She’s Moving Home…

It’s a fine line. One minute I’m interfering, the next I don’t care.

Was it not ever thus?

She must have been about 12. For some reason I was working at home – in the days before it became a government diktat.

Beverley walked in through the front door, followed by the angelic children she’d collected from school. “Hello, boys,” I said. “How was your day?”

They grunted, walked past me and emptied the fridge.

No matter, here was my beloved daughter, just on the cusp of becoming a teenager.

“Hello, sweetheart,” I said. “How was your day?”

She stared at me. “Why don’t you just get out of my life? Why are you always interfering? Why do you keep asking stupid questions?”

She stormed upstairs. I looked helplessly at my wife. My ‘what did I do?’ expression.

“Hormones,” she mouthed at me.

Ah, I thought. I understand. Eleanor wants me to be cool, detached.

Fast forward 24 hours. The scene is played out once again.

“Hello, boys, how was your day?”

See above: grunt, fridge…

And my daughter. Remember. Cool, detached…

I smile. Nothing more.

She storms upstairs. Pauses halfway. Fixes me with her killer stare. “That’s right! You ask the boys how their day was! You don’t ask me! Because you don’t care about me! You’ve never cared!”

I looked helplessly at my wife. Yes, I used that expression a lot over the next few years.

And you can guess her reply. “Hormones…”

Well, fast forward a dozen years. A baker’s dozen. Hormones? I have no idea, because now she lives 60 miles away with Could-be-Serious.

…And I may have to give the boy a new name. When you’re buying a house together, maybe it’s a little bit more than ‘could be serious.’

Yep, my little girl, who barely five minutes ago was giving her four year old brother a whack to keep him in line, is buying her first house.

Otley, in West Yorkshire, where – the wheel turns full circle – my grandfather was born.

Found the house, got the mortgage, had the survey done: it’s proceeding at a pace. And – all credit to her – the deposit paid from her own savings. I couldn’t be more proud.

I just need to show the right level of interest…

I texted her during house hunting.

How’s it going, love? Found anywhere yet?

She replied to my wife…

Will you tell Dad to stop interfering? Always asking questions.

(Apparently I hadn’t factored in how stressful it all was.)

And then they found a house…

Why hasn’t Dad sent a text to congratulate us yet? Doesn’t he care?

Rewind 13 years. Clearly I have learned nothing at all.

But it’s all good. It keeps me on my toes.

And it’s a lovely house. First house? You couldn’t ask for anything more – especially the kitchen/dining room. One of the bedrooms is a touch pink – well, very pink – but that’s not a problem.

I’ll lose my wife to a weekend’s decorating. But beer, football, pizza…

No, no, not a problem at all.

And, of course, another rite of passage ticked off for the ageing parents. Nursery, proper school, big school, first boyfriend, serious exams, off to uni…

They’re rites of passage for your children but they’re rites of passage for mum and dad as well. And now she’s buying a house. Does that mean we can turn her room into an office? Will I finally be able to gaze lovingly at that hand-made desk? Bookmarked on Etsy for at least three years…

I’m not sure my lovely daughter can raise an objection. What about my wife?

It might be time for a cup of tea in bed…

THE RIVER RUNS DEEP

Bad people do good things.

Good people do bad things.

Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference…

The follow up to Salt in the Wounds is out now and available on Amazon

Welcome to the B&B

My wife has often been wrong. On countless occasions. Sometimes spectacularly wrong.

There was that time when…

And then there was…

And…

Yes, well. None of them exactly spring to mind just now. But I know I’m right.

And never, ever, was she more wrong than a week before Christmas.

Wide of the mark? Cow’s bottom, mate. Banjo. Couldn’t hit.

“We need some more eggs,” she said.

“For Goodness’ sake. There are two trays of eggs. That’s 72 eggs.”

“I bought another dozen,” she said.

“So we’ve 84 eggs in the house. That’ll last us until Easter.”

She patiently explained that Alex and Lizzie had eggs for breakfast every morning. That the Beloved Daughter and Could-be-Serious would do the same when they arrived. That baking needed a lot of eggs. That Yorkshire puddings for eight people demanded a seemingly infinite number of eggs…

“You’re still wrong,” I said. “There’s no way we’ll need that many eggs. What do you think we’re doing? Running a B&B?”

