Bob Simms's Blog, page 3

Free Kindle book!!!

Yes, that's not a typo.

For all those that had a Kindle for Christmas, or bought someone a Kindle for Christmas, or has a vague suspicion that a friend of a friend might know someone who might have a Kindle, The Young Demon Keeper will cost nada, zilch, zip, absolutely nothing from 1st Jan 2012 to 5th Jan 2012.

It's January madness gone mad.  I'm a fool to myself.  I may have to sell my children, but that's just the kind of guy I am.  And if you like it, review it, tell your friends, maybe even buy another of my books, you cheapskates.

Unawares

Yes, my Darlings, my latest opus is up and available at Amazon, for all of you who have a Kindle, and any moment now in paperback if you still enjoy the romance of paper.

Angels are meant to be angelic, right? The clue's in the name. They are the forces of good in the world. So when Tommy met one while working late one night, he didn't expect her to point the business end of a shotgun at him. From that chance encounter he is hurled into a world where the only difference between an angel and a demon is just how hard they are going to hit him. Teaming up with a fallen angel, a young witch and a defrocked priest, they are all that stand between our world and the demon out to destroy it.

Played out on the streets of modern London, UNAWARES follows Tommy as he tries to make sense of a world undreamt of in his previous existence. Overnight he loses his old life, his job and even his name. ("Names have power. You're just a rabbit.") Suddenly Rabbit has to fight demons, crack codes, grow a spine but most of all simply stay alive. This novel is a mix of urban fantasy, adventure and dark humour, for those that like their heroes to be less than angelic, and their angels less than heroic.

Harper & Collins and plagiarism

First, a disclaimer.  I have no idea who LK Rigel is, other than she is an independent author who obviously takes a great deal of trouble and care with her marketing and covers (unlike me, who relies on the sheer genius of the written word).  She has a novel, Spiderwork, that she commissioned the cover for from Nathalia Suellen.  I'm sorry, but it doesn't look like the sort of book I'd buy, but then I doubt middle-aged married men is her key demographic.  However, what incenses me is that Harper and Collins apparently tried to buy the cover artwork from Nathalia, and when she declined, shamelessly ripped it off for their novel, Bewitching by Alex Flinn.

How can an established publisher like H&C have so few ethics?  How do they think they can get away with it?  I have emailed them, and I would encourage anyone else to do likewise.

Compare the two covers here and see what you think.

Happily Hacked Off

My wife looked at me with that mixture of concern and tenderness which, depending on my mood, fills me with love or irritation.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

I looked up from the beer I was pouring and gave her my "Isn't the answer to that obvious?" look.  I have a vast range of looks.  It comes from raising children.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Where could I start?  My shoulder was playing up.  Earlier that day I phoned the hospital to chase when I could expect to see the consultant.  They had lost my MRI results.  In fact, they had lost the report that said they had lost my scan results.  She would expedite the matter.  Nothing says 'insignificant' like somebody forgetting you existed.

My manager had finally tracked down the procedural hiccup that had prevented my company paying me overtime earned five months ago.  I'd complained and chased it every time their promised payment date expired.  He authorised an immediate payment ahead of payday, then sent me an email telling me how happy I should be that I'd got the money.

Five months late.

My laptop had spent weeks in repair for a trivial problem.  I'd also chased them up today.  "All done," they'd said.  "It will go in the post today for delivery tomorrow."  As if they had coincidentally finished just as I phoned.  As if it hadn't been sitting on someone's desk, repaired but forgotten, for days.

I was hacked off with my employers.  Hacked off is an understatement, but I don't want to melt your ears with my actual phraseology.

 My wife is not well.  It's a long-term thing that is wearing her down.  It wears me down too, partly because I love her and so I am empathic to her distress, but also with the selfish desire that she would just get better and I got my old wife back.

 Um, the wife I remember back, I mean.  Not that she's in any way old, even if she is six months my senior.

 That evening, as I arrived at the halfway point through my two-litre bottle of homebrew, she asked me to go to the shops.  We had a sudden and urgent requirement for bread.  I don't drink and drive, not even when I'm under the legal limit, so I agreed to race to the supermarket on my bicycle.

I grabbed my rucksack, donned my helmet and reflective jacket and jumped on my bike.

