Jenny Kane & Jennifer Ash

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Here begins 2017

By

On January 31, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Fiction, Jenny Kane, News

It’s that time again! The end of the month mean a visit from Nell Peters!

Over to you Nell…

Yo folks, and welcome to my first monthly guest spot of 2017 on Jenny’s blog – grab a cup of something tasty, pull up a sock and chill out with us for a few moments. You know you want to.

On this day in 1606, Guy (Guido) Fawkes was executed for the part he played in the plot to blow up Parliament the previous November. The conspirators’ trial began on 27th January, so there was no hanging around (so sorry!) after an unsurprising ‘guilty’ verdict was returned by the jury. GF had, after all, been caught loitering with intent around several kegs of gunpowder in the cellars.

The Lord Chief Justice found all the accused culpable of high treason and they were sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered, or in the Attorney General’s words, ‘put to death halfway between heaven and earth as unworthy of both’. I will use great restraint here and refrain from mentioning anything about a suspended sentence. Genitals were to be cut off (double ouch!) and burned, then their bowels and hearts removed – decapitation to follow for good measure, and the dismembered parts of their bodies displayed, so that they would become ‘prey for the fowls of the air’. Slight case of overkill perhaps? Anyone would think they’d seriously hacked someone off …

Fawkes was the last to die – as he began to climb the ladder to the noose, he managed to avoid the agonies of the more gory part of his dispatch by breaking his neck when jumping to his death from the scaffold. Nevertheless, his corpse was quartered and his body parts distributed to ‘the four corners of the kingdom’, to be displayed as a warning to other would-be traitors. I’m guessing by that stage he didn’t really care too much.

A.A. Milne, author of Winnie the Pooh, died less spectacularly on this day in 1956. Last Christmas, we gave each of the (three) granddaughters a small silver pendant inscribed with a Milne quote; ‘you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.’ I hope they all remember that, when I’m not around to remind them and nag them into pursuing and attaining their goals, whatever they might be. Hold onto your hats as we travel forward in time sixty years, to when the death of broadcaster Sir Terry Wogan hit the news in 2016 – at the end of a month that had already seen the demise of David Bowie and Alan Rickman. Little did we know then what a year for ‘celebrity’ deaths it would turn out to be! I read somewhere that the score was eighty-two, but don’t quote me on that.

Hopping centuries, long before the wee leader of the SNP was a twinkle in her ol’  grand pappy’s eye, on Friday 31 January 1919 – thereafter known as Bloody Friday – more than sixty thousand demonstrators gathered in George Square, Glasgow (know it well!) in support of a strike demanding reduction of the working week to 40 hours. While a deputation from the Clyde Workers’ Committee was in City Chambers to hear the Lord Provost’s reply to their petition, police mounted an unprovoked attack on protesters, felling unarmed men and women with their batons. How rude! Inspector Jim Taggart (he of ‘there’s been a muurrrrda’ fame) would never have behaved so outrageously – although it could have been so much worse if they’d revved up the bagpipes … Not about to give in, the demonstrators, with ex-servicemen fresh from WWI to the fore, retaliated with fists, iron railings and broken bottles, forcing the police to retreat – which sadly sounds a lot like your average Saturday night in many UK cities nowadays. Strike leaders rushed outside to restore order, but one, David Kirkwood, was clobbered with a truncheon, and along with William Gallacher, arrested – a ‘why did I bother getting out of bed?’ moment, if ever there was one. English troops arrived later with machine guns, tanks and a 4.5” Howitzer – unless you were certifiably insane, you wouldn’t argue with that lot.

On 10th February the strike was called off by the Joint Committee – whilst not achieving their goal of 40 hours, workers from the engineering and shipbuilding industries did return to work clutching an agreement that guaranteed a 47 hour week, seven hours less than they worked previously, although their morning haggis break went down the Swanee minus a paddle. What part-timers! Most writers would give their right arms – and possibly legs – to have their noses to the screen for a mere fifty-four hours a week!

Many others still work very long hours in their chosen professions – junior doctors come swiftly to mind, especially med students on clinical placements. I did a stint in A&E (which does not stand for Anything and Everything, although a high percentage of visitors don’t appear to realise that!) with a name badge declaring me ‘Dr’, even though I was a million miles away from being one. That is not to boost the student’s ego, but to give the poor patients faith in their attending’s ability to patch them up and send them on their way in a healthier state than when they arrived. It was a very scary place to be – imagine a scatty, skinny young thing who looked about twelve (thereby instilling confidence in absolutely no one, staff or patients), let loose on whoever walked, or was carried, through the door in search of a miracle cure. If you had any sense at all, you’d run a mile wouldn’t you, no matter what was wrong with you? Trying to project an air of professional confidence, but in reality barely knowing my gluteus maximus from my humerus, I wandered lonely as a cloud, knowing I’d made the wrong career choice. All this typically on a couple of hours sleep snatched during the last seventy-two. It’s a wonder anyone ever escapes from the department alive – a bit of Darwin’s survival of the fittest thing going on there.

Last autumn, the OH and I had a taste of just how green the average A&E medic is, when my father was taken there by ambulance. He was suffering from a prolapsed bowel, which was obviously causing him ongoing pain, and because Dad has vascular dementia and is basically away with the fairies, the doc spoke directly with us, ignoring his patient. After I gave a potted history of the problem, he looked at me pityingly and told me in all seriousness there was no such thing as a prolapsed bowel, only a prolapsed womb. I could hardly contain myself! However, after a spluttered ‘What?!’ I felt a sharp kick to my ankle, courtesy the OH, and didn’t continue with ‘have you actually passed any of those pesky exams they make you sit/perhaps it’s time for you to hit Gray’s Anatomy; the book, not the TV series/have you considered an alternative career as a road sweeper, where you can’t do actual physical harm to others’/all of the above. I believe it was after that we drove off with a sandwich and banana on the car roof …

Like many stressful work environments, there’s a lot of graveyard humour flying around A&E, including the shorthand used in patients’ notes – most of it in very bad taste. For example, WWI – walking while intoxicated (fell over); DTS – danger to shipping (fat); VAC – vultures are circling (on last legs); PAAF – pissed as a fart; Organ recital – hypochondriac’s medical notes; NQRITH – not quite right in the head; AALFD – another a***hole looking for drugs; AHF – acute hissy fit; BMW – bitch, moan and whine; JIC – Jesus is calling; LLS: looks like sh*t; KFO – knock the f*cker out (obnoxious patient); LMC – low marble count (dumb); FFDIG – found face down in gutter; HIVI – husband is village idiot; GRAFOB – grim reaper at foot of bed; FLP – funny looking parents (of child patient); DUB – damn ugly baby; Doughnut of death – CT scan; DIFFC – dropped in for friendly chat (nothing wrong); CBT – chronic burger toxicity (obese); MGM syndrome – faker putting on a good show; TSL – too stupid to live. Enough! There are zillions …

 

On a slightly – very slightly – more sophisticated note, two ageing punk rockers celebrate 31/1 birthdays as Aquarians. One, American Michael John Burkett, aka Fat Mike, aka Cokie the Clown, clocks up fifty years today. Not heard of him? Me neither, but John Joseph Lydon (61) might ring a few bells as ‘legend’ (seriously?) Johnny Rotten, of Sex Pistols fame. Living abroad, I missed the heyday of punk culture, for want of a better term, with its anti-establishment dialogue expressed mainly through shouty song lyrics and anarchic behaviour, all accessorised by enough safety pins to hold the Brighton Pavilion together. How bizarre that anyone could launch a whole career based on being loudly obnoxious, confrontational and nihilistic toward societal norms and values.

In January 2004, Lydon appeared in the jungle on I’m a Sleb and demonstrated that he had perfected the art of never evolving (or indeed growing up), by using obscene language during a live TV broadcast (surprise, surprise!), prompting a slew of complaints from outraged viewers. Mission Look At Me (or CFA in A&E speak – cry for attention) accomplished. What did producers expect from someone quoted as saying, ‘I’m not here for your amusement; you’re here for mine’? Possibly a few ego issues going on there, Johnny, old chap. Most bizarre of all, came an advertising campaign in 2008 for Country Life butter, with Lydon portraying a toff, as opposed to social activist – intellectual irony? I couldn’t possibly comment.

We can only hope that actresses Minnie Driver (47 today) and Portia de Rossi (44), as well as singer Justin Timberlake (36) are slightly more typical of the water carrier air sign, which encompasses those born between January 20th and February 18th. Characteristically, they are progressive, original, independent and humanitarian, but they also avoid emotional expression, are temperamental, uncompromising and aloof. My mother will be ninety on 2/2 and she has made an art form of those last four. Aquarians are shy and quiet, but can be eccentric and energetic – they tend to be deep thinkers and highly intellectual folk who love helping others and are able to assess both sides of a situation without prejudice, making them great at solving problems. OK, The Mater def has her DoB wrong …

Because I wrote my NYE blog long before Christmas Day, I wasn’t able to mention two of my favourite gifts received – a little porcelain chicken from GD Daisy and another, larger, sculpted metal beauty to keep cockerel Vladimir company in the garden, from GSs Alfred and Sidney! They are called Valentina and Raisa respectively – and no beastly cat or other predator is ever going to cause them harm. Raisa has turned out to be most aptly named; we’ve had some strong winds lately and because – unlike Vladimir – she is a two-sided fowl with a hollow belly, she’s been blown over a few times. So, I have to raise her and stand her back on her feet! Boom, boom!

