B.A. Spicer's Blog, page 5
December 30, 2017
FREE until midnight tonight (30/12)Here's what reviewers ...
FREE until midnight tonight (30/12)
Here's what reviewers say about What I Did Not Say:
A really gripping read!
I was blown away by this novel.
Part 2 was the trial, where the pace and tension were excellent. The pages seemed to turn themselves.
Thoroughly recommend this well written and thought provoking book to anyone who likes a good story, regardless of genre.
Highly recommended if you prefer characters with depth.
I'd recommend this if you like complex dramas with undercurrents, secrets and hidden depths.
Jessica Morley is on her way to meet with a man she hasn’t seen for fifteen years. In her bag there is a package she must deliver. As she travels south, she remembers Jack Banford, a boy who captured her imagination as a child and made her believe in a future that could never happen. Now it is time for her to set the record straight and finally put the past behind her. ‘What I Did Not Say’ is a story of loyalty, cruelty and love at all costs.
Go to Amazon and download What I Did Not Say by B A Spicer
December 16, 2017
Get Bev and Carol in Paperback for Christmas!
All three of my humorous memoirs (Bev and Carol adventures) are available in paperback format - perfect for a fun Christmas gift.
Click the links below to view on Amazon:
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in The Seychelles
Happy Days!
Click the links below to view on Amazon:
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in The Seychelles
Happy Days!
Get Bev and Carol in Paperback for Christmas!
All three of my humorous memoirs (Bev and Carol adventures) are available in paperback format - perfect for a fun Christmas gift.
Click the links below to view on Amazon:
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in The Seychelles
Happy Days!
Click the links below to view on Amazon:
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in The Seychelles
Happy Days!
December 13, 2017
Free until 15th December
Excerpt from my disturbing short story, Peaches in the Attic.
download free on Amazon
“Once upon a time there was a little girl, a scamp of a thing. Inquisitive. Always prying. She lived in a house, deep in the forest, with her grandmother, who loved her very, very much. “One day, the little girl heard a noise…”
I can still recall my grandmother’s voice. Its subtle inflections could evoke love, sympathy or terror. I never knew which to expect. Sitting sideways on her lap, my five-year-old legs long and scrawny, bruised and cut by swings and see-saws, I could smell her perfume, lavender, and the syrupy golden-bubbled barley sugar that she sucked constantly, moving it around her mouth, clattering it against her teeth, as she told me stories. Her face was plump, but had deep lines, or so it seemed to me, close-up as I was and, being young, all-seeing. As I listened, I mapped her features, with the curiosity of a geologist, following the hilly contours of her soft-powdered cheeks, peering into the ravines that cut deep when she smiled, observing the fine ridges that appeared around her lips when she spoke, and, most of all, wondering how long it would take to count the forests of tiny hairs, invisible from a distance, but infinite and fascinating from my vantage point. Against my fingers, they were silken, flowing in symmetry, downwards and out towards the skin around her ear, smooth and hairless, pale and delicate, where the powder had missed. Sometimes, I could make out the boundary where it stopped, like a desert giving way to pale land.
“Grandma! What is that scratching? cried the little girl. What name shall we give her? Shall we call her Jane? Or Lorna?”“No!” I would protest. “Call her Valerie!”“Very well. You shall have your way, young lady, even though your manners are wanting!” she would reply, tapping me lightly on the back of my hand.
