I dislike being the centre of attention but the launch party is a concession I make in order for those close to me to express their adulation and pride at my success. Or their envy and bitterness. I don’t really mind which as both will make me feel special. To stifle this emotional outlet would be unfair on my friends.

My publicists have given me a budget of four hundred pounds. Like everyone in my position I had, as I scrawled my childish signature on the publisher’s contract fourteen months ago, imagined a lavish event with a red carpet, limousines, paparazzi, formalwear and invitations printed on gold-edged cards and mailed by private couriers. My expectations had dwindled since then, of course, but even so this paltry budget was something of a surprise.

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Church turned out to be okay today. I quite liked the 1662 service rehashed, with hymns. Not bad. Though I'm sure that either the organ is pitched too high or (surely not ...) my voice is pitched too low. No comments on that one, please - or not many anyway! After the service, people had obviously decided that they would make an effort at talking to us again - which is quite brave, bearing in mind that post-service coffee sessions are a social nightmare and everybody hates them. So I was seized by a lady telling me all about her house and its wicked lodgers (ah the war years, you know - such fun!), whilst Lord H got the vicar's wife. Who is, we discover, utterly glamorous, knows how to wear red and used to be a radio producer. May still be one for all we know. Which is something of a shame as I was so convinced that the lady I met with the vicar in Waitrose yesterday was too well turned-out to be a vicar's wife, and must therefore surely be the mistress. Apparently not. So spiritual honour is salvaged, though it's rather a blow to the drama queens amongst us ...


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Discovered M has not one but two teddies, knitted by aunt (c. 1987) to original Teddies for Tragedies pattern. This teddy is called George (named after M’s history of art tutor). Life in a briefcase proved hazardous and an attempt to drown George in a pint of beer (c. 1993) led to his new position (as talisman) in the glove compartment of 1968 Volvo Amazon. Since 1996 ... (more)

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They say there's no such thing as bad publicity, but sometimes it can just be plain tacky. Lately I’ve been starting to think about ways I can help my publisher promote my book when it’s out, but there are some things I just won’t be able to bring myself to do. I’ve seen examples of all of these on the web recently, but feel free to add any others I might have missed...


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To some aspiring writers the book trade looks like a well-defended fortress, garrisoned by what appears (according to your temperament) to be a bunch of celebrity-hunting, money-grubbing clones, or thick-skinned, parasitical philistines. Hang around for - oh, all of ten seconds - on some of the writing forums, and you'd think that the garrison is actual run by a set of James Bond villains determined to destroy literary civilisation as we know it.

It is heartbreaking to send your work out and have it rejected without so much as a grade attached: even lazy and nasty teachers write C- before they throw it back at you. Giving your writing to any stranger to read is a bit like lying down in the road and offering the next passer-by a disembowelling knife.

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Wonderful news today! The lovely Lisa Glass, author of the dark and supremely gripping Prince Rupert's Teardrop, has chosen A Dangerous Man (see full post for all links!) as her Thriller of the Year on the Vulpes Libris Book Blog site, and you can find her comments here. You'll need to scroll down just a little as Lisa is 2nd in the Picks List. Many thanks indeed, Lisa - I'm more than grateful! Michael is quite chuffed too - and will be happy to give you a special discount of his services at any time. Naturally. The choice is yours ...

Meanwhile, last night's strange dream involved me learning how to swim. Something I've never been able to do - like whistling or climbing a tree. Anyway, my first attempt went pretty well, but I think I was overconfident the second time around as I couldn't seem to make any headway. Hmm, why does that sound so much like my life? Ah well ...


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Not updated as regularly as news sites or Google, but a social document all the same, this village noticeboard is updated every Sunday morning. Amongst ads for local businesses, recent items have included a talking Quaker parrot (for sale), a stud (available for hire) in the form of an obliging terrier (no appointment required?) and Teddies for Tragedies - an appeal to knitters with soft hearts ... (image)

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No golf today, I'm afraid - but Marian and I had a good coffee and catch-up session at the club. My, how posh we sound, ho ho. She had a fantastic holiday and is now determined to visit Florence for longer than five minutes (they were on a cruise) - which is a sentiment I entirely agree with. Florence is of course one of the best cities in the world, along with Prague. I love them both for different reasons and can never decide which is my favourite. Both, probably. Though Florence has the best men. You can't go wrong with an Italian ...


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The Story of the Magic Yak


In August/September 2007 I undertook a trek starting in Pargham Kashmir and ending in Lama Yuru Zanskar. The trek took about 20 days in all and traversed nine passes all above 16,000ft. Now I’m hardly what one would describe as an athletic person and despite the advice I have often given my patients, I find exercise bone jarringly tiresome, painful and excruciating at best. Anyway some foolish whim rattled around my brain that it would be a good idea to exercise this tired old frame and get my tush up a few mountains.

