Great Big Trumpety Triumphant Fanfare, Please: Dory’s Avengers, Re-released TODAY

Yes, today’s the day I’ve been waiting for, the culmination of a year’s hard tweaking – my lovely sleek new version of Dory’s Avengers is available to buy on Amazon Kindle.

Please click on the appropriate link below to find out more.

UK link     USA link     Australia link     Canada link


A tale of loyalty and betrayal, kindness and cruelty, mystery and discovery, oppression and freedom, Dory’s Avengers is modern take on a good old-fashioned adventure with a great soundtrack, a healthy portion of sport and a huge dollop of humour, all leading to…

Stop right there! No spoilers.

To celebrate this momentous day, I have been out dog walking and chatting with my good friend and fellow author Georgia Rose, creator of the wonderful Grayson Trilogy among other works, and she’s been kind enough to share our chat on her blog. Would you like to have a read? Then head on over … here.

Thank you for joining me today to celebrate my book re-launch. I hope you enjoy reading Dory’s Avengers as much as I enjoyed writing it. And for those of you who have been asking, yes, I am writing novel number two (which goes under the super-exciting working title of New Book at the moment – it does exactly what it says on the tin, I suppose). Finally!

Happy weekend🙂

Half Centennial

Today I have a significant birthday. Significant in what way? The clue’s in the title.

My mother, who is sadly no longer with us, was a keen writer (with a vivid imagination and a wacky sense of humour, all traits she passed on generously to her children), and she kept a diary so I have a written account of that momentous day in 1966. No, not the one England football fans are still banging on about (because, let’s face it, it’s never going to happen again)…


…which goes glaringly unacknowledged by my football loathing mum (goodness only knows where my love of football comes from), I mean a momentous day from a more personal point of view which took place a few weeks later.


It seems that was rather more significant from Mum’s point of view than England winning the World Cup. (Well, it would be, wouldn’t it, duh!) So fifty years ago this very day, I entered the world (just in time for lunch, of course), and in honour of the occasion I’ve been looking over the past decade and making a list of ten reasons – for me, anyway – why turning fifty is better than turning forty.

Another legacy from my mum is always to look for positives.

Ten years ago, I’d never:

  • Written, published or edited a book
  • Run my own business
  • Driven a car
  • Visited the Southern Hemisphere
  • Ridden a wakeboard
  • Driven a fork lift truck
  • Watched my little League Two football club run out at Old Trafford (couldn’t get the day off work last time Cambridge United played Manchester United in a midweek match – ooh, how I love being self-employed!)
  • Heard my sister sing in Kings College Chapel (which was an amazing experience, despite the fact I felt like a bit of a chav in my crop trousers and sparlky shoes ‘by Debenhams’ next to the toffs in their Savile Row suits and cashmere coats, and the fact that one of said toffs nicked my programme!)
  • Walked overnight from London to Brighton, which was arguably the most amazing experience of my life
  • Run a blog. Okay, those who are familiar with the sporadic nature of my bog posting might say I still don’t run a blog, but ten years ago I didn’t even know what a blog was!

As if those weren’t enough reasons for me to grab the champagne and party like it’s 1999 (which, of course, it’s not, otherwise I’d be a fresh-faced 33-year-old), I’m entering my sixth decade (yikes!) with exciting times ahead. My editing business is booming, I’m on the verge of re-releasing a vastly improved Dory’s Avengers (which is available for pre-order on Kindle – can’t resist a bit of marketing, even on my birthday)…

…and the status of novel number two has been elevated from ‘on the back-burner’ to ‘work in progress on the rare occasion I find time to write’.

Bring on the next ten years; I can’t wait to find out what they hold.


Big Fanfare Please – The New Improved Dory’s Avengers Is Available to Pre-order!

