Much as I dislike being stereotyped, I have to confess I’m typically British inasmuch as I love a good queue. They’re so organised; they have a beginning and an end. A few years ago, my partner Andy and I had a wonderful holiday in Italy. I loved everything about the Italians, apart from one thing – they simply don’t get queues. Following a day trip to Amalfi, Andy and I formed the beginnings of an orderly queue to catch the bus back to our hotel, only to be advised by an elderly British lady to forget it. What? A fellow Brit telling me not to queue? She was right, though. When the bus arrived it was pandemonium as a heaving mass of people shoved and jostled their way on board. I was momentarily worried that my elderly advisor might struggle in the melee, but she was the first one up the steps! Andy embraced the Italian way with gusto, which was just as well – we’d never have got back otherwise. I’d still be standing in my queue of one!



Yesterday I spent well over three hours in a pretty damn impressive queue. When I took my place it stretched back about as far as you can see in the photo below, and it continued to grow and grow.


It was freezing cold, it was going to take a while to achieve our objective, but everyone was remarkably cheerful. Whenever we edged forward a ripple of excitement would run along the huge line of people, and we filled the monotony when we didn’t move for ten minutes or more with jokes, chatter, doing the Hokey Cokey and sharing our plight on social media. A local author (not me, obviously!) walked along the queue, attempting to sell copies of his book set during one of the most successful seasons in our football club Cambridge United’s history. Under normal circumstances I would have bought the book and read it (and hoped for his sake that the author had had it properly edited!), but at that particular moment all I wanted was hot coffee. Poor bloke; the scarf and hat sellers were a lot more popular.

So why on earth was I standing in a line of hundreds while frost slowly hardened all around us? Simple: we all wanted tickets to Cambridge United’s next home match.


I’ll give you a clue (if you can read it!): we weren’t queuing for tickets to the Newport or Wycombe games!

Yes, in the grand old tradition of England’s domestic cup competition, the FA Cup, my little club has been handed the tie of the round: at home to the famous Manchester United. Our ground, The Abbey, isn’t exactly huge, and tickets for the big match are like gold dust. Readers who don’t follow football could be forgiven for thinking I’m mad, and they’re probably right, but on the evening of Saturday 17 January (after having been standing in the cold for two hours to cheer Cambridge to a magnificent 4-0 victory over Newport) I was willing to sacrifice my extremities to frostbite to get my very own golden ticket. By the time we’d shuffled up as far as the entrance to the ground I think my brain was starting to freeze; the guys in front of me were discussing the relative merits of the two concrete mixers pictured on the billboard outside the ground, and I found myself gazing up at the poster and nodding along sagely.

Still spirits were high. We’d come so far (slowly) we weren’t going to give up then. My friends and family kindly let me know how warm and cosy their homes were at that moment while I dreamed about the roaring fire in my local pub. Not even some meathead striding past, telling us that we should have bought season tickets as he’d already got his place at the Manchester United match guaranteed, hah-hah-hah, could get us riled. By then there was no way we were capable of having anything as heated as an argument, so the worst he got was a bit of light hearted ribbing. Cambridge United’s chairman came out to keep us company, walking up and down the line offering words of encouragement, which was an admirable gesture and reminded me why I love that club so much.

Then finally, finally, we were through the gates and into the carpark. The end was in sight – the portakabin housing the ticket office has never looked so beautiful. I was almost moved to tears, but they’d probably have frozen. At last, that coveted spot at the front of the queue was mine and I was ushered forward by a cheerful steward to buy a ticket from a cheerful vendor (these people, all volunteers, deserve medals – they’d been manning that office since 8am, with only a break for the match, and they were still smiling over twelve hours later). I couldn’t help smiling back, widely.

When I got to my local pub, my friend Julie, the landlady, had kindly laid out blankets, a hot water bottle and furry Ugg boots next to the fire in case I needed them. While I brought my body temperature back to normal, the drinkers assembled at the bar formed a queue of their own to photograph my golden ticket. I did offer them the opportunity to take pictures of my ticket for the Wycombe game too, but I don’t think they heard me…



DorysAvengers Cover Art

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Twelfth Night

There is, I believe, some debate as to the date on which Twelfth Night falls. As far as I’m concerned it’s tonight (5 January), the twelfth night of Christmas. I have been known to argue that if Twelfth Night were to fall on 6 January then Christmas Day wouldn’t be one of the days of Christmas, and that would be silly. However, as with many ‘Christian’ traditions, the origins of Twelfth Night belong to times way before this religion became popular in Britain. I recently saw a documentary about Twelfth Night celebrations in Tudor times. The festival would kick off with a cake being eaten; the cake contained a bean, and whoever found the bean won the right to rule for the evening, often leading to the lowliest member of the household becoming master for the night. I’m pretty sure that the temporary master or mistress’s instructions involved lots of revelry and lots of booze – as they probably would nowadays!