As it turned out…

Cue the music. Something gentle: pastoral. Maybe a brass band playing the Hovis theme?

It’s the soundtrack to one of my fantasies. A B&B in the Yorkshire Dales. Three rooms – six people at the most. Just enough to keep the cash flow flowing.

And there I am! I’ve cooked them a full English – ‘Proper champion. Best bacon and eggs I’ve ever had’ – they’ve paid their bills and left with a smile. And now look! I’m striding along the Pennine Way in the spring sunshine. A ten mile loop before I’m back to do the evening meal for the next set of six…

You know what?

I don’t have that fantasy any more…

They were all here over Christmas. Tested, masked, kept socially distant from Grandma. But here. Our three children, all with a plus one. Plus ones which ranged from buying-a-house-next-year to taking-it-slowly-to-begin-with. But – at various stages over Christmas – all here.

And for two days, the B&B was full.

Three rooms, six people.

Hell’s bells, where did I start?

Having a shower ridiculously early in the morning, that’s where.

And then the staff went to work. Cooking, cleaning, taxi to and from the railway station…

As they’d say in t’Dales, ‘It were never ending tha’ knows.’

Thank the Lord we had some help. Three key members of staff. On duty 24/7. Never complaining and always ready to help. Even better, the dishwasher, the washing machine and the tumble dryer didn’t even want paying.

“Could you peel some potatoes for dinner?” my beloved the landlady asked.

“No problem.”

“More than that,” she said 20 minutes later.

“More?”

“Yes. There’s football on TV but I know you don’t want to watch it.”

Fair’s fair. ‘Is there anything I can do to help’ was a much-heard phrase. But it’s your house, your children, your responsibility. Dan’s girlfriend is here for the first time. An’ t’lass is from t’South. ’Appen she needs impressing. Maybe just peel a few more spuds…

But finally we had the house to ourselves. “I’m exhausted,” I said. “But we must have taken a pretty penny. All those guests, all those nights. It must be close to a thousand pounds. Maybe more?”

But you know exactly how much Mum & Dad’s B&B took over Christmas.

Hang on though…

They’ve gone. House to ourselves. That can only mean one thing…

“We’re finally alone,” I murmured seductively, sliding my arm round my beloved as she scrubbed a pie dish. “What about some torrid sex?”

She flicked dirty water over her shoulder and hit me square in the eye.

“Does that mean you’d rather have a cup of tea?”

She didn’t need to answer…

Fabulous! Had me gripped from start to finish. Reminded me of Mark Billingham’s detective, Tom Thorne.”

Salt in the Wounds is now available on Amazon.

The sequel, The River Runs Deep can be pre-ordered now and will be published on January 31st

Gin, Pale Ale and Mushy Peas

“I need to go to Whitby,” I said to my lovely wife. “Do some research for the book.”

“And would you be having mushy peas with that research, dear?”

“As it happens, yes. There’s a scene in the book where the hero eats fish and chips. By the harbour. I need to get it right.”

My wife consulted her laptop. She checked her phone. “Astonishing,” she said. “They’re both faulty. They’re both saying it’s December. When obviously – if you want to stand by Whitby harbour and eat fish and chips – it must be July.”

“We all have to suffer for our art, dear.”

You’d better imagine her reply. It’s best I don’t quote it word-for-word.

But a few days later here we were, trundling across the Moors. And with the car full to bursting as well.

Alex back from university – and with Lizzie. I’d explained the plan. They’d looked doubtful. But they’d dutifully climbed into the back of the car. “Not long,” I said. “Ten more minutes and we’ll be there.”

No-one whooped with joy…

I parked the car and we walked the deserted streets of Whitby. No room at the inn? Not a light on in any of the inns.

I pulled my coat round me. The wind did seem a touch sharp…

“What do you want to do?” my wife said.

“Stand by the harbour. Eat fish and chips. Make sure I get the scene right.”

“You realise it won’t do a lot for Alex’s relationship if his girlfriend dies of hypothermia?”

“I’ll just take some photos,” I said. “Then I’ll get the fish and chips.” I left them huddled on the swing bridge and walked down to the edge of the water. Checked what my hero could see. Did exciting researchy things like pace out the distance to the rubbish bin.