 Then I jumped off it again and regarded the back tyre.  It was flatter than week-old beer.  It must surely be a slow puncture, I thought.  It was fine on Friday.  So I pumped it up, thinking that if necessary I could pump it up again for my return leg.

 By the third time I had to stop and pump up the tyre on the way to the supermarket it was getting old news.  After getting our supplies I pushed the bike home through the gathering dusk.

 I've fixed punctures before.  I'm a Renaissance Man.  Tonight's challenge would be to repair it in the dark.  I removed the wheel in short order, and the tyre almost fell off the wheel.  The puncture was large enough that I didn't need to mess around with water and bubbles to find it.  Patched, I fitted the inner-tube back on the wheel and tackled the tyre.

Remember how the tyre came off easily?  It was lulling me into a false sense of security.  The tyre refused to slide onto the wheel with all the stubbornness of a two-year-old arching his back and refusing to be strapped into the car seat.  As I leant on the tyre lever the end of the lever snapped off.  It was now fully dark, my only illumination my bicycle lamp, and I had no idea of where the end had gone, or even if it had remained in the tyre.  There was nothing else for it.  I pulled the suddenly recalcitrant tyre off the wheel and checked for bits of tyre lever, and then fought the tyre back on.  Then I fitted the wheel back on its frame, an exercise whereby, as soon as one nut is tightened, the wheel twists out of alignment on the other side of the axle.

 "What's the matter?" she asked, as I stood over my beer in the kitchen, filthy with grease, sweaty from exhaustion, victim of a hundred slights and conspiracies.

 "I'm just tired," I said stoically, but with just a hint that I might kill somebody if I wasn't left alone.

 She left me alone.

 The following day dawned hot and muggy.  I dragged myself into work for the start of a new course.  This particular morning I faced being assessed.  I would be tried and judged as to how good a trainer I was, and stamped 'pass' or 'fail'.  Oh joy unconfined.

 "Good morning," greeted Toni at reception, understandably delighted about seeing me again.

 "Good?"  I growled.  "You try sharing a packed train for an hour with people whose experience of deodorant is purely theoretical.  Gosh, but I am jolly irritated with the whole darned world."

 No, that's what I said.  I'm sure I did.  I'm sure I never used the words Toni later accused me of.  And anyway, I'd never be so anatomically incorrect.

 I had fifteen students, a huge number compared to my normal classes.  I stomped around the empty classroom, hurling books on desks and writing my name in large, angry letters on the whiteboard.  I gathered my charges into the room at nine-thirty, along with Amanda, the assessor.  Why did that remind me of Arnie,  The Terminator?

 I launched into my familiar spiel that I roll out for the start of every class.  Halfway through my welcome speech my back spasmed, just for a second, to let me know it hadn't really appreciated last night's fight with the tyre.  Could my life get any better?

 At lunchtime Amanda took me aside to give me my feedback.  Metaphysically she donned the black cap and regarded me, a humble supplicant at the mercy of the court.

 "How do you think that went?" she said.  So, it was going to be one of those sessions, where I have to self-criticise and point out all the failings she had missed.  I highlighted a couple of points I knew I am always guilty of: talking to the whiteboard, cuddling my pens, getting so enthusiastic I talk five to the dozen.  She waved them away.  I hadn't done any of that to excess, not to the point of being marked down.  She highlighted a few of my technical weaknesses, and then said, "You've passed, without any doubt.  Top marks in most categories.  By the way, the delegate sitting next to me said she wished she'd had you for her last course.  You know, it's nice to see someone so happy in their work."

 After lunch I floated into the classroom and beamed at my wards.  They sat there, a look of eager anticipation, hungry for knowledge from me, a master trainer. 

 "Amanda wants me to thank you for letting her sit in on the course.  My assessment is over.  Okay, start reading your books from wherever it is I got to, I'm off to cruise Facebook."

 They laughed.  Life, when everything is considered, is pretty good.

 

Saturday – the start

The alarm sounded at 02:30, a time at which I am more used to heading to bed rather than rising from it.  I shook 'Er Indoors awake.

"Wassa amat oo?" she said, eloquent as ever.  "Has the alarm gone off"

"Yes, light of my life, at half past stupid o'clock as you wished.  Isn't it curious that we say the alarm has gone off, when it clearly comes on?"