Photo courtesy of http://www.fisheaters.com

Thanks to the ever helpful Wikipedia, I’ve discovered this servant becoming master idea originated from ancient Lord of Misrule traditions, included in the Celtic festival of Samhain and the Roman Saturnalia festival. The Lord of Misrule represented the world being turned upside down, the servant becoming the master, until midnight when normal rule was restored. The fact that there is some disagreement as to the exact date of Twelfth Night probably harks from these times, as Twelfth Night used to signal the end of a winter festival starting on All Hallows’ Eve rather than the end of Christmastime.

Fen Ditton Tree

I noticed this morning that the large Christmas tree which has been decorating the village green opposite my house for the last few weeks has been taken down – early! When I was a child, my parents left the Christmas decorations up until Twelfth Night, which was always 5 December as, being a devout Christian, my mum was adamant the Epiphany commenced on the sixth. She used to burn the holly and mistletoe ceremoniously on Twelfth Night, a ceremony I loathed. As the (by then) dried greenery went up in flames, so did the fun and frivolity of the Christmas holidays. All that lay ahead were the depths of winter and the bleak return to school, joyful end of term parties, card swapping and carol concerts but a distant memory. Now I’m in the happy position of loving my job so returning to work holds no dread for me. Indeed, I couldn’t wait to get back to work, but still I won’t be following my mum’s lead and burning my holly and mistletoe. The reasons for this are twofold:

  1. I don’t have any holly and mistletoe;
  2. I don’t have a fire.

I will, however, be leaving my decorations up until the Lord of Misrule has done his worst and order is restored.



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My Favourite Things

When I was invited by fellow author Kylie Betzner to share some of my favourite moments from my debut novel Dory’s Avengers, I jumped at the opportunity. Kylie started the ‘Favourite Things’ tour here on 1 December, and I’m delighted to participate in the closing ceremony today. So, where do I start? In case you’re unfamiliar with Dory’s Avengers, a brief synopsis would be as good a place as any.

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A brutal regime. A docile population. A glimmer of hope.

In a stifled and oppressed Britain, where freedom of choice is but a distant memory, the dictatorial Sponsors reign supreme. Headed by the malevolent Lord William, a man whose cruelty knows no bounds, the Sponsors dictate every aspect of life to their fearful and brainwashed public. For over quarter of a century the Sponsors’ power has grown exponentially. Surely all hope of liberation has gone?
Where there is humanity, there is always hope. In a tiny and forgotten village the fightback begins. Don’t sleep too easily, Lord William…
Dory’s Avengers are coming!

My Favourite Character

Without a doubt, my favourite character in Dory’s Avengers is Dory himself, better known as Theodore St Benedict. I enjoyed writing about Theo so much that I have to confess to falling a little bit in love with him at one point. When the story starts, Theo is in a very bad place indeed having fallen foul of his father, the malevolent Lord William introduced in the blurb. Briefly, Lord William is obsessed with power, and anything or anyone standing in his way – including his own son – will suffer. Despite having been imprisoned and cruelly treated by his father since his early teens when he had the temerity to disagree with Lord William’s dictatorial ways, Theo emerges into the spotlight in part two of Dory’s Avengers a strong willed and highly amusing young man. This gave me tremendous scope for some cracking dialogue between Theo and his father. Far more quick witted than his father, Theo shoots Lord William down in flames verbally over and over again, humiliating the bully. How I loved writing that part of Dory’s. Oh yes, and Theo’s drop dead gorgeous! He does have his flaws (who doesn’t?), but on the whole he’s a bit of all right is Theo.
So, who will play Theo in the blockbusting Dory’s Avengers film which I feel sure will premier next year? To be honest, I don’t know. Not being much of a film buff, I don’t know anything about current hot British actors. However, I do have a fair idea of how Theo would look, so I’ve spent a happy half hour perusing male heartthrobs to try and find a match. Mmm, there are worse ways to spend a Monday morning! I really have no idea whether this guy acts or not, but in this picture Austin Butler looks very much the part for Theo. (Photo courtesy of http://www.theplace2.ru)
Austin Butler

