I rarely read horror stories these days but I've just finished a really good one – The House of Lost Souls by FG Cottam.
Its chilling atmosphere descends on you quickly while the yarn relies on character and fine storytelling to build towards its stunning denouement. The author evokes the mood and fashions of the early 1980s – that era is the book's central period – with some heartfelt writing.
I think the early 80s of singer Carmel, the Blitz Club and The Look of Love were important to FG Cottam. In fact, I know they were because, oh all right, I know him. It's dishonest to plug a friend's book without owning up but I can heartily recommend this novel. Really!
The House of Lost Souls was chosen by the The Times Book Group. If you don't want to take my recommendation, see what they had to say about it.


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Even if you recognise that what you think of as writing is always actually a writing-reading process, at some point all writers need an external reader. Do other readers get what your inner reader gets? Or do they see things which work against what you're trying to do? Heyer's first reader was always her husband and she would sit tensely watching his face and praying for a chuckle; A A Milne's tribute to his wife was 'She laughed at my jokes' and that's not as callous and self-centred as it sounds, because the connection you have with someone reading writing that you're still intimately involved with is in itself very intimate. So like any other kind of intimacy, you have to choose your partner with extreme care.

One of the first questions, then, is whether you let work-in-progress be read by non-writers. "Why not?" some ask. "It'll be read by non-writers in the end. My sister-in-law is a great reader, and she'll be honest with me." Which may well be true, of course, and indeed your reader needs both qualities. But simple honesty may not be enough.

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Back to normal in the golfing arena today, I'm afraid to say - no holes-in-one for me, and indeed on one hole, I managed to get nearly into double figures. Which for a par three isn't really covering myself in glory. Still, Marian and I had a great time, but in the end I suspect we may have peaked last time out ... Naturally we're blaming our poor performance on (a) the wet grass which meant our balls didn't travel as far, and (b) the fact that for some reason there were huge numbers of people on the course this morning, which puts us off our game, you know. At least those are our excuses and we're sticking to them ...


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First of all, huge congratulations to Lord H and me for having been married fifteen years today, hurrah! Have a glass of champagne on us to celebrate.

And we have a bottle cooling in the fridge for tonight as well, hurrah (medicines or no medicines, dammit)! Premier cru vintage too - not that I've ever found anything to better Tesco's blanc de blanc £12.00 standard, but heck live dangerously for once, eh. Apparently, fifteen years married entitles us to crystal, glass or a watch. As we don't need any of those things, we have settled for clothes, books and the CD of Purcell's Fairy Queen, which is on the menu for next year's Glyndebourne. There's nothing like a piece of baroque music to lift the spirits, to my mind - although Lord H is less keen, bless 'im. He's more an appreciator of modern atonal music, if truth be told. At least, more than I am anyway ...


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I've been trying to get round to doing a blog post all day. I've been terribly busy. Well, sort of. Well, you know - my PhD can't drag on forever. Well, once I got into it, yes, I did get some done. A bit. I didn't really spend all that much time playing Solitaire. Only while I was waiting for the kettle to boil. Each time. Yes, it's my fifteenth cup. And the phone kept ringing. Well, a couple of times. Then the children came back from school. They both vanished into their rooms, but well, you know, I like to be around...

I don't suppose there's a writer on the planet who hasn't found themselves procrastinating at some point. Journalists are famous for turning in copy at the last possible minute, and it's not always because they're chasing up some hot story which would make Ed Murrow jealous. The annals of book publishing are full of the great novels whose deadlines came and went, over and over again. At Goldsmiths the Counselling Service even run procrastination workshops, which look awfully like a lovely way to put off writing your essay.

But it's not really a joke, it's deadly serious.

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Spent this morning getting through yet more marketing admin stuff, with relative ease. At least, I’ve sent out a lot of emails and it’s easy until people start replying. Ah, that’s the curse of email, you know – you feel like you’re doing something useful and it’s all fine till you start getting the responses, dammit …

Was supposed to be having coffee with Sally at lunchtime, but the pressure of work means we’ll have to postpone till next week. So I walked into town instead and put a cheque in. My, how I do love paying money in – so very satisfying and so very unusual. I also tried to get a lid for my currently lidless datastick, as said lid unexpectedly vanished yesterday – and could not even be found by Lord H nobly peering at the path at night by torchlight, sigh ...


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I had fun yesterday, handing out awards certificates, medals and bookmarks to (I think) around 90 children who'd completed the library Summer Reading Challenge of reading six books over the summer hols. It's a fantastic scheme and a terrific achievement and I think a big hurrah should go to all who completed it, and also all who supported it; ie the library's staff and the mums and dads who make it possible for their children to get to the library.

I was also lovely to meet the head of Cheshire Libraries who, even though she initially introduced me as Nick Griffin (hmm, leader of the BNP - NOT me then) was fab.

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It was a real family get-together, with Youngest Step-daughter, Clever-Son-In-Law and their two little ones also making the pilgrimage. Hubby's parents were unable to make it as they had an appointment with Buckingham Palace (they truly did - will explain another time

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Mavis, my Harper Collins publicist, is demonstrating a point in an effort to diffuse my anger. She holds a sheet of A4 paper rolled into a ball and points at one of those holes in a desk ringed with plastic that computer cables run through. This one is currently unused.

“This is what it’s like selling books,” she says. She hands me the ball. “Throw this through there.”

I glare at her then casually toss the paper at the hole five metres away. It falls through it without touching the sides and then I look at her to see what her point is.

“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t expect that.”

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