Books I loved reading.

Tuesday, 3 May 2016

My odd humour almost got me skewered.

Back in those long-ago days, by which I mean pre-mortgage, pre-child and pre just about everything else I suppose, I finally succumbed to my new wife's pleading and bought her an eternity ring.
    Early nineteenth century Victorian old cut solitaire of about two carats - I know, it means nothing to me either.
    What I did understand was the price. I think it was about £6,500. A lot of money in 1985, but as I said, we were earning well, and tax free to boot. Since that day she's refused to take it off her finger, not even while mucking out horses.
    Yesterday afternoon, as I was watching NCIS my wife squealed a particularly loud wail of utter desperation. 'Alright I'll switch it off.'
    Unfortunately she wasn't referring to my TV preferences but to the empty socket of the eternity ring - sans diamond.
     This is where an enormous carving knife almost was inserted into my spleen.
    'It's insured,' she wept, 'so we shouldn't have any trouble...' that's where she stopped as I, still more interested in Ziva flouncing about the squad room in a particularly fetching outfit, muttered that I'd er, forgotten, to renew the house contents insurance.
      If I'd thought the first squeal was loud it was nothing to what followed.
   Luckily I'm intact. The insurance process has begun and although my wife still isn't speaking to me she's finally put down that gigantic knife.
      Time to reassess my idea of fun.

Saturday, 23 April 2016

No more dams.

I'm going off scenery so here's something I began a few years ago when I first began painting and have now touched up a little.

    It was one of my first paintings and there's no cloning - mainly because I'd never heard of the cloning tool; and just to maintain continuity, my alleged daughter assures me that it's complete rubbish, especially my bananas of which I was especially proud.
    So, surrounded by such heart-warming assurances I've begun the fourth and final episode of my monster trilogy.
    Poor old New York. I loved that place, but as I've already destroyed most of England it seemed like a natural progression.
    Of course the ship hasn't arrived yet so if you'd like New York spared, let me know where you want my super evolved monsters to ravage.

Sunday, 17 April 2016

Your dam's rubbish

Always full of friendly and constructive advice, my daughter looked over my shoulder and wiped the smile from my face.
    'That's the worst dam I've ever seen. And your water's defying gravity."
    I overcame the notion of slapping her senseless and reminding her that she'd never seen a dam in her entire short life and wouldn't know gravity if she walked into it, but as she's just bought one of my books I let it go and eradicated the dam for a dolphin, her fave animal after her beloved nags. 

    I don't know how many writers out there have tried to get their so-called family to read any of their work but for me it's been impossible upto now. And she'll probably never read it anyway. 
    'Daddy's little hobby' is how they laughingly refer to my writing and latterly daubing, and makes it sound as if I'm  doing something both immoral and illegal in my writing room. And no matter that I've been struggling with it for over twenty five years (long before the little brat was born) I still find it impossible to induce them to read my stuff.
   "Just tell me if it's any good, and then I'll change it if you think it's bad", I tried a few times to a conspiratorial sneer between them. But even that didn't work. Luckily I've found some good people, who with a reciprocal arrangement, read my stuff and tell me just how awful it is before I publish. 

    "And your rocks are totally awful," giggled my spawn half an hour later, "and I wouldn't set foot on that sand; it looks terrible," as she prepared to go off and do whatever it is young people do at night. I can't remember; it feels as if I've been stuck in this room writing rubbish and painting awful dams for decades.

Sunday, 10 April 2016

I woke up with a really strange idea.

I often wake in the middle of the night with a lot of strange ideas but I won't relate them on this blog.
    The particular notion that struck me as odd was: can a man write a good love story? I've never actually read one - ever. But there's nothing to stop me trying. I could always take up a pen name. I rather like Gladys. It's one of the few genres I haven't tried, although in my novel The Book Of Pain there is a love story of sorts. That's if you can count the relationship between a four hundred year old man and a twenty something woman as love - especially as he's considering casting her into hell to save his own soul.
    I (mentally) wrestled with the idea of heaving bosoms and men coming to terms with their feminine side and finally admitting what we already know; ie that women are fully in control with their identity while men almost always act in accordance to how they perceive as what the world is expecting of them. I went on with this for almost twenty minutes before quickly casting it aside and returning to the fourth horror novel in my trilogy.  Short lived identity crises over; I'm going back to blood and guts.