I walked back up the steps. “We’ve taken a vote,” my wife said.

“What do you mean you’ve taken a vote?”

“What I say. We’ve voted that you’re taking us to the Magpie. I booked a table while you were staring at the harbour. And I’ve got to tell you…” she added.

“What?”

“…I’m fairly certain Hemingway never photographed a rubbish bin.”

“So three to one?” I said.

“Yes. And no time for a recount. We’re due there in five minutes.”

So it was that I found myself face to face – or face to mask – with a waitress.

“Can I get you a drink while you’re looking at the menu?” she said.

What else do you drink with fish and chips? “Pot of tea for four,” I said confidently.

My wife coughed. Alex said, “Hang on, Dad…”

Another tradition was carelessly tossed out of the window. My beloved had seen the word ‘botanical’ on the menu. You know what that means.

And my youngest son had spotted his favourite initials – IPA.

“It comes in a pint bottle. Is that alright?” the waitress said.

“More than alright,” the boy replied.

Two craft gins were added to the order.

“And for you, sir?”

“I’m driving,” I said glumly. “Mineral water, please. And we’ll need bread and butter for four.”

Nope, we wouldn’t. The younger generation didn’t even have fish and chips.

But the meal was delicious – once we’d got the plates the right way round.

“Are the mushy peas for you, madam?” My wife swiftly reached for her crucifix. “That’ll be a ‘no’ then…”

“Have you got all your research done? Can we go back to the car?” Beverley said half an hour later. After another round of gins and another pint of IPA.

I stared at the bill.

What was that about suffering for your art…

An engaging plot, interesting characters and a real sense of place. I usually keep a book on the go to dip into when I want some distraction – but not this one. I read it over the weekend – I really needed to know how it finished!”

Salt in the Wounds is available now on Amazon.

The follow up – The River Runs Deep – will be published in January

Why Am I Here?

Thank God, you think. After a year’s wittering about trivialities he’s finally addressing a serious question. Something worth reading. Some deep philosophical insight…

Why am I here?

Why are any of us here?

What is the purpose of our lives?

Nope. Sorry. I’m in the bathroom. It’s 4:30 in the afternoon, I’m standing by the washbasin. And I’m asking myself that very question.

Why am I here?

What am I doing in the bathroom?

Bluntly, I have no idea.

But there are a limited number of things you can do in a bathroom. It won’t take long to whizz through the checklist…

Do I want to clean my teeth? At 4:30 with red wine to drink? Not a chance.

Do I need a wee? A quick conversation with my bladder. The answer’s ‘no.’

Shower? Cut my fingernails? Whatever I think of, the answer’s the same.

What did you say? Clean the bathroom? No, that one didn’t even cross my mind.

And then a light dawns. Slowly but finally, a light bulb goes on.

I don’t want to be in the bathroom.

I’m supposed to be in the bedroom. I’d been sent for the Christmas decorations. I’d forgotten in the time it took to walk upstairs. Turned left instead of right when I reached the top.

Not the first time, sadly. When the children were at home it would occasionally happen. “Hello,” I’d say, walking confidently into the lounge. “Does anyone know why I’m here?”

But of late, it’s getting worse. Obviously, I’ve an excuse. The book needs finishing. I’m already plotting the next one.

Even so…

I wandered into the lounge yesterday lunchtime. My wife was watching the news. Brexit. Covid. Experts…

“They haven’t got a clue,” I said. “They don’t know a thing.”

“Well what do you know then?”

“You want to hear what I know?”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“What I know – for a fact – is…”

The sentence trailed away. I did know something. Definitely. And something that would have scored a significant point off my wife.

“What I know for a fact is…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve forgotten…”

Ah well, it’s an isolated incident. Well, technically two isolated incidents. Nothing to worry about.

Except that I’m also trying to burn the house down.

It’s the hob. Front right. That’s where I cook my porridge. And heat up my baked beans. Both of them – in my view – require long, slow cooking. Yes, the squeamish should look away now. I let my baked beans simmer away for a while. Until my wife says they look like… Well, you might be eating your breakfast.

But as I pour the porridge into the bowl (I’m a Golden Syrup boy) or I tip the beans onto what Masterchef would describe as a ‘bed of hand-crafted, artisan toast…’ I forget something. I forget to turn the gas off.

