According to the UK weather professionals, the spring of 2011 was unusually hot. I sat in the school hall with hundreds of my classmate’s scratching answers onto sheets of paper that the exam invigilator had thrust at me, wishing that I had been allocated a table near the windows to gain some respite from the cloying heat. Usually this hall buzzed with noise, but today it was quiet with only the sound of faraway traffic permeating the air. GCSE Maths was the exam most of us dreaded. Two hours of sheer pressure in the guise of arithmetic and mind boggling equations. It was my least favourite subject, but one which I needed to pass if I was going to progress onto the teacher training course at university. The career my parents were sure I would excel at.
As I turned the pages, sweat ran in rivulets down my face. I looked away from the student next to me whose fingers were shaking and tried to focus my mind on Trigonometry. A sudden scrape had the entire hall’s attention, a sobbing girl sprinted towards the exit like an escapee from Dante’s Hell. A boy in the line adjacent to me bent over his desk and threw up over the polished floor. He looked like the actor from that film I loved about teenage delinquents. A Clockwork Orange, that was the one. His hair was sticking up and his uniform was a mess. I thought the deputy head was going to bawl at him when he trotted over in his pinstripe suit, but he just patted his back and took him outside. The clock ticked round and I found myself wishing I was anywhere but here. I clutched the pencil tight and slashed the exam paper with one word: help!
Two hours and twenty minutes later I found myself in Super Savers supermarket, wearing the awful green uniform as my role of shelf stacker. Ronnie my colleague, and the girl I’d been secretly fantasising over for months, put her hand on my shoulder and gave me a consoling pat.
‘I’m sure you’ve passed,’ she said with exaggerated cheeriness. ‘You’re like sooooo clever.’ She leant across me and shoved a pile of Digestive biscuits onto the two for one display. Her closeness made my cheeks flush.
‘Thanks for the optimism but there’s more chance of me joining the SAS than passing Maths.’ I hadn’t told her about my exam paper graffiti meltdown. It belonged in the past, a bad memory, a rebellious blip in my usual compliant façade. All I was currently interested in was hotfooting it home and locking myself in my computer room with a tub of salty popcorn and the satisfaction of blasting a few hundred baddies. I looked at my phone and sighed at the seventh text message from my mum. Her and Dad were more interested in my education than I was. At first they’d envisioned me as a doctor or a vet. We’d settled on an English teacher mainly because I liked the idea of the long summer holidays, but I certainly didn’t feel it was my vocation. I felt neither joy or excitement at the prospect, but what else could a teenager who loved reading classics and playing Zombie Apocalypse do?
I diverted my attention to stare through the shop window where a group of pigeons were squabbling over rancid food. A homeless guy was sprawled against the window, crooning and wafting a can of strong lager in the air. Most of the customers were giving him a wide berth, apart from one woman who almost decapitated his legs with an out of control shopping trolley. My life could be worse, I thought, I could be him.
‘Watch out,’ Ronnie whispered, her breath hot against my ear. ‘Ted’s heading your way.’ Ted was the store manager; an American born bodybuilder who professed to once being a marine. Ronnie and I called him ‘Testosterone Ted’ on account of his bulging muscles and his self declared status as an alpha male. He swaggered up the detergent aisle, preening and flashing his dazzling teeth to the customers and female staff. When he saw me he grimaced.
‘Jakey boy,’ he said in his condescending tone that he seemed to reserve for me. ‘I noticed you were five minutes late. Everything okay?’
‘I had an exam,’ I replied with shrug. ‘Then the bus was full so I had to wait for another.’
‘You and your books,’ he fiddled with his thin tie. I wondered what it would feel like to strangle him with it. ‘Why don’t you join my gym? The chicks are hot man. They love a man with muscles,’ he flexed one upper arm as an example. I stifled back a derisory snort and diverted my attention to a woman who was losing her temper with a wailing toddler.
Ted was still talking. ‘Never bothered with school myself but I could kill a man with my bare hands,’ he executed a karate chop. ‘Bet you couldn’t do that. Jakey boy.’ I breathed a sigh of relief when he sauntered off.
‘What an arse,’ Ronnie mouthed, swinging her arms in an ape like movement. Her ridicule of management made me like her even more.
Ten minutes before closing Ted sent me to stock up the fruit and veg section. I emptied the boxes as fast as possible, throwing armfuls of organic cucumbers onto the shelves. By now the sky was dark and the last few customers had left the supermarket. I could see Ted strutting to the door with his keys. Kelly the weed addicted cleaner was mopping the floor by my feet. I thought I was going to get high, just from the stench of her. Suddenly an orange hit my backside, rolling at my feet. I turned to see Ronnie grinning.
‘Oi,’ I said, picking it up and throwing it back at her. ‘That’s harassment that is.’
I pulled a handful of grapes out of a bag and pelted them in her direction, she ducked and they splattered on the floor.
‘I’ve just bleedin’ cleaned there,’ complained Kelly.
‘Sorry.’ I looked past Kelly to grin at Ronnie who was dancing to the cheesy eighties music emanating from the vibrating speakers. I could hear shouting coming from the entrance of the store and wondered if the drunk homeless guy was causing trouble. Then Ronnie stopped, she looked scared and I turned to see what she was staring at. Ted was backing away from the door, his hands held aloft. I peered around the newspaper stand to see a figure in a black striding inside.
‘Hey we’re closing,’ I shouted, wondering why the heck Ted had let him in. The man spun to face me, his arm jerked upright, before a deafening boom filled the air.
‘Get down,’ screamed Ronnie.
I fell to the floor, banging my chin on the cold tiles. Kelly was still holding her mop, her face a picture of bewilderment. Another boom resounded, the shattering of glass, hysterical screams filled the air. Ronnie was on the floor opposite me, splayed like a starfish.
‘That dude’s got a gun,’ mouthed Kelly. I had the hysterical urge to applaud her for stating the bleeding obvious.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I whispered. I’d seen a shooting on the news the other day, but that was in America! That kind of stuff didn’t happen in jolly old Britain.
‘He’s probably just after booze and fags,’ Kelly said, as if reading my mind. She was obviously used to madmen with guns running about her neighbourhood but I’d led a cossetted middle class life, thank you very much.
‘What shall we do?’ Whispered Kelly.
‘You stay here, I’m going to see what’s happening.’
I crouched onto my knees and scurried to the end of the aisle. I could hear Ronnie hissing at me to come back but adrenaline was flowing through my veins and I had the overwhelming urge to intervene.