Favourite Scene

OK, despite the fact it’s still all about Theo it had to be this one. I laughed out loud the whole way through, and have had excellent feedback from readers who did much the same. Bear in mind that Theo has been cut off from the outside world for ten years, and at the age of twenty-two he finally learns the facts of life…

A couple of days after Catherine had spent the afternoon in Theo’s room, Lord William found all three of his children in the family room. As usual, Theo and Marina were curled up on the floor watching cartoons, while Rosanna sat apart reading a book. Lord William sat down on the sofa for a while before deciding it was maybe time for a father-and-son chat.
‘Theodore,’ he said, ‘I don’t think anyone in the household has any doubt what you were up to all afternoon the other day.’
Even though Theo ignored him, Lord William ploughed on regardless.
‘Now then, Theodore, did you take precautions?’
‘Did I take what, Your Lordship?’
‘Precautions. Precautions, you silly dolt.’
‘Against what?’
‘Against getting the young lady pregnant, of course. Oh…’ Lord William’s voice trailed off as realisation dawned on both him and his elder daughter at the same moment. Looking up from her book, Rosanna shrieked with laughter.
‘He doesn’t know the facts of life, Father! He’s twenty-two years old and he doesn’t know how a baby’s made!’
‘Do you, Theodore?’
Both Lord William and Rosanna were gratified to see Theo blush slightly.
‘No,’ said Theo. ‘Should I?’
‘Given your activities the other afternoon I think it would be as well, yes. Rosanna, would you pop down to the kitchen and fetch a carrot, please?’ Waiting for Rosanna to return, Lord William turned back to Theo.
‘How much do you know?’
Glancing helplessly at Marina and finding even she was desperately trying to keep her laughter in check, Theo resorted to looking at his fingers.
‘I’m guessing it’s got something to do with sex,’ he mumbled eventually.
‘Well done,’ said Lord William sarcastically. ‘I should have thought of this sooner. No one’s actually taught you the facts of life. Ah, thank you, Rose; a nice, big carrot.’
Theo looked at the carrot in confusion, wondering what it had to do with making babies. Rosanna had guessed exactly what the carrot was for and she sat herself down beside Theo, laughing helplessly. On the other side of him Theo could feel Marina shaking with laughter too, but she laid a hand on his arm to show she wasn’t trying to mock him.
Fishing in his pocket, Lord William said, ‘This…look at it, Theodore…This is a condom.’
‘OK, Your Lordship. I haven’t a clue what that is.’
‘Here. Open the packet.’ Theo did as he was told and Lord William continued, trying to ignore the laughter of his daughters.
‘Now, when you have sex, Theodore and you…you know…finish off…’
Sensing his father’s discomfort, and that his sisters’ laughter was more at Lord William’s expense than his, Theo felt the corners of his own mouth starting to twitch.
‘You…finish off and…your seed goes into…well it goes inside the lady and, erm sometimes meets her egg. If this happens and your…er…seed fertilises the egg, nine months down the line we’ve got a baby Theodore on our hands.’
Pulling himself together, Lord William injected some authority back into his voice.
‘Stop laughing, all three of you! This is serious! Theodore, I don’t want you making babies with Catherine Lorimer; God knows, you can barely look after yourself.’ Theo would have argued that point, but he knew that if he tried to speak he would just have dissolved into helpless laughter.
‘Right, Theodore, the trick is to stop your sperm getting to Catherine’s egg, and that’s where the condom comes in. Have a look at it. How do you think it works?’
Theo examined the condom, then started to blow it up like a balloon.
‘NO!’ roared Lord William as all three of his offspring rolled on the floor, crying with laughter. ‘I wish I’d worn one of these things myself a bit more often. Give it here, Theodore!’ Prising the condom out of his son’s hand, Lord William commanded him to, ‘Watch!’
‘Right, Theodore. You put the condom on like so.’ Using the carrot, Lord William demonstrated how to put on a condom. ‘Once it’s on, nice and secure, you can go ahead and have sex. Your semen collects in the condom, which you carefully dispose of afterwards. It doesn’t reach Catherine’s egg, and we don’t have any silly accidents. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Your Lordship,’ replied Theo, his voice wobbly with laughter. ‘I put the condom on the carrot and there’ll be no baby Theodores.’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Thoroughly exasperated, Lord William threw the carrot at his son before stomping from the room, leaving his children rolling around, screaming with laughter, on the family-room floor.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little foray into the world of Dory’s Avengers, and that you’ll head over to Kylie’s blog where she has introduced her upcoming debut novel, an Arthurian parody called The Quest for the Holy Something or Other. All that remains for me to do is wish you a very HAPPY NEW YEAR.