She ignored my incisive and witty conversation and staggered off to the bathroom as I made my way to the kitchen.  If I was to drive I would need a fix of tea.  Then we swapped stations until, just after three, we were ready for the off.  I programmed the car park post code into my phone and the sat nav app guided us towards our point of departure.

As we neared the airport I relied on 'Er Indoors to supply the final navigation, as the whole site has a single post code.  I had also committed the directions to memory.  Now, in my defence, I did not have the directions in front of me, that was her job, and it was still very early in the morning.  Consequently we found ourselves stuck in a line of traffic approaching the drop-off point, amidst building work to make our journey more pleasant (we're sorry for any inconvenience).  I slowly wound my way past tearful farewells, out the other side and round again.

"We should have turned left," said the love of my life, five minutes after it would have been useful to know that.  I turned left.  "Oh, not this one," she said, as we pulled into a hotel car park.  "The next one."

"No problem, my angel," I said, smiling.  Well, my teeth were showing.  Let's call it a smile.

I pulled into the airport car parking lot and parked the car in the required lane.  It appeared quite a lot of people had decided to head off to the sun at stupid o'clock.  I left 'Er Indoors by the bus and entered the reception area.  I handed over my reservation and key, the receptionist handed me the receipt.  Inside a minute I was back outside again.

"Oh no.  It's the wrong place, isn't it," she said.  Have you not read the previous chapter?  Who's stolen my drink, remember?

"No, Princess.  It's all hunky-dory.  Let's get on the bus."  We boarded the bus, heaved our hand luggage onto the rack and sat down.  Within minutes we were at the South Terminal.

"This way," I said, for I am a man, and a man always knows where he is going.

"But it says Easyjet that way," she said.

"Yes, Precious, but that's for those that need to check in and who have hold baggage.  We have our boarding cards already, and we don't have hold luggage.  We can head straight for the bleep-bleep machines."

"Okay," she said, doubt not so much dripping as pouring from her voice.  We made our way to the bleep-bleep machine, where she finally entrusted me with my own passport and boarding card.  We went through the bleep-bleep machine.  'Er Indoors has a phobia about these.  She is convinced they make the machines bleep whenever she goes through, just so the butch security woman can pat her down.  This time we passed unbleeped.  Not so our luggage.    "Wait a minute!  Why have you got your laptop?"

"Um, well, there's free InterWeb, and I thought we could research online things to do, and check our flights home, and stuff like that."  Her look was one that was not exactly encouraging.

While one guard tested 'Er Indoors' collection of liquids another wiped the inside of all my backpack's pockets.  He rifled my carefully packed contents.

"A travel iron?" he said, looking inside a small bag.

"Yes, God forbid foreigners should see me in a wrinkled shirt," I said.  "Or old shirts," I added, as he picked up shirts still wrapped in plastic.  He smiled.  He obviously had an 'Er Indoors of his own.

It appeared that neither of our bags had been in contact with illicit chemicals and we were allowed to proceed (after I had surrendered my boarding card and passport back to 'Er Indoors.  I am not to be trusted, it appears.  I wonder how I ever manage to travel on my own).

It was now 04:20.  We had passed through the whole process in minutes.  We located our flight on the departure board.  Good.  No delay or cancellation.

"The gate doesn't open till 06:20," said 'Er Indoors.  "I thought it was 04:40."

"No, ma Cheri.  The check-in opens at 04:40, but we checked in over the InterWeb.  That's why we could go direct through the bleep-bleep machine."

"You mean we've got two hours to wait?  We could have had another hour in bed?"

I showed her my teeth again.  We bought a newspaper and waited.

The gate opened a little before time.  When we boarded the plane the row by the emergency exit was unoccupied.  My six feet three frame rejoiced.  We settled in.

"This is the captain.  I'm afraid we're scheduled for a little delay.  Air traffic has scheduled us for a 07:05 slot.  My apologies."  I have yet to be on an Easyjet flight that took off on time, but they'll charge you if you're a minute late.

But as it was, we took off just before 07:00, and landed at Montpellier on time.  We skipped past the tourists waiting by the luggage carousel, trying unsuccessfully not to look smug.  We found the bus stop.  We had just missed the bus.  The next was an hour later.  Stuff it, I had Euros burning holes in my money belt (not all our Euros, of course, but as much as I could be trusted with).  We took a taxi.  Like taxi drivers the world over, he drove at breakneck speed, casually holding the wheel in one hand.  The sensation of imminent death was enhanced by the fact they all drive on the wrong side of the road.