Excited! Buzzing! Finally, after the best part of a year’s editing, re-editing, re-re-editing, re-re-re-re…you get the picture, Dory’s Avengers is due for re-release on Friday 30 September 2016. The manuscript has been professionally proof read (yes, I know what I do for a day job, but not even an editor can proof her own work) – many thanks to Julia Gibbs for her expert work, and the cover art is looking fan-blooming-tastic courtesy of James Willis of Spiffing Covers:


I’ve managed to upload the manuscript not only to Kindle Direct Publishing, where the e-book is all ready to pre-order (Amazon UK, Amazon USA, Amazon Ca, Amazon Au), but also to Createspace for those of you who prefer a yummy printed book – thank you to Mary Matthews (aka author Georgia Rose) of Three Shires Publishing for teaching me so much at her excellent self-publishing workshop earlier in the year. Hell, I’m even going to be releasing Dory’s Avengers on Audible once I’ve found the perfect narrator – watch this blog for further news on that particular venture. There’s no stopping me now.


But hang on a moment – wasn’t Dory’s published three years ago? About this time of year, with a book launch and signing sessions and lots of champagne?

Book Launch Champagne 1

Okay, I confess – yes, it was. I’m not going to go into details about what went wrong (mutters dark oaths about vanity publisher dazzling naïve author with false promises); suffice to say, about a year ago I decided to reread my literary triumph and ended up hugely embarrassed by the standard of editing, proof reading and, I have to confess, my own blunders. All the parts I’d been uneasy about but had left in; all the rambling scenes I’d included simply so I could air one amusing phrase; all were there, mocking me and making me want to…give the book a damn good structural edit and re-release it.

And so I did.

I can honestly say I am delighted with everything to do with the revised edition of Dory’s Avengers, and I’m looking forward to sharing more blog posts and snippets from the book on An Author’s View in the weeks leading up to the big launch on 30 September. If you bought a copy of the original and feel tempted to give the sleek new version a try, please contact me and I will give you a free copy, if possible in the format of your choice. If not, I hope you will purchase a copy, love it and leave me a peachy review, but I will be equally interested to know your reasons if you’re not keen. If people are reading Dory’s Avengers, I will be one happy author. You, dear readers, are after all the reason why I write.

Monster #FlashFictionForay #FFF31

The Flash Fiction Foray is upon us again, and the song The Book Blogger has chosen this week is “Monster” by Imagine Dragons.

In case you don’t know the rules, the challenge is to write a short story of fewer than 100 words based on the song title or lyrics. A challenge indeed! This week I have managed to keep my word count to fewer than 170, which is better than the monster (ha-ha, see what I did there?) offerings of, ooh, nearly 500 words I’ve submitted in the past, but the magic 100 word story still eludes me.


Freddie was sitting on the stairs late at night, listening to Mother gossiping with the neighbours.

“The boy’s father,” exclaimed Mother, “is a real monster!”

“Monster. Monster,” agreed her companions.

Glowing with excitement, Freddie sneaked back to his bedroom to pack his meagre belongings. His dad was a real live monster – just wait till the bullies at school heard about that! Mother never did anything when Freddie came home in tears on a daily basis, other than telling him to grow a pair of balls. How was he supposed to grow balls? Why couldn’t she buy him some from the toy shop?

“Do you remember the awful things he used to do to Freddie?” Mother was saying, deaf to the front door clicking shut behind her small son. “I swear he’d have killed the child…”

Freddie didn’t hear these crucial details about the monster who’d fathered him. He was already on the streets, a bounce in his step as he set out to find his hero.

Picture courtesy of

#MayDay Mayhem Part Two – Let The Carnival Begin!

“It is my pleasure,” boomed Lord Lah-di-Dah, “to declare the Bell End May Day fête…OPEN!”

“Oh, Your Lordship, Your Lordship.” Mrs Sanctimonious simpered around the minor aristocrat as the opening ceremony drew to a close, virtually clutching at his sleeve in a bid to ingratiate herself. “Please, allow me – I mean, it would be my honour to show you around…”

“What, what, what?”

“Show you around, Your Lordship. Perhaps some refreshments first?”

“Splendid, a bevvy or two sounds like a blahdy good idea. And there’s no need for the Lordship malarkey – yer can call me Rupert.”