I generally got my way at the beginning of the stories, which were all about my grandmother and me. Every one. After that, I was mostly quiet, savouring the sound and shape of my name each time it was mentioned. Valerie. My fairytale twin.I snuggled against my grandmother, studying the world she invented for us, following the paths she led me down, picturing the people we met along the way. I waited when she paused, for the next step, sometimes making it up myself, daring to go ahead, but as soon as she began speaking again, I was back, holding her hand in a dark forest, hearing the hooting of an owl, the scream of a fox; or else we would be creeping through a tunnel inlaid with miniature doors, one of which might be ajar. I saw every detail, and my whole body thrilled to the measure and tone of her ever-changing voice. At the same time, I held on, just a little, to the warmth of my grandmother’s soft body, beneath and around me, occasionally fixing on her mouth, which produced the words that flew out and magically expanded into places I had never been and people I had never met.
download free on Amazon
“Once upon a time there was a little girl, a scamp of a thing. Inquisitive. Always prying. She lived in a house, deep in the forest, with her grandmother, who loved her very, very much. “One day, the little girl heard a noise…”
I can still recall my grandmother’s voice. Its subtle inflections could evoke love, sympathy or terror. I never knew which to expect. Sitting sideways on her lap, my five-year-old legs long and scrawny, bruised and cut by swings and see-saws, I could smell her perfume, lavender, and the syrupy golden-bubbled barley sugar that she sucked constantly, moving it around her mouth, clattering it against her teeth, as she told me stories. Her face was plump, but had deep lines, or so it seemed to me, close-up as I was and, being young, all-seeing. As I listened, I mapped her features, with the curiosity of a geologist, following the hilly contours of her soft-powdered cheeks, peering into the ravines that cut deep when she smiled, observing the fine ridges that appeared around her lips when she spoke, and, most of all, wondering how long it would take to count the forests of tiny hairs, invisible from a distance, but infinite and fascinating from my vantage point. Against my fingers, they were silken, flowing in symmetry, downwards and out towards the skin around her ear, smooth and hairless, pale and delicate, where the powder had missed. Sometimes, I could make out the boundary where it stopped, like a desert giving way to pale land.
“Grandma! What is that scratching? cried the little girl. What name shall we give her? Shall we call her Jane? Or Lorna?”“No!” I would protest. “Call her Valerie!”“Very well. You shall have your way, young lady, even though your manners are wanting!” she would reply, tapping me lightly on the back of my hand.
I generally got my way at the beginning of the stories, which were all about my grandmother and me. Every one. After that, I was mostly quiet, savouring the sound and shape of my name each time it was mentioned. Valerie. My fairytale twin.I snuggled against my grandmother, studying the world she invented for us, following the paths she led me down, picturing the people we met along the way. I waited when she paused, for the next step, sometimes making it up myself, daring to go ahead, but as soon as she began speaking again, I was back, holding her hand in a dark forest, hearing the hooting of an owl, the scream of a fox; or else we would be creeping through a tunnel inlaid with miniature doors, one of which might be ajar. I saw every detail, and my whole body thrilled to the measure and tone of her ever-changing voice. At the same time, I held on, just a little, to the warmth of my grandmother’s soft body, beneath and around me, occasionally fixing on her mouth, which produced the words that flew out and magically expanded into places I had never been and people I had never met.
December 5, 2017
Competition ends 25th December - don't miss out!
Hello everyone. I'm running a very easy competition to win a copy of my original paperback edition of Bunny on a Bike - a humorous memoir of my time as a croupier in London working for Playboy. Living and working in London in the 1980s was fun, but working for Playboy was nothing like I'd imagined it would be. Glad I did it? Yes. Carol and I, best friends, were full of youthful optimism and joie de vivre - what could go wrong?
Follow the link for more details and to enter: http://feedaread.com/p/5965/
Good luck!
New edition also available on Amazon as an ebook or paperback:
Bunny on a Bike
Follow the link for more details and to enter: http://feedaread.com/p/5965/
Good luck!
New edition also available on Amazon as an ebook or paperback:
Bunny on a Bike
November 24, 2017
Fun with Bev and Carol - Promotion now ENDED!
Just to let you know I'm running a price promotion on all my humorous memoirs beginning on
November 28th
for three - seven days (depending on the ebook). At the bottom of this post I've included a short extract from Bunny on a Bike so you can see whether you empathise with a rather easily distracted Bev as she undergoes a particularly challenging test to become a Playboy croupier.