Where’s my ready-made excuse? Don’t cook and plot your novel at the same time.

But this cuts no ice with my youngest son. He’s already noticed this behaviour and ticked the relevant box on the care home application form. That was in the summer. And by the time you read this he’ll be home for Christmas.

‘Why am I here?’ may shortly be the least of my worries.

Interestingly for medical science there’s one time of day when I don’t have a problem with my memory.

Five o’clock. Every day, reliable as clockwork.

I remember it’s time for a gin. Not for me. No, no. no. For my lovely wife.

“What’s that, darling? It sounded like ‘I don’t want to drink alone.’ Alright then. Just to keep you company…”

Very enjoyable book. You know you’re hooked when you like or dislike the characters and actually care what happens to them.” Salt in the Wounds is available now on Amazon.

The sequel – The River Runs Deep – will be published in January

The Ten Minute Warning

When I were nowt but a nipper we ’ad t’four minute warning.

The Cold War. Four minutes. The time you had before a Russian missile landed on your head. “Only four minutes left. What would you do?” we cheerfully asked each other as teenagers.

“Ask Angela Miller out again,” I dolefully replied. “Couldn’t say she was washing her hair, could she…”

Anyway I’m married now. Whoops, insert ‘happily…’

And the Cold War is long gone.

Except…

I still need a four minute warning. A ten minute warning if I’m honest. And if I don’t get it then you can forget the Cold War. It’s the Cold Tongue War…

The ten minute warning is integral to married life. It’s the glue that binds man and wife. If I remember correctly, part of the service…

Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and protect him and phone him ten minutes before thou art due to come home?

I will…

‘I’m going out,’ your lovely wife declares.

‘OK, when will you be back?’

‘Well, it’s Saturday afternoon, so it’s going to be busy. A couple of hours?’

‘OK, give me a ring when you’re on the way back.’

‘While I’m out… Can you tidy the kitchen? And put the rubbish out?’

‘Of course, sweetheart.’

But not now. Football’s on the telly and the big race is off in half an hour. Two hours of peace. Is it too early to have a beer? I don’t think so…

Not quite two hours, of course.

‘I’m just leaving town, darling. I’ll be home in ten minutes.’

Ker-pow! as old Batman used to say. Ten minutes to tidy the kitchen, get rid of the rubbish – and as she’s walking through the door the kettle’s boiling.

‘I knew you’d want a cup of tea, darling.’

‘Oh, darling. You are wonderful. I’m so lucky.’

Well, so much for the theory. Last Sunday was the practice. The mother-in-law’s birthday. She was coming round for lunch.

“I’ll be about an hour. Make sure you set the table and get a bottle of white wine.”

“No problem.”

“Don’t – DON’T – still be sitting there writing when I come back.”

As if I would be. Twenty-seven years of married bliss? Ten minutes is all I need.

Assuming I get a ten minute warning.

I didn’t.

You can imagine the rest…

Then there’s this other thing your wife does. She asks you to peel the potatoes. Now, if you’re newly married you’ll just think, ‘Oh, she wants me to peel the potatoes.’

Older, wiser heads recognise a hand grenade lobbed casually into the lounge.

‘Can you give me a hand? Come and peel the potatoes?’

‘Yep, sure. I’ll be there in a minute.’

Now, not for one second do you mean you’ll be there in sixty seconds. No, sir. What you mean is, ‘Yes, I’ll come and peel the spuds but I know you don’t need it doing right now, so I’ll just watch the end of the footy.’

There’s absolutely no intention NOT to do the spuds. Just a calm, rational ordering of priorities.

And there you are. You’ve finished – regrettably – your craft IPA, the ref’s blown the final whistle, and now it’s time to peel the potatoes. You walk through to the kitchen.

‘Right, I’m here. Ready to peel the spuds.’

‘I’ve done them.’

‘What do you mean you’ve done them?’

‘I got fed up of waiting.’

‘But you don’t need them now.’

‘No, but I needed the space.’

So you slink away feeling guilty. You were definitely going to help. Definitely. No question.

But it’s too late. Your wife’s placed another tick. No, not in the ‘peeled potato’ column.

Couch potato…

Well plotted. Great characters. Set in a place I love. What’s not to love about Salt in the Wounds? Looking forward to hearing more about Michael Brady.”