I bobbed my head above the row of Coffeemate and peered towards the sounds of shouting. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of Ted on his knees begging for his life. Tears were streaming down his face; his hands were pressed together in a prayer motion. The other guy was towering over him, his body language threatening. I swallowed when I saw him point the gun at Ted’s face. I had to act, I thought decisively. I wasn’t going to be a passive witness to Ted’s murder. I had to do something.
‘Hey,’ I yelled, standing to my full six foot two height. On legs that felt like jelly, I slowly walked towards the gunman.
‘Get back.’ He aimed the gun at me. I heard the click and imagined it to be the release of a safety catch. In another minute my foolish action was going to get me killed.
‘I’m warning you. I will shoot.’
I looked the man up and down, he was smaller than me, slim build. I reckon I could overpower him, but I had to keep on moving and show no fear.
‘Put down the gun.’ I said, keeping eye contact. ‘If you shoot him you’re going to be stuck in a cell for a long time man.’
‘Why should I?’ He snarled, spit flying from his mouth. ‘He’s been screwing my wife. Two years, behind my back. They were going to run away, take my daughter with them. So now you know why.’
‘I’d be pretty pissed too,’ I acknowledged. ‘That’s a shit thing to do to someone,’ I looked past him to my still blubbering manager and briefly wondered why he wasn’t using his skills as a former ex-marine. ‘But if you shoot him then you’ll never see your daughter again.’
I was so close now I could the man’s eye twitch and doubt flicker across his face.
‘You’re going to destroy your own life and your daughter’s too.’ I said with calm conviction. ‘How’s she going to cope knowing her dad’s a murderer. Give me the gun’ I held out my hands. The subsequent tense silence was broken by the sound of a police siren.
‘Shit!’ The man began pacing. ‘What have I done.’
‘It’s not too late to give yourself in.’
‘What about him?’ He cocked his head at Ted who was cowering on the floor.
‘I think you owe this man an apology,’ I shouted.
‘S-sorry. I’m sorry.’ Wailed Ted.
The man stopped pacing. I walked closer. ‘Give me the gun. Please.’
He looked at me, staring straight into my eyes. I squashed down the fear and waited.
‘I’m not a bad person,’ the man said, his face drooped with sadness. ‘I love my wife. I just…’
‘I know,’ I nodded my understanding. ‘You’ve been pushed to the brink and you’ve snapped.’
‘Here,’ he pushed the gun into my hands and I threw it out of reach. ‘Tell them I’m sorry.’
The next moment a group of armed police burst into the supermarket. The gunman and I were tackled to the ground, him shouting for his wife and me protesting my innocence. Once we’d been handcuffed we were pulled to our feet and manhandled to the doorway. Outside it looked like a scene from a cops and robber’s film; armed police crouched on the ground and a helicopter hovered above us. Someone must have informed the press because cameras began flashing. And that was the last time I set foot in that supermarket ever again.
THREE MONTHS LATER
I stood in the school hall, my exam results in one hand and Ronnie’s warm hand in the other. All around me students were either celebrating or crying with disappointment. She leaned into me, kissing my lips softly.
‘You’re a winner whatever the results.’
I smiled down at her. ‘Let’s get outta here,’ we stepped outside into sweltering August heat.
‘Don’t you want to know if you’ve passed maths?’ She enquired, looking at me with her head cocked to one side.
‘Nope.’ I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of cut grass and summer flowers. ‘University’s not for me. I want a life of action and adventure. I’m enrolling for the army and maybe one day I’ll join the SAS after all.’
I picked Ronnie up, her laughter rang high into the air.
‘My hero,’ she squealed.
As I left the school grounds I thought about how my life had changed since the supermarket incident. The newspapers were touting me as a hero but I was just an ordinary guy who’d kept a level head during a frightening incident. Now-a-days I feel positive about myself and confident in my abilities. All the insecurities and worries have faded away and I’m making my own life decisions. My initiation into adulthood had all started that day I’d become, an accidental hero.
Good morning all! Hope you are all well and prepared for Christmas.
2022 is almost over and a new year with new opportunities is waiting for you 🙂
Hope this year has been a good one for you.
I’ve almost finished my tenth novel, which is a Christmas rom-com called ‘Returning Home For Christmas.’ I have about another 10,000 words to write. So in the new year I’ll be busy editing it and then submitting it out in the big, wide world.
It’s the middle of August 2022 and I haven’t posted on my blog for a while. I hope you are all okay and enjoying the summer. It’s been a hot year for us in the UK, we’ve had little rain, but it’s getting cooler from next week onwards.
I’ve been on holiday to beautiful Crete where I had the inspiration for a YA novel. It’s been added to my to be written list. I’ve also enrolled for year 2 of my Master’s in Creative Writing degree, and am looking forward to studying again.
I’m currently halfway through a Christmas rom-com which I’m loving writing. I’m hoping to finish it by the start of the academic term at the beginning of October.
Q1. Tell me about yourself – biography, career, likes, dislikes, hobbies etc…anything you would like to share about yourself? Any fun, interesting facts? Please insert a photograph if possible.
I’m an Australian author and I live in a beachside suburb of Adelaide, the capital city of South Australia. We have great beaches, wonderful wine regions, and a flourishing arts community, and I take full advantage of having them within easy reach. I grew up in a country area just outside of Melbourne. My family moved around a lot hence I lived on a horse farm, a dairy farm, and a sheep farm before we finally settled on a small acreage with goats, loganberries, and fruit trees. My school holidays were spent picking fruit, mostly cherries, for pocket money (although I didn’t earn much, I tended to eat more than I put in the basket resulting in a few tummy aches.)
I had the usual casual jobs growing up; babysitting, working at a dog kennel, shop assistant, and even working in an electronics factory welding the gold connections onto transistor chips. That required looking down a telescope to see the minute transistor patterns.
After a short gap, I went on to tertiary studies and my first degree was a Bachelor of Science, Chemistry. A few years later I gained a Graduate Diploma in Education. I worked in several different government departments and my long public service career spanned roles as diverse as Management Trainer, Team Facilitator, Statistician and Laboratory Assistant. After retiring I studied creative writing at Adelaide University and pursued my dream to write a novel.