There are four books in the Bev and Carol series (all but one are available in paperback too):
Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in the Seychelles
Here's the extract, where Bev and Carol take the second maths test included in the Playboy selection process:
Keith was right, there was more to come.
‘Please record your answers on the paper provided, clearly numbered and legibly written. Take care to keep to the correct numbering. You will hear the questions once and have ten seconds to calculate and note down your answer.’We had made it through to the final hurdle. There were twenty-seven of us left, which meant that seven of us would not get a job, according to a girl called Desdemona, who, apparently, hadn’t heard of a ‘geezer’ called Shakespeare.Suddenly maths seemed more important. I had scored ninety-five on the written maths test, one more than Carol. Result! Keith had got eighty-three.
We were spaced out, spatially speaking, so that copying would be impossible this time, and I knew that I was on my own. In some twisted way, this was invigorating as I felt, unjustifiably, that I was up to the challenge. I flexed my mental muscles and took a deep breath – oxygen to the brain, in lieu of a gin and tonic - memories of my French Oral exam at ‘O’ level came flooding back. Carol gave me a look that said, ‘You have a bogey on the end of your nose.’ And I stared back with a, ‘Your right boob is more droopy than your left one.’ We were as relaxed as we could be under the circumstances and ready for the first question.
‘Question one. Seven times nine?’The numbers fed into my brain and it spoke to me: Easy peasy. Ten sevens are seventy, less seven, means nine sevens are sixty-three. It appeared that I had forgotten my nine times table. Oh well, never mind.‘Question two. Eleven times thirteen?’Bit more tricky. Ten thirteens are one hundred and thirty, plus thirteen, makes one hundred and forty-three. Thank you brain. And so it went on. After a few minutes, I heard a soft blubbing noise behind me, and Desdemona was led away by one of the assistants. One down, six to go. I looked over to where Keith was sitting and he winked at me. I stuck out my tongue and smiled broadly, waiting for the test to continue.‘The next five questions require you to calculate a payout of 3:2 on an initial blackjack bet,’ announced the woman at the front of the room. I looked over at Carol and saw her nodding to herself.‘Question fifteen. If a bet of £10 is placed what would be the payout for a blackjack?’I nodded to myself and realised that I had no memory of the new instructions. ‘Remember, the calculation is a payout of 3:2,’ said the woman, helpfully.Come on brain. Three to two. £10. Times three? Divided by two? Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine, the monkey… Oh, shit!‘Question sixteen. The same calculation for a bet of £50?’Write something. Write SOMETHING. We had always been taught to write something down, even if we didn’t know the answer. What would be reasonable? Three to two. Three is more than two. I plucked a number from nowhere and wrote it down, still trying to make sense of the question. I imagined throwing poisoned darts at my maths teacher.‘Question seventeen. And for a bet of £60?’How long could this go on for? When would there be a question I could answer? Think! Sixty pounds. That’s a lot of money. I could do with that in my building society account. That would give me… How much have I got?‘Question eighteen.’ The questions were getting faster. That’s not really fair, is it? I looked around at the others to see whether they agreed with me. The woman continued, ‘The payout on a bet of £5?’It’s a ratio. It’s a RATIO! Three to two. If you bet two pounds, you get three for a win. Yes! Yes! Yes! Now, what did she say?‘Question nineteen.’No, wait!‘£25?’Right. £25. Divide by two, equals £12.50. Times by three, equals…‘And the last question. Question twenty. A bet of £250?’£37.50. Quick, write it down. And £250? That would be, that would be …£375. Got it!
‘Thank you everybody. That is the end of the test. Please help yourself to refreshments in the lounge area. You will be informed of your results shortly and those of you who have been successful will receive further instructions. Good afternoon.’
Bloody Nora!
There are four books in the Bev and Carol series (all but one are available in paperback too):
Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in the Seychelles
Here's the extract, where Bev and Carol take the second maths test included in the Playboy selection process:
Keith was right, there was more to come.