  Here's something I knocked up using not one but three painting packages. The inclination is beginning to wear a little thin and I see some writing coming on. I can't wait to try out my new writing package. The one like Word but infinitely better and written especially for the tablet. At just under £5 it was a bargain and I can't wait to try it out.

    Blogger's messing about with my font size again.

Wednesday, 6 April 2016

My last bit of silliness before learning how to paint.

I've done a final pointless image before attempting to learn how to paint.

"About time," sayeth She who must not be trifled with, "If you're going to take a year off writing and actually allow your daughter to remember your face whilst she's still young enough to do so, then I have a few jobs for you."

    The amount of space Blogger allows us isn't enough to list the "few" jobs. Suffice to say that if I ever want to write again then I'll have to redecorate the house entirely, and that's just this week. Move every blade of grass in the front garden two inches to the left and, and scour the front path to spotless perfection before she and aforementioned daughter return from the yard, covered with horse droppings and hay and straw and other stuff even I can't identify. Why they can't just clean themselves down before they come back is beyond me.
    Oh, and the car used to be silver, it's now a vaguely russet colour. And that's not rust. Does every horse in the entire yard have to evacuate themselves all over the car? It's a plot. Not only are all the people who go to the yard female, but every horse in the yard is female. What happens to the boy horses? I'll bet they've all hurled themselves on the muck heap in screaming fits of exasperation. 
    I'll get my own back, somehow, someday.

Friday, 1 April 2016

The painting's coming on but I feel the need to write.

Even I can see that the painting's coming on a little. The only thing is, as much as I like to paint landscapes, it's not going to do my book covers a lot of good.

 As soon as I get it out of my system I'll get down to some real work.

 Those above and this:
 pointless piece of messing about were all done in Dogwaffle Artist 10, which is only £18 and I think about $27. It has so much stuff that at that price you really should take a look. Project dogwaffle

Wednesday, 30 March 2016

Should have stayed in bed.

I knew one of us was having a bad day when I went into the first shop.
    Let me say here and now that I hate shopping. I don't want to generalise but my alleged wife and daughter live to shop. If something doesn't drop through the door or get left in the garage, behind the dustbin, deposited with a neighbour or both return home, bones creaking under the weight of all the purchases they'll never use - or even open, then for them, the day has been a waste.
     I always find what I want on the net, discover where it's being sold for the least amount of money, then go and get it - just it, then return home delighted with a truly rewarding day. Boring? Probably, but that's just me and my limited expectations fulfilled.

    On this occasion I broke my own rule. I went shopping. It's Easter and there are any number of shops begging to give away their entire stock for almost nothing, so avarice overtook common sense. I also wanted to discover the answer to my telephone problem for which the call centre could not assist me with since none of them apparently speak English; or at least a version I understand. But first I went into a watch shop.
     "The battery has run out on my watch."
     "I can fit another one for you," offered a keen young man, whom to my elderly eye  should still have been in junior school.
     "No thanks," I said, because whenever you put a new battery in a watch, it's usually been lying in the shop since 1850 and only lasts about two months and they usually muck up the waterproof seal upon fitting it, "have you got any automatics?" 
  A fairly simple question I would have thought, but the infant's face clouded, mouthing the clearly alien words silently. 
    "You know, one of those watches that doesn't have a battery but doesn't need winding up." I waited, stifling a smile as the youth's brain churned. "I quite like Seiko," I said helpfully.
    "Ah, yes," he smiled after another minute or so, "we've got some Seiko Kinetics." His grin widened. "They're all powered by the sun, so even at night they're still charging."
     Maybe it was his first day on the job but his smile wavered somewhat as I sidled from the shop and went to the place I wanted to go to get the answer to my phone problem before the shopping binge commenced.
    They all spoke English there, thus I launched into my question, the one that's been bugging me for weeks, to a polite and attentive staff, and left the shop ten minutes later as no one knew what I was talking about but suggested an alternative answer that obviously a retarded microbe could have come up with. Dump the phone and buy another. It's only five hundred quid with a paltry two week wait until it's delivered.

    Back to the Net for me.