He dropped us off at the hotel, corporeally intact.  We walked into the reception, smiles present and baggage wilting.  Check in was at 14:00, but we could we drop out luggage off.

First was the tourist office.  We walked along the magnificent Antigone pedestrian precinct.  The sky was overcast, despite all my predictions of blue skies and unbearable heat.  In the Place de Comedie (how can you not love a place whose central square is called that?) market stalls littered the square.  'Er Indoors' eyes lit up.  As we walked through the place a group of people debussed from the tram, a variety of mainly brass instruments in their hands.  They took up their instruments and launched into an enthusiastic recitation.

"Is this a flash mob?" said 'Er Indoors.

"No, it's just Montpellier," I replied.

We wandered along tiny medieval streets, lined with boutiques.  I found a cafe I'd eaten at six years previous.  We ordered beer, with me showing off my perfect French.  The pretty waitress immediately divined we were English (how, I don't know, as my French is without fault).  Afterwards, refreshed, we made our way to the pumping station.  Now, anywhere else you would be correct in asking, what the heck?  But this is the south of France.  The pumping station is like a monument, and the aqueduct a marvel.

Afterwards we meandered through the municipal gardens.  Formal layouts gave way to natural-looking conglomerations of vegetation.  Turning a corner we came across a bamboo grove, the trunks clunking against each other in the Mistral.  We turned another corner and I swear the man seated on a bench was Gandulph.

We started back towards the Place de Comedie, or L'Oeuf, as we locals called it.  We came across the huge cathedral, where a couple were getting married.  I called out, but it was too late.  The groom had already been suckered into it, and it was all over bar the rice.

The next square held another fanfare band, different people but the same joi de vivre.  I wonder what that is in French?  Another square, and yet another fanfare band, this one all dressed in a uniform that consisted of red and blues, with skirts.  The men in particular looked very fetching.

We hit the Office de Tourisme again.  It was to be an almost daily thing.  We bought tickets for a walking tour on Sunday, grabbed yet more leaflets and looked for lunch.  This was France.  Not just France, but Mediterranean France.  What would our first taste of this gastronomic centre of excellence be?

After our burger and fries we returned to the hotel.   It was 14:10, but our room was not ready.  Twenty minutes.  Have a coffee.

When our room finally became available at 15:00 I was almost asleep on my feet.  They gave us our card keys and the wi-fi password and we ascended to our third-floor room.

Or rather, our suite.  "Yes, I'm famous," I told her.  "They've upgraded us."

"No they haven't.  They're all suites.  Why haven't we got a balcony?"  Oh, she can be so ungrateful sometimes.

"I am just going to test the bed for five minutes," I said, as the air-con kicked in.

I awoke at 19:00.  Oh come on.  Up at stupid o'clock, remember?  We headed out for a bite to eat.  Tired and hungry, we forwent the excitement and mystery of a restaurant hunt and opted to go to the end of Antigone by the river, where a dozen restaurants nestled together.  'Er Indoors ummed and ahhed over each one, wincing at the prices.  We settled on an Italian restaurant.

"I'm not that hungry," she said.  "I'll just have a salad for starters and a pizza."

The salad arrived.  I don't know how many fields died to populate the plate, but the apple of my eye (and lettuce and cabbage as well) looked aghast.  "That's bigger than a main course."

She managed to struggle through it, though.  The pizza was no smaller.  Welsh crofters could have used it as a coracle, and still have room for a sheep.  It was too much.  We had to take half of it home in a take-out box.

We sauntered slowly back to our apartment.  As night fell and the street-lights game on, families with small children wandered along the precinct.  Back home they'd all be safely locked away by seven, but the climate and the attitude here gave us a sense of safety and well-being.  I grinned.  I hadn't dreamt it all.  This was going to be a magic place.

My family and other animals

The most stressful things in life

The most stressful things in life, popular opinion has it, are bereavement, divorce and moving house.  They have forgotten one: going on holiday.  Oh, not so much the holiday itself, though they never meet the anticipation and often descend into the holiday from hell.  But the lead up to it, that is where strong men weep and the rock on which marriages are founded crumbles.

