So, if you’ve come here looking for my “Q” post – I’ve already done it! It’s here. The reason I’ve already done it is I forgot Sunday was meant to be a day off and posted it yesterday. Doh. So I shall take the opportunity to post a little more about the author fair and conference I went to on Saturday at Foyles Bookshop in Charing Cross Road. Firstly, the good news is that I actually got there. And I was on the right day! (As opposed to many of my other appointments where I have arrived a week early/a week late etc etc.) The bad news is even though I caught an earlier train, the train service was doing the usual “leaves on line” business so I was late arriving at Euston. However, although  I was running slightly behind on my initial schedule, I decided I’d time to drop

Johnny Potato said his prayers. Death was imminent. The torture chamber, where he’d spend the last few hours crushed between Archibald Onion’s armpits and Serjeant Spud’s groin, was rocketing to the top of the bag where Master Benedict was poised to launch Operation Shepherd’s Pie. Johnny glanced fearfully up through the clear plastic tub. He could see Master Benedict framed in the light, wearing an evil grin and a blooded butcher’s apron. “I’m going to dig out the eyes first. Then I’ll peel them like apples and chop them up into little pieces,” chuckled Master Benedict. Johnny Potato gulped. He’d hoped for a quick and easy decapitation. But, no, he was going to be skinned alive by that vile and loathsome boy. “It’s every vegetable for himself now,” shouted Sergeant Spud. “Charge!” And with that, Sergeant Spud, Archibald Onion and Privates Cornelius and Marmaduke Carrot stormed towards the lid. “Again!”

Now I have a  true “P” story to tell you folks tonight. (Believe it or not.) The story is about the potato you see below. I’ve called him Johnny and I’ve assigned him a place of privilege on my desk. Johnny Potato relaxing with  Sgt Percy Pencil,  Corporal Dickie Pen, Bombardier  Bertie Biro and company. Now Johnny is no ordinary potato. He is a very special potato. He is a potato who has survived extremely hazardous living conditions with little access to air, food and water. He has survived sustained bombardment from heavy objects and missiles. He has survived daily verbal and physical abuse at the hands of the enemy. Readers, if Johnny Potato was a war veteran he would be awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery. For Johnny has done what no other potato has done before and what no other living creature would dare to even attempt. So

I have been out all day in London at Foyles Book shop in Charing Cross Road attending a self-publishing event and book fair, so I’m afraid this is another (very) last minute pictorial post. On oranges. Yeah, I know – pathetic – but they were the first “O”s to spring to mind. Anyway oranges are not just for eating and scented candles. I use mine for therapy. You know – like some folks listen to music or sing to wind down at the end of the day. So I make models with my oranges. Here’s my latest efforts. Cool Dude Orange Sultan Orange Hellraiser Orange Well I feel far more chilled now. Cool. Beats singing any day. And so to bed! You can check out the other Blogging A to Z candidates HERE. Previous posts:                             A is for Arses

Saying “No” is not always easy. People can get very upset when you say “No” abruptly. That’s why I find it easier to soften the blow in tricky situations. Here’s a few examples: Q.  Do you fancy going to bed early? ( *cough, cough* ) A.  I haven’t washed for three days but I’m game if you are. Q.  Have you ironed my shirts? A.  Which one were you thinking of? Q. Can I have an Xbox One, Mum? A. Is that for Christmas next year? Q. Mum, will you pay my rent? A. I’ll have to ask your father but I warn you, he’s in a bad mood. Q. Mum, can we go on holiday this year? A. It’s not safe abroad. They don’t have proper toilets and the people speak funny languages. Q. Can we go to America then? I’m sure they have toilets and speak English. A.