Echoes of Narcissus in the Gardens of Delight by @JoRobinson176 Blog Tour 2014

I’m delighted to be posting today as part of a blog tour to announce that Echoes of Narcissus in the Gardens of Delight by fellow author, supportive blogger and good friend Jo Robinson is now LIVE!

Donna thought there was something wrong with her. That she was suffering from a mental illness that has caused her husband to despise her, distance himself from her, and cheat on her. She blames herself for the desolate, miserable thing that is her marriage and her life. Then she comes across a book that will change everything for her, and reading it, she discovers that there’s nothing wrong with her mind at all, but that there is something very wrong with her husband instead. Marco, she realises, is a malignant narcissist. A text book case. He has a real and documented mental disorder, and that he’s been controlling, manipulating, and abusing her for decades. The sudden full knowledge of all that he’s purposely done to her enrages her. Not sure how to leave after thirty years of what she finally knows has been intentional mental and emotional abuse from him, and believing that she has nowhere to turn, being so physically isolated, she bides her time.

Then she meets and befriends a group of unusual people who share her passion for gardening, and so begins her journey to escape. She joins her new friends in their project to assist elderly people in old age homes care for their small gardens, as well as secretly supplying those suffering from painful and terminal illnesses with medicinal herb and plant remedies, including illegal plants such as cannabis. As weeks go by, she delves into her memories, relearns what it is to be respected, liked, and loved again, and slowly she formulates a plan to safely leave her dangerous husband. But unbeknownst to Donna, Marco is in serious trouble, and has desperate plans of his own, and absolutely no regard for her safety.

This is a work of fiction, but malignant narcissists really do exist, and it is a recognised mental illness. Unfortunately, many people never realise that they are involved with a narcissist, because their actions are so demonically bad as to be unimaginable and unbelievable, and so they spend their lives in misery, depression, fear, and isolation. If only by the accidental reading of a fictional story, I hope that this book will help even one person, unknowingly suffering narcissistic abuse, to realise that they don’t have to, and that it’s never too late to start over, be happy, be fulfilled, to love and care for yourself, and be truly loved and respected by others.

Available now from Amazon: US link UK link

..in Memoriam, Miss Kerr… Born 18 ? ?— Died 1962…


A moving post from Seumas, and a timely reminder to take care of the vulnerable folk this Christmas :-)

Originally posted on Seumas Gallacher:

..a wee change of pace from my usual content, and I’ll ask yeez to bear with it, and read it through to the end… when Master Gallacher was all of fourteen years old, most of the non-school hours were spent playing football with my pals on the spare ground close to our home in Glasgow… an open piece of grass on which our pitched jackets served as goalposts, was bounded by tenement buildings… overlooking the area, one of these  buildings was tenanted exclusively by older folks… single, either spinsters or widowed individuals, well beyond even the age that I’m now skirting with… one day I heard a call from a third floor small balcony… a petite, white-haired lady beckoned me to come up… I did so, and met for the first time Ms Kerr… she needed some help and asked if I would be kind enuff to carry her…

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Mill Road Winter Fair – 2014 Style

Seven o’clock on the morning of Saturday 6 December 2014. Daylight was still just a vague hint in the east, yet I was up and raring to go. I’d been pretty hyper for a couple of days now, and it was all about today – Cambridge’s annual Mill Road Winter Fair. My Books, Beautiful Books stall would be appearing in the fair’s Donkey Green (or is it Donkey Common?) marquee, and five local authors would be sharing the day with me. Despite having company this year (I ran a stall on my own last year) I was still nervous as my partner Andy drove me, a hefty box full of Dory’s Avengers and a substantial sack barrow into town in his (luckily) spacious taxi. I didn’t want to be bringing all that stock back home again in the evening. I really didn’t want that…

I arrived in situ with over an hour to go. It was a cracking morning: freezing cold, but bright and sunny; a classic winter’s day. Last year I walked from one end of the marquee to the other, heaving all my stock with me, only to find my stall located right by the entrance. Learn from experience? Nah, not me. I did exactly the same thing again this year.