 For the last six years I have regaled Er Indoors with tales of my brief sojourn in Montpellier.  For two three-day stints I worked during the day, and encountered the night life of this Southern France city.  In particular I was there for the 21st June, which throughout the country is le fete de la musique.  It was that night I lost my heart.  Not to a person, of course, because my heart will always belong to Er Indoors, along with all my other worldly goods, but to the city and the way of life.  Finally she had enough of my rosy reminiscences.

 We Googled.  Easyjet flew from Gatwick to Montpellier for a song, and we found a hotel on Antigone, a stunning new architectural precinct within walking distance of the town centre.  (Of course, everywhere is within walking distance of everywhere else, if you have enough time).  I booked the ludicrously cheap flight.  There was a surcharge for using a credit card.  How else, I wondered, was I meant to pay?  Stuff fifty pound notes into my CD drive?  I also checked in over the Internet and printed the boarding cards (there's a surcharge for booking in at the airport).

 Of course, we could not possibly go on holiday with the same clothes we had last year.  Er Indoors regressed to her childhood, and I was her Ken doll.  Several trips to the shops later, and we had new wardrobes.  Easyjet, I began to suspect, weren't the only ones that hid charges into the total cost of a holiday.

 We started packing a week before we were due to fly out.  We, you understand, being the royal we.  I then explained about the Easyjet surcharge on hold baggage.

 "What, both ways?" she cried.  "Stuff that.  Could we get away with cabin luggage?"

 Out came the tape measure.  I had recently bought a laptop bag that was the maximum size for cabin baggage.  I had an old suitcase that was nearly the same dimensions.  Yes, we could get away with it.  We re-measured it half a dozen times as the departure date approached.  Er Indoors likes to have things to worry about, and my reassurances merely raise her anxiety.  The suitcase was consigned back to the attic and the two small carry-on bags packed.

 What about liquids?  Because, as you know, the French have never heard of shampoo, conditioner and other English cosmetics, so we could never buy it in France.  Therefore we bought small bottles of every cosmetic the local supermarket sold.  What about the clear plastic bags they needed to be contained in?

 "Don't worry," I said.  "They have them at the bleep-bleep machines at the airport."

 Strangely, this failed to reassure her.  After a couple of days of fretting, we bought a box of fifty freezer bags, so we could pre-pack our cosmetics before leaving.

 We needed travel insurance, because Er Indoors isn't so much a glass half empty person as an 'I just knew some goy would steal half my drink' sort of person.  We found a cheap insurer.  We phoned them up. They asked us to list our existing ailments and drugs.  Er Indoors has a small pharmacy of drugs she needs.  I have a sore shoulder I'm awaiting the outcome of an MRI for.  So her panoply of pharmaceuticals add an extra £1.50.  My sore shoulder was an extra £14.50.  My drink, it appeared, was more likely to be stolen than hers.

 Finally, all was set.  Our bags were packed, our car-park booked, our surcharges paid.  The day before we were due to leave I stumbled on a recording of Fascinating Aida, a song bemoaning all the surcharges for a flight for fifty pence they found on the internet.  I laughed long and hard, with just a hint of mania at the edges.

 We went through the rules with number two sprog one more time.  We were trusting this nineteen-year-old boy look after our worldly possessions and our house in our absence.  No worries.  We trust him.  Of course we do.  Implicitly.

 Besides, he's too lazy to arrange a bacchanalian party.

 The flight was at 06:40.  The check-in at 04:40.  It was an hour's drive.  So that meant we would rise at 02:30.  This is a time I am more used to going to bed at, so I turned in early that night, relaxed and anticipating an idyllic and worry-free holiday.

 Yes, I know.

The artist within

Back in September my Aunt Pat gave me a lesson in charcoal drawing. It turns out, I can draw. Who knew? Certainly not me. Now I've got the bug. I've dabbled in still life and pastels, but my talent seems to be in charcoal portraits. Oddly, my first, Uncle Bill, is the one I'm most proud of.

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award – finals

So, the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards finalists have been named.  A sincere congratulations to them all.  To persevere writing a novel through to the end is an achievement itself, but to be so applauded by honest-to-goodness publishers like Penguin is a massive boost.  So very well done.  No, honestly, for once I'm not sarcastic.

