He's more or less right in terms of mileage but I remember from last time that Cornwall has all these winding lanes and no proper signage, so what looks OK on the map ends up taking ages. How easy can it be to spot Gusti Veor, or St Columb Minor ? Not to mention Tumuli.

Where we're headed isn't even in Porth itself. It makes sense, I suppose, that a barn would be out in the countryside



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Trouble is, the victims aren't the only ones getting their kit off. Police detective Eve Dallas gets naked, too, when she falls for smouldering sophisticate Roarke. So far so Joan Collins. Some, me included, might suspect she's letting her hormones get the better of her and doubt her credentials for getting the job done. Especially when he's a prime suspect.

( started 21st March but forgot to post it)

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The gang at Strictly Writing would like to take this opportunity to wish all our lovely readers a very Happy Easter. We shan’t be posting again until next Tuesday, by which time we’ll have no doubt put on six pounds each and acquired numerous zits (it’s such a lie that you don’t get them as an adult), having scoffed our way through various packets of hot-cross buns and boxes of chocs…

So, now would seem a good time to reassess our blog which, thanks to all your support, has gone from strength to strength since we set it up in January. Is there anything you would like to see more of? Any types of people you would like to see guest blog? All suggestions most welcome in the comments section below.

In fact, how about putting yourselves forward for the special ‘Strictly Writing Reader Guest Blog Slot Competition’! (try saying that after a few drinks…) Just write 500 words on any subject to do with writing or reading – have a good rant or a gentile discussion, whatever you like as long as it is tempered with good humour. Simply email Samantha (see the link on her profile) with a line or two about your selected topic and the SW team will pick out a winner. Not only will the chosen one have their piece posted up in June, they will also win a signed copy of our very own Rebecca Connell’s recently published debut novel, The Art of Losing.

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The mugs were lined up on the kitchen counter, two-by-two, heading into Easter with a bag of giant chocolate buttons inside eight of them. 175grms; each gift would have cost me £1.50, including the mugs, and the kids would have more chocolate than in an Easter egg that cost an arm and a leg…though with the credit crunch the prices are going down.

Whatever made me think I could buy Easter presents in February?

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When I Twittered last week about keeping a writing scrapbook, it seemed I was the only one who did, and it led to lots of people asking exactly what I put in them. Well, this kind of thing:

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I spent the weekend at the Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival and, once again, had a fantastic time. The weather was gorgeous, the location (Christ Church college) both beautiful and convenient, and attendance at nine events, shoe-horned into a little less than forty-eight hours, saw the setting of a new personal record!

The highlights included an extremely entertaining debate between children’s writers Helena Pielichaty and Penny Dolan (Penny arguing in favour of fantasy in children’s books, whilst Helena championed reality), a wonderful talk by former Children’s Laureate, Michael Morpurgo, and a moving presentation by ex-Royal Marine, Pen Farthing, who not only managed to rescue a large number of mistreated dogs while serving in Afghanistan, but has also now set up the charity Nowzad Dogs to continue the good work. You can read more about Pen's experiences (and help the dogs by doing so) in his brilliant book, One Dog at a Time: Saving the Strays of Helmand.


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It's a question that I get asked time and time again: Where do you get your ideas from?

And the truth is, for me at least, I don't honestly know.

I've been thinking about it more and more since watching a presentation by Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing creativity that really pushed all of the right buttons for me, because she argues that...

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A man with a tattooed face and a black bomber jacket snoozes in his wheelchair on the concourse outside. Around him men and women in suits and skirts flow and converse with overly loud hand gestures and exaggerated annunciation, or talk into mobile phone wires clipped to their lapels. A few feral pigeons strut and squabble over crumbs near his feet. I stand in the lea of a doorway smoking and watching the man with the tattoos. His head is rolled back onto the girdle of his shoulders and he is wearing only one shoe, his other foot strapped up in some kind of brace. He is sleeping soundly beneath the faintly illuminated Pret a Manger sign, eyes tight shut.


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So I see Val McDermid is to appear with other celebrity guests in a series of TV programmes about Bridge. Tony Hill’s psychological profile of a Bridge club killer could make chilling reading, a worthy addition to McDermid’s oeuvre of grisly crime thrillers.


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Almost shaking with frustration, Jack slammed the drawer shut. His family knew to keep back at times like these and they watched his tight-faced rage as he tore through the living room, hurling cushions off chairs and knocking Lilian’s neat pile of coffee-table books to the floor, where the colourful, glossy paper crumpled under their weight. Lilian had trained herself to put the blame for Jack’s thoughtless destruction on herself. Obviously the wrong place to keep my best books, she thought, ignoring the damage.
Jack turned to look at his family, lined up out of the way against the wall.
“Where?” he screamed.

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