Probably time to disappear, hanging my head in shame … but before I do, just thought I’d mention there are only 334 days left until we get to party again on NYE 2017!

I’m gone … toodles!

NP

Author.to/NellPeters

***

Another brilliant blog!! Thanks so much hun.

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Meet Richard Dee

By

On January 27, 2017

In Blog, Fiction, Jenny Kane

Today I’m delighted to be handing over my blog to a fellow Devon based writer, Richard Dee. Why not go and grab a cuppa, and then come and get acquainted?

Over to you Richard…

Hello everyone and my thanks to Jenny for the spot today. Let me introduce myself.

I’m Richard Dee and I write mainly Science Fiction and Steampunk style stories. If that means space shenanigans, fantastic planets, and Queen Victoria on steroids to you, well that’s a pretty fair guide to some of what I do. If you don’t know what I mean, just take a look at the covers. And before you double take, yes that is a medieval helmet in one of the pictures.

I was actually asked to do a story for the 1066 Turned Upside Down project by the wonderful Helen Hollick.

For those who don’t know about 1066 TUD, it’s a collection of short stories offering an alternative take on the events surrounding the Battle of Hastings and what might have been. For my contribution, I chose to write about the butterfly effect and… well, you’ll just have to read it to find out. The book contains eleven stories from nine authors.

I did wonder if Sci-fi was a good fit for historical fiction but judging by these review comments that I found; I seem to have fitted in nicely.

“I found the inclusion of a story from Richard Dee, of the science fiction genre, a masterstroke and a worthy contribution.”

“One of my favourite stories had to be the tale by Richard Dee, the perfect mix of science fiction and historical fiction.”

“Richard Dee was another new author for me, but his submission stood out for a couple of reasons. Unlike his fellows, Dee put a bit of a sci-fi twist on 1066 and wrote a story that is set largely in the modern world. It was a dramatic shift and it threw me at first, but looking back I think the submission one of the strongest pieces in the anthology. I thought it was fun, I thought it was creative, and I liked how it allowed the reader a unique vantage point and perspective.”

To be honest, I’ve never really liked the idea of genres and stereotypes. When it comes right down to it, it’s all fiction and as well as the science mine all contain elements of every other genre, history, crime, war, fantasy and even a little romance. In fact, they’re populated by ordinary people; they have the same emotions and the same motivation as we all do as they go about the tasks I’ve set them.

The universes that they inhabit may be strange to us, but they’re natural to them. Science fiction is such a broad platform; mine is just as concerned with the triumphs of people as it is with the wonders of the science. To me, the science is just another character, it can have emotion and a voice, in the same way that any person or setting can.

I like to think of the words of Captain James T Kirk; when he was asked if he was from outer space. He simply replied. “No. I’m from Iowa; I just work in Outer Space.”

I hope that my stories work as stories and not just as “sci-fi.” That might make you wonder why I chose sci-fi as a vehicle for them. And the answer might not be what you would think.

When I first started writing, I thought that sci-fi would be easy to write, after all; how could you research the future? I could just drop my plot and characters into the future somewhere – easy! And that was mistake number one! I’m sure I do at least as much research as everyone else, just to make sure that all my settings have a basis in fact. And that at least part of it sounds true, or at least sounds possible based on what we know today.

The consequence of that is that on the way I’ve made up more back stories than I could shake a stick at. They form the basis of my Short story collection Flash Fiction and have given me short stories in abundance, enough for Flash Fiction 2 in fact. And the more novels I write, the more back stories I need.

As well as the usual creation of worlds, spaceships and technology; I’ve invented the inventor of faster-than-light travel and told everyone how he did it (The tale of Christopher Padgett), explored the dichotomy of time dilation (Tales from the Sleepers), and wondered how the future will see history (Looking back at our Future). I even invented a magazine to print the articles of future history that form the backdrop to my adventures (Galactographic!).

And in the new collection will be farming in Space (The Orbital Livestock Company), The Grandfather paradox (It works both ways), and much more, including several Steampunk vignettes from my world of Norlandia.

And now that I’ve invented these things, I can use them in all my universes. Nothing is ever wasted, and crossovers abound. And thanks to my loyal readers, what were originally intended to be stand-alone stories are becoming series.

My debut novel, Freefall, is a tale of loss, loneliness and the biggest story ever kept from us by an authoritarian government.

The second, Ribbonworld, features corporate espionage and conspiracy set on a planet that we have no right to exist on.

The third, The Rocks of Aserol, takes place in an alternative Victorian society where oil and electricity have never had a chance to shape the lives of the inhabitants.

Incidentally, until I started this one, I never realised what you could make of a world without the things we all take for granted. Never mind warp drive and photon torpedoes, in the Steampunk universe; the possibilities are as endless as they are ten thousand years from now!

And thanks to my readers Freefall now has a prequel. Myra will be published in about six weeks. And I’ve got enough ideas for a third story in the series as well.

Ribbonworld has a sequel called Jungle Green, which is destined to see the light of day soon and The Rocks of Aserol has a sequel in development. All these are the direct result of feedback. But they haven’t stopped me writing anything new.

One of my short stories has spawned a book, featuring a new heroine. Andorra Pett first made her appearance in a short story last year in my collection Flash Fiction.

After much encouragement, she is set for a full novel soon, it’s just about written, in the queue for editing and beta reading (if you’re interested, let me know), and the cover is done, now all I have to do is find the time to publish it.

Going back to Myra, to give you a small taste of what’s to come, the story is titled for the heroine in Freefall.

It was written to explain a remark our hero, Dave Travise, makes when he is continually reminded of the fact that Myra isn’t around anymore.  Here’s the quote from Freefall.

“No matter how many times I hear the voice – it’s Myra by the way, it reminds me of the happy times. When she had put her voice print on the computer she said it was so she could order me around. It must be fifteen years ago but I sometimes look over my shoulder expecting to see her in the hatchway. You can still see the faint dent in the panel if you look closely, I try not to. The paint was worn there; I rubbed it every time I passed.”

A lot of people asked me what the significance of that dent was; rather than keep explaining, I wrote a book as an explanation. If you want to know more about the dent, and what happened to cause it, Freefall is available now and Myra will be published on March 15th 2017 in all the usual places. But here’s a clue.

“I turned, and even though I didn’t immediately realise it, it was then that I fell in love.”

Meet Dave Travise, at least that’s who his identity chip says he is. An ex-navy man on the run; somehow he’s ended up in a dead man’s shoes; on a new ship and on the wrong side of the law.

With no way to prove his innocence, he’s just got to play along and keep his head down if he’s going to survive. As if he doesn’t have enough problems, now he’s fallen for Myra, the engineer on his new home.

Pursued by criminal gangs and keeping one jump ahead of everyone, Dave and his new shipmates are going to need all the luck in the Galaxy just to stay alive.

Myra tells the story of how Finn Douglas, Naval Officer; became Dave Travise, Galactic trader. And what happened before Freefall.

And what do my readers say; well here are a couple of examples,

“I’m not usually a fan of Science Fiction but Ribbonworld is a thriller that would work in any genre.”

“FREEFALL is a rattling good adventure story, with a few unexpected twists, good characters and plenty of action.”

“There’s something of a ripping yarn about this excellent tale of adventure. False accusations, discoveries kept secret, villains who murder to get their way, and the whiff of requited love – it’s all here in this classic steampunk saga.”

***

So where does all this come from, where does a man who failed English at O level way back in 1974 get his motivation.

For me, it all starts with a film I saw way back when I was an apprentice in the Merchant Navy. We were in New York in 1977 and the locals were all raving about a new film called Star Wars. I went to see it and it blew my mind. The technology was understated, it was greasy and it was prone to breaking down, that made it more believable to me than any shiny gadget from the future that I had seen before.

This was the kind of future I wanted to write about, the kind where the hero’s in trouble and he pushes a button in the hope that something will actually happen. Where mankind has spread among the stars and bought all his Earthly vices with him. Or an alternative reality; where mighty machines powered by Steam and Clockwork drive a society that’s uneasy with the price of progress.

There was a pause while life got in the way, I got married, got qualified (Master Mariner, BSc, First Class Thames Pilot) and survived (just) having three daughters. Writing was way down on my list. Then I retired and with the time to think, the creativity really started. And once I got started then the ideas flooded in and the work poured out. Freefall was published in 2013 (34 years after I had the first idea), Ribbonworld in 2015 and The Rocks of Aserol last year. I have three novels currently in the final stages of publication, Myra will come out in March 2017, as for the others; I’m not sure about them yet.

And that brings me to the last part of my story, I self-publish. I own a publishing imprint, 4Star Scifi, and in that respect, I’m my own boss.

I don’t set myself deadlines and I don’t take a percentage. What I have is control and a marvelous, hand-picked team behind me. Without my editor, my cover designer and everyone else, the person who formats my work, the beta readers, and my fiercest critic; my ideas would be just that.

Of course, emotion is important in all my work, where would we be without it? Why would you mount a white charger if you didn’t want to rescue the maiden? Why would you caress a dent in the panel if you hadn’t loved and lost?

My website says “Welcome to my Worlds,” but they aren’t just mine; they’re the worlds that I think we all want to inhabit.