But…

But I was close to tears last week when my name wasn't called.  On Wednesday that suicidal spark of hope whispered it could take a day to get round to contacting me, and they're eight hours behind UK, and, and, and…

But the call never came, and I accepted my part of the race was run.  All sorts of emotions, both during my part and after, have raged through me.

At each stage of the competition I experienced elation, each hurdle overcome throwing me into higher jubilation.  Then halfway through I suffered a loss of confidence.  It was a walls of Jericho event.  I could not even bring myself to write a blog or update my Facebook status.  It was all I could do to send in my expense claim at work.  As my confidence grew a little, so did the fear.  I wondered what it would be like to enter the finals and then be exposed as a fraud or a talentless scribbler.  I wondered what it would be like, as my roller-coaster ride became more extreme, to lose at the last fence.  Would I be able to survive the disappointment?

So now it's time to pick myself up and look to the positive.  I made it through to the last 1 percent.  That's an achievement in its own right, isn't it?  Maybe publishers will look more kindly on speculative queries that contain a favourable Publisher Weekly review and the flash 'ABNA Semi-finalist'.  Maybe my next book (yes, it's another urban fantasy) will benefit from my experience.  And next year, my next book may even go further.

Yes, say it loud and say it proud:  I'm an ABNA semi-finalist.

That sounds so much better than 'loser'.

The Writer

"Hi."

The girl at the table looked up from her book at the stranger. He was middle-aged, well-dressed and wore a watch that could pay off the national debt of a small country. She gave a smile, just enough to be polite, but not warm enough to encourage any further conversation, then returned to her book.

"I hate these soulless hotel bars. Do you mind if I sit here? Just so I'm not sitting on my own."

She hesitated, but couldn't think of a reason to deny him. "Sure," she said, then rested her head on her hand, concentrating on the page before her.

"I'm Alastair."

"Helen."

"Are you here on business?"

She nodded, not looking up from her book. It was hardly an inspired guess. It wasn't the sort of hotel you spent a vacation in.

"What sort of business?"

She placed her finger on the page, marking her spot, then looked up.

"What?"

"What sort of business are you in?"

"Sales."

"Cool. I'm a buyer. Maybe we should get together. Sorry, sorry, that sounded funny in my head. It just sounded creepy when I said it out loud though, didn't it. Sorry."

She shrugged and returned to her book.

"Look, sorry, I must come across as an awful creep. I just over-compensate, that's all. I'm sorry. Look, Helen was it? Helen, let me make it up to you. Let me buy you a drink, and I promise I'll leave you alone."

"I don't drink."

"What, never?"

"Never."

"Oh, okay. A salesperson that doesn't drink. That's a first. Is it a good book?"

Helen sighed, looked up from her book and sat back.

"Sorry, what was your name again?"

"Alastair."

"Alastair, you're probably a really nice guy, but here's the deal. I have a boyfriend, I'm not lonely, I'm not drunk, I'm twenty years younger than you and I don't do one night stands. I'm stuck in this hotel because I have to meet a customer tomorrow first thing. I don't know if this is a good book or not, because you keep talking to me. I don't want to be rude or anything. If you want to sit there, please, feel free. Just let me read my book in peace, okay?"

"Sure, sure. Sorry."

She nodded her acceptance of the apology and returned to her book. Alastair looked at her for a few moments, sighed, then closed his eyes. A few seconds later, he opened them again.

"Your boyfriend, he's a lucky guy."

She nodded.

"You must miss him."

She nodded again. "God yes," she muttered.

"What do you miss most?"

"Just the physical contact, you know? Just being able to touch someone."

Alastair reached across the table. Helen absently took his hand and started to stroke his palm with her thumb.

"What sort of men do you find attractive, Helen?"

Helen looked up from her book.

"Older men."

"Yeah?" How much older?"

She smiled.

"Oh, about twenty years."

"Really? About my age then."

"Yes, exactly your age."

"Are you here for just the one night?"

"Yes. I'm going back home after the meeting."

"Do you want to spend the night with me?"

Helen looked around in case someone overheard, then leant forward. "Yes," she whispered.

"Okay. Let's have a drink first, though. I bet I know what you like. Vodka and tonic."

She giggled. "That's amazing. That's exactly what I was thinking. Are you a mind reader?"

"A mind reader? No, I don't read minds."