Since then I have published two novels, Lethal Legacy (2022) and my debut, Deadly Secrets (2020), and I’ve had my short stories appear in the UK anthology ‘When Stars Will Shine’, the Australian anthology ‘Fledglings’, the Canadian Scarlet Leaf Review Magazine, and in the UK Writers’ and Readers’ Magazine
Besides writing, my passion for travelling and discovering new places means I have visited many fabulous countries and cities around the world. I keep a daily travel journal and take copious photos, many of which inspire scenes for my stories. I’m an avid theatre-goer and subscribe to the Adelaide State Theatre company. I enjoy art exhibitions and galleries and of course, I love to read. In March each year, I take full advantage of the Adelaide Writers’ festival to discover new authors and to hear my favourites.
Q2. Can you tell me about your work – what have you written, what is it about, what type of genre is it?
My new novel, Lethal Legacy, is a conspiracy mystery thriller. The heroine is an ordinary woman who uncovers an extraordinary conspiracy. There is mystery, drama, and suspense.
It is available in eBook format from 8 April (the paperback will be available soon after.
Laura’s life is plunged into turmoil when her husband, Tom, dies suddenly. On that same night, an intruder steals files from his home office. He’d been researching his previous employer’s Iraqi operations but hadn’t shared his concerns with Laura. Why would anyone want his notes?
Turning a blind eye won’t protect her.
Learning Tom’s death could be murder, Laura takes matters into her own hands. She’s fifty-nine but it’s not too late to turn amateur sleuth. She uncovers a dark mystery, a deadly conspiracy involving organised crime and corruption. Powerful people will kill to silence their enemies, but who can she trust?
Silence won’t keep her safe.
Q3. Can you tell me about your writing process e.g do you prefer to plan or write spontaneously, favourite writing times, pen or computer, how long do you spend writing?
I’m a planner, although it’s only a loose guide. I need to know where the story is going and what the key points are. I often have the beginning and end scenes clear in my mind but need to flesh out what happens in the middle.
I use various techniques to identify the main elements, my favourite is the sun-burst diagram. My novels have multi-layered plots so the sunburst diagram helps to tease out all the threads, develop the sequence, and ensure the story ties together.
Once the writing starts, my imagination kicks in. The plan is the skeleton, but new ideas and flashes of inspiration add flesh to the story. I create a table to keep track of details of each chapter, such as, the purpose, information, key characters, and clues. During rewriting I sometimes change the order of chapters, so it’s critical to keep track of what clues appear where.
I write when I have time. Before Covid, I enjoyed writing at one of my local cafés twice a week. I’d write long-hand, sipping a coffee (or two) and the noise and chatter around me never disturbed me. Funnily, at home, I can’t even have the radio on. Typing up the hand-written scribbles formed the first of many edits. Now-a-days, the café isn’t an option, and I write at my (very messy at the moment) desk. I still write some of the first draft by hand, but more and more, I’m entering my ideas straight into the laptop. Handwriting still encourages my more creative thinking and feels less linear than typing into a computer.
Q4. What inspires you? How do you come up with your ideas?
I collect newspaper clippings and read non-fiction books on topics that interest me. Paying attention to current issues and the politics of our time sets off my imagination. ‘What if?’ questions generate plot ideas. I’m inquisitive and am fascinated by how rhetoric and spin are used by those wanting to wield influence. Once I start writing, my imagination runs away with me and the plot grows and takes interesting twists which sometimes surprise me too.
Q5. How long does it take you to write a book?
Lethal Legacy is my second book. I had a couple of scenes written before I published Deadly Secrets but I wrote it over about 18 months. Deadly Secrets took me much longer, but it was my debut, and I was learning how to craft a novel at the same time as writing.
I’m a slow writer (I’m a slow reader too) and I’m hoping that my next book will take less time again. We’ll see.
Q6. Favourite part of writing a book / least favourite part?
I love being immersed in a new storyline, developing the characters and the plot elements. The story is like a movie in my head. I hear the dialogue, and see the characters in action, although I’m more aware of their personalities than their physical characteristics. It’s an exhilarating process.
I also enjoy the research. My natural curiosity about all manner of things means I have to be careful not to get lost researching and forget to write. The overflowing pile of reference material and newspaper clippings can be overwhelming.
I don’t enjoy the self-editing as much, but I do enjoy the result. It takes a lot of concentration to focus on the detail and getting it ‘just so’, but it’s worth it.
Q7. Favourite character and why? From your own work.
That’s like asking which one of my children is my favourite.
I love my protagonists. Both Laura and Shelley are reluctant heroines, who realise they have a greater strength than they at first realised. They are conscientious and willing to stand up for what is right.
I have been surprised by how much I enjoy writing the antagonists or villains. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I love getting inside their heads and trying to discover their motivation and driving factors. I don’t ‘like’ them but I ‘like’ that they feel real.
Q8. How did you break into publishing?
I self-published. My books don’t fit neatly into traditional genres. They are political thrillers but don’t have FBI, CIA, or law-enforcement officers as the heroes. There are no shoot outs or car chases, the heroines are ordinary people, and Laura in Lethal Legacy, is fifty-nine years old. It does make promoting my novels harder, but I’m happy to put in the effort.
I enjoyed the process of self-publishing my debut novel, Deadly Secrets. I like having creative control and after learning so much about building my own website, marketing and promotion, and preparing a manuscript, I felt confident I could apply it successfully to self-publishing Lethal Legacy. I still aim for a professional result and Amanda, from Let’s Get Booked, edits and formats my novels and designs my covers and I think she does a fabulous job.
I didn’t submit Lethal Legacy to any publishers. I preferred to publish it myself.
Q9. How do you market your books?
It’s a never-ending learning process. It’s fortunate that I enjoy learning. Promotion and marketing are totally different to anything I’ve ever done, and with the pandemic, things changed. I learned a lot from my first novel. I use Facebook, Instagram, and paid Amazon Ads. My local bookshops have been very supportive and thanks to guest blogs, thank you Julia Sutton, I’m getting some exposure.
Now that the Covid restrictions have eased, I’ve added author talks and local markets to my marketing arsenal.
Q10. What is the strangest thing you have ever had to research?
My internet research history is scary. I’ve delved into the Iraqi war, drug trade, poisons and dangerous drugs, mining activities, weapons inspections, oil refining processes, and political scandals. I sat in court observing the trial of four bikie gang members charged with kidnapping, assault, and belonging to an illegal organisation. It was fascinating to watch the process from beginning to end (although I didn’t go every day) and to observe the jury, judge, the accused, their family members, and barristers in action. I chatted to other observers (often law students) and some of the police officers who were following the trial. I filled an entire notebook with notes. All that research, yet it only added contextual information in my latest book.