The River Runs Deep – the next book in the Michael Brady series – is now available to pre-order on Amazon.

The Soggy Middle

Last Friday. Three conversations with my wife.

8:30 “I got on the scales this morning. Must lose weight before Christmas.”

11:30 “I’m just having one of these new chocolate biscuits with my coffee.”

3:30 “It must be five o’clock by now. Shall I open a bottle of wine?”

I’m currently half way through my second novel. The euphoria of the opening chapters has worn off. I’m a long way from the end. I’m in what writers refer to as ‘the soggy middle.’

I said as much to my beloved.

She gazed lovingly at me – in my sagging track suit bottoms.

Yes, her reply featured ‘soggy middle’ – or words to that effect.

So – how many times have I written this in my life? – something has to be done.

I am not fit. The words ‘me’ and ‘fitness’ are not so much in different postcodes as at opposite ends of the country.

Last year I walked round County Kerry with my youngest son. I was 3kg heavier than I wanted to be when I sent off. And now I’m 4kg heavier than that.

What has caused this sad state of affairs? Simple folk would say, ‘your pathetic lack of will power.’

No, no. The answer is much more complicated.

There are two culprits.

Writing – and my wife.

Ladies first. She bought some ‘luxury chocolate biscuits’ – which she then left in the kitchen. Well what’s a chap to do when he has a coffee? How did I know they were for Christmas?

Seriously, the box has ‘luxury chocolate biscuits’ written on it. She buys it in the middle of November. And expects me to look at it for six weeks?

And writing. According to the research thinking uses a lot of calories – 320 a day just for the basics like remembering to put your socks on. So it follows that planning a murder – is the answer in Gina’s past? – must use about 1,000.

Sadly my waist hasn’t realised. Possibly because I find thinking a lot easier with a luxury chocolate biscuit for company.

Here’s an interesting question. I’m a stickler for imperial measures. I’ll have no truck with that kilometres malarkey. I know how many chains there are in a furlong and I know how many furlongs make a mile. I like talking about rods, poles and perches – and if something is less than a quid I’ll cheerfully convert it back to pounds, shillings and pence.

Long division of pounds, shillings and pence… There’s a phrase to make the teaching unions tremble…

So why do I express my weight in kilogrammes? Easy. If I express it in old money I’m a fat pig. Or ‘pat fig’ as I said after my extra glass of wine.

Kilogrammes? Bah, it’s just a number. A big number, but not one that conjures an image of the stones and pounds monster.

What I need is some retail therapy. I don’t mean I need to buy something. No thanks. My black track suit bottoms are fine. And when they’re in the wash I’ve got a navy blue pair.

No, I need to go and try something on in Next. See myself in those surround mirrors the changing rooms have. When my football team scores a goal I like watching it from ‘every angle.’ Seeing myself from ‘every angle’ is truly terrifying. But last time I tried something on in Next it shocked me into losing half a stone.

Anyway, time for some more creative thinking. Don’t tell her – helped by the new packet of LCBs that’s arrived in the kitchen.

Look at this. She’s written me a romantic love message on the packet.

Oh! A two word romantic love message…

So is the answer in Gina’s past? ‘The River Runs Deep’ – the follow-up to ‘Salt in the Wounds’ – is now available to pre-order on Amazon. It will be published in mid-January.

Salt in the Wounds is a brilliant book. Couldn’t put it down. Would highly recommend. Can’t wait for book 2 to come out from this great author…”

King Alfred’s Heir

As regular readers know, I have long considered myself to be the rightful King of Northumberland, descended – on my mother’s side – from King AElla.

Once I’d heard the story from Auntie Marjorie I needed no further convincing – despite the fact that she lived in a semi in Wakefield, rather than a hill fort commanding the Cheviots.

Then my lovely wife took a swab and researched my DNA. “Good God,” she said, “I thought you were from a long line of Yorkshire peasants. You’re Swedish.”

That was enough for me. AElla was dismissed. “So I’m a direct descendant of Eric Bloodaxe?”

“He was Norwegian.”

“Close enough.”

Sadly neither may be correct – especially if behaviour has any bearing on genetics.

If any royal blood pulses in my veins then AElla and Eric are out. And King Alfred is in.