Mrs Sanctimonious’s laugh positively tinkled. First name terms with an aristocrat…

“Yah, got stripped of me title a year ago. Spot of bother on Clapham Common.”

“Ew,” said Mrs Sanctimonious, a little deflated. “Well, er, how’s life at Lah-di-Dah Hall?”

“Sold it!” The former Lord Lah-di-Dah slapped Mrs Sanctimonious on the back and gave a bark of laughter. “Gambling debts, what?”

“Ewww.” Mrs Sanctimonious looked all of a sudden as though there was a nasty smell under her nose. “Well if you want refreshments, Rupert, might I suggest you’d be more at home in the pub?”

“The Drover’s Arms? Jolly good idea. Spent many a night in the barmaid’s arms, what?” The disgraced aristocrat guffawed unrepentantly. “Tally ho!”

Her mouth tighter than a duck’s arse, Mrs Sanctimonious watched him go.

“Common as muck,” she muttered. Feeling a tap on her arm, she painted a smile on her face which faded the second she saw it wasn’t anyone worth cultivating.

“Mrs Downtrodden.”

“Mrs Sanctimonious, is there anything I can do to help? Only Farmer Rosy-Cheeks seems to have everything under control in the refreshments tent…”

“Farmer Rosy-Cheeks is meant to be manning the produce stall.”

“The only produce he’s brought along is his apple juice,” replied Mrs Downtrodden. “It’s going down a storm. No one wants tea.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, woman, you’ll do anything to get out of working,” snapped Mrs Sanctimonious. “Go and see if Justin’s elephants are ready for the maypole dance yet.”

Feeling self-righteously superior as Mrs Downtrodden slunk away, Mrs Sanctimonious started walking across the village green to see how the raffle tickets were selling. She didn’t get far.

“Mrs Sanctimonious?” A woman holding the hand of a confused looking small boy stopped her in her tracks. “Mrs Sanctimonious, that man you’ve put in charge of body painting is, quite frankly, inappropriate!”

The last word came out as a scream and the small boy started to cry.

“Show the lady, Tarquin.”

Tarquin held up his hands. Painted across his small knuckles were the words ‘love’ and ‘hate’.

“I wanted a Spiderman face,” he wailed.

“Mr Wouldn’t-Say-Boo-To-A-Goose did that?” asked Mrs Sanctimonious in disbelief.

“Mr Wouldn’t-Say-Boo-To-A-Goose is running backwards and forwards to the refreshments tent,” snapped Tarquin’s mother, “getting an endless supply of Farmer Rosy-Cheeks’s apple juice for…”

“Oh dear God, no!” exclaimed Mrs Sanctimonious, clapping her hands over her face as the unmistakable roar of motorbike engines cut across the tranquillity of the spring afternoon. Squinting through the gap between her fingers, she saw her worst fears had been realised.

The local Hell’s Angels had turned up in support of their leader, Horace, who was currently engaged in painting nipples on to a five-year-old girl’s chubby cheeks.

“Horace!” Mrs Sanctimonious summoned her courage and stormed over to the large and hairy man. “You…you…what are you doing?”

“Tattooing the kiddies, Mrs S,” replied Horace affably, draining his mug of apple juice and sending Mr Wouldn’t-Say-Boo-To-A-Goose scuttling off to the refreshments tent for a refill.

“But”, Mrs Sanctimonious laid her hands on the shoulders of the baffled looking five-year-old, “this is highly inappropriate…”

“No it ain’t, Mrs S.” Horace gave the nipple adorned cheeks a friendly squeeze. “Just givin’ the little ’un a fine pair until she grows a fine pair of her own.”

“Jolly good show, man,” roared the former Lord Lah-di-Dah, glass of apple juice in hand, clapping Horace on the back. “Can’t have too many titties about the place, what?”

“I thought you were in the pub,” said Mrs Sanctimonious, rubbing the bridge of her nose wearily.

“Came back with the Morris dancers.” The former Lord Lah-di-Dah clinked his glass against Horace’s. “Mighty fine apple juice, eh?”