Although not strange, I use anecdotes from my travel experiences in my stories and my website features photos from my own travels that have inspired scene locations. It’s fun to go back over old photos to remember a place, or delve into my travel diary to remind myself of a location I’m trying to capture in words.
Q11. Any tips for new / aspiring authors?
If you want to write, my advice is to make the time and start writing.
Don’t fret about the prose, the first draft is getting the story components down on paper (or in your computer). I call my first drafts a brain dump and I’d never show them to anyone. It’s a starting point.
Learn as much as you can about the craft of storytelling,
Get feedback once you’re ready, and
be prepared to write, rewrite, edit, and produce numerous versions before you’re finished.
Q12. Do you think writing is an innate gift or something which can be learned?
I think good writing can be learned. It’s the dedication and desire or passion which is innate. Some people have a natural story telling gift, but like with any endeavour, it’s what you do with your talents, your willingness to learn, and practice, that decides your success.
Q13. Have you ever participated in any writing courses / retreats? Have you any writing related qualifications? If so have they been beneficial?
In 2011 I got serious and successfully completed a Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing at Adelaide University. I’ve completed many short creative writing courses at Writers SA and WEA (and still do). I’m a member of a novel-writing writer’s group, The Novelist Circle, which has a number of published authors. All of these have helped me learn and grow as a writer. I’m not sure I’ll ever stop learning.
I’d love to spend time at a writing retreat learning and writing alongside other authors, preferably somewhere exotic – France maybe? – but I fear I wouldn’t get much writing done.
Q14. Who are your favourite authors and why?
Some of the writers I admire are Elliot Perlman, Anna Funder, John le Carré, Scott Turow, and Peter Temple. They all embed social issues into their writing and I love the way they can stimulate thinking. I enjoy the multi-layered plots and the intricate story telling for each of these authors.
I also, in recent times, have discovered some self-published authors that I admire. Barry Litherland, Greg McLaughlin, Dominic Breiter, Matthew Arnold Stern, and Rowena Holloway are authors worth looking up.
Q15. What is your favourite novel and why?
Wow, that’s hard. I read a wide range of books, fiction and non-fiction and selecting just one is impossible. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee is still one of the most impactful stories I’ve read. Novels by my favourite authors from the Q14 above feature highly, but I also enjoy books like Chocolat by Joanne Harris, The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, and All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.
Q16. If you weren’t an author – what would you love to do?
At this stage of my life, I’ve tried a number of different careers, starting with science–based study, teaching and training roles, and worked in a number of different workplaces. I think writing waited a long time to be allowed to commandeer my attention and I’m really enjoying it.
Q17. What are your plans / dreams / ambitions for the future?
To keep writing until I run out of ideas. And, to find the readers who’ll enjoy my stories. I need to keep learning about the marketing and promotion so my novels can be discovered amongst the flood of books available.
Q18. What’s next for you? What are you working on now?
I’m not the kind of writer who could complete these projects simultaneously, so maybe I’ll have to flip a coin, or decide somehow.
Q19. Can you supply a favourite excerpt from any of your works?
Chapter 1
Adelaide, February 2006.
The crowd slithered snake-like through the usually deserted Victoria Park. It crackled with the same excitement Laura felt. On the horizon the dusk skyline shimmered like a grey scrim curtain with pink highlights and she drank in the vivid colours. Attending the Music festival free opening concert was a rare treat but then she glanced at Tom and frowned. Laura fought to stave off the contagion of his sour mood.
Finding their friend Peter and his second wife, Abbie, would be difficult in this throng and Tom suggested they stop at the rear of the outdoor venue. His reluctance again provoked her annoyance. After thirty-seven years of marriage, it should be easier. The laughter and friendly banter of other couples and family groups made her heart ache.
She rang Peter. His cheerful voice restored her joyful anticipation, and she followed his shouted directions deep into the crowd until she saw him waving from the main aisle. Abbie stood beside him, unsmiling and rigid, and Laura hesitated. Eva, Peter’s first wife, was Laura’s best friend, and it created tension with Abbie.
Peter kissed Laura’s cheek and gently squeezed her shoulder. His hair had greyed since she’d last seen him but his tight smile was the same. Tom maintained his angry silence. He left Peter’s projected hand unclasped, grunted a greeting to Abbie then set up his chair at the outer edge of the space.
‘Are you OK?’ Abbie asked Tom. ‘You look pale.’
‘Just a headache and a sore arm from lugging all this stuff,’ Tom grumbled.
Laura struggled into the low beach chair. She rummaged in her handbag, extracted painkillers, and offered them to Tom. He barely nodded an acknowledgment, then turned and stared ahead. He obviously wasn’t ready for peace yet.
It hadn’t always been like this. His retirement, eighteen months ago, hadn’t gone to plan, at least not for her. Instead of day trips, lunches with friends, or spontaneous fun, Tom burrowed away in his study, researching and investigating a mystery he didn’t share with her. She’d expected them to draw closer once the children were grown and had left home, but instead, he’d become surlier and more withdrawn. He hadn’t been ready to retire, even if his office said he was. Now, his hurts, disappointments, and needs, dominated their lives and she admitted to her resentment. She was losing patience.
She moved her chair closer to Abbie and Peter to hear better, and the gap between her and Tom became a chasm.
‘Where’s Katie tonight?’ Laura asked, hiding her hurt behind small talk.
Abbie’s first child, Katie, was Peter’s third.
‘She’s with Peter’s boys tonight. They’re here for his birthday,’ Abbie explained.
Peter’s sons, from his first marriage to Eva, were close to Abbie’s age, with families of their own. Living in Brisbane meant they seldom encroached on Peter’s new life and Laura rarely saw them.
‘They’ve taken her and the grandkids to visit Eva.’ Abbie smirked and then laughed. ‘McDonald’s or KFC tonight, probably.’ ‘Now, now, that’s enough,’ Peter mumbled.
Laura looked away. Abbie’s animosity perplexed her, after all, Peter chose Abbie over Eva and his family. Laura accepted a glass of wine. Peter stepped behind her and offered Tom a glass too, but Tom declined ungraciously and sunk further into his beach chair.
Peter clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let it go. We’re here to enjoy a social evening.’
‘You’d like that,’ Tom replied.