‘Please record your answers on the paper provided, clearly numbered and legibly written. Take care to keep to the correct numbering. You will hear the questions once and have ten seconds to calculate and note down your answer.’We had made it through to the final hurdle. There were twenty-seven of us left, which meant that seven of us would not get a job, according to a girl called Desdemona, who, apparently, hadn’t heard of a ‘geezer’ called Shakespeare.Suddenly maths seemed more important. I had scored ninety-five on the written maths test, one more than Carol. Result! Keith had got eighty-three.
We were spaced out, spatially speaking, so that copying would be impossible this time, and I knew that I was on my own. In some twisted way, this was invigorating as I felt, unjustifiably, that I was up to the challenge. I flexed my mental muscles and took a deep breath – oxygen to the brain, in lieu of a gin and tonic - memories of my French Oral exam at ‘O’ level came flooding back. Carol gave me a look that said, ‘You have a bogey on the end of your nose.’ And I stared back with a, ‘Your right boob is more droopy than your left one.’ We were as relaxed as we could be under the circumstances and ready for the first question.
‘Question one. Seven times nine?’The numbers fed into my brain and it spoke to me: Easy peasy. Ten sevens are seventy, less seven, means nine sevens are sixty-three. It appeared that I had forgotten my nine times table. Oh well, never mind.‘Question two. Eleven times thirteen?’Bit more tricky. Ten thirteens are one hundred and thirty, plus thirteen, makes one hundred and forty-three. Thank you brain. And so it went on. After a few minutes, I heard a soft blubbing noise behind me, and Desdemona was led away by one of the assistants. One down, six to go. I looked over to where Keith was sitting and he winked at me. I stuck out my tongue and smiled broadly, waiting for the test to continue.‘The next five questions require you to calculate a payout of 3:2 on an initial blackjack bet,’ announced the woman at the front of the room. I looked over at Carol and saw her nodding to herself.‘Question fifteen. If a bet of £10 is placed what would be the payout for a blackjack?’I nodded to myself and realised that I had no memory of the new instructions. ‘Remember, the calculation is a payout of 3:2,’ said the woman, helpfully.Come on brain. Three to two. £10. Times three? Divided by two? Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine, the monkey… Oh, shit!‘Question sixteen. The same calculation for a bet of £50?’Write something. Write SOMETHING. We had always been taught to write something down, even if we didn’t know the answer. What would be reasonable? Three to two. Three is more than two. I plucked a number from nowhere and wrote it down, still trying to make sense of the question. I imagined throwing poisoned darts at my maths teacher.‘Question seventeen. And for a bet of £60?’How long could this go on for? When would there be a question I could answer? Think! Sixty pounds. That’s a lot of money. I could do with that in my building society account. That would give me… How much have I got?‘Question eighteen.’ The questions were getting faster. That’s not really fair, is it? I looked around at the others to see whether they agreed with me. The woman continued, ‘The payout on a bet of £5?’It’s a ratio. It’s a RATIO! Three to two. If you bet two pounds, you get three for a win. Yes! Yes! Yes! Now, what did she say?‘Question nineteen.’No, wait!‘£25?’Right. £25. Divide by two, equals £12.50. Times by three, equals…‘And the last question. Question twenty. A bet of £250?’£37.50. Quick, write it down. And £250? That would be, that would be …£375. Got it!
‘Thank you everybody. That is the end of the test. Please help yourself to refreshments in the lounge area. You will be informed of your results shortly and those of you who have been successful will receive further instructions. Good afternoon.’
Bloody Nora!
Fun with Bev and Carol - Promotion now LIVE!
Just to let you know I'm running a price promotion on all my humorous memoirs beginning on
November 28th
for three - seven days (depending on the ebook). At the bottom of this post I've included a short extract from Bunny on a Bike so you can see whether you empathise with a rather easily distracted Bev as she undergoes a particularly challenging test to become a Playboy croupier.