***

And now, some advertising

You can find me at www.richarddeescifi.co.uk, there’s all my news and lots of free content for you to enjoy, I try to post a new short story every month or so. You’ll also find details of my novels and works in progress.

I’m on Facebook at @RichardDeeAuthor

Amazon links to my books

Freefall: myBook.to/Freefall

Ribbonworld: myBook.to/Ribbonworld

The Rocks of Aserol: getBook.at/Rocks

1066 Turned Upside Down: http://mybook.to/1066TurnedUpsideDown

Flash Fiction: myBook.to/Flash

To finish up, here’s a quick Flash Fiction from my website, my thanks to Jenny for the platform and to you for making it this far. I hope you enjoy it.

Man of Mystery.

The plastic bag lay on the bed where it had fallen from the package. This was it; the final piece of the plan had arrived. I was ready to begin.

I looked around the bedroom; it was a wreck, the doors had been ripped off the wardrobe and hung by the bottom hinges, the drawers were all tipped on the floor, contents strewn. The bed was unmade; quilt heaped. The heavy curtains were making the room dark; the window faced east and the room was normally filled with morning light. Not today.

It had taken me a while to achieve the look of a robbery and I had enjoyed every minute of it. I felt like I was starting to get my power back, that I was no longer at the bottom, a victim of events.

I picked up the bag; it was cool to the touch, a faint sweat on it from the cool poly-box it had arrived in, the box now in the back of my car.

Red Blood Cells it proclaimed in large letters; O Rh Positive, with a barcode. The contents felt thick and glutinous as they moved around under my fingers. It was my blood in there, taken a week ago at a special session. That was important. There were two tubes leading from the bag, one with a small tap arrangement. Taking a last look at the bedroom I opened it and squirted about half of the blood onto the bed, making a large irregular stain.

It’s true what they say, a little blood makes a lot of mess, the dark red liquid pooled on the bedding and sank into the mattress. Moving backwards I let the blood drip from the tube in a rough line toward the door. Moving quickly I dripped and splashed blood all the way down the stairs and to the front door.

As I passed each room along the stone hallway I saw that they had all been ransacked, I grinned, that had been more enjoyment, a primeval feeling of exultation in destruction, part of all of us. Even though it was my stuff; my memories I had really let myself go. There were no neighbours to hear and I had made a lot of noise.

By the time I had backed out of the porch and onto the gravel there was little of the liquid left in the bag. I squeezed the last of it out and took the bag to my car, putting it into the poly-box in the trunk.

Now I just had to finish scene-setting.

I went back upstairs and into the bedroom. I grabbed a towel from the en-suite bathroom and making sure I stood in the blood splashes I roughly wiped the blood on the floor. I made it look like a body had been dragged from the bed and bumped down the stairs. There was even the odd bloody footprint and I made sure that some smears made it onto the walls. It took a few minutes and the blood was starting to congeal by the time I had made it to the front door.

Back outside I pulled off my shoes, the ones with the distinctive tread and bagged them next to the poly-box. There was a pair of trainers on the back seat and I hopped around while I put them on, gravel stuck to one sock and made me wince when I put weight on the foot, I sorted that out and took a last look around.

My home for the past year looked serene in the early morning light, the door was ajar and the trail of red led inside. I glimpsed my face in the mirror as I settled into the driving seat, I was smiling, part one had been completed; I was dead and horribly so. I just had to dispose of a few things and part two could begin. I started the engine and drove away.

© Richard Dee 2016

***

Thanks for such a generous blog Richard! Fabulous stuff. Thank you for taking the time to put it together for us.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

Seeking Perfection

By

On January 10, 2017

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, Fiction, Jenny Kane, Romance

It is with great pleasure that I welcome Caroline MacCallum to my site today. Caroline is here to give us a delicious taster of her very first romance novel, Seeking Perfection, so grab a cuppa and settle down for a read.

Over to you Caroline…

Seeking Perfection

By Caroline MacCallum

Thank you for hosting me today, it’s great to be here. Since completing a creative writing course several years ago I’ve enjoyed immersing myself in my imagination and the world of romantic fiction. Seeking Perfection is my second novel and tells the tale of a personal shopper who has grand plans to become a bridal wear designer. It’s full of sassy characters, hilarious exploits and of course a gorgeous hero. Here’s a bit more about it, and just so you know, it’s available for pre-order at the super-low price of just 99c/99p.

Back Cover Information

Emily Beach has a passion for wedding dresses—not wearing them, but designing them. She’s hitched her wagon to the stars and has grand plans to become the brand brides rush to when seeking perfection on their big day.

Until that happens, she’s working at a swanky London boutique. Her days are a whirlwind of wealthy, eccentric customers, and crazy, sex-mad colleagues. When dashing yachting-mogul millionaire, Henry, sets his sights on her, she gets a taste of the finer things in life, as he sails straight into her heart.

But does Henry really understand her need for independence, and her fierce determination to make it on her own? And did he ever really know her if he thinks she wants him to pull strings to get her on the first rung of the ladder? With the meddling of her wacky, energetic friends, she soon finds the answers to all of these questions, but are they the answers she wants?

Excerpt from Chapter One…

“There’s so much sex around here.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emily Beach wondered if she’d heard her new colleague correctly.

“Sex, so much. Here. It’s in the air.” Ralph flung his arms up and waggled his fingers. “Think of it as sparkling dust. Whoever it lands on wants to get laid or is getting laid. Can you handle that?”

Sparkling sex dust? What the hell kind of place have I come to? “Well…I guess so.”

“Good, you’ll fit right in then. That’s your desk over there. We haven’t got much space, but we’ve made the best of it. Go and get settled.” He slammed his hands onto his waist, cocked his hips and grinned. “Oh, and welcome to On Trend. May your time here be truly happy, prosperous and utterly satisfying, darling.”

“Er, thank you.”

“I’ve got to dash, so sorry.” Ralph glanced at his rose-gold watch. “I have a nine o’clock; don’t you just hate them? Inconsiderate wealthy people make me sick. Shouldn’t they all be in bed sleeping off champagne hangovers, or polishing their private jets?” He blew Emily a kiss, then strutted away, his neon-blue crocodile shoes tapping on the wooden floor.

Emily watched him leave.

Is he for real?

Head spinning from the fast-paced encounter, she turned and saw the only free desk was the one nestled in the corner of the fourth-floor office. It was next to a window, and past several chimney pots she could just make out the tips of the trees in Hyde Park. The only trouble was, the desk was flooded with white-hot sunlight. Soon she’d have damp patches on the underarms of her silky navy-blue blouse—which was a shame, as she’d spent a considerable amount of time planning the perfect outfit for her first day and she hadn’t intended on looking like she was stomping through the rainforest.

She set her faithful black leather Gucci bag on the desk and shrugged out of her blazer. Luckily, the window had a latch, so she reached upwards, opened it and let in a cool breeze.

“Hey, you must be Emily.”

A pretty girl with a long, curly blonde hair, heavy makeup and wearing a candy-pink and white striped dress smiled at her.

“Yes, hi.”

“So glad you’re here, I can’t begin to tell you. I’m Sandy, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Sandy.”
Sandy perched on the side of the desk in front of Emily’s and folded her  arms. The action pushed her ample breasts upwards, almost to overspill point. “I’ve been saying to Matt for yonks that we need another personal shopper. It’s all well and good having cashiers, stock managers and those people who do the sums at the end of the month, but it’s personal shoppers that sell the big-name stuff. We’re the fashionistas, we give the customers not just what they need, but what they want, we rake in the big bucks and we do it with flair and style.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Emily paused. “And I’m glad you did—persuade him to take on more staff, that is. I was ready for a change.”

“Oh, why’s that then?”

Emily shrugged. “I’d been at Harrods for two years, it was time to move on—and to be honest, the hours here will suit me better.” Dropping ten hours a week meant Emily would have a couple of mornings to work on her own designs. They were beginning to sell now she’d set up a website showcasing her work, and word of mouth was spreading, but she didn’t mention this fact to Sandy.

“Ooh, la, la, Harrods! Is it really a den of bitching and incest?” Sandy rubbed her hands together and widened her eyes.

Emily laughed. “No, not at all, it’s very professional. A wonderful place to work.”

“And for monumental shopping sprees,” Sandy said. “So what department were you based in?”

“Bridal, but I went to women’s wear if they were short, and I did men’s suits for a while too.”

“There’s no shortage of men here looking for cool clothes to wear to the races, on their yachts, or to wow in the boardroom whilst haggling over their billions.” Sandy sighed. “Shame most of them are too old, ugly or fat to make the clothes hang like they should. It’s like dressing up a pork pie sometimes— no amount of garnish is going to disguise that artery-clogging layer of lardy gloop around the centre.”

Emily held in a shocked gasp. Sandy was obviously, like Ralph, the sort of person to just say it how it was. Already she couldn’t wait to tell her best friend Lynne all about her first day, and she’d only been on the premises ten minutes. “I guess as long as they feel good. That’s the main thing.”

“Oh yes, they always feel good when I’ve finished with them. I’m the queen of flattery. I could make a sloth feel like Naomi Campbell and a platypus feel like David bloody Gandy.”

Emily giggled. The office time at On Trend was going to be entertaining if nothing else. It may only have an eighth of the floor space that Harrods had, but still, it would make up for it in the shock factor.