As Peter moved back to his seat, his hand brushed along Laura’s shoulder and its warmth was reassuring. She glanced at Tom’s huddled figure. He was at war with everyone. Tom’s anger at his old workplace, and Peter, intensified with the Cole Commission hearings that had started last month. The investigation into the Australian Wheat Board corruption was stirring up their old conflict and its findings would prove one of them right. Tom took the moral high ground and railed against their company adopting the Wheat Board style contracts with their illegal transport component paid straight to Sadaam Hussein’s agents. Tom argued that ignoring the UN rules was both unethical and immoral, but Peter supported the approach and sided with management.
Laura and Abbie’s conversation fell back on Laura and Tom’s four adult children. As they talked, Abbie poured a glass of wine and offered it to Tom. This time, he accepted.
In front of Laura, the multiple stages rose in wedding cake layers with several smaller stages nestled beside them. Tall gum trees formed a majestic backdrop. The lights dimmed, and a hush settled over the crowd. She yearned to reach out and touch Tom’s arm, or better still, cuddle into the crook of his armpit and call a truce, but the look on his face warded her off and she turned her attention to the artistic director’s opening address.
The floodlights dimmed and the throb of drums cascaded into the night air. It drew her in. A fire wheel swirled arcs of flame as performers strutted into the light, fire flared from their heads and backs, and a tribal rhythm underscored the dancing. Flames licked and danced in time to the music. She stared, transfixed. Strong unwelcome emotions rose unbidden and threatened to overwhelm her. She fought the urge to get up and run; to be carefree and careless. Instead, she watched as the dancers threaded gracefully around the stages, some on stilts and all aflame; their control and precision almost suffocating. Their white fire suits eerily juxtaposed with the dark backdrop and the towering trees. The crowd’s gasps filled any brief silences.
Through the evening, the acts spun intricate patterns and tunes, each different from the one before yet eerily the same, creating a harmonised yet diverse performance. Smoke laced the air. Laura’s attention was commandeered by long trumpet-like instruments wailing into the air, rising above the drums, and she lost herself in the noise and spectacle. Her heart raced as flashing flares of flame and light illuminated everything, even the dark corners of her mind.
A flare briefly cast light across the audience, and she glanced at Tom. She thought she saw him smile and finally, Laura smiled too. He was enjoying himself at last. She let the furious beat and dancers pull her attention back to the show.
Then, as the evening drew to a close, it burst into a crescendo of the biggest fireworks display she’d ever seen. Colours and light sprayed patterns across the inky sky. A familiar lump choked in her throat and she fought back tears. Fireworks made her emotional; she didn’t know why. Blossoming streaks of colour erupted onto the dark backdrop, turning it grey with tufts of smoke. The colour and whizz of the golden rockets overloaded her senses. The crowd oohed and aahed, erupting into applause as the hour-long show came to an end. Laura closed her eyes, trying to imprint the unbelievable beauty of the fireworks on her mind and capture forever the spectacle in her memory.
As the applause subsided, Laura reluctantly opened her eyes. The area spotlights’ glare blinded her momentarily, and she resisted the pull of those around her as they gathered their belongings and prepared their exodus. She looked up at Peter, confused by his openmouthed stare and followed his gaze. Tom, his strange pallor revealed by the full lights and that grimace she’d mistaken for a smile, fixed on his face, sat still. His arm hung limply at his side, touching the ground in an unnatural pose. His head tipped back. If his eyes had been closed, she’d have thought him asleep.
She reached out and touched him, murmuring, ‘Tom. Tom, it’s—’
He didn’t stir. She recoiled, struggled out of her chair, then shook him. He was asleep, wasn’t he?
At her touch, he slid sideways and slumped to the ground. It couldn’t be happening.
Peter was on the phone. The people immediately beside them stood and stared while the crowds beyond them pushed and jostled as they tried to leave.
On Monday 12th June, the town hall held a record number of attendees to its monthly neighbourhood meeting. Maureen Hobbs was there for the first time ever. Queuing half an hour early, outside in the summer rain, had resulted in her gaining a front row seat, directly opposite the podium. Normally a placid lady, for fifty three years she had drifted through life, without finding it necessary to yell, swear or raise a passion about anything. Tonight however Maureen felt incensed, so much so she was trembling. The anger had started three days ago, when a leaflet had been pushed through the cat flap of her door.
If it had been a Monday, Maureen would have probably binned it, with the rest of the junk mail. However, as it was Friday, her favourite day of the week, Maureen had sat down with a coffee and read it. To her utter shock and astonishment it was revealed that her beloved Bluebell Wood was going to be bulldozed to make way for a housing estate. Maureen had almost choked on her coffee, she had played in Bluebell Wood as an infant and now she spent most days walking there with her poodle Timothy. How dare the council sell off green belt land for more contemporary housing.
Quietly seething she had picked up the phone and rang her neighbour and confidante Beryl who agreed that they should fight this for the future good of all the town citizens. Beryl was beside her now, whispering about the exploits of Councillor Biggins, who was well known within the locality as being thoroughly unscrupulous. While they waited for the meeting to start, Maureen methodically folded the leaflet into a paper aeroplane, ready to launch it at the enemy.
First on the stage was PC McDougall. He was a broad shouldered, giant of a man, with a full head of startling red hair. Originally from the Scottish Highlands, rumour was he had become embroiled in a scandalous affair with the wife of a judge. The then young McDougall had been ostracised and had left Scotland in disgrace. Why he decided to settle in the English West Midlands puzzled Maureen. She imagined the Highlands as being a wild, rugged and beautiful place. How strange that he would choose to relocate in an area renowned for high crime and pollution levels, where tower blocks dominated the skyline and the stench from the rubber and steel factories constantly permeated the air.
Beryl was staring at PC McDougall with a dreamy look upon her face. Maureen had to admit he was a fine looking man, especially in his blue uniform, with his handcuffs dangling and his hat wedged underneath his arm. His voice was deep and husky, he was talking about the possibility of speed bumps being installed in Maureen and Beryl’s street, to slow down the traffic. There was some opposition from around the room, talk of ruin to a car’s suspension, but when the policeman made a cheeky innuendo about the benefits of road humps, there grew a salacious titter amongst the ladies present and after that no one put up much of a protest.