“Oh heck,” groaned Mrs Sanctimonious, “the Morris dancers…”

Jingle, jingle, jingle, clack! Jingle, jingle, jingle, thud! Thud! Raucous laughter. The Morris dancers, complete with a splendidly toothy Reverend Benign and an equally toothless Mr Wolf, were gathered outside the refreshments tent, giving an impromptu display – of falling over.

“Justin!” shrieked Mrs Sanctimonious. “Justin, where are you? Get the maypole dancing going, now!”

“Can’t,” replied Justin.

“What do you mean, you can’t? You’ve had an hour to train the children…”

“Yeah, and things were going swimmingly until Mrs Rosy-Cheeks instigated an ‘eat your body weight in burgers’ competition.”

“And,” said Mrs Sanctimonious, looking over to where the children were now slobbing out around the maypole, electronic tablets in hands, “I hardly dare ask, but did any of them manage it?”

“No.” Mrs Sanctimonious’s relief was short lived. “But only because there aren’t enough burgers in the country. Once they’d finished Mrs Rosy-Cheeks’s supply – in record time, I might add – they started on the…”

Justin was interrupted by a scream from the raffle stall. Mrs Downtrodden was staring in horrified disbelief at the empty stand where the magnificent prize cake, the weight of which eager fairgoers had been paying a pound a go to guess, had once sat.

“Once they’d finished, they started on the cake,” murmured Mrs Sanctimonious, feeling a little faint. Someone shoved a glass of Farmer Rosy-Cheeks’s legendary apple juice into her hand and she drank a healthy slug before continuing. “And what, pray, are the not so little darlings doing now.”

“Dancing,” replied Justin as chubby fingers whizzed over tablet screens. “They’ve all downloaded ‘Killer Zombies’ Dance of Death’ and they’re bloody brilliant at it.” Grinning, Justin produced an iPad from his man bag. “It’s great. The zombies dance round the maypole, binding the living with the ribbons, then they feast on brains. I’m on level two.”

His finger already busy, Justin returned to the maypole and disappeared into a sea of fat and ribbons.

“It’s all going wrong!” wailed Mrs Sanctimonious. “Give me strength…”

Taking another gulp of apple juice, she discovered her prayer had been answered. An inner strength she didn’t know she had came to the fore and she regarded the mayhem around her with a new appreciation.

“This stuff’s delicious,” she said, draining her glass. “Any chance of some more?”

“Ish nectar from heaven,” slurred Reverend Benign, draping an arm round her shoulders. “A gift from almighty…wash ’iz name again? Ooh,” his teeth turned in the direction of the newly crowned May Queen, Miss Pretty-Young-Thing, closely followed by the rest of his face, “don’t mind if I do.”

Reverend Benign scuttled off rather unsteadily in pursuit of Miss Pretty-Young-Thing, accompanied by wolf whistles and an accordion rendition of the Benny Hill theme tune courtesy of the Morris dancers. Meanwhile at the body painting stall, Ms Wrong-End-Of-The-Village was sharing a large roll-up with the former Lord Lah-di-Dah while Horace showcased his artistic talents on her Leanne’s face.

“Is that a…” began Mrs Sanctimonious, looking bleary-eyed at Horace’s artwork.

“Nah, Mrs S,” replied Horace with a grin. “Dirty mind you’ve got, lady. It’s just a nice picture of meat and two veg.”

“What a relief,” said Mrs Sanctimonious, turning with a beaming smile as Mrs Downtrodden appeared at her side.

“Mrs Sanctimonious,” said Mrs Downtrodden, her voice quavering, “it’s a disaster.”

The Morris men were back at the refreshments tent, singing a collection of bawdy songs at the tops of their voices, their bells jingling frantically as they swayed to and fro, while random declarations of “Brains” from the direction of the maypole heralded more victories for the zombies. Giggling and rustling coming from a nearby bush, punctuated by the occasional “Glory be to God”, suggested the whereabouts of His Reverence and the May Queen, and the large roll-ups appeared to be multiplying at an astonishing rate as Ms Wrong-End-Of-The-Village got increasingly mellow with the local Hell’s Angels chapter and the disgraced aristocrat.