There are four books in the Bev and Carol series (all but one are available in paperback too):
Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in the Seychelles
Here's the extract, where Bev and Carol take the second maths test included in the Playboy selection process:
Keith was right, there was more to come.
‘Please record your answers on the paper provided, clearly numbered and legibly written. Take care to keep to the correct numbering. You will hear the questions once and have ten seconds to calculate and note down your answer.’We had made it through to the final hurdle. There were twenty-seven of us left, which meant that seven of us would not get a job, according to a girl called Desdemona, who, apparently, hadn’t heard of a ‘geezer’ called Shakespeare.Suddenly maths seemed more important. I had scored ninety-five on the written maths test, one more than Carol. Result! Keith had got eighty-three.
We were spaced out, spatially speaking, so that copying would be impossible this time, and I knew that I was on my own. In some twisted way, this was invigorating as I felt, unjustifiably, that I was up to the challenge. I flexed my mental muscles and took a deep breath – oxygen to the brain, in lieu of a gin and tonic - memories of my French Oral exam at ‘O’ level came flooding back. Carol gave me a look that said, ‘You have a bogey on the end of your nose.’ And I stared back with a, ‘Your right boob is more droopy than your left one.’ We were as relaxed as we could be under the circumstances and ready for the first question.
‘Question one. Seven times nine?’The numbers fed into my brain and it spoke to me: Easy peasy. Ten sevens are seventy, less seven, means nine sevens are sixty-three. It appeared that I had forgotten my nine times table. Oh well, never mind.‘Question two. Eleven times thirteen?’Bit more tricky. Ten thirteens are one hundred and thirty, plus thirteen, makes one hundred and forty-three. Thank you brain. And so it went on. After a few minutes, I heard a soft blubbing noise behind me, and Desdemona was led away by one of the assistants. One down, six to go. I looked over to where Keith was sitting and he winked at me. I stuck out my tongue and smiled broadly, waiting for the test to continue.‘The next five questions require you to calculate a payout of 3:2 on an initial blackjack bet,’ announced the woman at the front of the room. I looked over at Carol and saw her nodding to herself.‘Question fifteen. If a bet of £10 is placed what would be the payout for a blackjack?’I nodded to myself and realised that I had no memory of the new instructions. ‘Remember, the calculation is a payout of 3:2,’ said the woman, helpfully.Come on brain. Three to two. £10. Times three? Divided by two? Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine, the monkey… Oh, shit!‘Question sixteen. The same calculation for a bet of £50?’Write something. Write SOMETHING. We had always been taught to write something down, even if we didn’t know the answer. What would be reasonable? Three to two. Three is more than two. I plucked a number from nowhere and wrote it down, still trying to make sense of the question. I imagined throwing poisoned darts at my maths teacher.‘Question seventeen. And for a bet of £60?’How long could this go on for? When would there be a question I could answer? Think! Sixty pounds. That’s a lot of money. I could do with that in my building society account. That would give me… How much have I got?‘Question eighteen.’ The questions were getting faster. That’s not really fair, is it? I looked around at the others to see whether they agreed with me. The woman continued, ‘The payout on a bet of £5?’It’s a ratio. It’s a RATIO! Three to two. If you bet two pounds, you get three for a win. Yes! Yes! Yes! Now, what did she say?‘Question nineteen.’No, wait!‘£25?’Right. £25. Divide by two, equals £12.50. Times by three, equals…‘And the last question. Question twenty. A bet of £250?’£37.50. Quick, write it down. And £250? That would be, that would be …£375. Got it!
‘Thank you everybody. That is the end of the test. Please help yourself to refreshments in the lounge area. You will be informed of your results shortly and those of you who have been successful will receive further instructions. Good afternoon.’
Bloody Nora!
There are four books in the Bev and Carol series (all but one are available in paperback too):
Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in the Seychelles
Here's the extract, where Bev and Carol take the second maths test included in the Playboy selection process:
Keith was right, there was more to come.