***

Pre-Order now for just 99c/99p

Amazon

Amazon UK

About Caroline MacCallum

Caroline lives in the UK and uses her many years working as a nurse for inspiration when it comes to creating characters. She enjoyed walking her dog, cooking and painting when she has time. Look out for her YA novel Gabriel’s Angel which has a swathe of 5* reviews.

WEBSITE

***

Thank you for such a great sneak peek of your novel! I wish you every success.

Happy reading,

Jenny xxx

Where Did 2016 Go?

By

On December 31, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction, Jenny Kane, News

It’s that time again- not just another New Year’s Eve- but the end of the month blog from Nell Peters is here!!

Buckle up folks- and pass the whisky!

Over to you Nell…

New Year’s Eve! Where did 2016 go? But suffice to say, I for one am glad it’s now slithering its way into the archives!

Let’s start with the birthday line-up – on the starting blocks we have such luminaries as Donald Trump Jnr (OMG, there’s more than one?), football bod Sir Alex Ferguson, actors Sir Anthony Hopkins, Sir Ben Kingsley and Val Kilmer (no knighthood, Val? Well, if you will be born in the US …), late singers John Denver and Donna Summer, explorer (not watchmaker) Jacques Cartier (my ancient Firebird once broke down while I was driving over his rotten bridge in Montreal) and painter Henri Matisse.

anthony-hopkins

Most important of all, our lovely niece Francesca Cerulli celebrates her 26th birthday today – her dad has Italian genes (the name gives a wee bit of a clue) and she has benefitted in spades in the looks department, lucky girl. Not too good at cooking pasta, though … Just kidding, Fran!

sparkly-doc-martens

Right, before you get too involved in dragging the sparkly Doc Martens from the back of the closet, and preening in preparation to party, let’s see what has happened historically on this day, shall we? On the eve of the new twenty-first century, just as the London Eye was cranking into action for its debut circuit, Boris Yeltsin resigned as the first President of the Russian Federation, leaving the PM, one Vladimir Putin, to mind the shop – cheers for that, Boris, old chap. A zillion bare-chested, macho-man poses later, mostly accessorised by horses and firearms …

big-ben

I normally shy away from making any even vaguely political statements on social media, but the thought that after Trump’s inauguration in January, the world will have the Vlad and Donnie Show in positions of unassailable power, their fat fingers hovering over the ultimate button, frankly scares the bejesus out of me. Even the likes of Michael Gove, Ed Miliband and Nigel Farage don’t look too bad, compared to that not-so-much-dream-as-nightmare team.

trump

Moving on; NYE in 1857, Queen Victoria chose Ottawa as the capital of Canada (she wasn’t amused by Victoria in British Columbia?) The city name derives from the Algonquin (Native American) word Odawa – which, incidentally, is exactly how Canadians (or Canajuns) pronounce it, just as they drop the ‘t’ in Montreal and the second ‘t’ in Toronto – meaning ‘to trade’. Assuming HRH didn’t just stick a pin in a map, its selection was strategic as a border stronghold. Ottawa is probably the most British city in Canada in terms of embracing the influence, (though it’s still of necessity bilingual) and surprisingly small for a capital, but it’s full of superb Victorian architecture and brilliant museums. They even have Changing of the Guard (yes, all dressed in red tunics, with bearskins!) on Parliament Hill – but sadly, only from June to August, for tourists.

ottawa

In 1892, across the border in New York, Ellis Island opened its doors as the official immigration processing centre for those in search of the American Dream. (By the time it closed in 1954, 15m people had passed through – that’s an average of 220,589 a year.) How immensely brave folk were to sail off literally into the unknown, many with hardly more than the clothes they wore. Scientists believe that Homo sapiens first arrived in the US via the Bering Straits about 20,000 years ago, and these were the forebears of the many Native American cultures which would people the landscape for thousands of years.

ellis-island-liberty

Next came the Vikings – though not in huge numbers, so maybe not too much raping and pillaging – and eventually the great European migration began. (Just saying, but Donald Trump’s mother and father were of Scottish and German descent respectively – if only the ancestors of Border Control had been a little more on the ball regarding who made it through …) All of this long before the Statue of Liberty was in place nearby, to declare (courtesy Emma Lazarus – I’m absolutely not going to mention anything about her taking up her bed to walk!):

‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’

Crossing the Atlantic for early settlers meant two to three months of seasickness, overcrowding, limited food rations, and disease. Eew – not exactly luxury cruising, but better than a ticket for passage on the Titanic, I suppose. However, the prospect of yours-for-the-asking land parcels and the hope of political and religious freedoms were pretty persuasive arguments. Among the early British settlers were indentured servants willing to trade four to seven years of unpaid labour for a one-way ticket to the colonies and the promise of land. Sounds like a slightly one-sided agreement to me? After seven long years of being a freebie skivvy, I’d expect to be gifted California, minimum.  There were also convicts among the newcomers – many thousands transported from English jails. And we always think of Australia as our go-to penal colony.

wagon-train

The merging of Europeans and Native Americans was not always peaceful (I’ve seen those John Wayne cowboy movies – wagons ho, or there’ll be heap big trouble and a few unscheduled haircuts) and cultures clashed, leading to violence and the spread of new pathogens. Whole tribes were decimated by diseases like small pox, measles, and the plague. And don’t forget how badly these usurpers behaved generally, riding roughshod over tradition, beliefs and land tenure. How rude! When I lived in Montreal, a friend’s old bat of a mother-in-law was slagging off the indigenous race as leeches on the economy, plus a whole lot of other things bad – and when I ventured to disagree (quite bravely, as she was one big momma with a viper’s tongue) she looked down her nose at me and said imperiously, ‘Well, you know, they are allowed to live on Reservations!’ Be still my heart …  This is someone born and bred in the second most French city in Quebec Province, where the official language has been French since 1974, but who never actually bothered to learn the lingo.

marie-curie

OK, enough New World ramblings – Marie Curie (the scientist, not the cancer care organisation that bears her name) accepted her second Nobel Prize on this day in 1911 for Chemistry, having shared the prize for Physics in 1903. She was the first woman to win a Nobel, and the first person/only woman to win twice. Kind of puts Bob Dylan into perspective, doesn’t it? Born Maria Sklodowska in 1867 in Warsaw, she was the youngest of five children of poor school teachers. After her mother died and her father could no longer support her, she became a governess, reading and studying in her own time. Becoming a teacher – the only route which would allow her independence – was never an option, because lack of money prevented her from formal higher education.

However, when her sister came up trumps (sorry!) and offered her lodgings in Paris so she could go to university, she moved to France in 1891. She enrolled at the Sorbonne (when I was a young and foolish student, I once spent the night there, sleeping in the mortuary on a dissection table – don’t ask!) where she read physics and mathematics. It was in Paris, in 1894, that she met Pierre Curie – a scientist working in the city – whom she married a year later and adopted the French spelling of her name, Marie. Her achievements included the development of the theory of radioactivity (a term that she coined), techniques for isolating radioactive isotopes, and the discovery of two elements, polonium and radium. Yeah, Bob, nice lyrics – AND Marie Curie turned up to accept the award.

farts

So, who is going to make a New Year resolution? There will be the usual suspects, like giving up junk food and/or dieting/eating more healthily; stop smoking/drinking too much; embark upon a regular exercise regime (that’ll last until 3rd January at least); stop wasting money on fripperies, yada, yada. I looked online and found a list of 100 resolutions – apart from the obvious, there was, stop twerking (7 – or start, in my case); quit farting so much (16 – I’m saying nothing!); stop playing Candy Crush Saga (28 – please note, those FB friends who keep sending me requests which I steadfastly ignore!); don’t buy the latest iPhone (32 – fine by me, as my mobile is a five year-old, basic Nokia); find Nirvana (38 – far out, man!); become more cultured (45 – that’s after you quit farting so much, presumably); drink more water (46 – why, when there’s still wine in Tesco?); quit picking your nose (62 – see 45); get a tattoo (66 – why?); keep a cleaner house (73 – again, why?); write more (76 – what’s this, chopped liver?); read more (97 – I wish!); become an expert at something (100 – like composing dumb lists?) I’ll leave it to you to extract the bones out of that lot.

Traditionally, on the stroke of midnight on 31st December, the English would open the back door to let the old year out, and ask the first dark-haired man they saw to come through the front door carrying bread, salt and coal. (Did he have to patrol the streets carrying that lot, in the hope of being invited in somewhere?) Symbolically, that meant that for the following year everyone in the house would have enough to eat (bread), enough money (salt), and be warm (coal). Nowadays, those of us who don’t venture out to lurk – freezing our socks off – in Trafalgar Square or similar to see in the New Year, or pay exorbitant prices to attend a formal function, slum it sitting round the TV watching Jools Holland and his cronies cavorting around the studio to present the annual hootenanny. There is a countdown to midnight, courtesy Big Ben’s bongs (nice alliteration!), followed by a rendition of Auld Lang Syne, often with the Pipes and Drums of the Scots Guards. All a bit naff, when you consider it’s pre-recorded.

cocktail-07

The Scots celebrate Hogmanay, the name taken from an oat cake that used to be given to children on New Year’s Eve – I imagine they’d rather have had a chocolate bar. In Edinburgh there’s a huge ticket-only party from Prince’s Street to the Royal Mile and Edinburgh Castle – the only year we were there, it was cancelled due to foul weather. In Scotland? Surely not! Those who stay home observe the tradition of first-footing at the stroke of twelve – ie the first person to set foot in a house is thought to affect the fortunes of everyone who lives there for the coming year. Strangers are supposed to bring good luck – except when they fill their swag bags and abscond with the family silver, of course.