The trek started with one day “excursions” in Kashmir with the knowledge of hot showers and a warm comfy bed to go back to at the end of an arduous day. Gradually these so called excursions graduated in difficulty until the, “comfy bed”, syndrome was completely discarded in favour of a lumpy rubber mat, sleeping under canvas scenario. For those of you who think this is romantic, think again, it’s hard, dusty, often cold, tiring and painful, yet the rewards of high mountain vista’s do compensate, a bit! Would I do it again, possibly, once the memories of sore muscles and relentless fatigue have diminished.

I am not relating the entire trek in this short narrative, but one event stood out amongst all others and it is this rather mystical experience, which I shall recount.
It was the 11th September, I had been trekking for what appeared to be a lifetime, so many passes, “you seen one mountain you seen ‘em all”, sprung to mind. I was tired, sore and my energy levels were at an all time low, and trust me if I had to climb one more pass I was on the verge of collapse. The day started with a pee at 4 am, I dragged myself from my warmish sleeping bag reluctantly, only because my bladder was distended to its maximum proportion. I exited the tent and tramped up a small hill, I felt something soft and cold falling from the sky. It was snowing, my mind attempted to assimilate the data, it was September and I was being snowed upon at 11,000 ft. Finishing my ablutions I rapidly headed back to the warmth of my sleeping bag hoping it was just a dream.

I awoke at about 6 am, stuck my head out of the tent to see a white winter wonderland as far as I could see. Breakfast came and went, then donning fleece, (my anorak was buried in my rucksack at this point and straddled across a pony) I trudged after my guide out of the camp. The sun was low on the horizon and it was still a little dark, but the crunching underfoot told me that the previous nights’ vision was not a hallucination, it had snowed and now the path was increasing its inclination. Up and up we went ever higher. After two hours we hit the slopes of Singhe-La a 17,000ft monster. Higher and higher we went, traversing small paths and negotiating rocks, boulders and shale. The snow started to fall even though the sun was now well above the horizon. The small delicate flakes gradually transformed into golf ball sized gobs of snow. I was soon shivering and covered in a good cover of white.

Eventually we arrived at the summit of Singhe-La. It was a complete white out and at least half a metre deep. Tibetan flags fluttered and the Stupa (half hidden by snow) marked the peak of the pass. I was beginning to think that this was it, I would freeze up here and be lost forever. Visions of “Cliffhanger”, Vertical Limit” sprang to mind. Pictures were taken as mementos of the traverse to the peak, I grinned bravely, my mind gradually weaving in and out of terror. Then the rest of the party arrived with ponies and my back pack with anorak. The porters seeing my shivering knees, unpacked my anorak and I put it on gratefully. Looking down the other side of the pass renewed the terror; there was no path to be seen, just a landscape of white escarpment with vicious chasms in all directions.

The porters and guides scratched their heads looking for the path down. No-one was moving and ponies looked bored. I sheepishly asked where the trail was, in usual Indian/Kashmiri fashion there were vague waves, much head wobbling and, much discussion, yet we were still not moving and it was still snowing hard.

As my heart sank a little deeper I happened to look through the snowfall to my left across the pass. There in stark contrast to the white snow there was a beast. The beast was huge, with massive horns, long back hair and a long tail. It was levitating, well at least it looked like it was levitating, its levitation being interspersed with occasional landings in a sort of manic hopping. This was a Yak, a huge black Yak, on spring loaded feet by all accounts. It was literally jumping vertically as if to attract attention. Then off it sped downhill at a tremendous pace. The guides, ponies and porters stared in amazement and then all shouting, head wobbling at once, they all followed the Yak on its downward mission. It created a path in its wake that we could all follow. Down, down, down we all went, the Yak still on a roll, continued to bounce like Tigger in Winnie the Pooh, “Yaks Bounth”, sprang to mind and I laughed as we trounced down the newly created path to safety.

Once we had reached the river bed the hyper-active Yak, as quickly as it had appeared, disappeared from sight. I was back from the abyss, safe and sound and grinning with delight. I had traversed the highest pass in Zanskar and thanks to the Magic Yak was heading to the next camp where hot Chai and chapattis and honey awaited.

I shall forever remember that yak, the yak that “bounthed”……..

© Michael Smith 2008

Yes. NON-fiction. Not something I mention on here very often - for all sorts of reasons, mostly because the majority of non-fiction I read is for research. Which is no bad thing, and I'm certainly not making excuses for it. It's just the way things are - I don't have the time to read anywhere near as many books as I'd like to (and I do read a lot).

Anyway. Back to the point.
I read The Ghost With Trembling Wings for pleasure. And I was hooked. I was glued to it. It is a wonderful book.

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