‘Please record your answers on the paper provided, clearly numbered and legibly written. Take care to keep to the correct numbering. You will hear the questions once and have ten seconds to calculate and note down your answer.’We had made it through to the final hurdle. There were twenty-seven of us left, which meant that seven of us would not get a job, according to a girl called Desdemona, who, apparently, hadn’t heard of a ‘geezer’ called Shakespeare.Suddenly maths seemed more important. I had scored ninety-five on the written maths test, one more than Carol. Result! Keith had got eighty-three.
We were spaced out, spatially speaking, so that copying would be impossible this time, and I knew that I was on my own. In some twisted way, this was invigorating as I felt, unjustifiably, that I was up to the challenge. I flexed my mental muscles and took a deep breath – oxygen to the brain, in lieu of a gin and tonic - memories of my French Oral exam at ‘O’ level came flooding back. Carol gave me a look that said, ‘You have a bogey on the end of your nose.’ And I stared back with a, ‘Your right boob is more droopy than your left one.’ We were as relaxed as we could be under the circumstances and ready for the first question.
‘Question one. Seven times nine?’The numbers fed into my brain and it spoke to me: Easy peasy. Ten sevens are seventy, less seven, means nine sevens are sixty-three. It appeared that I had forgotten my nine times table. Oh well, never mind.‘Question two. Eleven times thirteen?’Bit more tricky. Ten thirteens are one hundred and thirty, plus thirteen, makes one hundred and forty-three. Thank you brain. And so it went on. After a few minutes, I heard a soft blubbing noise behind me, and Desdemona was led away by one of the assistants. One down, six to go. I looked over to where Keith was sitting and he winked at me. I stuck out my tongue and smiled broadly, waiting for the test to continue.‘The next five questions require you to calculate a payout of 3:2 on an initial blackjack bet,’ announced the woman at the front of the room. I looked over at Carol and saw her nodding to herself.‘Question fifteen. If a bet of £10 is placed what would be the payout for a blackjack?’I nodded to myself and realised that I had no memory of the new instructions. ‘Remember, the calculation is a payout of 3:2,’ said the woman, helpfully.Come on brain. Three to two. £10. Times three? Divided by two? Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine, the monkey… Oh, shit!‘Question sixteen. The same calculation for a bet of £50?’Write something. Write SOMETHING. We had always been taught to write something down, even if we didn’t know the answer. What would be reasonable? Three to two. Three is more than two. I plucked a number from nowhere and wrote it down, still trying to make sense of the question. I imagined throwing poisoned darts at my maths teacher.‘Question seventeen. And for a bet of £60?’How long could this go on for? When would there be a question I could answer? Think! Sixty pounds. That’s a lot of money. I could do with that in my building society account. That would give me… How much have I got?‘Question eighteen.’ The questions were getting faster. That’s not really fair, is it? I looked around at the others to see whether they agreed with me. The woman continued, ‘The payout on a bet of £5?’It’s a ratio. It’s a RATIO! Three to two. If you bet two pounds, you get three for a win. Yes! Yes! Yes! Now, what did she say?‘Question nineteen.’No, wait!‘£25?’Right. £25. Divide by two, equals £12.50. Times by three, equals…‘And the last question. Question twenty. A bet of £250?’£37.50. Quick, write it down. And £250? That would be, that would be …£375. Got it!
‘Thank you everybody. That is the end of the test. Please help yourself to refreshments in the lounge area. You will be informed of your results shortly and those of you who have been successful will receive further instructions. Good afternoon.’
Bloody Nora!
Fun with Bev and Carol
Just to let you know I'm running a price promotion on all my humorous memoirs beginning on
November 29th
for five - seven days (depending on the ebook). At the bottom of this post I've included a short extract from Bunny on a Bike so you can see whether you empathise with a rather easily distracted Bev as she undergoes a particularly challenging test to become a Playboy croupier.
There are four books in the Bev and Carol series (all but one are available in paperback too):
Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in the Seychelles
Here's the extract, where Bev and Carol take the second maths test included in the Playboy selection process:
Keith was right, there was more to come.