I’ve been thrown a few topics to talk about today and I’ve decided to plump for two: moaning and Monopoly. So let’s get straight on with the moaning. (It’s a speciality.) Monopoly must be the most boring game EVER. AS a child, I was often coerced into playing it but the truth is I would have preferred Russian roulette. Yep, if there had been a choice between 4 hours of Monopoly or a 1 in 6 chance of blowing my brains out I know which one I’d have chosen. Now there are lots of hideously boring things about Monopoly. Chiefly, it is not played with real money. I mean who wants to play with fake banknotes? Not me. I want to play for the big bucks. I mean screwing your sibling over some fake paltry rental for The Strand can’t possibly compare with the chance to screw him for a

This afternoon I was distracted by a ping on my email which heralded some disappointing news. It involved information about quite an upsetting loss. In the scheme of life it was not so great a loss that it is not recoverable from and it in no way compares to the loss of loved ones, pets, lovers, the loss of limbs or anything remotely so tragic. But it was nevertheless a “loss” and an untimely one at that. Loss is a subject I deal with in my novel The Changing Room which may come as a surprise to those of you who have not read it, especially given its saucy hardback cover. But loss is a big part of our lives and I wanted to write an uplifting story about overcoming loss and moving forward; a tale that offered hope and inspiration to people going through difficult times – in particular

Kings and kinkiness are subjects I know a lot about. Now before you jump to conclusions, the reason I know about these subjects is because I’ve studied history. And, as anyone who’s studied history knows, kings have a habit of being kinky and have been dropping their pants at will since the dawn of civilization.  The most notable of the kinky kings was, of course, King Henry VIII. Now I need to explain that the “VIII” is not just because Henry was the eighth Henry to sit on the English throne but because he was affectionately known amongst the royal circles as “Eight-Times-A-Night-Henry.” That’s right. Eight times a night. And that’s after a ten course meal and a flagon of wine.  Anyhow, there have been many theories about the cause of Henry’s death including syphilis, Type 2 diabetes and Mcleod syndrome. But the truth is – he died from exhaustion.

It’s Saturday night and, as usual, I am running late posting my A to Z blog. So I am going to cheat and have a mainly pictorial post. And what better subject than Jason Statham. Blimey, he’s pretty hot isn’t he, ladies? He makes me all goey. That’s as much as I am going to say as this is a family-friendly blog and I have a reputation to maintain. Now because I forgot to write about haikus in my “H post” I thought I’d use some in my tribute to the lovely Jason. I should, however, point out that I am not particularly good at haikus but I am going to give it my very best shot. picture courtesy of wikipedia Jason is very coolEven though he is baldSometimes he wears a flat cap Jason kicks lots of ass Unfortunately not mine I would pay though Jason and Vin Diesel in Fast and

Now, first of all, I must own up to the fact that I’m completely ignorant (with the exception of a few TV programmes) about the way eskimos live. I generally enjoy documentaries but, to my irritation, I’ve noticed that a lot of them don’t tell you what you want to know or, just as they are about to tell you, they cut to some other subject or the adverts. Blimey, isn’t that habit is annoying? Documentary makers seem to think everyone has the attention span of a gnat. How come I can watch the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in one sitting (bar loo breaks) but a documentary maker thinks I can’t manage more than five minutes on the feeding habits of an otter? I hate that constant jumping back and forth  – by the time the narrator finally gets back to telling me the baby otter has learnt

“Hope” is a great word. It inspires lots of positive thinking and happy thoughts. Luckily, I am one of those people who has an optimistic outlook so I don’t get depresssed too often – well not for much longer than it takes to eat a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut or watch the England cricket team doing their warm-up stretches. Now, on the whole, I think it is a good thing to be an optimist. However, some folks might say that being an eternal optimist means I’m really a fantastist and I’d be better off being a little more realistic. I’m not so sure.  I rather like my sunny disposition. Anyway, I thought I’d make a list of things I regularly hope for and you can judge for yourselves when it’s a good or  a bad thing for me to have such an optimistic outlook. Here we go! 1.

This could be a contentious post because I have quite a few American readers and I know the US has a far more relaxed gun law than the UK. So it’s possible US readers might want to let off some steam in the comments. Now I suspect some US folks might think that we Brits are a bunch of wet pussies policing London with umbrellas and a couple of old batons. But before any of you go leaving your pro-gun law rants I want to let you into a secret. *ssshhh* I have some guns of my own. Yeah, that’s right, readers. Mrs T has her own guns ‘cos I am well into personal safety and no mad serial-killer-fruitcake or author-stalker is going to get through my front door without getting his arse blown right off. Now I suspect you’d all like to see my guns. Well, here they are: