David W. Robinson's Blog: Always Writing, page 27

M is for Motors

Today’s post is a little self-indulgent. I bought a new (used) car.

 

I owned a Ford Ka from about 2008/9 onwards. Brilliant little motor. Economical to run, parts were easily obtained and it was utterly reliable.

Last August it failed the MOT. The underside was badly corroded. I blamed myself. Dave, the lad who does my maintenance, had been pestering me to have it undersealed and I kept putting it off. Trouble is I live 1,000 feet above sea level and the heavy snow of three bad winters in succession took its toll.

It wasn’t a major problem. A couple of hundred quid’s worth of welding would have seen it right and back on the road. At the same time, however, Dave mentioned a slight leak on the powers steering. Nothing to worry about.

Two days later, the power steering went completely and it needed a new rack. Even second hand they were coming in at £200 and then there was the cost of fitting. What with the welding on the underside, I was looking at a bill of about £600, and this was on car worth no more than £800. So I scrapped it and bought a Kia Rio from another mate.

That lasted less than eight weeks. A problem in the gearbox took it off the road (where it still remains). I got my money back and we decided we would try do without a car. Both the missus and I are retired, we have senior’s bus passes. It couldn’t be too big an issue, could it?

Well it was. The bus company had abolished free travel until after 9:30 in the morning, which meant paying the full fare of £3.10 when I had early doctor’s appointments. Where they get the brass balls to charge over three pounds for a three mile journey, I do not know, but that’s probably indicative of the years I’ve spent not using public transport.

At the same time, they allegedly carried out a survey of passengers in an effort to improve service, and as a consequence reduced the number of buses running on our local route. Personally, I’d love to meet the dipsticks who voted for this absurd idea, and without being cynical (not much) it can be seen as a cost-cutting exercise. It calls to mind the statement of a bus driver of my acquaintance who once told me the job would be “all right if we didn’t have to deal with the passengers,” an idea so profound that I felt it should be extended to other areas, like the NHS, where the biggest problem is not funding, but all these sick people (like me) making demands upon it.

All up then, by last weekend, I’d had enough of public transport and I bought another Ford Ka. It’s in better fettle than the last one, but sounds just as sweet. Climbing into it yesterday was just like coming home.

We’re mobile again.

L is for Little Library

 

And the books are all by one author: me.

Before 2012 I spent a couple of years self-publishing. I don’t claim my books were potential mega-sellers, but I don’t believe they should have been lumped with the large quantity of dross which is out there. They are simply workmanlike novels which, because of the way system worked, never made it through the doors of the large publishing houses.

Early in 2012, when many people including writers published by the big six, were turning to self-publishing, I moved the other way and signed on with a small, independent press, Crooked Cat Publishing.

It turned out to one of the best moves I’ve ever made. It helped establish the popularity of the STAC Mysteries, the set of books I’m seen posing behind like a market trader.

Why did I make that choice? Well everyone think that when you’re self-publishing, all you do is type it out, drop it onto Amazon or Smashwords, and Bob’s your auntie’s other half. Not so. Certainly not so when you’re working on a series. Every time you produce a new book, you spend time going through all the others an updating the links/publishing history. I’m currently working on STAC #12. If had to self-publish, I would need to update all the information in the other eleven to include the new title. With that done, I would then have to upload not only the new book, but the other eleven too. It’s process which can take anything up to a few days.

Crooked Cat deal with all that on my behalf. All I have to do is keep on writing.

Crooked Cat also offer paperbacks. Now I did produce paperbacks, using first Lulu and later, Createspace, and it’s an even bigger pain in the posterior than formatting e-books. But the Cat offers better distribution for its hard copy than I could. My books can now be ordered in any bookshop in the world (theoretically) simply by entering the ISBN. Was that the case when I self-published? I don’t know because I never got that deeply into it because the T’s and C’s were so convoluted that I could never work out how much I would be working for, and it was simply not worth the hassle.

In short, Crooked Cat work to a quality threshold I could never have matched without spending weeks and weeks on each book, and frankly, I’d rather be writing.

Since signing up with them, the STAC Mysteries have grown to eleven books and they’ve also put out three more of my titles, all hard-bitten thrillers. As if that’s not enough, Spookies, a new series of supernatural whodunits, will debut on June 10th.

And of all these titles, only about four are republished from my SP list. The remainder have all been written for Crooked Cat.

So why am I telling you all about my publisher?

Obviously, I’m not the only author. From historical romance, to fantasy, gritty crime thrillers to modern espionage, roms-coms to 21st century observational humour, they have some wonderful writers on the books.

And they’re open to submissions again later this month.

It’s a narrow window from April 25th to April 27th. That is just three days. They’re choosy. Your work will have to match the best if you’re to stand a chance. But if you think you have the m/s they’re looking for, then go to http://crookedcatpublishing.com/submissions/ where you’ll find the guidelines for submission.

And good luck. I hope to meet you soon as a new Crooked Cat author.

K is for Kilos: Fifteen of Them

We’re going away (again) three weeks today. The airline has graciously allowed us fifteen kilos of hold baggage. More than enough, you’d think. I meanersay what do you need for a week in Benidorm. One pair shorts, one pair swimming shorts, one towel, one pair sandals, two shirts (to allow for spillage) and two pair of underpants (to allow for other exigencies). Anything and everything else, I’ll be wearing when I set off.

That, however, doesn’t take account of Her Indoors, which is why we have to begin packing today, three weeks before we go. By the time we’ve done arguing about what she can and cannot take and what she should and should not take, we usually lock the cases up the night before departure.

Why do we need two bars of soap? What use is toothpaste and dental floss when most of your teeth are plastic? Her makeup bag alone weighs a couple of kilos, and I know for a fact that she doesn’t need half a dozen pairs of shoes. She’s taken them before and never worn most of them. Instead, she usually buys more.

When we flew to the Canary Islands in January, I got the underwear ready, she ordered, and she neatly packed them… back in the drawer. I ended up in Playa del Ingles with underpants two thousand miles away, and we spent half the week buying new.

Where most people will take a couple of tops with them, and rinse them through so they can be worn again, Her Indoors packs nine or ten (to allow for spillages, etc.) I told her not to worry about underwear. I’ll rinse those through and let them dry on the balcony, but she said, “No way.” Apparently the sight of Flatcap’s Y-front hanging over the balcony would be enough to create a diplomatic incident.

It’s the same wherever and whenever we go. The first pass (today) we end up with case weighing around 10 kilos each. Between now and the end of the month, she’ll sneak odd bits and piece in until we need a weighbridge to check them, and a couple of days before we go, there will be a steaming row and I’ll throw everything out and start again.

And all this is for a week of peaceful relaxation.

J is for Joe

There are two Joes in my life and both can get out of control if I don’t watch them.

The first is the real live Joe. A Jack Russell terrier (with a bit of bulldog in him) we found him at a rescue centre three years ago. We had just lost Max, our beloved West Highland White, we were distraught and there was Joe, wagging his tail in need of a home so we took him on.

He was very ill when we first brought him home. He’d been found wandering the streets and suffering from pneumonia. Lots of visits to the vets and a bill larger than the cost of some of the cars I’ve bought, and suddenly he was in perfect health.

Like most Jacks, he is a bundle of energy and fire. He’s a grumpy sod first thing in a morning, but he is afraid of nothing. He’d tackle German Sheps, Rotties, even horses if we let him, but we have him under strict control at all times and he is never allowed out into the street other than on his leash. He’s also as thick as a plank. He still hasn’t twigged that the birds feeding in the back garden will be on the roof long before he can get to them.

Where people are concerned, he barks a lot, but it’s not aggression. He simply cannot understand why all these people coming to the door don’t want to play with him.

The other Joe is Joe Murray, the ubiquitous sleuth at the heart of the STAC Mysteries. (The picture, taken in Brussels, is actually me. I was the cheapest model I could find for Joe.)

The grumpy, outspoken owner of a truckers’ café in the fictitious West Yorkshire town of Sanford, Joe is a brilliant detective. He misses nothing. Unkind souls say that it stems from keeping a close eye on every penny, but in fact, Joe has been a lover of mysteries ever since he was a kid.

When I work on a project, be it a STAC Mystery, a Spookies Mystery or a stand-alone novel, the characters dictate the way the tale will go, so in common with my dog, I have to keep Joe under firm control. If I didn’t, he’d end up on a mafia hit list.

He’s doing all right, mind. With the release of Death in Distribution a few weeks ago, he’s survived eleven STAC Mysteries and the twelfth is currently in production.

If you’re a cosy mystery lover and you’d like to know more, you can find a full list of the titles on the Crooked Cat page, and they are available in all e-formats and as paperbacks.

I is for Introspection

This post is a day late, and J is for Joe will appear later this afternoon.

I’d originally planned I is for Inspiration, but the death of a neighbour yesterday brought me up short.

The lady concerned wasn’t a particular friend. We would stop and chat now and then while walking the dogs, and she and my wife exchanged Christmas cards in a neighbourly fashion. But her passing struck chord with me… or more likely a discord.

She was about the same age as me, and like me she walked with the aid of a stick. I assumed it was arthritis (which is the root cause of my problems) but given her untimely death, I may have been wrong. RIP dear lady.

It brought home to me how fragile life can be, especially when you’re in your sixties. Sure, I plan on living to a ripe old age, but you never know what’s round the corner.

This is nothing new. I went through the same “revelation” when my mother died, again when my father died, and most painfully of all, when my younger brother passed on. But in those instances, I was much younger and not considering my own mortality. This time, logic dictates that I am closer to it.

The message was reinforced this morning with the news that Sue Townsend, creator of Adrian Mole, has also passed away, and she was just four year older than me. RIP. You brought so much pleasure into many lives.

I’ve been in quite an irritable mood lately. Intractable pain and other, distinctly minor health problems have combined with the upheaval caused by builders renewing the bathroom, to kick my usual productivity into low gear. Coupled to poor sales and a few botched DIY jobs which rammed home the message that I am not the man I used to be, it’s dropped me into a downward spiral.

Yesterday’s events prompted a serious rethink. Time to brighten up. Time to switch the attitude through 180 degrees.

It’s party time… if only because I don’t know how long I have left to party.

H is for History Revisited

 

Continuing the humour theme, here is a selection of one-liners from great moments in history.

***

Dateline: 2000 BC. Location: Stonehenge

Stonemason to architect. “Yeah, I know we’re a bit behind schedule. We’re waiting for a skip.”

***

Dateline: 490 BC. Location: Sparta

Spartan Military commander to Pheidippides. “So you’ve run all the way from Marathon. What do you want? A medal?

***

Dateline: 1066. Location: Hastings.

English soldier to William on spotting the French leader’s bow and arrow. “Bit sharp, those, mate. If you’re not careful, you could take someone’s eye out.”

***

Dateline: 1415. Location: Agincourt

French Cavalryman to D’Albret: “Just a thought, boss, but won’t we get our boots mucky riding through all that mud?”

***

Dateline: 1508. Location. Sistine Chapel.

Michelangelo to Pope Julius II. “Well, as ceilings go it sounds ambitious, but wouldn’t you rather have a nice coat of magenta?”

***

Dateline: 1545. Location: The Solent

English shipwright to Henry VIII. “A word to the wise, guv. The Mary Rose wasn’t really designed as an Isle of Wight Ferry.”

***

Dateline: 1605. Location: House of Lords

Guy Fawkes to Sergeant at Arms. “Got a light, mate?”

***

Dateline: 1666. Location Pudding Lane, London

Baker to his apprentice. “What do you mean you forgot to turn the oven off?”

***

Dateline: 1771. Location: Greenwich

George III to Captain Cook. “You’ve discovered Australia? You were supposed to sail to Liverpool.”

***

Dateline: 1876. Location North America

Alexander Graham Bell makes the first telephone call and listens to the response.

“We’re sorry but no one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”

***

Dateline 1912: Location. Main Lounge, RMS Titanic.

Steward to Captain. “One Gin and tonic, sir. Would you like ice with that?

***

Dateline: 1953. Location: Summit of Everest

Sherpa to Sir Edmund Hilary. “Now can you see my house? It’s the third on the left over there.”

*******************

Enjoy more madcap humour with Flatcap:

On Sex

Guide to UK Holidays

Grumpy Old Blogger

G is for Geronimo

Yesterday’s post was on the subject of writing humour under a pseudonym. Today here’s an example of humour, but it’s not mine. In fact, I think this gag is actually older than me.

It’s 1944 and a team of young, allied paratroopers are on the point of jumping into enemy territory. Sergeant-Major Stalwart, a veteran of World War One, is giving them last minute orders.

“Remember lads. When the light turns green, I’ll open the door. You jump out, shout ‘Geronimo’ and pull the ripcord.”

The light turns from red to green and one by one the nervous young men jump from the aircraft.

Smiffy is the shakiest of the lot. Stalwart reassures him. “You’ll be all right, Smiffy. Remember. Jump, shout ‘Geronimo’ and pull the ripcord. Just like in training.”

Smiffy swallows hard, and jumps. Stalwart shuts the door radios the pilot that everyone is clear, sits down and lights his pipe. As he smokes, he says a silent prayer for his lads.

The aircraft turns for home. There is a tapping coming from somewhere. Stalwart looks around for loose nuts and bolts, but cannot find any. The tapping continues. Listening closely, his ear pressed to the fuselage, Stalwart tracks it down to the door. Someone is knocking on the door.

Puzzled and not a little worried, Stalwart opens the door and finds Smiffy clinging on for grim death.

Smiffy looks up, his eyes pleading. “What was the name of that Indian?”

F is for Flatcap

I wear a flat cap. There’s so little hair left on my head that I need a bonnet on it, and my preferred headgear is the flat cap. I swap it for a woolly hat during the winter and a sun hat when I’m in warmer climes, but most of the time, I have my flat cap on.

My great love is writing humour. It’s not easy and I don’t always hit the spot, but I try.

For the third part of this equation, I put the two together, and I come up with Flatcap.

We all know a Flatcap. He’s the know-all in the corner of the bar, the authority on every subject under the sun. He’s a DIY bodger, and therefore an authority on every practical task your common-or-garden householder is likely to come across. He’s been married for over forty years, and that naturally make him an expert on relationships. He recalls that golden era when there was no such thing as reality TV, which makes him an encyclopaedia on entertainment, and his favourite beverage is brown ale, which, of course, makes him a connoisseur of fine ales, wines and spirits.

If you listen to Flatcap, it soon become apparent that he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about, but there’s something about his cynical observations which strikes a chord: a ring of truth behind the absurdity.

If Flatcap has a name, we never learn it. Similarly his wife is known only as Mrs Flatcap or Her Indoors, and she is both the love and the bane of his life, although you’d never get him to admit the former.

You can read Flatcap’s lunacy in three separate volumes

Flatcap’s Guide to UK Holidays

Flatcap on Sex

Flatcap – Grumpy Old Blogger

E Is for España

Which is where Her Indoors and I are headed in exactly four weeks.

This piece was inspired by a comment yesterday from Andy Robinson a fellow A-Z Blogger co-proprietor of Black Frog Publishing, a small press which specialises in adventure and travel.

My alter-ego, Flatcap, wrote a travel guide, you know. Flatcap’s Guide to UK Holidays. Flatcap is giving it away this weekend. Yes it’s FREE. For the very simple reason that so few people actually want to pay for it. You see, some readers thought it was a serious travel tome, and it isn’t. It is a piss-take of humungous proportions, as is everything Flatcap writes. But there is more than a grain of truth in his acerbic observations. For example, here he is expatiating on the idea of owning your very own holiday home.

The principle behind the suggestion, which always comes from Her Indoors, is simple. When you own your own static or mobile garden shed you can go on as many holidays as you want.

I have a few observations to make.

You cannot go on as many holidays as you want. You can only go on as many holidays as your boss will let you have.

If your death trap is mobile, you will eventually run out of places to visit, and you’ll soon get fed up of Morecambe.

If it is static, you will still get fed up of Morecambe.

Given that Her Indoors usually takes three months to make up her mind where she wants to go, the notion that you can shoot off on ten minutes’ notice is laughable.

These four points should form the basis of your initial rebuttal to the idea of buying your own holiday place.

Have you ever been stuck behind a campervan? Most of the drivers have never been behind the wheel of anything larger than a Nissan Micra, so to him the mobile home is a juggernaut. As a result, I’ve never found one yet capable of travelling faster than 50mph, and that’s only on motorways. On main, trunk roads they can’t get up sufficient head of steam to make 30, and they won’t travel on roads with a lower classification because the drivers don’t believe they can fit into them.

Why are they like this? If you pull along the nearside of one, you’ll find the passenger seat empty, and then you know why. It’s because she’s in the back preparing the Sunday joint, and he’s taking it steady because he doesn’t want to spill the gravy.

It’s for some of the reasons that Flatcap outlines that the missus and I prefer to holiday in Spain as the wife likes to call it. The beer is cheap, the ciggies are cheap, the sun always shines and I don’t speak enough of the language to feel insulted when someone is having a go at me.

Ergo, four weeks today while you lot are busy sheltering from the sweltering rain of England in May, we will be tootling along at 30-something thousand feet heading for Alicante and a week in Benidorm. We’re even staying at the hotel where the TV series is filmed

But I’d better get better service than the Garveys do or there will be hell to pay.

D is for Dipsticks, the Human Kind

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Is it me or is there an appalling lack of common sense amongst people these days?

Her Indoors sent me to the supermarket on my own this morning. That demonstrates a lack of judgement on her part for sending me and my part for saying I’d go. That, however, doesn’t make either of us dipsticks, because we thought about it in advance and as it turned out, I was okay.

But the actions of a young mother on the bus were not.

She had her son with her and he’d be about three years old, I guess. He struggled to get down the stairs because they were too tall for him. Why didn’t she use the seats on the lower deck?

That’s trivial at the side of what happened next.

He made the bottom deck, she noticed his shoe lace was undone, so she sat down about two steps up and told him to raise his foot and put it on the bottom step so she could tie the lace without having to bend too far. He was too small to reach either of the safety bars either side of the steps, but this was absolutely fine because the bus was stopped at a set of traffic lights, and of course, they never change, do they?

They turned green, the driver set off with and the kid came sprawling down the middle aisle, minus one shoe which was now in his mother’s hand.

Tsk. Bloody inconsiderate bus drivers and traffic lights. But wait: surely it would have been more logical to get him off the bus first.

My only other question is who advised her to leave her brain at home this morning?