault - and the other writer's story has been dropped because the publisher had issues with it. Both took it with good grace. Which is more than I might have done if I'd been in their shoes. So we've gone from 8 stories last week to 5 this week.

Sketches? Works of art, mate

Stephen Player has delivered some sketches today, based on a few summaries of stories Chris and I hope to be presenting in the BADASS anthology. Take a look. http://playergallery.com/badass.html Click on the numbers at the bottom of the page.

Good, huh? My personal favourite is #1, the one with the book's title tattooed across the twins' arms. The stance, the slender junkie arms, the arrogance in their stares . . . somehow Steve has summed up BADASS perfectly. This image is a rough, according to Steve, but I'd be happy to use it as it stands. What will it look like fully-worked up? Head over to: http://www.playergallery.com/intro.html and have a guess. Bloody amazing, I reckon.

The Talented Mr Player

The anthology I'm co-editing is dropping into top gear. Yesterday I asked Stephen Player if he could do the cover for BADASS. I expected him to say no - he must be incredibly busy with teaching, book covers, commissions etc. as befits a talented and respected artist - but he said yeah, go on then.

Take a look for yourself:

http://www.playergallery.com/intro.html

We traded emails way back when I was doing a fanzine dedicated to Garry Kilworth (note: back issues of Spiral Words now only 50p). Steve agreed, as the illustrator on some of Garry's books, to be interviewed. He's such a lovely bloke, the genuine article as we say round here, and the interview was a great success. I sent him some books as a thank you. He gave me a painting. We stayed in touch for quite a while. But, sadly, the emails petered out when Heather came along, taking up a lot of my time, and Steve relocated to the US to live with his partner and took up a teaching post. I missed our daily chats.

I'm excited about this BADASS cover. Not just at having someone as good as Steve doing the artwork, although that is great, but at being able to work on something with him again. He's one of those people I can listen to (okay, it's email, wrong verb) for hours and I'm looking forward to going over his ideas for the cover as much as seeing the finished illustration. A definite plus of being an editor.

Bedroom farce (update)

Oh for crying out crap! No sooner had I finished my last - optimistic - blog entry, the phone goes and it's someone from the bedroom people telling me they aren't coming today. Apparently, the fitter's wife had a baby two weeks ago and the little 'un was rushed seriously ill into hospital last night.

So I suppose things here aren't too bad, if I care to look at things differently.

Bedroom farce (final act)

The fitters come today to furnish the bedroom. By Thursday, we will have a proper bedroom again. A place to hang shirts and trousers and drawers for socks and undies, somewhere to put this PC, printer, scanner . . . instead of having to drape stuff all over the bungalow as we've been forced to do these past two months. There will be a few little odds and ends to take care of over the next week or two, like light fittings, wooden flooring, window blinds, coving . . . and of course, paying for it all.

Yesterday the anthology I'm co-editing with Chris Hall seemed to gel into something almost tangible. We now have a publisher, a line-up of eight great stories including a novella from Bram Stoker Award nominee and British Fantasy Award winner Paul Finch, and a rare story from World Fantasy Award winner Garry Kilworth. Chris is selecting an artist to do the cover, and our publisher - Dybbuk - are talking about a December release. We seem to have gone from an embryonic, inchoate project to something book-shaped in a matter of days.

I'd must thank Jonathan Eyers for letting me use that blinking eye you can see to the left of the screen. Neat, eh? Jon's expansive blog is linked a bit further down. Do visit. And I must thank Chris too for doing all sorts of niggling stuff to get the blinking eye to actually fit there. My first attempt at installing it saw that eye taking up most of this page!

So that's that, then

Coming home after what is almost certainly be the last holiday or mini-break of the year is bound to be a bit depressing. That's it now. Summer is officially over in this household. Roll on, Winter.

Llandudno (pronounced Th-lan-tid-no, if you please) was oft grey and overcast, but dramatic with that majestic backdrop of Snowdonia. We all had fun. I bought 11 new books for less than £20, some of them hardbacks too. By Carl Hiaasen, Michael de Larrabeiti, Bill Bryson, David Hood to name but a few. Pondered long and hard over Hal Duncan's Vellum, newly published by Macmillan. Gorgeous cover and excitable burb from the publishers evoking the name of the great Iain Banks, and that's not something to be done lightly. Anybody read any reviews anywhere? Leave comments below and earn my gratitude.

Heather consumed several bags of candy floss while Jill and I watched anxiously for signs of tooth decay. I began to imagine . . . What if . . . What if the British Dental Association got their own way and sugary confections like candy floss were banned. Made illegal. You'd get sugar-addicts buying candy floss at inflated prices from street dealers.

"How much? But that's outrageous?"

"Take it or leave it, man. This is good stuff, pure, uncut."

"I-I'll take it."

Lonely people in dingy flats, dying because the cheap candy floss they are inhaling has been cut with loft insulation.

IT COULD HAPPEN!

Summer? Huh.

Off to Llandudno for a long weekend break. It's okay is Llandudno. It's got two good-sized, sandy(ish) beaches, donkeys, a pier, cable cars and trams . . . Best of all, it has a handful of excellent discount bookstores. Helen and new-fiancee Mark are coming down with us for a day, which is great as we all get along well.

I'll take a Carl Hiaasen, I think. 'Lucky You'. Must remember to pack my Zen Micro too. Sunshine? Who needs it.

The Motorcycle Diaries pt. 2

My second bike was Mr Honda's much-lauded, single cylinder, four-stroke C70. Similar in design to the Ariel Leader, which young men of the fifties shunned despite (or because of) its many innovative features, the C70 had leading-link forks, enclosed chain case, sensible legshields and a fuel tank under the seat . . . Yep, the Brits got there first but it took the Japanese to make it sell. And sell they did. Millions of 'em. The promise of 6000 miles per eggcup of petrol helped. Okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but the C series -- 50, 70 and 90cc -- boasted brilliant fuel consumption and amazing low-maintenance reliabilty that made them a wow with miserly old men the world over.

I was a 6'4" eighteen-year-old and a deadly serious biker. I had all the protective leather gear and read all the magazines. I attended the local training group to improve my riding skills and dreamed of owning a Kawasaki GPz900. But for now the C70 - or Bogseat as it was unaffectionately known - had to suffice.

The Bogseat had no clutch so the first few days of ownership consisted of embarrassingly loud gearchanges. KERRRR-LUNK! But I got the hang of it. Something else that took some getting used to was the leading-link forks. When braking, just about all vehicles dive at the front as the weight is thrown forward. But the effect of leading-link forks is to make the front end rise under braking. Again, it was just a matter of becoming accustomed to it.

That brilliant fuel consumption did catch me out though. Fifty miles from home one evening, on the Derby ring road. I ran out of petrol. And so unused was I to this phenomenon, I had no money on me to fill up. Not even change for a phone call. I ended up pushing it two miles or so in fading light to a friend's house where, as luck would have it, my brother was visiting. And his friend had a Land Rover (now that was lucky!) They chucked me, much chastened, and the Bogseat in the LR and took me home. Oh how we all laughed.

The only time the bike really let me down, unbelievably, was on my test. So confident was I of passing I had already bought a Yamaha XS250, which I couldn't ride on a provisional license. The test was cancelled twice due to bad weather, so I began to depair of ever getting a full license. So the flat tyre halfway round the test course was too much to bear. Too make matters worse, as I pushed the Bogseat home I caught my expensive Belstaff overtrousers on the footpeg and ripped them open. That was it. Love turned to hate. I sold the bike a few days later.

Driving ambition

Jill passed her driving theory test today. 34 out of a possible 35. Pretty darned good. One step closer to independence for this family unit of mine.

Today I got some anti-glare specs from the hospital. I think they are supplied by the RNIB, but I'm not sure. Whatever, they are pretty snazzy. I was expecting some dreadful heavy framed things reminiscent of the 1950s. Instead they are wraparound shades with orange lenses and feature little leather doodahs at the sides -- to block out those horrible stray sunbeams. Things look a bit perculiar through them, but they stop those colours of light that dazzle, while allowing 90% of the light through. Unlike sunglasses which block all colours of light. The result with these lenses is things are still bright but the glare is damped down, although there is some colour migration, if you want to be technical. Like I said, perculiar.