Yes, that one. King of the Anglo-Saxons. And famously associated with cakes…

You know the story. Alfred is on the run from the Vikings. He takes refuge in the hut of a peasant woman. She asks him to watch her cakes – small loaves of bread – baking by the fire. But poor old Alfred is more worried about the Vikings. He lets the cakes burn and ‘is roundly scolded by the peasant woman.’

There you are. Cold tongue pie was alive and well in 871…

“I’m going round to my mother’s,” the peasant woman – whoops, beloved wife – said on Friday morning. “Can I leave you in charge of the bread?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “How many times have I done it before?”

Despite my City and Guilds as a master baker my wife insisted that I write it all down.

15 minutes, bread out of the basket, put it in the Le Creuset dish to bake. Twenty minutes for the rolls, 30 minutes for the bread.

“No problem,” I said. “What could possibly go wrong?”

My wife left. I spoke to Siri. “Hey, Siri, set a timer for…”

Sadly there was a problem. I’d been distracted. Writing the latest chapter. Easily done.

In the time it takes to think, ‘I’ll just finish this sentence and then I’ll set the timer…’ I forgot to set the timer.

So technically I didn’t say, ‘Hey, Siri.’ I said, “£$%& Siri, we’ve forgotten the timer.”

Give AI a couple of years and Siri will say, ‘What do you mean we?’

I took a stab at it. “Hey, Siri, set a timer for … ten minutes.”

Ten minutes passed. A very old car sounded its horn. I walked into the kitchen.

‘Hmmm…’ I thought. ‘That hasn’t risen very much.’

And then – for some unaccountable reason – I pressed the top of the bread. Which meant it had risen even less.

A vague feeling of unease crept over me. “Two minutes, mate,” I said to the bread. “I’ll give you another two minutes to rise. Or prove. Or whatever you’re supposed to do.”

It didn’t do anything. Sat there like a lump of dough. So I stuck it in the oven, already turned on for me because – obviously – finding gas mark 6 is a tricky business.

You know that saying? Lighting never strikes twice? It does…

Somehow between thinking, ‘Now I need to set the timer’ and walking back to my laptop, I forgot.

See above. Writing, distracted, easily done.

I took another wild guess. Let’s just say the bread was well baked. Well baked and squashed.

“Hmmm…” my wife said. “What’s happened here?”

I shrugged. “I did exactly as you told me, darling.”

I don’t think she suspects. So keep it to yourselves, will you?

Being chased by the Vikings is one thing. Being chased by my wife is quite another…

Have not enjoyed a book so much for years. If you enjoy a good detective story I cannot recommend highly enough, this one is a real 5 star page turner.

My new novel ‘Salt in the Wounds’ is now available on your Kindle and in paperback.

I’m in Tiers

“I may be a bit dim,” I said.

My wife smiled. “No, darling. No-one could possibly say that. Lots of people climb over gates onto railway lines.”

It’s a good job I’m a patient man…

“…As I understand it, we can go for a walk with them. But we’re not allowed to knock on their front door. And we can’t walk along the garden path with them.”

“Exactly.”

I’m often confused by instructions. This week’s Covid Tiers have taken my bewilderment to a whole new level.

Beverley had looked up from her phone ten minutes earlier.

“Leeds is going into Tier 3,” she said.

“When?”

“Monday.”

“Does that mean Eleanor can come over?”

“I don’t know. The rules aren’t very clear.”

The Beloved Daughter – now two years into her relationship with Could-Be-Serious and looking at houses – was due to visit. The first weekend in November.

Brilliant.

Except that…

“What do the rules say?”

“They should try to avoid leaving the area.”

“But it’s not illegal?”

“No. But she probably won’t want to risk it.”

“So the answer is simple. We drive over and see her.”

“When?”

“Sunday. The day before they go into Tier 3. And we can see Dan at the same time.”

“But he’s in his bubble.”

“But surely he can come out of his bubble to see his mum and dad? Can’t we all meet in the pub? What about Sunday lunch?”

“No. Definitely not. You can’t socialise inside.”

“So we can’t go to the pub and – even if she comes here – she can’t come inside?”

“Yep.”

“What can we do?”

“Go for a walk.”

At which point I got even more confused. Because – if I’m reading this right – you can go for a walk but you can’t stand in a garden.