New Year’s Eve is Nos Galan in Welsh, and whilst they also believe in letting out the old year and ushering in the new, if the first visitor after midnight is a woman and a man opens the door, it’s considered bad luck. Uh-oh! Plus, if the first man to cross the threshold has red hair, that’s bad luck too. I guess gingers don’t get too many invitations to parties, just in case they time their arrival badly. The Welsh believe you should pay off all debts before the New Year begins, or you’ll spend the whole of the next year in the red – maybe there’s some tenuous connection with those poor carrot-topped chaps being so unpopular? On New Year’s Day (Dydd Calan) Welsh children get up early to visit their neighbours and sing songs. They are given coins, mince pies, apples and sweets for singing – or, more likely, to go away. Shrill little voices warbling on the doorstep is not really what you need first thing, if you’re nursing a hangover from the night before. Whatever, this fizzles out by midday.

My job here is done. Thank you for having me again, Jenny.

happy-new-year

Happy New Year! Or A Guid New Year! Or Dydd Calan Hapus!

Toodles.

NP

Author.to/NellPeters

PS. I have mentioned before that Jen and I share a birthday, but we also share an editor, lovely Greg Rees at Accent Press. Since I wrote this blog – well in advance, as usual – Accent Press have reorganised, and Greg left in mid-December. I have so enjoyed working with him (he even appreciates my dodgy sense of humour!) and wish him every success and happiness, as he moves on to pastures new. I will miss him a lot, as I’m sure will all his authors. Yep, 2016 has been one rubbish year …

Sé feliz, Greg, y cuídate! x

(I second the above – Greg, you’ll be hugely missed J x)

Many many thanks once again to Nell for a fabulous blogs this year. And thank you to all of you, my lovely readers.

Happy new Year everyone.

Jenny x

 

Interview with Oliver Tooley: Devon writer at work!

By

On December 30, 2016

In Blog, Books For Children, Interview, Jenny Kane

It’s interview time again!

Today I’m joined my Devon based writer, Olli Tooley. Why not grab a cuppa, take a seat for five minutes, and have a read?

coffee and cakeWhat inspired you to write your book?

The original inspiration was when my boys were looking round a cheesy gift shop on holiday. You know? The kind where you can buy gemstones and seashells, and crystal swans, and resin models of fairies with sparkly wings.

Each of my three boys had a favourite colour; blue, red, and green, respectively, and eventually we relented and bought them a little dragon each. It was so long ago now I can’t recall if I suggested it, or one of them did, but the idea was born to write a story featuring the three brothers. There was “a legend of a magical stone” which had been shattered by an ancient powerful wizard and the three parts had been scattered in different directions.
Each boy would fight a different coloured dragon to recover a different part of the stone. Red, green, and blue, would then be reunited to repair the magical stone and save the blah-de-blah-de-blah, it was AWFUL. It still gives me goosebumps just thinking about how cheesy it would have been.

It sat in a computer file for years untouched while I worked on other ideas.

Do you model any of your characters after people you know? If so, do these people see themselves in your characters?

Well naturally, the original basis for the main three boys in the book were my three sons. Their sister was based on my younger daughter, who was tiny when we bought those dragons.  
Their father was based on me, but all of them have developed differently, for example my counterpart is as hard as nails; while I am a complete wimp.

Almost every character I write has elements of real people, but none of them are closely based on any one person. Of course a few are real people from history, and for those, I need to be careful not to ignore known facts.  children-of-wise-oak

What type of research did you have to do for your book?

I research to a ridiculous degree but I regret, I am not in the luxurious position of being able to fly off to Rome, or join an archaeological dig, to get first-hand knowledge. I have managed to go to Celtic re-enactment days, and did visit Pompeii once so It’s not all armchair knowledge. I spend a lot of time on the internet, using everything from Wikipedia to expert forums, as well as reading specific books that promise to give me more details. Some of the books I have read are insanely expensive, but my local library is a lifesaver for this.

I am a bit of a dilettante with a passing interest in all sorts of subjects including; comparative linguistics, history, folklore, politics, human relationships, and more. Even when I know broadly what I am writing about, I constantly check the precise details to ansure I don’t get a fact wrong.

The hardest thing for me, writing fiction set in a real historical setting, is knowing when I can allow my imagination to take over. For example, I wrote a passage in which a Celtic warrior stabbed a sword through the walls of a roundhouse into the back of a man outside. It was only a few months after publication that I met up with the Dumnonika reenactment group and was shown an authentic reproduction Celtic sword. The demonstrator explained how Celtic swords were always rounded off and could only be used for slashing. Spears were used for stabbing and thrusting. As a writer, I feel like I want to burn every copy of the book that retains the mistake, but most are in the hands of satisfied readers and who knows, perhaps one day they will be worth money?

Which Point of View do you prefer to write in and why?

Would it shock you to know that I have never really thought about this properly?

Now I think about it, I believe I usually write from the point of view of a camera. I certainly know that, despite the microscopic chances of it ever happening, I tend to visualise the film or TV version of a scene as I write. I suppose it doesn’t hurt to dream?
Recently, I have been writing a story in the first person. That is because it is based on a real memoir of a Victorian lady.

Do you prefer to plot your story or just go with the flow?

I am definitely a “pantser” but there is always a skeleton of a plot that guides my writing. Currently, I am constrained by historical events as the redoubtable and slightly sardonic Gwenn, attempts to follow the early life of Gaius Julius Caesar. He has to go to Bythnia to secure a fleet from Nicomedes, and he has to be captured by pirates in the Aegean. All I have to do is write a plausible narrative as to why and how Gwenn goes with him. “All I have to do!”

What is your writing regime?

Hang on, “regime”? I’m just looking it up….

Oh, no. I don’t have one of those. Most days I will write two or three thousand words. More if somebody is being really stupid on Facebook. On a good day, more than half of those words will end up in my book. On a bad day they will all be on social media.

Sometimes I wake up at three in the morning with an idea that won’t wait. Other times, I will be writing at sic in the evening and not stop until well after midnight. Then I can go weeks stuck on a difficult part of the story. Fortunately, I also have other writing projects on the go. Sometimes I have two or three different stories open in Word and will dabble in all of them in the space of an hour or two.

What excites you the most about your book?

Umm, oh, err. Well, I’ve read it already, so I sort of know what happens now. I get more excited about other author’s books. Loving the Ruso series by Ruth Downie, and just getting into Troy by Ben Blake. But there are loads of fantastic books, I could go on to write a ridiculously long list.

If I had to pick something that really pleased me about my own book, I’d say the cover art by Iver Klingenberg, the cover design by Andy Jones, and the proof reading by Sarah Dawes. (Ha ha! Modest or what?) All local Devon and Somerset people. The printers are in Exeter as well, so yes, the very strong local team effort to produce it, is a big deal for me.

If you were stranded on a desert island with three other people, fictional or real, who would they be and why?

Captain Carrot Ironfoundsperson – for his indefatigable good humour and strength of character.

Leonardo Da Quirm – for his inventive genius.

Rincewind – because if he’s with me, at least I will know which way to run to avoid death

Anything else you’d like to share with us?

My little publishing imprint Blue Poppy Publishing is interested in teaming up with other self-publishing authors to try and create a sort of local co-operative publisher.
There is no money yet, and so it only applies to self-publishers who see a benefit to them of being under the Blue Poppy umbrella.

 blue-poppy-web

I am also the author of four short books for junior school (middle grade) readers.

tttlcovertn

The Time Tunnel series features the adventures of David Johnson who stumbles across a series of holes which allow him to visit different periods of history. The first two; “Time Tunnel to Londinium” and “Londinium Revisited” obviously look at Roman Britain, “Time Tunnel at the Seaside” visits World War Two, and “Time Tunnel to West Leighton” covers the Anglo Saxons. All these aim to cover aspects of Key-Stage Two school history, while also being enjoyable stories.

 lrcovertnttatsscovertn

More books are planned for the series, including “Time Tunnel to Ironbridge” which will look at Victorian England.

 

 

Links

www.bluepoppypublishing.co.uk

www.facebook.com/ollitooley

www.twitter.com/OTooleyAuthor

Bio

Oliver was born in London where he grew up next to a bombed out church.  At the time he never thought it odd that there was a world war two bomb site still there in 1965. He was usually described by teachers as brilliant but lazy, and they said he would forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on. After attempting to unscrew his own head, he decided that most teachers were stupid but bigger than him. It was long after leaving school that he found out he had undiagnosed mild autism.

He had always hated writing at school because he found holding a pen for longer than the time it took to write “Happy birthday, from Olli” was painful. In addition, he would almost invariably lose any homework before being able to submit it.

The advent of modern computers was a turning point; allowing him to write at length and not lose documents. His first ever paid writing job was a contribution to “The Great Explorers” Robin Hanbury-Tenison (Thames and Hudson) 978-0500251690

He now lives in Devon with his wife, four offspring, and a demented spaniel.

***

Thanks for a great interview Olli – love the Terry Pratchett choices for your desert island!