Sandra Montgomery was the next speaker; a fierce looking lady with a curly violet rinse. She was the local librarian and the self elected leader of the neighbourhood watch scheme. Maureen was vaguely aware of her blustering about selfish dog owners and their nuisance pets defecating pavements within the area. She spoke for a good half an hour, time which Maureen spent casting surreptitious glances at the handsome PC McDougall. When she finished there was a small spattering of applause and a general agreement to support all of sharp tongued Sandra’s concerns.
Next up was Councillor Biggins. Maureen watched him strut across the stage like a puffed up peacock. He made a theatrical bow which set off many an eye roll. In comparison to PC McDougall, Mr Biggins was a small rotund man, rosy cheeked, with thinning hair and a scrap of a moustache. He launched into a spiel about the splendour of Chiswick Town, the delight of living and working in such a progressive area. Maureen clenched her paper aeroplane as finally he broached the subject of Bluebell Wood.
‘You’re not going to throw that are you?’ Beryl remarked, with a quivering lip.
Before Maureen could reply that she was seriously contemplating it, a man in the row behind them told them to shush.
Maureen looked around. It was apparent that Councillor Biggins was winning people over with talk of jobs and prosperity. Something needed to be done. She jumped to her feet and waved her arms for attention. A hundred or so eyes zoomed in her direction. Councillor Biggins eyes narrowed as he spotted her, he then went on to declare that there would be chance for a question and answer session afterwards. Maureen could feel Beryl tugging at her cardigan, a flush spread up her neck and into her cheeks. She was about to slink back in her seat, but the sight of Biggins’ smirk made her hackles rise.
‘Bluebell Wood shouldn’t be up for sale,’ Maureen squeaked.
‘What was that?’ Biggins said with a smarmy smile. ‘Speak up madam.’
Maureen swallowed and said in a loud, shaky tone.
‘Bluebell Wood is a beauty spot, a place of greenery and calm for the local people to enjoy. For families and dog walkers and school children. It’s on green belt land, this is a conservation issue Mr Biggins. I strongly oppose to it being bulldozed for a housing estate, just to line the council’s profits and I’m sure other people here share my concerns…’
A murmuring swept through the crowd. Councillor Biggins held up his pudgy hands to try to instil calm, but dissent had struck. Others jumped up to voice their opposition to the proposal, soon the town hall was ringing with loud, angry cries for an explanation and the stamping of feet resonated on the parquet flooring. Maureen watched sweat break out on a suddenly nervous looking Mr Biggins. As a line of people surged towards the stage, Maureen released the paper aeroplane with satisfaction, with a mischievous glint in her eye she turned to a shocked Beryl and said,
‘let the battle commence.’
The following morning Maureen woke early to take Timothy his usual walk. She strolled through the residential streets, smiling at the sight of the glorious summer sunshine dappling on the pretty Hawthorn bushes. At the end of Dover Road she turned left and began her ascent up to the pinnacle of the estate. The path veered off down a country lane. Huge oak and horse chestnut trees overhung, blocking the sunlight. It tapered off to an opening which took Maureen into Bluebell Wood, the sight of which took her breath away and calmed her racing mind. Timothy yelped and bounced around, desperate to be released from his lead, she bent to unclip him and laughed as he dived into a bush covered with pretty white flowers. As she walked further into the wood, Maureen was overcome with sadness at the thought of this beautiful stretch of land being bulldozed for the sake of ugly modern type housing and yuppy apartments. If that was what progression was, then she wanted none of it. She made a vow to herself that she was going to actively fight this. Ideas formed in her mind of what she could do to stop Councillor Biggins and his cronies. As she crunched over bracken and paused to sniff the wild flowers, she made a mental to do list. By the time she headed for home, she was confident that with a little help she could save her beloved wood.
The first thing Maureen decided on was to enlist the help of some of her younger neighbours. Three doors away was a student house, where four people cohabitated. Maureen had heard they went to the nearby art college and Beryl had described them with a sniff as ‘liberal sorts.’ Maureen knocked on their door and explained what was potentially going to happen to the wood. To her surprise they shared her staunch opposition to the housing developer’s scheme and promised to help in any way they could.
Maureen returned home with a spring in her step and set to work drafting out a petition. Over the next month, herself, Beryl and the four students knocked on hundreds of doors collecting signatures. Some of Maureen’s neighbours refused to sign, some slammed the door in her face, but the majority were sympathetic and happy to put their signature down on paper. One of the students even took the petition to college with him and bolstered their support into the thousands. By mid July, they had amassed ten thousand signatures, which they celebrated by meeting for drinks in the local pub.
Byron, a thoroughly nice young man with blue hair and face piercings, informed Maureen there was a meeting planned between Councillor Biggins and the housing developers. His father who worked as a council clerk, had heard through the grapevine that Biggins was organising an elaborate lunch to try and close the deal with as minimum amount of fuss as possible.
‘They most certainly haven’t,’ Maureen replied with determination. ‘I have a plan, and this is what we’re going to do.’
On Friday morning Maureen went for her usual monthly wash and set at the hairdressers. It seemed that news of their crusade had travelled, as all the staff had heard about it. The manager took one of Maureen’s leaflets and pinned it to her notice board, with a promise she would spread the word to her customers. After drinking three cups of coffee Maureen felt a little bit hyper and buzzing for what was to come this afternoon.
She had arranged to meet Beryl and the students on the town high street. Imagine her surprise when she arrived and found a mass gathering of hundreds of people. Byron was holding a huge banner with the words ‘save Bluebell Wood’ emblazoned across it and Beryl was holding a megaphone, which she thrust into Maureen’s hands.
‘What do I do with this?’ Maureen asked, as nerves tickled her stomach.
‘You’re the leader,’ Byron said with a grin. ‘Speak up, don’t be shy.’
Maureen cleared her throat and broke into an impassioned speech about the wood. By the time she had finished, the crowd were shouting and stamping their feet.
With Maureen at the helm, the demonstrators crossed the road and marched towards the town hall. Commuters blared their horns in support and shoppers joined in with the march. They arrived at the premises just in time. Councillor Biggins was shaking hands with the property developers and grinning with obsequious glee into a TV camera. Maureen felt herself being jostled forward, the camera man swung towards her as she came face to face with Councillor Biggins. On shaking legs Maureen stepped into the limelight and held the petition aloft.
‘Bluebell Wood is not up for sale,’ she cried. Behind her the crowd erupted.