“So we can walk on a path with them if it’s by a road? But not if it’s in a garden?”

“Yes.”

“Can we go into the park?”

“Maybe.”

“What about the beach if they come here?”

“It’ll be November. It’ll be too cold to socialise on the beach.”

I went online and read the Government’s explanation. Then I needed a drink.

“Don’t forget we’re going to the theatre next week,” my beloved said. “The e-mail says you have to wear a mask all through the play. But you can take it off if you’re eating and drinking.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t eat and drink if you’re wearing a mask. I know you’ve tried it once or twice…”

“So the theatre is saying I have to wear a mask to watch the play?”

“Yes.”

“But if I buy a beer and drink it very, very slowly… I don’t have to wear a mask to watch the play.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe it’s because it’s a comedy,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“If you laugh you’re bound to send germs over a longer distance.”

“Possibly.”

“So the answer’s simple. The theatres can re-open but they can only do Waiting for Godot. Anyway,” I added, “There’s another thing I don’t understand.”

My wife rolled her eyes. Bake Off was on in five minutes. Was she losing interest?

“I’m allowed to sit inside – in a socially distanced theatre – and watch a play. But I’m not allowed to sit outside – in a socially distanced stadium – and watch a football match.”

“No.”

And here’s me part of the Government’s testing programme. My wife sticks a swab up my nose every Tuesday afternoon. Boris Johnson sends me a letter with an X in the ‘no Covid symptoms’ box.

“Don’t we get some special status for that?” I said.

“What do you want, dear, the Covid equivalent of diplomatic immunity?”

“Yes.”

“No…”

A great book – really looking forward to the sequel! A wide variety of likeable and engaging characters in a fantastic setting. Can’t wait to learn more about Brady’s backstory.” Salt in the Wounds is now available on your Kindle and in paperback.

“I’ll See Your Tripe…”

It’s one of the fundamental questions of life isn’t it? Why do fish and chips taste better eaten with your fingers? In the fresh air, by the sea, eaten with your fingers.

And let’s make those namby-pamby boxes illegal. Come on, Boris! Bring that little square of greaseproof paper back. Haddock n’ chips wrapped in last week’s Sunday People.

Chip forks can go at the same time.

I’ve checked. There’s a vacant spit in the underworld. Just between the guy who invented the party bag and the person who first said ‘paperless office.’ The smug so-and-so who came up with the chip fork will slot in nicely. Another miscreant roasting for eternity…

Sorry, I was ranting.

Fundamental questions…

There’s another one. Of possibly even greater import.

Do you have mushy peas with your fish and chips?

Of course you do!

Unless you’re my wife…

I sent her the opening chapters of the latest book. “It’s alright,” she said. “But…”

“But what?”

“He’s bought her mushy peas with the fish and chips.”

“So?”

“No woman likes mushy peas.”

“You don’t.”

“No. Not just me. No woman likes mushy peas.”

What man doesn’t seize the chance to prove his wife wrong? And a survey of my pals on Facebook would soon sort that.

And what could be more scientific? More clinically accurate? If I’m not on SAGE by this time next week I’ll be phoning Matt Hancock…

Especially as the result was overwhelming. 53 to 37 in my favour. (Plus one ‘write-in’ from the USA saying, ‘What the £$%& are mushy peas?’)

Unbelievably, my wife refused to accept the result. “Your sample is skewed,” she said. “Everyone you’ve asked is the same age as you. Ask your daughter.”

I didn’t have to. One of my pals replied almost instantly. ‘My daughter is 30 and she looovves mushy peas.’

What more evidence could anyone need?

And then the discussion disappeared down the rabbit hole.

My mum (from Yorkshire) cooked tons of the things. There was a good supply over the weekend. They sat in the pan, cooked but cold. Every time she went past Mum ate a spoonful. Yes, cold!

Followed by several vomiting emojis…

After that the discussion went even further downhill.

Downhill – but interesting.

A word of warning. If you’re from the South, proceed with caution. And if you’re a vegetarian, don’t go any further.

My grandma used to add mint to them if we were having them with a Sunday roast like lamb.