Happy reading,

Jenny 

 

Writing What I Know

By

On December 15, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Fiction

I’m delighted to welcome L A Berry to my place today. Why not grab a cuppa and put your feet up for five minutes, so you can read this excellent blog about how reality can shape fiction

Writing What I Know (or How Life Influences My Fiction Writing)

Thank you Jenny for inviting me to write a guest blog piece for your website today.

In the company of other writers and readers, we often discuss what inspires our storytelling. During November, I was with a group of four writers at a retreat in Shropshire and it was clear that each of us had in-depth knowledge and experiences that informed our writing. One focused his story on his life as an Asian child within a predominately-white British community and another was using the experiences of a relative within the mental health sector. The third writer was interested in the modern history narrative, drawing from her own memories and I enjoy writing about human strength, in particular what happen when a female character faces a threatening situation.

Silencio, my debut novel, is a suspense story set in Spain, narrated with Spanish characters, and based on real life events that took place during the mid to late 1900’s.

Writing tutors and experts instruct writers that it is best to write about something they know but most of us have not committed a crime, witnessed a murder or had a new-born baby stolen whilst in the Maternity Unit. I started writing this first full-length novel in 2011 after watching a BBC documentary on television about the Stolen Babies of Spain (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJJ7Pp_Zvvs). The investigative documentary introduced me to the background behind the baby trafficking of an estimated 300,000 babies in Spain during the Franco and immediate post-Franco periods.

I am an English woman, too old to worry about childbirth, and have not experienced the loss of an infant. How did I ensure that I wrote with authority and authenticity without the value of these experiences?

silencio-cover-2nd-copy

My Experiences

I am a Mum. My daughter may be in her 30’s but I remember holding her as a newly delivered baby – the colour of her skin, the warmth and smell of her body. The memory of the sleepless nights and leaping out of bed to run to her assistance having recognised her cry in a room full of other babies, will not be forgotten. My maternal intuition kicked in from the moment of conception, well before the morning sickness and the tickling of tiny feet inside of my womb. Even now that she is an adult, I sense when my daughter is in danger and needs my support.

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My previous employment was as a midwife and nurse. Every hospital has common features and my experiences of working in various hospitals allowed me to add detail to the hospital scenes in Silencio. It doesn’t matter that a Spanish hospital is different from one in the UK because this is a work of fiction and as long as the reader believes that the place could be real, he or she will not be distracted from the story. Having had experience of Spanish health care and hospitals, I can testify that there are more similarities than differences.

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Spain is my second home and I have lived there for a number of years, speak conversational Spanish, have travelled throughout the country, and have experienced life in a Spanish community.

cartoon3

However, I am English and was not brought up as a Spanish girl within a Catholic family. Not a problem, because as the saying goes I know a man who can or in this case, a young Spanish woman who was delighted to read and correct my work and give me an insight to the lives of her mother, her sisters, her fellow villagers, etc.

Mercedes, the main character in Silencio, is a journalist. I am not a journalist but I studied the subject at university many years ago, I read newspaper articles and I am lucky to know a young magazine journalist who gave me the benefit of her experience.

early-reading-of-the-news

Many readers have commented on the development of the love relationship and the passion between Mercedes and Orlando. Apparently, it is quite steamy and some of my daughter’s friends are shocked that Rachael’s mum ‘wrote this’. 25 years ago, I met my husband and I thought back to those early days and the excitement that a look or a brush of the fingers could stimulate. I remembered the heightened senses and the fear of commitment and tried to bring these to my writing.

Research  

During a three-year period, I researched background information for Silencio and most of it has not ended up in my novel. One of my pet hates as a reader is to read a research-led story instead of one that focuses on the characters and plot.

In addition to internet searches, books and library research, I tried to visit each of the places in my novel. I travelled on the public transport and ate in local cafes so that I absorbed the culture. This was important when writing about a country as large and diverse as Spain because the northern life is different to that of Madrid, and the society of the eastern coastal towns does not resemble that of the central plane. The clothing changes to suit the local climate and the locals socialise in different ways. Hearty foods of the north are too heavy for the warmer climates of the south. I changed a number of details after each research visit; for example, the men in a northern village play cards instead of dominos.

My novel-in-progress A Life on the Line takes place in 1961 between York and Scarborough.

york

Last summer I spent several weeks in the area as I surveyed the layout for detail and interviewed local people who remembered the period. In the York library, microfiche records of local press helped me to discover the products, trends and issues of that year and the library of the excellent National Railway Museum holds information and photos that add detail to the backstory.

Friends

There is a saying that goes something like this ‘be careful of what you tell a writer as you or it may end up in her next book’. None of my characters is based on a single person I know but each is a compilation of the characteristics of many people I have met. Mercedes, in Silencio, does not represent either of these two beautiful friends but she has the strength of one and the humour of the other. Without the people in my life, there would be no characters in my stories.

spanish-launch-partyuk-launch-party

 

 

 

 

 

It is time to finish this piece but if anyone wants to have a discussion about what influences their own writing, I would be delighted to hear about them in the comment box below. You can find out more information about my writing and research (including links to articles about baby trafficking and the Spanish stolen babies) at my website www.laberrynovels.org or visit my blog www.writelindy.wordpress.com.

Follow me on twitter @LABerryNovels or @writelindy

Like me on Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/silenciobylaberry

Silencio is available to purchase as a paperback through the following link or to order from any good book retailer  – ISBN 9781785890994

The EBOOK version of Silencio by LA Berry is available on all major ebook retail sites including Amazon, Ibook, Google play, Kobo, Nook – EISBN 9781785894732

***

Many thanks for such an excellent blog!

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

 

The Seven Ages of Writing

By

On December 9, 2016

In Blog, Historical fiction, Jennifer Ash, Jenny Kane

I’m delighted to be joined by fellow writer and historian, Janet Few today. Take a seat and enjoy this excellent blog about a life in writing.

Over to you Janet…

Early in 2016 I entered my seventh decade. Throughout all those years, words have skittered, swirling and whirling, dervish-like through my brain. Sometimes, they have made it from brain to paper, or, more recently, keyboard. Each of those seven decades has seen me embark on a new phase of writing. As a small child, I crafted Blytonesque adventure stories, populated with improbable numbers of characters and involving tortuous plots that were rarely resolved. My very early education was in an old-fashioned private school which encouraged ‘compositions’ scribed with a quaint, Victorian turns of phrase. I find stealthy reflections of this technique creeping into my writing still.

My teenaged years were characterised by angst-ridden prose, leavened with a smattering of blank verse. It is probably just as well that most of this never emerged from my graffiti- emblazoned notebooks. One ability that I did acquire as a school-girl was the facility for writing in very different styles. We had two English teachers. One was the archetypal ‘school marm’; bespectacled, with chunky ankles encased in lisle stockings and a bun scraped back from a moon-shaped face. Essays for Miss P*** were full of verbose language that verged on the Shakespearian and convoluted sentences in the dreaded passive voice. Her colleague was daringly modern. Miss S***, it transpired, even lived with her boyfriend. This was the early 1970s; we never did know how she slipped through the interviewing net of our ultra-conservative school. Work for her demanded snappy phrases and a contemporary vocabulary.

books

As a student, my output was circumscribed. Academic essays meant that fiction writing was consigned to a forgotten corner of my life. In pre-computer days, writing techniques were so very different. Cutting and pasting involved, quite literally, hacking pieces of paper into strips, arranging them in a suitable order and praying that no one created a draught before you had laboriously copied them out in the desired sequence. In my fourth decade, my life was filled with nappies, building-blocks and modelling clay; I barely had time to write a shopping list. Although I wrote little at this time, my writing garnered a new dimension. My husband died suddenly. He had worked away from home and we had exchanged lengthy letters. Unlike me, he had a dry and pithy, darkly humorous style. After his death I found that, unintentionally and by osmosis, this had, on occasions, become grafted on to my own.

Children grown and it was ‘me time’. So, in my forties, I embarked upon a PhD. As I hewed an 80,000 word thesis from the stony gleanings of my research, I sometimes doubted the wisdom of this endeavour. Magnum opus submitted, I went on a well deserved overseas trip. Strangely, as part of the re-acclimatisation process, I found myself unable to stop writing. This led to the first of a series of lengthy travel diaries, the later ones of which appear on my blog.

It is only comparatively recently that I have become a published author and my output is non-fiction evidence of both my academic leanings and a life long obsession with the past. I believe good history is for everyone. As The History Interpreter, I aim to bring history alive in a variety of ways. I am passionate about encouraging young people to become interested in the past, especially through living history or family history. I therefore shared many of my ideas in the booklet Harnessing the Facebook  Generation:  ideas for involving young people in family history and heritage. I spend part of my time as my alter ego, Mistress Agnes, living in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, managing the Swords and Spindles team of historical interpreters. My social history book Coffers, Clysters, Comfrey and Coifs: the lives of our seventeenth century ancestors, emerged out of this experience.

I enjoy dissecting small, rural communities and trying to understand how they functioned in the past; a branch of research that is known as a One-Place Study. I have written a guide to that peculiar blend of local and family history: Putting Your Ancestors in their Place. I also research my own family history, with an emphasis on putting the lives of my ancestors into a wider context. I am responsible for the latest edition of the classic family history handbook Family Historian’s Enquire Within. I am particularly interested in the role of women in the past. When I was writing Coffers, Clysters, I regretted that I did not know more about the lives of the ordinary women of the time and that I could not ask them questions. I thought that perhaps now was the time to capture the period 1946-1969, whilst there were still first hand accounts to work with. I recruited eighty lovely ladies and helped them to recall their memories of this pivotal period. These have been merged together in Remember Then: women’s memories of 1946-1969 and how to write your own.