What happened next was all a little blurry. The over excited crowd surged towards the council offices. Maureen and Beryl clutched each other as the young students climbed onto the stone statues and hoisted themselves up the pillars of the council building. She stared open mouthed as Byron sat astride a majestic grey lion and yelled out ‘now is the time for rebellion.’ Councillor Biggins looked incandescent with rage and the property developers looked terrified. Out of the corner of her eye, Maureen saw something go sailing past and then splatter with full force on Biggins’ chin. Egg yolk dripped from his cherry red face, he pointed a finger at Maureen and shouted, ‘arrest that woman!’
To Maureen’s humiliation, PC McDougall arrived in a blare of sirens and took her away to the police station. After spending a full six hours in custody, Maureen was cautioned for public affray and released. She trudged home and spent the whole night tossing and turning. Never before had she been in trouble with the police, she had always been so respectful of the emergency services, and the way PC McDougall had looked at her when he had cautioned her made her cheeks crimson. The shame of it! How on earth would she explain her behaviour at the imminent Women’s Institute meeting, she wondered.
Early next morning, Maureen was sitting with a herbal tea, feeling utterly despondent, when there was a knock on the door. She smoothed her hair and walked slowly down the hallway. The silhouette on the glass was bulky and she fervently hoped it wasn’t a member of Councillor Biggins’ family, here for retribution. Her eyes widened at the sight of PC McDougall. He was wearing ordinary jeans and an open necked shirt that showed off a considerable amount of chest hair. Maureen gulped as butterflies twirled in her stomach. She stuttered out a hello and was surprised to be greeted with a most disarming smile.
‘Ms Hobbs,’ he began, in his thick Scottish drawl. ‘I wanted to come and tell you that the real egg thrower has handed himself in. All charges against you have been dropped.’
‘Oh thank goodness for that,’ Maureen sighed with relief. ‘You came out of your way to tell me this?’
‘I wanted to put your mind at rest,’ PC McDougall cleared his throat. ‘I also wanted to see you to… to… ask you…’
‘Yes?’ Maureen urged. The afternoon sun was shining on his hair, Maureen thought it looked like fire, and as she stepped closer she was overcome by the manly smell of him.
‘Would you like to go for a meal one evening?’ PC McDougall grinned.
‘Just the two of us?’ Maureen grinned back.
‘Yes of course,’ PC McDougall laughed, ‘you’re a fine woman Maureen Hobbs: brave, spirited and… beautiful.’
Maureen beamed with happiness at his words. They made arrangements for the weekend and as PC McDougall was walking up the path he turned and said,
‘One more thing. I thought you might be pleased to know that the property developers have backed out of the new housing estate scheme. Your wood is safe Maureen.’
Maureen closed the door and leant on it, feeling overcome with happiness. Not only had she saved Bluebell Wood, she had gone and got herself a date with the most attractive bachelor in the neighbourhood.
When the phone rang Maureen skipped to pick it up. Brenda confirmed PC McDougall’s revelations.
‘You’re a hero Maureen. You’re all over the newspapers and social media. They’re heralding you as an eco warrior. Would you like to go to the pub to celebrate?’ Brenda quipped.
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ Maureen stared in the hall mirror at her glowing reflection. ‘I think just for today I’m going to take a walk in my beautiful wood.’
Q1. Tell me about yourself – biography, career, likes, dislikes, hobbies etc…anything you would like to share about yourself? Any fun, interesting facts? Please insert a photograph if possible.
I have been a nurse for most of my life until my retirement. I’m passionate about the NHS and now run it from my armchair! My daughter is a nurse also, as was my late mother and late mother-in-law – it must be in the blood!
I began writing 6 years ago, but it took me a year to finish my first book, For the Loveof Emily. I sat on it for such a long time until I was brave enough to send it to an editor for his opinion. He asked for 3 chapters first of all to see if he wanted to take the book on. What a day that was. I checked the computer so many times waiting for his feedback. I never envisaged he’d have other work on – I just thought I’d sent my precious chapters and he would contact me within the hour!
Many years ago I was one of those lucky people that won an abundance of prizes in consumer competitions by writing witty slogans. My house was stacked high with prizes which was a delight. I had to give loads away which delighted the neighbours. For example a year’s supply of dog food and I didn’t have a dog!
Q2. Can you tell me about your work – what have you written, what is it about, what type of genre is it?
My first 3 novels were romance with a few twists and turns. They contained a large percentage of adult content (Fifty Shades of Grey was popular at the time!). But I’ve moved away more recently to romance with a crime element which readers seem to like.
Q3. Can you tell me about your writing process e.g do you prefer to plan or write spontaneously, favourite writing times, pen or computer, how long do you spend writing?
I write when I fancy writing either on the PC at my desk, or laptop on my knee watching TV! I have no set pattern whatsoever. And any time suits. I can be found writing well into the night. Some days I don’t write at all while others I can be writing for hours.
Q4. What inspires you? How do you come up with your ideas?
TV/reading/real life/past experiences
Q5. How long does it take you to write a book?
Not that long to get a first draft done as I write and write and write until it’s complete. That said, it’s nothing like it needs to be. The first draft is just telling me the story. Once I have that, then the hard work begins with the editing. I usually end up cutting loads!
Q6. Favourite part of writing a book / least favourite part?
Finishing it! And I love getting a paperback of my book in my hand. It’s so rewarding. Least favourite – formatting and uploading it. I hate that part.
Q7. Favourite character and why? From your own work.
The first book I ever wrote (For the Love of Emily) is about two identical twins. One of the two has moderate learning difficulties (Emily) which makes her so charming and endearing. Many times I’ve been asked to write more about her so she clearly connects with the reader.
Q8. How did you break into publishing?
I have been an independent published author for five years and love it. I used to do a lot of public speaking about my journey from nurse to author (From Bedpan to Pen) which I really enjoy doing. People would buy paperbacks from me and obviously kindle sales increased with the visibility. But then Covid struck and all that stopped, sadly.
However, there is some good news to report. I’ve just signed a two book deal with a traditional publishing company so I’m looking forward to working with them and hopefully flourishing.
Q9. How do you market your books?
Online is the largest tool. But I have posters in strategic places around the town where I live promoting my books. And I’m lucky that I get to do many events. Each time I launch a book, I do book signings in local cafes and library’s which generates interest. I also have the support of local shops selling my books which is so helpful.
Q10. What is the strangest thing you have ever had to research?
Killing someone – and then getting away with it!
Q11. Any tips for new / aspiring authors?