Miscellany, which is a poor heading when all's said and done

I recently came across this site called Flashshot:

http://members.tripod.com/flashshot/

They ask for fiction of less than 110 words. No payment, but 110 words! Heck, I like a challenge, so I scribbled out three stories and sent 'em in. They are pretty darned good though I do say so myself. If you want to read 'em then all you have to do is subscribe to Flashshot. Simply send a blank email to flashshotsubscribe@yahoo.ca and every day a little gem will drop into your inbox. What could be cooler than that, eh? Well, what is cooler is that they print a yearbook featuring 365 stories, too. My stories have been accepted but not yet scheduled.

As you have probably gathered I survived yesterday's bloodletting, which was a relief. Heather took good care of me. Her eyes were glued to the tube carrying the blood from my arm to the bottle under the bed. As we were leaving, we saw one of the staff climbing on his motorbike. Probably finished his shift and heading off home for his tea. But not according to Heather. "He's just taking your blood to the hospital, Dad, It's very important." And d'you know what? She made me feel important.

The author I alluded too in an earlier posting (The arrogance of writers) has backed down and agreed to let Chris Hall and I use the edited version of his story for the forthcoming BADASS anthology. But not without a grumble. He pointed to a change I made -- I cut a couple of words out of a paragraph to make it less cumbersome and a little more snappy -- saying the change "robs the paragraph of its grandeur and sweep". Like I said: arrogant, and pretentious with it. Grandeur and frigging sweep. Give me strength.

Blood

I'm going to give blood in a couple of hours. They hold monthly donor sessions at the nearby Queensbury centre, the former school, I believe, of Reginal Mitchell. He lived in the same house as where I get my hair cut too, by Mr Tony Capper esq. snipper to the gentry and discerning. Tony has Spitfire paintings on the wall, a copy of the census that shows Mitchell lived there for a couple of years and a plaque on the outside of the house that says "Reginald Mitchell lived here, once. Honest, he did!" Or something along those lines anyway. But, as is so often the case, I digress.

Blood. There's a question they ask you when you go: have you ever bruised or bled after a previous donation? Well this time my answer will be "Bloody hell, yes." Last time I went, I was sitting having my tea and biscuits in the rest room when Heather (the heiress and minder) pointed out that my arm was bleeding. I looked down to see blood pumping out of my forearm. A small pool had formed on the floor under my chair. I held my hand up and, apologising (why do we Brits apologise in situations like this?) to the nearest nurse, said I had a little problem.

While I sat there with several pairs of hands clamped around my forearm to stanch the bloodflow and someone mopped the floor and chair, Heather basked in all the extra attention. She got extra stickers, a balloon and sweeties. I got a wad of paper towels to dab at my blood-soaked trousers. Good job they were black, really.

Heather's at a party right now, at the playgroup Jill helps to run three days a week. I asked her if she wanted me to pick her up on the way to giving blood. Her eyes lit up. "Yes, please, Dad!"

I think she's hoping for a repeat performance of last time. I'm hoping she will be disappointed.

The Motorcycle Diaries

Realised today that it's more or less 5 years to the day I parted with my last motorbike, a Yamaha TDM850.

When ever anyone asks why I no longer ride I usually tell them it was so we could start a family. This satisfies most folks. Kids and bikes don't go together. Kids and MPVs, yes, kids and bikes, no.

My first bike was a Yamaha FS1-E, affectionately known as a Fizzy or Fizzer. A 50cc, single-cylinder 2-stroke moped. The colour was called Popsicle purple. This was the 70s after all. I bought mine in '83 off a lad named Dave I worked with during a period of YTS work in a local ironmongers. He wanted £60, which I thought was a bargain, so without even looking at it properly I bought it. What a wreck!