‘Please record your answers on the paper provided, clearly numbered and legibly written. Take care to keep to the correct numbering. You will hear the questions once and have ten seconds to calculate and note down your answer.’We had made it through to the final hurdle. There were twenty-seven of us left, which meant that seven of us would not get a job, according to a girl called Desdemona, who, apparently, hadn’t heard of a ‘geezer’ called Shakespeare.Suddenly maths seemed more important. I had scored ninety-five on the written maths test, one more than Carol. Result! Keith had got eighty-three.
We were spaced out, spatially speaking, so that copying would be impossible this time, and I knew that I was on my own. In some twisted way, this was invigorating as I felt, unjustifiably, that I was up to the challenge. I flexed my mental muscles and took a deep breath – oxygen to the brain, in lieu of a gin and tonic - memories of my French Oral exam at ‘O’ level came flooding back. Carol gave me a look that said, ‘You have a bogey on the end of your nose.’ And I stared back with a, ‘Your right boob is more droopy than your left one.’ We were as relaxed as we could be under the circumstances and ready for the first question.
‘Question one. Seven times nine?’The numbers fed into my brain and it spoke to me: Easy peasy. Ten sevens are seventy, less seven, means nine sevens are sixty-three. It appeared that I had forgotten my nine times table. Oh well, never mind.‘Question two. Eleven times thirteen?’Bit more tricky. Ten thirteens are one hundred and thirty, plus thirteen, makes one hundred and forty-three. Thank you brain. And so it went on. After a few minutes, I heard a soft blubbing noise behind me, and Desdemona was led away by one of the assistants. One down, six to go. I looked over to where Keith was sitting and he winked at me. I stuck out my tongue and smiled broadly, waiting for the test to continue.‘The next five questions require you to calculate a payout of 3:2 on an initial blackjack bet,’ announced the woman at the front of the room. I looked over at Carol and saw her nodding to herself.‘Question fifteen. If a bet of £10 is placed what would be the payout for a blackjack?’I nodded to myself and realised that I had no memory of the new instructions. ‘Remember, the calculation is a payout of 3:2,’ said the woman, helpfully.Come on brain. Three to two. £10. Times three? Divided by two? Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine, the monkey… Oh, shit!‘Question sixteen. The same calculation for a bet of £50?’Write something. Write SOMETHING. We had always been taught to write something down, even if we didn’t know the answer. What would be reasonable? Three to two. Three is more than two. I plucked a number from nowhere and wrote it down, still trying to make sense of the question. I imagined throwing poisoned darts at my maths teacher.‘Question seventeen. And for a bet of £60?’How long could this go on for? When would there be a question I could answer? Think! Sixty pounds. That’s a lot of money. I could do with that in my building society account. That would give me… How much have I got?‘Question eighteen.’ The questions were getting faster. That’s not really fair, is it? I looked around at the others to see whether they agreed with me. The woman continued, ‘The payout on a bet of £5?’It’s a ratio. It’s a RATIO! Three to two. If you bet two pounds, you get three for a win. Yes! Yes! Yes! Now, what did she say?‘Question nineteen.’No, wait!‘£25?’Right. £25. Divide by two, equals £12.50. Times by three, equals…‘And the last question. Question twenty. A bet of £250?’£37.50. Quick, write it down. And £250? That would be, that would be …£375. Got it!
‘Thank you everybody. That is the end of the test. Please help yourself to refreshments in the lounge area. You will be informed of your results shortly and those of you who have been successful will receive further instructions. Good afternoon.’
Bloody Nora!
There are four books in the Bev and Carol series (all but one are available in paperback too):
Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl
One Summer in France
Bunny on a Bike
Stranded in the Seychelles
Here's the extract, where Bev and Carol take the second maths test included in the Playboy selection process:
Keith was right, there was more to come.