“Disaster, my arse,” replied Mrs Sanctimonious, linking arms with Mrs Downtrodden and leading her in the direction of the refreshments tent and Farmer Rosy-Cheeks’s glorious apple juice. “It’s the best fête ever!”


Picture courtesy of


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#MayDay Mayhem Part One – The Calm Before The Storm

Mrs Sanctimonious surveyed the hive of activity on the sun-drenched village green with satisfaction. It was rumoured far and wide that no village threw a better May Day bash than Bell End, and this year’s fête was shaping up to be the best ever.

Looking around, Mrs Sanctimonious frowned. Something wasn’t quite right. She had spent the last six years organising the village fête committee to within an inch of its lives, so why, oh why, did someone always see fit to do their own thing? And why, oh why, did it always have to be the same someone?

“Mrs Downtrodden,” she snapped, sashaying over to the jumble stall. “Mrs Downtrodden, what did we agree at the last committee meeting? What did we agree, hmm? Ms Wrong-End-Of-The-Village is dealing with jumble, you’re meant to be in the refreshments tent.”

Mrs Sanctimonious paused. There was an obvious flaw in her plan.

“So, where exactly is Ms Wrong-End-Of-The-Village?”

“Er, she went to see if the blue dress would fit her Leanne…”

“The blue…” Mrs Sanctimonious spluttered, turned an alarming shade of crimson, then tried again. “The blue Gucci for kids dress? It belonged to my Sophia until she wore it the once and got bored with it. I can’t have it gracing the slums of Gutter Street.”

Beckoning Mrs Downtrodden closer, Mrs Sanctimonious whispered, “Did you know – Ms Wrong-End-Of-The-Village doesn’t even know who her Leanne’s father is? Or her other seven kids’ fathers, for that matter. The woman’s never heard of marriage.”

“Or contraception,” murmured Mrs Downtrodden.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, isn’t it time for the maypole inspection?”

“Ah yes. For once you’ve come up with a worthwhile idea. And now,” Mrs Sanctimonious added as Ms Wrong-End-Of-The-Village reappeared through a cloud of cigarette smoke, “you can return to your duties in the refreshments tent.”

“Di’n’t fit,” said Ms Wrong-End-Of-The-Village, chucking the Gucci dress unceremoniously back on to the jumble stall. With a moue of disgust, Mrs Sanctimonious moved off in the direction of the maypole, thinking that if Leanne Wrong-End-Of-The-Village’s daily diet extended to something more healthy than burgers and pizzas, the dress could have fitted a treat. Or perhaps if she got a bit more exercise. Mrs Sanctimonious’s Sophia was forever active, out and about in the saddle, training for gymkhanas, following the hunt…

“Mr Wolf!” she snapped as the village’s oldest resident hobbled past, making his ponderous way with his equally ancient Yorkshire terrier towards the refreshments tent. “Get that dog out of the full sun. Really, I can’t abide cruelty to animals.”

“I was…I was just…Mrs Sanct…” Mr Wolf attempted to wheeze a reply in his defence, but Mrs Sanctimonious had already moved on.

“Justin!” she called, summoning the self-appointed choreographer. Unbinding himself from the maypole’s ribbons and tottering over (his bright pink trousers way too tight to allow for anything resembling a normal walk), Justin launched into a furious tirade before Mrs Sanctimonious had the chance to speak.

“Where are they?” he demanded. “Where are the little angels? How am I supposed to turn them into a posse of Wayne Sleeps if they’re not even here?”

Glancing around, Mrs Sanctimonious saw that Justin had a point. There was no sign of the local children she’d bribed with endless bags of Haribo to dance round the maypole later that day. There was, however, the Reverend Benign approaching from the east, hands clasped in prayer, eyes no more than slits in a face dominated by bottle bottom glasses and prominent front teeth.