Realistically, the change of direction that my writing has taken since my ‘big’ birthday earlier this year can scarcely be called a ‘mid-life’ crisis but it is certainly a watershed. I have been persuaded, after over forty years, to return to fiction writing. Unsurprisingly, the novel that I a working on does have an historical slant. It is based on the true story of a mother accused of killing her child and it unravels the psychological twists to characters who struggle with surprisingly modern anxieties. I do hope that it won’t take me the whole of my seventh decade to finish. My self-imposed deadline for publication is November 2018, which will be the centenary of the death of my heroine. Who knows what my eighth decade will bring?

Janet Few

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Janet’s website is The History Interpreter: resenting and preserving the past. She can be followed on Twitter @janetfew but beware, she has no idea where she is going.

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Wonderful blog! Thanks you Janet.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

End of Month Blog from Nell Peters: Considering November

By

On November 30, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction, Jenny Kane

It’s that time again! The end of the month means it’s time to hand over to my good friend Nell Peters (aka Anne Pohill Walton), for a romp through November. Get yourself comfy – you’ll want time to sit down and enjoy this.

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Only thirty-one days to the end of the year – yikes! Although many of us won’t be too sorry to see the back of 2016, as it’s been a sad and demoralizing year in many ways.

mork-mindyThose who have embraced the challenge of National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo (always makes me think of Mork and Mindy. Did you know that actor Mark Harmon – Jethro Gibbs in NCIS – is married to Pam Dawber, aka Mindy? Now you’ll be able to sleep at night …) have just hours left to clock up their target of 50,000 words. To achieve that total over thirty days, participants need to quit procrastinating on social media and bash out an average 1667 words a day, preferably in some sort of logical order – either as an opening to their novel or the completed work. This may seem a little on the stunted side, but The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Brave New World, and The Great Gatsby are all novels of approx 50K words.

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Started in July 1999 by Chris Baty, with twenty-one participants in the San Francisco Bay area, the NaNo project was moved to November the following year to take place during the cooler season, when writers wouldn’t be distracted by the need to swat mosquitoes, prance around in embarrassing beach wear, slather themselves in suntan lotion, go for a dip (leaving oily slicks of suntan gloop in their wake), or eat copious amounts of ice cream to cool off. NaNo has since evolved into a huge annual global experience – let’s all listen out for the collective sigh at 23.59 hours.

November is also the month to grow a sponsored moustache for Movember, raising funds for research into prostate cancer and to generally boost awareness for men’s improved health. I guess it’s predominantly a male thing, but hey – it’s for charity, ladies, so you could always knit a moustache or go all Blue Peter and fashion one out of sticky-backed plastic. #3 son takes part every year, although I suspect it’s so he has a legitimate excuse not to shave for a month (he doesn’t worry about the tache thing, just gradually morphs into his stubbly tramp persona as the days go by.)

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While males with mature follicles cultivate whiskers to fundraise nowadays, in America during the mid-to-late 19th century, they had a very different reason for growing facial adornments during November – which, as we all know only too well, is election month over the pond. As visual confirmation that they were old enough to vote, ‘virgin voters’ or ‘twenty-onesters’ (the age of majority at that time being twenty-one) would grow ‘facial foliage’, to prove they were adults and not mere ‘beardless boys’ – and were therefore entitled to scrawl their X in the box. Apparently the registration of births was an extremely random affair in those days, varying a lot from city to city and state to state – quite handy for identity theft and other things criminal.

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At least the good folk at the Movember Foundation don’t turn a hair (sorry!) about how the money is raised, unlike some. I’ve contributed to two charity anthologies recently – the first a collection of horror/scary short stories (though mine wasn’t really either!) written in aid of Save the Children … except that after everyone was on board and a great deal of blood, sweat and tears had been spilt by the organisers, the charity decided it wasn’t something they wanted to sully their name with by association. They magnanimously agreed to take the money, though, as long as the book was advertised as benefitting ‘an international children’s charity’. Some of the authors – me included – ignored those precious corporate protestations and still flogged it for S t C. How fussy do you think the children who will gain are about the genre of stories in a book sold to get money to provide them with food, shelter, blankets, inoculations etc?

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The second anthology features crime and thriller shorts and was originally intended to equally benefit UNICEF and Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital. Guess what? First one, then the other decided the genre was unsuitable for their image. What? Again, huge amounts of work had gone into getting the project together before they dropped their ‘thanks, but no thanks’ bombshells. This insane scenario was repeated with other charitable bodies (who don’t appear to be that charitable) – who would have thought it would be so hard to give away money, with no strings attached, to worthy causes? I despair. Meanwhile, there was a release date set for 13th December and a launch party in London, all arranged and paid for by the authors, on the 17th. Eventually, a small, localised charity in Hampshire and a national organisation, Hospice UK, decided we weren’t actually too bad after all …

churchill-dogThis day in 1874, Winston Churchill was born in Blenheim Palace – I wonder how he’d feel about his illustrious name being taken in vain by an insurance company fronted by an annoying cartoon dog? Winston would have been 142 years old – that’s even older than Rolling Stone Keith Richards! (I was actually quite surprised to learn that Keith is only just coming up to his seventy-third birthday in December, because he seems to have been rocking {sorry again!} the pickled walnut look for some decades. You’d think he could afford a vat of anti-wrinkle cream?) There are many memorable Churchill quotes, but the one that might resonate with struggling authors is, ‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.’ Or maybe even more so, ‘Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.’ OK, if neither of those grab you, how about simply this; ‘Never, never, never give up.’ He possibly didn’t think that one up himself …

Before Winston’s father, Randolph, was even a twinkle in Pater’s eye, Samuel Langhorne Clemens entered this world in 1835. Unfortunately, his own father died prematurely and Samuel was forced to leave education to work in the print industry. Aged seventeen, he moved to St Louis to take a printer’s job, and while there became a river pilot’s apprentice, gaining his licence 1858. Samuel’s pseudonym, Mark Twain, comes from those days as a pilot – it’s a term meaning the water is two fathoms or 12-feet deep when sounded, and so it is safe for a vessel to navigate. I imagine Winston C would have known that, having been – amongst so many other things – First Lord of the Admiralty.

mark-twain

One hundred and thirty-one years after Mark Twain, another writer chose this as his birthday in 1966 – and (silly Billy) missed England winning the FIFA World Cup by a good few weeks! Step forward David Nicholls to answer your starter for ten – name at least four of the footie squad who beat Germany at Wembley. OK, ignore me!  I bet you could name ex-footballer Gary Lineker, though? He also shares your birthday, born in 1960.

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David Nicholls was hatched on the very same day as funny man John Bishop and they are both (as the mathematically-inclined amongst you will have twigged) clocking up their half-century. Happy Big 5-0 birthday, guys! I wonder if either agrees with Twain’s sentiments, ‘Write without pay, until someone offers to pay.’ I’d hazard a wild guess, though, that Bishop got a pretty healthy advance for his autobiography, so didn’t have to worry about that – lucky thing. By the way, only one of the birthday celebrants is on my list of FB ‘friends’ – maybe I’ll give you a clue one day, but for now suffice to say it’s not Winston Churchill.

Strange that not one of the folk mentioned was called after Andrew, patron saint of Scotland – also of Cyprus, Greece, Romania, Russia, Ukraine, Bulgaria, the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople, San Andres Island (Colombia) and St Andrew (Barbados). My, he and his sporran got around. In 2006, St. Andrew’s Day was designated an official bank holiday by the Scottish Parliament and it’s also been a national holiday in Romania since 2015. Which rather begs the question, what is St George’s Day on April 23rd to the English, chopped liver?

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In Scotland, and many countries with tartan connections, 30th November is marked with a celebration of Scottish culture and traditional Scottish food, music and dance – Highland Fling, anyone? It is the start of a season of winter festivals, including Hogmanay and then Burns Night, when you can knock yourself out with haggis, neeps and tatties – or not – and sink a few wee drams. Edinburgh holds a week of celebrations, concentrating on musical entertainment and traditional ceilidh dancing (a ceilidh being a bun fight with couples or sets of six or eight people dancing in circles. Especially after those few wee drams.) In Glasgow city centre, a public shindig with traditional music (bagpipes ahoy!) and a ceilidh is held – is that song Donald Where’s Your Troosers by Andy Stewart a tradition, I wonder? Hopefully not.

reindeer-socksRight – I’ve prattled on for long enough. I opened by saying there are just thirty-one days left to the end of the year, but that glosses over the big C; Christmas. In our house it’s an annual triple whammy, with our anniversary (thirty years? How can that be when I am only twenty-one?) on 23rd, #4 son’s birthday on Christmas Eve and the big day on 25th, with a houseful as usual. Since I won’t be here again before you all sit down to eat, drink and be merry, pretending to be the overjoyed recipient of musical reindeer socks from Great Aunt Aggie (again), I’ll wish you Happy Christmas and resist the temptation to bah-humbug about the whole ridiculous affair, that has got completely out of hand through overt commercialisation. There were Christmas cards in shops before the children went back to school, for goodness sake! And if I never hear Slade again, it will be far too soon.

slade

Toodles!