‘Please record your answers on the paper provided, clearly numbered and legibly written. Take care to keep to the correct numbering. You will hear the questions once and have ten seconds to calculate and note down your answer.’We had made it through to the final hurdle. There were twenty-seven of us left, which meant that seven of us would not get a job, according to a girl called Desdemona, who, apparently, hadn’t heard of a ‘geezer’ called Shakespeare.Suddenly maths seemed more important. I had scored ninety-five on the written maths test, one more than Carol. Result! Keith had got eighty-three.
We were spaced out, spatially speaking, so that copying would be impossible this time, and I knew that I was on my own. In some twisted way, this was invigorating as I felt, unjustifiably, that I was up to the challenge. I flexed my mental muscles and took a deep breath – oxygen to the brain, in lieu of a gin and tonic - memories of my French Oral exam at ‘O’ level came flooding back. Carol gave me a look that said, ‘You have a bogey on the end of your nose.’ And I stared back with a, ‘Your right boob is more droopy than your left one.’ We were as relaxed as we could be under the circumstances and ready for the first question.
‘Question one. Seven times nine?’The numbers fed into my brain and it spoke to me: Easy peasy. Ten sevens are seventy, less seven, means nine sevens are sixty-three. It appeared that I had forgotten my nine times table. Oh well, never mind.‘Question two. Eleven times thirteen?’Bit more tricky. Ten thirteens are one hundred and thirty, plus thirteen, makes one hundred and forty-three. Thank you brain. And so it went on. After a few minutes, I heard a soft blubbing noise behind me, and Desdemona was led away by one of the assistants. One down, six to go. I looked over to where Keith was sitting and he winked at me. I stuck out my tongue and smiled broadly, waiting for the test to continue.‘The next five questions require you to calculate a payout of 3:2 on an initial blackjack bet,’ announced the woman at the front of the room. I looked over at Carol and saw her nodding to herself.‘Question fifteen. If a bet of £10 is placed what would be the payout for a blackjack?’I nodded to myself and realised that I had no memory of the new instructions. ‘Remember, the calculation is a payout of 3:2,’ said the woman, helpfully.Come on brain. Three to two. £10. Times three? Divided by two? Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine, the monkey… Oh, shit!‘Question sixteen. The same calculation for a bet of £50?’Write something. Write SOMETHING. We had always been taught to write something down, even if we didn’t know the answer. What would be reasonable? Three to two. Three is more than two. I plucked a number from nowhere and wrote it down, still trying to make sense of the question. I imagined throwing poisoned darts at my maths teacher.‘Question seventeen. And for a bet of £60?’How long could this go on for? When would there be a question I could answer? Think! Sixty pounds. That’s a lot of money. I could do with that in my building society account. That would give me… How much have I got?‘Question eighteen.’ The questions were getting faster. That’s not really fair, is it? I looked around at the others to see whether they agreed with me. The woman continued, ‘The payout on a bet of £5?’It’s a ratio. It’s a RATIO! Three to two. If you bet two pounds, you get three for a win. Yes! Yes! Yes! Now, what did she say?‘Question nineteen.’No, wait!‘£25?’Right. £25. Divide by two, equals £12.50. Times by three, equals…‘And the last question. Question twenty. A bet of £250?’£37.50. Quick, write it down. And £250? That would be, that would be …£375. Got it!
‘Thank you everybody. That is the end of the test. Please help yourself to refreshments in the lounge area. You will be informed of your results shortly and those of you who have been successful will receive further instructions. Good afternoon.’
Bloody Nora!
November 10, 2017
Goodreads Giveaway! NOW ENDED.
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Goodreads Book Giveaway
My Grandfather's Eyes by B.A. Spicer Giveaway ends November 29, 2017. See the giveaway details at Goodreads. Enter Giveaway
Goodreads Giveaway! Last few hours...
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Goodreads Book Giveaway
My Grandfather's Eyes by B.A. Spicer Giveaway ends November 29, 2017. See the giveaway details at Goodreads. Enter Giveaway