“God bless you, my children,” he intoned.

“God bless you too, Your Reverence,” purred Mrs Sanctimonious, a pious smile upon her face.

“A maypole? A little, er…” Reverend Benign lowered his voice and inclined his head towards Mrs Sanctimonious, “pagan, don’t you think?”

Mrs Sanctimonious trilled with sycophantic laughter.

“Justin,” she said, “perhaps the maypole isn’t appropriate for a Christian environment. You should just nip off home…”

Reverend Benign had other plans for the overtly camp Justin.

“Oh Heavenly Father on high,” he chanted, making the sign of the cross in Justin’s face. “Forgive this filthy heathen for succumbing to the sins of the flesh…”

“You what?” said Justin. “I’m in a monogamous relationship, you holier than thou hypocrite.”

Reverend Benign adopted an expression of serene piousness, but Justin hadn’t finished with him yet.

“I’m not the one who spends his afternoons chasing after Miss Pretty-Young-Thing…”

Serenity forgotten, Reverend Benign glared at Justin.

“I’m grooming her,” he snapped.

“That’s about right!”

“For holy orders…”

“What, in her bedroom?”

“The children have arrived, Justin,” Mrs Sanctimonious cut in, sighing with relief at the timely distraction. A fleet of four by fours had indeed pulled up at the edge of the green, the vehicles’ suspension audibly creaking and groaning as a hefty child got out of each one. Reining in his temper, Reverend Benign recovered his dignity and turned to Mrs Sanctimonious with a contemptuous sniff.

“I’ll let you and this…this…”

“Fairy?” suggested Justin helpfully. “Queen?”

Gentleman,” hissed His Reverence as though that were more distasteful than either of Justin’s suggestions. “I’ll leave you to get on with your pagan rights. I suppose you’ll be telling me you’ve hired Morris dancers next…”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Sanctimonious as the tell-tale jingle of Morris dancers’ bells carried clearly on the spring breeze. His piousness fully restored, His Reverence clasped his hands in prayer once again and made his way to the refreshments tent.

“Oh dear,” echoed Justin with a cheeky grin, which faded abruptly as the first substantial child slouched over.

“Hello, er, little boy. What’s your name?”


“Fabulous,” murmured Justin, turning to the next child. “And you are?”

“Chunky,” she replied.

“Don’t tell me,” said Justin, turning to the third child. “Tubby?”

“Nah,” he said, cramming a large piece of cake into his mouth and spraying Justin with crumbs as he spoke, “Sumo.”

“Delightful,” said Justin, rolling his eyes at Mrs Sanctimonious. “If a butterfly’s wings can cause an earthquake on the other side of the world, I shudder to think what damage this lot dancing will do. Come on,” he added, shepherding the children towards the maypole, “grab a ribbon each and let’s get started.”

The smug ball now firmly back in her court, Mrs Sanctimonious smiled sweetly as she surveyed the last minute fête preparations going on around her. The crowds were gathering for the grand opening, everything was in place, and even the bank holiday weather was being uncharacteristically kind.

What could possibly go wrong?

Picture courtesy of


Join me again on Monday to find out exactly what could go wrong…

Getting Edited

Great post from the wonderful Jo Robinson. Forget ‘killing your darlings’; the editing process is often a very rewarding and worthwhile process for authors.

Lit World Interviews

Some writers love being edited, and others really, really don’t. Once we’re finished with our darling that we think is absolutely perfect as it is, the last thing we want is criticism. Ann Rice refuses to be edited. Other than proofreading, her words are all written exactly as she wants them. Most other writers, famous or otherwise, tend to have their work edited.

Getting your manuscript back with comments all over the place, and your favourite scene completely trashed could very well lead to apoplectic rage or rivers of tears. If so much is wrong then obviously you must be an absolutely rubbish writer and you may just as well give up could be your next thought—the one that comes after writing the rudest, most insultingly literate letter to your editor before hopefully having the good sense to delete it.

The thing to remember is that when it comes to…

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