I am enjoying my retirement by writing. My favourite genres are science fiction and horror and I have have had some success with my short stories.
I began reading Ray Bradbury while still at school and became besotted with Dr Who from the first moment I watched the programme back in November 1963. Each incarnation is my favourite until the next one but I have to admit to preferring Matt Smith's version to any other.
My specialist subject on Mastermind would most likely be 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'.
I thought I was doing alright. Okay, I’m past my Biblical sell-by date and life’s a tad fraught at the moment but I passed a recent MOT at my doctor’s with only one advisory.
Having received a message about a dementia course run by the very same doctor’s surgery I considered it, decided I know who I am, that we now have a king not a queen, why I’m standing staring into the pantry (looking for jam) and what month it is.
Or do I?
I thought it was March, a spring month. On the strength of knowing it was March I sent my elder nephew a birthday card (2nd) and have bought one for my eldest granddaughter (18th). I have arranged to meet my son and his family for a Mothering Sunday brunch and have taken the summer curtains out of storage ready to put up in time for the change to British Summer Time.
I wake up to this.
The local theatre sent me an email advertising the 2023 Christmas play and inviting me to book.
TICKETS ON SALE NOW FOR THE NEW VIC’S SPECTACULAR CHRISTMAS SHOW FOR 2023!
My local supermarket has a shelfful of this!
If anyone knows who I am and what month it really is please let me know.
I like to watch odd things on the telly and last night I watched a programme about The Black Death. It seemed appropriate at the time.
We think Covid is bad – and it is but we had far worse things in the Good Old Days. As a child I experienced such things as measles, chicken pox, rubella and mumps along with the rest of my age group. But I’m not talking about my Good Old Days – I’m going way back to the Very Old Good Old Days when you had such things to look forward to as the Bloody Flux, Pestilence, Black Death and Buboes.
Imagine writing a note to your child’s teacher back in the 16th century.
I am most verily afraid that Samuel will not attend your school this day as he has the bloody flux.
These names conjure up such horrors that make the state of the country today look pretty good.
You can actually still catch any one of them if you’re very unlucky. Fortunately we now know how to cure them, and I have my Plague Mask, just in case.
Born to be Naughty (Hanna the Guardian of Nature Book 1) by Hina Nauman
A delightful story for 7 to 12 year old children.
Hanna is really a kind-hearted little girl, but she is lonely and because she is lonely and has no one to play with she gets into all sorts of mischief.
Hanna is a strong-minded little girl who lives in Pakistan with her mother and father. She has an assortment of relatives and woe betide any relative she doesn’t care for. Her antics will make you laugh out loud.
Hanna shows her kind and caring side when she finds an injured bird. With her mother’s help she nurses it back to health. She needs to spend so much time looking after the bird that it seems her naughty days are over. That is until ….!
I won’t spoil the story. You must buy the book if you want to know what happens. I guarantee you will enjoy her antics.
A lively book where the culture shines through allowing me an insight into Hanna’s life.
There will be a new horror anthology by Corona Books in the autumn. The Fourth Corona Book of Horror Stories is out on October 1st and is full of exciting new stories by up and coming writers as well as those branching out into new territory. Check it out and be sure to be ahead of the queue.
Things seem to be getting back to some sort of normal in my little world. On Saturday I attended my first book sale since covid struck.
Covid has had a specific effect on the sale of my first novel due to the fact that it was published by a company called Corona Books. The name had been chosen long before the corona virus struck but it had connotations and life slowed considerably.
St Andrew’s church in Porthill, Stoke-on-Trent hosted and warm and friendly event. I sold a number of books, renewed an acquaintance (I hesitate to say ‘old’) and was able to chat with new ones. And to top it all there was tea and cake!
There will be more such events, it will be lovely to see you there.
‘There’s too much flesh,’ I mutter as I survey my handy work.
‘You should have thought of that,’ my husband tells me in that “I told you so” manner he has that I have grown to loathe. ‘If you’d have thought things through properly you would have taken that into account.’
‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ I moan.
‘Show off. You always thought you were so much better than me.’
‘Never,’ I correct him as I study the body before me.
‘At least I know you’re quoting Lady Macbeth. Which, if you ask me, I find very apt.’
‘You can shut up. Shut up!’ I stamp my foot, but the warm sticky blood reduces the effect I had hoped for. ‘If you’d shut up in the first place I wouldn’t be in this mess,’ I tell him.
‘You’re in a mess? What about me? At least your mess will come out in the wash which is more than can be said for me.’
‘O that this too too solid flesh would melt,’ I sigh.
‘Good God! Am I to become a Shakespearian tragedy?’ he snarls. ‘That would just suit you, wouldn’t it?’
‘As you won’t melt, I suppose I’ll have to cut you up. You won’t fit in the freezer in this state.’
‘If it was up to me, I wouldn’t choose to go in the freezer in any state,’ hubby whines.
I leave my husband lying on the floor of the blood splattered wet room and go in search of some sort of blade. The one I stabbed him with isn’t strong enough for sawing through bone and sinew. I find nothing suitable.
‘Where have you left the saw, you miserable old bastard?’ I weep.
‘As if I’d tell you,’ he sniggers. ‘You’ll only saw me up for dog food if I did.’
‘You never put anything away. You just leave your stuff around and then pinch mine from my hobby bag. The freezer’s too good for you.’ I am crying openly now.
‘You should have put your tools ready before you started the job,’ he quotes me at me in a put-on whiney voice. ‘Isn’t that what you are always telling me?’
That really makes me see red. The claw hammer is to hand so I smack it into his mouth to stop the prattle. Then I smack it into his eyes so he can’t see what I’m doing. I just hammer away at him because he has annoyed me so much. I hammer away until I feel all my frustrations leak over the floor and mingle with the blood drying on the tiles. I hammer away until I am exhausted and empty. I drop the hammer and head towards the kitchen where I flick the switch on the kettle. If I do something different – take my mind from the task – I might remember where the saw is hiding.
A nice cup of tea will help.