Write. Don’t spend too long on your plan. By all means have one, but you have to write. You cannot edit a blank page. You have to push yourself. Even if it isn’t that good – you can expand. But to spend endless hours deliberating, does no good at all. If you have nothing written, you easily get distracted and do something else.
Q12. Do you think writing is an innate gift or something which can be learned?
The passion has to be innate – but the craft can be learned. However, that doesn’t mean to say what you write is going to be commercial enough for readers to buy. Making a novel desirable is the hard bit.
Q13. Have you ever participated in any writing courses / retreats? Have you any writing related qualifications? If so have they been beneficial?
I have a degree in public health which has nothing to do with creative writing. But academic writing helps with structure/ description/analysis. I have been asked to attend creative writing courses, not to teach, but to share ‘my journey’ into writing. I’ve done a local creative writing course many years ago as a hobby. I guess it was beneficial as it ignited my desire to write.
Q14. Who are your favourite authors and why?
I try and support independent writers as they have the biggest struggle without a publishing house behind them. It’s hard to list my favourite. I do love Barbara Taylor Bradford though and was fortunate to win a competition to meet her. What a delightful woman she is.
Q15. What is your favourite novel and why?
I’d probably go for ‘A Woman of Substance’ by Barbara Taylor Bradford. I devoured that book at such a young age and it’s always stayed with me.
Q16. If you weren’t an author – what would you love to do?
Still nursing. I’m passionate about the NHS. And what a fantastic job they have done for the whole country recently. We are so lucky to have them.
Q17. What are your plans / dreams / ambitions for the future?
Good health really. With that, you can achieve anything.
Q18. What’s next for you? What are you working on now?
My new release is scheduled for 13th July 2021, Getting Away with Murder. It’s now available for pre-order on Amazon.
Q19. Can you supply a favourite excerpt from any of your works?
Excerpt from ‘Who’s Smiling Now?’ by Joy Wood
She heard her sister’s voice from behind her. “Here she is, the soon to be Mrs Souter.”
Laura turned around at the same time as her mother. Danielle was balancing on her heels on the grass, clutching the arm of a much taller man.
Nothing had prepared her. The smile faded from her face.
Her blood pressure plummeted.
She felt light-headed. Fuzzy.
It took every ounce of strength to keep breathing.
Danielle smiled eagerly at them both, “This is Cohan who I told you I met at work. Cohan, this is my mum, and Laura, who’s not only celebrating her twenty-first, she’s just got engaged tonight too.”
Her mum accepted his outstretched hand, “How lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he replied, “Danielle’s told me about you all. Thank you for letting me be part of such a special evening.”
His dark eyes moved to lock with hers.
Not a flicker of recognition from him.
His outstretched hand came towards her. The hand that caressed every receptive part of her naked body, the fingers that had stroked her intimately.
“Pleased to meet you, Laura,” he said through lips that had kissed her tummy and nipples only weeks earlier, “what a wonderful night for you. Congratulations.”
His smile was menacing. It urged . . . go on, I dare you.
She didn’t take his hand – she couldn’t.
How long had he been in the UK? And how in God’s name had he met her sister? He must have somehow engineered it.
Danielle was staring at her. “What’s the matter? You’ve gone really white?”
She shook her head to try and shake off the fuzziness, “Too many glasses of wine I think, you’ll have to excuse me.” She turned abruptly and quickly made her way to the house to lock herself away from him.
“Well it has been quite a night,” she heard her mother say, “the excitement must have got to her. Can I get you a drink, Cohan, and maybe something to eat?”
Laura stood in the downstairs toilet. Only a door separated her from Cohan Laity.
Keep breathing . . . in and out . . . in and out. You must.
What the hell was he doing at her party? Why wasn’t he in Spain where she’d left him? How come he was in her family house in the suburbs of London at her twenty-first? It couldn’t have been a coincidence, surely? She tried to remember how much of her home life she’d shared with him, but she couldn’t think. The wine she’d consumed was making everything blurry.
Bloody hell . . . how had he found her, and then come on to her sister of all people?
What was she going to do?
The ramifications of owning up to Matthew about being unfaithful caused an ache deep within her. Her tummy clenched in pain. That was the last thing she wanted to do. Nobody knew anything about what had happened for that brief few days in Spain, but she couldn’t have Danielle falling madly in love with a man she’d already been in a relationship with. Well, not a relationship as such, but certainly a fling involving plenty of sex.
She leant on the sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The bright and excited face from minutes earlier when she’d been kissing Matthew had been replaced by a dull, dark and anxious one. And as she leaned in and peered more closely at herself, staring back was poor orphan Georgie girl.
Cohan Laity had ruined her special day. The joy of her engagement had suddenly disappeared because of him, and right now, she was in danger of losing her future.
Enigmatic detective duo Hobbs and Mallery are back, this time battling their wits against two brutal murders. The story slowly unravels amidst the beauty of the French countryside. With numerous suspects, the author does an excellent job creating an exciting who-dunnit that leaves the reader guessing to the very end. A.J Griffiths-Jones cleverly weaves murder, betrayal, infidelity and plain wicked scheming to create a scintillating tale full of twist and turns. I absolutely loved this book and read it within a few days as I was eager to find out who the murderer was. It is beautifully written. I’ve read a few of this authors previous books and she certainly has the knack of creating diverse, colourful characters. It is clear that ‘Sabine’ has been well researched. I loved all the French touches and literally felt transported to another country. A very enjoyable, absorbing read from a very talented author. Five shiny gold stars 🙂
Rewind back to April 1991. An agent called Marion has secured the author of this particular tale a 6 month entertaining contract working in the Far East. 4 young women: Michele, Anna, Claire and head girl Rachel leave Britain to work as a quartet dancing on a stage on the Japanese island of Hokkaido. This is a memoir told from Michele’s viewpoint. It is a fascinating and enjoyable recount, we learn of the tension and squabbles between the girls and the colourful description of their time working in the limelight. Their interaction with the local people is both shocking and humourous. There are incidents involving numerous crazy men, Japanese mafia and even a ouija board, which made for riveting reading. I found it hard to put down and wanted to keep reading to see what would happen next. Fishnets and Fire Eating is a unique book which is very well written. The author blends the girls escapades with information on Japanese culture effortlessly. A highly entertaining and interesting memoir written by a truly talented author. I have read other work by Ms Northwood and she is skilled at writing both fact and fiction. I would highly recommend her books for an engrossing read.
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