Having found the stall and exchanged greetings with the young lady preparing to offer a gift wrapping service on the neighbouring stall, I hadn’t even had time to unload my books before I was joined by the first of my companions, Susan Grossey, complete with the first two books of her series following the career of Sam Plank, a fictional magistrate’s constable working in Regency London. Together we transformed our plain table into a magnificent stall, with a little help from the friendly gift wrapper and her plentiful supply of Sellotape, and we were able to relax and get to know each other. Obviously we had a love of books in common, but more than that we clicked right from the start and were soon chatting like old friends. That’s when I started to relax; I knew I was going to enjoy the day.

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Our beautiful stall, photobombed by a not so beautiful sack barrow

Shahida Rahman arrived next. We’d met last year at an author event in the central library, had got along famously and had kept in touch all year, so it was fabulous to see her again. While I was wandering round the fair in search of coffee, Saffra Monteiro arrived; having met Saffra earlier in the year, Sue did the introductions when I returned with a latte and a mouth full of lemon drizzle cake. Saffra was selling the first in what is to become a series of fantasy books, and both her cover and she herself were very eye-catching. Poet Michael Brown arrived a little while later, and finally Georgia Rose joined us. Georgia had the furthest to travel and wasn’t familiar with Cambridge, so I was very relieved when she arrived safely.

authours group pic at mill road fair

The authors! Top row l-r: Georgia Rose, Michael Brown, Shahida Rahman. Bottom row l-r: Saffra Monteiro, Susan Grossey, Alison Jack

Obviously, with six authors running one stall, space was at a premium. We managed to lay claim to a narrow strip of stall each on which to display our sample copies (the idea being that customers would thumb through those books and not our pristine selling stock), and Shahida had room to mount the banner advertising her historical novel Lascar behind our stall thanks to the ever obliging gift wrappers shifting towards the door to give us more room. When Shahida had sold a book before the fair had even opened, I started to believe we might actually have a lucrative day…

Let the carnival begin! At 10.30 Mill Road Winter Fair was officially underway, and almost immediately the crowds poured in through the marquee entrance. Sue and Shahida, both far more self confident than I, went out to meet and greet potential customers. I stayed behind the stall, smiling inanely and getting to know Michael and Georgia while Saffra went in search of refreshments. Michael had brought a Cambridge News cutting about the release of The Exhibit, his collection of poetry, and coincidentally the article had been published right next to a column that Sue regularly writes for the same paper. Thanks to Sue and Shahida, visitors stopped and looked at our stall, and before long Michael had sold a copy of The Exhibit. He was even able to supply the customer with a handy gift wrapping service as she intended the book as a gift – bonus! Michael was chuffed at the idea that someone will be unwrapping a copy of his book on Christmas morning; I remember feeling the same last year when Dory’s was purchased as a gift, but it didn’t look as though I’d be getting that buzz this year (sigh)…

It was about half an hour into the fair that things went downhill. Our neighbours – not the friendly gift wrappers, the other neighbours – took umbrage at the fact that Sue and Shahida were mingling with the crowds entering the marquee. The neighbours’ request that Sue and Shahida try not to obstruct their stall was reasonable, but the aggressive way in which they put it wasn’t. Sue and Shahida did as asked, but that wasn’t good enough for the narky neighbours.

‘Can you stop approaching people as soon as they come through the door? You’re stopping them from coming to our stall.’ No, dear, we’ve every right to attract customers. I think someone got out of bed on the wrong side on Saturday morning!

Before long the narky neighbours were the least of our concerns. I’d noticed water pouring down from the side entrance to the marquee as the sun moved round and melted the frost, but hadn’t thought too much about it. I’d even watched, mildly amused, as a young man wiped down the ceiling of the marquee with a mop. Oh yeah, ha ha. Hilarious. A drop fell on to our stall, shortly followed by a second. Young man with mop to the rescue. Job done?

No chance! The drops began to fall with alarming regularity as the condensation rolled down the slope of the ceiling and gathered above our stall. My request that everyone stop breathing wasn’t met with very much enthusiasm, and it wasn’t long before the mop man had a full time job protecting our precious books from the deluge. He was heard to comment that he didn’t pray for an easy life, he prayed for the strength to endure. Personally, had I the faith to pray I’d have been asking for a dry pitch at that moment in time.

