It’s been quite a month but thank the Lord, the day job is on hold for the next few weeks and I’ve got some time to breathe and write. Because to me, breathing and writing amount to the same thing.Since the last post, there’s been a few changes. First of all; the Govenator, Goveadoodledo or the Reverend Gove, the education minister who truly believed in the fairies, has gone, gone, gone. Ding dong, the Gove has gone! If it’ll bring any improvement to our lives in school, who knows, but at least we can hope. I read that in his new role as the chief whip, he got stuck in the toilet and someone had to come and get him out. Well that’s all I need to say about that.
I thought I’d have a bit of a change with my novel writing this summer. I’ve ditched the ghosts and I’m writing a story that I can describe as a medieval, comedy, action-packed road trip bromance. Although I haven’t entirely ruled out the idea of a ghost and there’s definitely a witch appearing somewhere along the way. It’s called Albright and Ingleby and set in the year 1497; very specific but I needed to include a minor battle and the Cornish rebellion was as good as any. More on that later.Yesterday, I went on a bit of a road trip myself. I dropped a good friend off at Gatwick airport, I duelled with a nutter on the M25 and diced with death on the Dartford tunnel on the way back. I stopped off at Bluewater shopping centre and I had to take the A2 to Canterbury on the way. It got me thinking; I was on the road to Canturbury, just like my heroes, Albright and Ingleby. They’ll be on their own pilgrimage but it won’t be very holy! Which makes me think about doing my own pilgrimage to Canturbury. I could take some pals in my trusty four-wheeled steed, tell tales, just like in the Canturbury Tales, and visit taverns and possibly fit in some wenching as well. Adhering to the drink driving rules, obviously.
In other news, I had an argument with a treadmill in the gym. Last time I went to a gym, you put in the time you wanted to do, pressed start and you were off. Now it wants to know my weight, age and star sign. Whilst running at a fair lick, I made the mistake of putting my hand onto the heart monitor. It measured my heart rate at 162 bpm and then informed me that it was not a rate that was appropriate for my age, and duly stopped. Bloody hell. I was fine, I had a good five minutes left in me, but no, apparently the chuffing treadmill knows best. Lying about your age to people is one thing, lying to a treadmill so I can get a decent work out is beyond the pale!Next week, the ups and downs of learning snowboarding and the release of my new ghost story anthology, A Curious Quartet.