And then the T word tiptoed into the discussion…

Mushy peas must have been hell if you didn’t like them. Bit like tripe in milk, but let’s not go there (face that has seen a ghost emoji…)

Memories were dredged, recipes were compared. A high-stakes game of poker ensued…

Mum cooked tripe in the pressure cooker and served it with a white sauce made from the liquor – thickened it with cornflour.

That looked like the winner until Phyllis swaggered into the saloon. Clearly, a woman who should have played poker for a living. She saw everyone’s tripe and raised them…

My mum loved tripe and worse still, she loved cow’s udder. Don’t think I’ve seen that on sale for 60 years.

Cow’s udder? Everyone blinked – or vomited – and folded. Phyllis scooped the pot.

I crept off to Google to do my research. And here’s Samuel Pepys in October 1660. Mr Creed and I to the Leg in King Street, where he and I had a good udder to dinner.

53-37 and Samuel Pepys. My wife got off lightly with a side order of mushy peas. Let’s see how she copes with tonight’s delicacy.

Humble pie…

I really enjoyed my first meeting with Michael Brady. His story drew me in from the first page. I need Book 2…” ‘Salt in the Wounds’ is now available on Amazon.

“I Understand how you Feel…”

Legend has it that the KGB came for you at four in the morning. You were woken up. Your brain was foggy. You accepted your fate. Scratched your name on the wall of the Lubyanka…

You know what I’ve always wondered?

Did they let you have a wee before they hauled you off?

Sadly that’s the only thing I want at four in the morning.

That’s what I needed last Monday. And that’s when the KGB came knocking on my door.

Or their 2020 successors.

Amazon.

Like all authors I have a love/hate relationship with Amazon.

They’re just like Angela Miller.

All my teenage years spent asking her out. All the pain, the rejection, the hoops I had to jump through…

Yep, Amazon are exactly the same.

Four in the morning and foolishly – very, very foolishly – I open my e-mails.

‘The paperback will be published by now,’ I think. The paperback of my first novel. ‘Whoop’ will be a significant understatement.

No, it’s not published. Instead of a little box inviting you to ‘buy now’ there’s a dash. And two lines of deathly prose from Amazon. This product is currently unavailable. We don’t know when – or if – it will be available.

The KGB may as well be hammering on the door. I’m wide awake.

What on earth have Amazon done? I need to get in touch with them.

Now.

I could sit up in bed – yes, next to my gently sleeping wife – and dictate an e-mail straight into my phone.

“Hey, Siri! Open e-mail!”

I could do that, but the life insurance wouldn’t pay out. They’d say it was a ‘stupid and reckless act, knowingly endangering my own life.’

And they’d be right.

So I stumble downstairs.

The next few days are stressful. I send e-mails. I make phone calls. The paperback is available to me if I want to buy an ‘author copy.’ But the mighty ’Zon refuse to make it available to anyone else. To the queue of people – alright, we’re not talking Harrods on Boxing Day, but still a few – who want to buy it.

Amazon are unfailingly polite. They hope I’m keeping well. They hope I ‘stay safe in these difficult times.’

They ‘remain in the best of dispositions for any future enquiries’ I may have.

But nothing happens. And there’s nothing I can do. They have me over a barrel. Between a rock and a hard place. By the short and curlies.

Wednesday. I check my e-mail again – my bladder is nothing if not punctual.

And I finally go mad.

Four in the morning and I’m in full rant mode.

‘I understand how you feel’ one of the Amazon team carelessly types.

No, you do not understand how I feel.

Writing a book is supposedly the closest a man ever gets to giving birth…

And I’ve delivered a bouncing baby. But the midwife is refusing to let me see it.

I understand how you feel? That’s like me looking solicitously as my wife when she’s eight months pregnant. ‘You can’t sleep lying down and you can’t sleep sitting up, darling? Your boobs are hurting and you’re fed up to the back teeth? And at the end of it all you’re going to have to give birth which everyone says stings a little bit? Yes, I’ve got a bad back so I understand exactly how you feel…’

‘You’re going through the menopause? You’re getting forgetful and you’re not sure if it’s the menopause or dementia? And you’re having random, violent hot flushes? Yes, the heater in the car was too high this afternoon. So of course, sweetheart. I understand exactly how you feel…’

I’m delighted to say that the battle with Amazon was eventually won. You can buy the paperback and the Kindle version of ‘Salt in the Wounds’ right here.