At seventeen I was already 6'3". My knees were inches from the handlebars unless I sat on the pillion portion of the seat and to make matters worse I bought an enduro-type helmet two-sizes too big, all beck and goggles. I must have looked a tool.

The bike became even more of a wreck 4 days later after I tried to jump up a kerb (polite note to US readers: yes, we can spell curb like that) at 40 miles an hour. I'd been watching the speedo in rapt fascination and forgot the wide sweeping bend outside the local pub. I glanced up, realised I was never going to make the bend, and thought "No bother, I'll just bump it up the kerb".

I may have had the presence of mind to brake or shut off the throttle, but I doubt it.

The bike moulded itself around the kerb and I went wheee through the air, landing on my back several yards away. Unhurt, but -and I'm being brutally honest here- feeling a right prick.

The Fizzy was garaged for ages until my brother Steve straightened it out. I resprayed it from a tin labelled Vauxhall Viva Red, but it looked more like a shade of beer vomit.

The Fizzy used to cut out and tip me off in the wet and, come to think of it, it used to cut out and tip me off in the dry too, but it was my first means of independent transport so I loved it . . . a little bit.

I cut my motorcycling teeth on that bike. The bug had well and truly bitten, and deeply. There could be no turning back. But I wanted something bigger, more powerful . . .

Coming soon in the Motorcycle Diaries: My Honda C70 and I

Jill to the rescue

Sunday's blog (okay, whine) was premature. Jill took up roller and brush and set to with a vengeance. I went out window shopping for bedroom furniture with Heather, Helen and Mark. When I got back, rather than interrupt Jill, who was in full flow, I caught up on several of my writing projects. Behind every good man is a good woman, spattered with paint.

Syd the builder is coming round this evening to help me pour the floor. Then Ken the glazer is coming over to finish the windows and fit the skirting boards (he was a joiner in a previous life, you see), and suddenly I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. And it's pretty large, so it must have been hidden just around a bend. Two or three weeks and it will all be over.

Wheel spinning

This morning I'm faced with several choices as to what to do with my day. Heather's bedroom needs another lick of paint on the walls and skirting boards. Our bedroom needs several licks of paint, ceiling , walls and skirting boards. The insulation that me and Jill started putting down in the attic needs finishing off. I've got several stories for the BADASS anthology I'm co-editing with Chris Hall to work on as well as several of my own clamouring for attention. Also I should really be critting a story today to keep my Critter ratio in good standing so I can put another story -- The Devil's Fauna -- through the queue. So much to do I don't feel like doing anything. Having too much to do is almost like having nothing to do. I've got that feeling of "Sod it all" coming on. S'tempting.

What I would really like to do is just spend the day with Jill and Heather, a day with the family. It's been so long since we had a day to ourselves - but that's looking pretty unlikely. Better make a start with something, I suppose. If you've got to eat an elephant, just get on with it, a steak at a time. It will all be done eventually. But I know one thing, this is the last time I do anything like a house extension again. The kitchen extension was a nuisance, the conservatory slightly less so. The bedroom extensions though have been grinding.

The links effect

Below are links to websites selling The Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre anthology, to which I am a proud contributer. For UK buyers, the best option is probably Amazon.co.uk where some enterprising souls are selling it at a few quid less than the cover price. You see, Tim Lieder, the editor, made a balls-up when converting the US price into £ sterling. . . which is how the UK price came to be a ridiculous £9! Anyway, do us a favour and buy a copy, buy your friends a copy, leave favourable reviews (unless of course you hate it, in which case I'll thank you to keep you thoughts to yourself).

http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0976654601/qid%3D1123881854/202-5210046-8171034

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0976654601/002-5011450-1280803

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?userid=ER6IZ2yBO4&isbn=0976654601&itm=1

http://www.projectpulp.com/item_detail.asp?bookID=-1155030699
(which has the best description)

http://www.walmart.com/catalog/product.gsp?dest=9999999997&product_id=4066124&sourceid=0100000030660805302498

http://www.booksamillion.com/ncom/books?id=3238774790479&pid=0976654601&rate.x=281&rate.y=6

It should be on shocklines shortly.