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Our soggy stall

Outside the marquee the sun continued to shine, and it was dry. Beautifully dry. Watching the crowds passing our stall by as soon as they saw the water pouring down on us, we made the executive decision to up sticks and move outside. Mop man did radio those in charge to ask if this would be alright as we weren’t supposed to move our stall from its intended position, but drastic situations call for drastic measures. By the time he came back with the thumbs up, our stall was already outside and we were collecting our bits and bobs.

In the unlikely event that Alanis Morissette reads my blog, she might be interested to know that rain on your wedding day isn’t actually ironic. Rain on a stall pitched inside a tent expressly to avoid it getting wet should the weather be inclement – now that’s ironic!


Ready to go again

It wasn’t long before the lovely gift wrappers had also moved outside – falling water would play havoc with wrapping paper as much as it would with books. Happily, the narky neighbours stayed put in the marquee. Michael was having lunch and a look round the fair with his husband John when we’d moved out, and as none of us had thought to take his phone number he was a bit baffled when he returned to the marquee and found a soggy gap where our stall had once been. The winter sun did its best to warm us, and we were able to display our books without a care in the world. We had more room to move around, plenty of visitors passing by, a great view of a group of hunky fireman pulling a fire engine along the road (mmm, that warmed us up!) and I even made up for the fact I never got a chance to see the Winter Fair parade last year.

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The parade

The day wore on, and the low winter sun gradually slipped behind the buildings. To say the fair was successful in terms of sales would be a huge exaggeration, but hey! I sold two books! One by one my stall mates gave up and went home as the temperature plummeted; soon only Sue, Georgia and I remained, chatting and laughing like the friends we had become over the course of the day. When the sun disappeared completely, we finally decided we’d had enough for this year and packed up our wares, promising to stay in touch and meet up again in the new year.

Waiting for Andy to pick me up after the fair, wondering whether I’d ever feel warm again, I looked over the darkening town and reflected on the day. Six people with a range of different ages and backgrounds had been brought together by a common interest – books. Yes, my early fears had been realised and I was bringing pretty much all my stock back home again, but I had great memories and five new friends. Can I put a price on these things? Of course I can’t, because they’re priceless.


The end of the day

Introducing – Susan Grossey @SusanGrossey

My final introduction post is all about Susan Grossey, author of both factual and historical fiction books about financial crime. I first contacted Susan as soon as the Mill Road Winter Fair organisers confirmed that Books, Beautiful Books would be a part of this year’s fair, and we’ve been swapping cheerful and friendly emails since (as I have with all the authors joining me on Saturday). I’m very much looking forward to meeting her.

From Susan’s website, here is more about her and her work:


My name is Susan Grossey.  I graduated from Cambridge University in 1987 with a degree in English, and then taught secondary English for two years before realising that the National Curriculum was designed primarily to extinguish every spark of creativity in its teachers.  I then became a technical author, and reached the pinnacle of this profession when I was asked to document the workings of a choc-ice wrapping machine in Cardiff, while wearing a fetching blue hairnet (which I forgot to remove until it was pointed out by a cashier in a petrol station on the M4).

From this unbeatable high point I moved into technical training, and one day was asked to help with a staff manual on fraud prevention.  As I wrote the chapter on money laundering, I realised thaAnti Money Lauderingt here was a topic that could keep my interest for years – and so it has proved.  Since 1998, I have been self-employed as an anti-money laundering consultant, providing training and strategic advice and writing policies and procedures for clients in many countries.  As part of my job, I have written several non-fiction books with exciting titles like Money Laundering: A Training Strategy, The Money Laundering Officer’s Practical Handbook and Anti-Money Laundering: A Guide for the Non-Executive Director.

Suspicious Activity cover-part-1[1]Suspicious Activity cover-part-6[1]










However, even this is not enough financial crime for me, and in my spare evenings and weekends I write fiction – but always with financial crime at the heart of it.

The ForgeryCanary waistcoat










To purchase any of Susan’s books please visit her website, or come along to the Donkey Green marquee at Mill Road Winter Fair in Cambridge on Saturday and meet her in person.

You can also follow Susan’s blog or connect with her on Twitter @SusanGrossey