NP                      Author.to/NellPeters

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Thanks again! Another brilliant blog-wonderful!!

Happy reading,

Jenny xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guest Post by Jo Bartlett: A Proper Family Christmas

By

On November 28, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, Fiction

I’m delighted to be joined by fellow Accent author, Jo Bartlett. Today, she is thinking Christmas.

Over to you Jo…

A Proper Family Christmas

I wonder if you’ve got a picture already conjured up in your head when you read that title? Is your family Christmas like the squabbling brother and sister who eventually come good in the new M&S advert, or is the dog the number one priority in your house, as John Lewis depicts? Or perhaps it’s such a unique family dynamic that no advertiser has ever managed to represent a family like yours at Christmas.

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Growing up, there was plenty of squabbling in the house between me and my sister.  Less than two years apart in age, we had a love/hate relationship and presents had to be duplicated to ensure that we didn’t come to blows over whose turn it was to give Tiny Tears her never ending bottle. Looking back it was a fairly traditional family set up, we had an older sister and brother who came home for Christmas too and extended family who we got together with over the festive season.

Fast forward over thirty years and many families are scattered across wider geographical distances, and the ability to use technology to interact with friends and loved ones perhaps means we don’t make as much effort as we could to see people face to face. Perhaps the biggest change, though, is what family *looks* like. The days of a family simply equalling mum, dad and 2.4 children is as outdated as the Sodastream which made us feel so cutting edge back in those 1980s’ Christmases of my youth.

I love exploring the dynamics of family life and the relationships which make a house a home, something that always seems to be a theme of my books. St Nicholas Bay is a fictional seaside town on the Kent coast, where rumour has it that Charles Dickens penned A Christmas Carol.  In ‘The Gift of Christmas Yet to Come’, which is set in St Nicholas Bay, the plot explores perhaps the greatest love story of all – adoption. It’s also about how the best of friends can become as close as family and that the family you end up with isn’t always the one you expect. The heroine’s journey to motherhood was partly inspired by a true story and the childhood friend to whom the book is dedicated.

I’m part of a jigsaw family, as we’re called, made up of birth children and step-children and I truly wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ve included a picture here from when my children were younger and I made them all pose like this for a family Christmas card – we laugh about it together now and they’ve forgiven me for being such an embarrassing mum and stepmum, like families do. Perhaps it’s this that draws me back to telling stories about families who might never feature in a Christmas advertisement, but who know that being a family is about so much more than genetics.

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However, you spend your Christmas this year, I hope it’s surrounded by the people you love – your family – whatever that might look like.

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‘The Gift of Christmas Yet to Come’ is priced at just 99p and is available here – http://tinyurl.com/glxkdu3

‘Somebody Else’s Boy’ is a St Nicholas Bay novel and is reduced for one week only from £2.99 to 99p and is available here – http://tinyurl.com/gt3dusg

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Jo Bartlett is an author and lecturer who lives with her husband and four children, in a part of Kent that’s so close to south east corner of England that they’re almost French.

You can find out more about Jo on her website at jobartlettauthor.com or via Twitter @J_B_writer

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Thanks ever so much for such a great blog Jo.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

Coffee at Christmas: Jenny Kane’s Christmas Collection is OUT NOW!

By

On November 17, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, Fiction, Jenny Kane

Today I’m in festive mood with news of the release of my festive triple bill

Jenny Kane’s Christmas Collection!

Comprising of my three previously published novella length sequels to my debut novel, Another Cup of Coffee (- Another Cup of Christmas, Christmas at the Cotswolds, Christmas at the Castle – ), Jenny Kane’s Christmas Collection is available in both e-book format – and will be available as a paperback very soon!

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Blurb for the Jenny Kane Christmas Collection-

There is something very special about Christmas…

Jenny Kane’s Christmas Collection combines all three seasonal shorts from Jenny’s best-selling Another Cup of … series in one festive anthology.

In ‘Another Cup of Christmas’, we return to Pickwicks Coffee House in London, the setting for Jenny’s bestselling novel Another Cup of Coffee. Together with old friends Kit, Amy, Scott and Peggy, we meet new Pickwicks waitress Megan, who’s in charge of organising a charity event for the local hospital…is romance as well as seasonal goodwill in the air?

‘Christmas in the Cotswolds’ sees Megan, now an established face at Pickwicks, travelling to the beautiful Cotswold countryside after an emergency call from her friend Izzie. Can Megan help Izzie pull off the perfect Christmas at her Arts and Crafts Centre – and save the business from disaster?

Kit Lambert, Pickwicks’ writer-in-residence, takes centre stage in ‘Christmas at the Castle’. Already nervous about appearing at her very first literary festival, in the grounds of a magnificent Scottish castle at Christmas time, Kit suddenly finds herself co-organising the whole thing – and trying to repair old friendships – with the deadline fast approaching…

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Each novella is deliberately short, so that you can fit a peaceful moments reading into your busy Christmas preparation schedule. Either Another Cup of Christmas, Christmas at the Cotswolds, or Christmas at the Castle, can be easily consumed in one delicious ginger and nutmeg flavoured mouthful at a time!

You can still buy each story as a separate e-book, but now you can buy them in one book as well-

Amazon UK- https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jenny-Kanes-Christmas-Collection-Short-ebook/dp/B01M0ICD7A/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1474386377&sr=8-2&keywords=jenny+kane%27s+christmas+collection

Amazon.com-  https://www.amazon.com/Jenny-Kanes-Christmas-Collection-Short-ebook/dp/B01M0ICD7A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1474387008&sr=8-1&keywords=jenny+kane%27s+christmas+collection

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To celebrate the release of my Pickwick’s festive package, here’s the very beginning of Another Cup of Christmas…

December 4th 2012

Having politely escaped her third ‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ conversation of the day, Megan Johnson was retreating back to the counter when she spotted Pickwicks’ most regular customer sit up from her work and brush a stray red hair from her eyes.

Knowing it had been at least half an hour since Kit’s caffeine addiction had been attended to, the waitress swiped up the percolator jug and headed in her direction.

Without bothering to ask if it was required, Megan poured the steaming liquid with practised care, before taking advantage of the lull in Christmas shopping trade, and sitting down opposite her friend. ‘Going OK?’

Swivelling the laptop round to face Megan, Kit rubbed the back of her neck, ‘I’m sure I’ve missed something. What do you think?’

Pickwicks Festive Fundraiser!

Spoil Yourself With An Afternoon of Pickwicks’ Finest Festive Fare.

 In Aid of the Royal Free Hospital’s Spinal Ward.

Saturday 22nd December from 2pm.

Deluxe Buffet And Festive Fundraising Fun!

Tickets are ONLY £25 per person

Don’t miss out!

Book your place at Pickwicks Coffee Shop, Richmond – NOW!!

Megan scanned the poster. ‘Oh, that’s fabulous! I thought you were writing your latest novel.’

‘To tell you the truth, that’s exactly what I should be doing, but Peggy asked me to do some publicity for the fundraiser and I thought I’d better get on with it. Time seems to be dissolving. It’ll be the 22nd before we know it.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Megan started to collect the dishes left by a couple who’d just vacated a nearby table. ‘The next three weeks are going to fly by.’

‘Two and a half weeks!’

‘Oh, hell! Really?’

‘That’s why I want to get these done; otherwise everyone will be too booked up with their own celebrations to have time to come.’ Gesturing towards the kitchen, Kit asked, ‘How’s Scott doing out there, or shouldn’t I ask?’

Megan’s permanent smile widened further across her lightly freckled face. ‘He’s amazing. I have no idea how he does it. The temperature in that kitchen is tropical, and yet Scott’s still beaming that massive toothy grin of his. I’m seriously beginning to think he is physically unable to stop cooking! Surely he must have pre-prepared as much as he can for the fundraiser by now?’

Kit nodded. ‘He probably has, but Peggy is getting paranoid there won’t be enough food.’ Glancing around, checking that Megan wasn’t needed by a customer for a moment, Kit pointed to a fresh pile of abandoned cups. ‘If I clear those, will you have a proper read of the poster? I’m sure I’ve missed something obvious but I can’t put my finger on it?’

Kit was already standing up and taking a tray from Megan’s hands before the waitress said, ‘On one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘I can check my emails? I’m supposed to be liaising with the hospital about this for Peggy, but we’ve been so busy over the last few days I haven’t had time to see if Nick has got back to me about how many of the ward staff are coming.’

‘Nick?’

Megan silently cursed her inability to prevent the involuntary warm pink blush that hit her pale cheeks, ‘Yeah, he’s the admin guy for the ward that cared for Scott after his accident.’

‘Nice, is he?’ Kit gently teased the petite blonde waitress, wondering, not for the first time, why someone as kind and pretty as Megan hadn’t been snapped up years ago.

‘I’ve never met him, but he seems friendly. Well, he does via email and over the phone at least.’

‘You’ve spoken to him then?’

‘There are loads of things to sort out.’ Megan, knowing that the crush she’d developed on Nick’s Irish accent was utterly ridiculous, turned her full attention to the poster on the screen before her…

***

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I hope that snippet has tempted you into taking a look at my coffee loving, friendship enhancing, romance brewing, mulled wine sipping, stories.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny xx

PS – These Christmas tales come before the novel, Another Glass of Champagne in the Another Cup of series…

AGOC

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