So, TFP is now officially wound up. *Formally into liquidation* is how it is described by Clare Christian, the MD.

This at least makes totally official the news that most of us has known for some time.

I feel sorry for Clare, having to watch her baby fall apart, but I also feel deeply sorry for those who have provided a service and received no compensation. My author, for example, had to put up with so much from me, and has not, AFAIK, received anything for it. I don't know if authors have received their moneys, but given that so many of them have become friends of mine I have to hope that their royalties are safe.

And, of course, I feel sorry for the death of Trucking Hell. But at least I haven't lost anything apart from a couple of hundred hours, bitten fingernails, sleepless nights....

Oh well. Back to Real Life, I s'pose.

Well, as it is out in the open in a big way, I can probably mention this now without cause for concern.

After all the work, there is a big possibility that Trucking Hell will not be published.
TFP, the publisher, have problems, are up for sale, in recievership, not in receivership etc, and as a result it is unlikely that TH will see the light of day.

Oh well. I tried.

I can has an interview!

(Lolcat is extremely annoying, and yet invasive. I can has not talk like this nao pls? Kthxbye)

She did it!

I am in tears here. Someone signed *A friend of a friend* took the total to over £1,000.

It is amazing!

I feel so proud to know her...you cannot imagine the stress this has put her through, with other *things* happening to make it all the more difficult. Gosh!

And I can't help but feel the *Friend of a friend* may have been one of you, in which case *hugs!*

And *hugs* anyway whether you donated or not, because...because...well, just *hugs!*

Folk, this is really impoortant to me, and to a lot of other people. I don't ask a lot from folk, but here I am, asking.
Caroline's fundraising book idea has already raised far in excess of the £500 she was aiming for. I know you don't know her, but the one in four charity is in dire need of funds, and Caroline has put so much effort, so much time, so much worry into Disraeli Avenue, just a couple of bob won't hurt. Do what you can, and pop over and say *Hi* To Caroline here and give her a boost. She is a lovely person. barking mad, mind...she likes Simon Cowell! But don't let that put you off!

I have a day off today...awaiting delivery of a matress. So...a lie-in happened.

Except...Willow went out on the balcony, and spent 20 minutes in the apparently -4 freezing fog.
And then decided to warm her frost-bedecked snottle by ramming it between the cheeks of my arse.

Some of you may have seen car adverts. 0-60 in 3.3 seconds. 2.8 seconds. 1.0 seconds. Trust me, this is mere ambulatory sloth, compared to asleep to awake in 0.001 seconds.

And not just awake. Not "Bleugh, what time is it/where am I/where are my socks/I need a weewee" awake. No, dear reader. This transcends any early morning wake up call. This makes the *Diddly Beep* of my alarm clock, up to now my most hated of sounds, almost a warm and loving partner. To achieve this level of awake would require a sudden immersion in liquid helium, whilst simultaneously having your blood instantly replaced with a 50/50 mix of hot Nescafe and ipecac. My mind briefly observed eternity. My brain understood the most fundamental questions on the planet. These questions I now put to you.

1) WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??

2) Where is my scrotum?

3) Why do I have 3 adams apples?

4) Why can I only say *Squeak*?

5) Why do I seem to have forgotten how to breath out?

6) Why am I on the ceiling?

My dear friend Caroline Smailes has written a book.
Please go here, now, read about it, download it, and donate to 1 in 4. Go on. You know you want to.
While you're there, buy a copy of *In search of Adam* as well

Okay! Unless I have missed anything *really* silly, the book is now ready for production.

Which is nice.

For now I have a number of other ideas that I would like to attempt. A collection of children's poems. A collection of adults poems. A re-write of the *Fisher King* story from a sci-fi perspective. And first a week or two away from writing *anything* other than the odd lj update..

Oh, darn.
Information from elsewhere would indicate that my publisher has a moratorium on book launches at the moment...none, apparently, are planned for 2008, which is, of course, when TH is published.

Anyone have any ideas about DIY book launches? I am drawn to the idea of having a launch, just to, you know, make it official. I want the book to be launched, rather than just escape onto an apathetic public.
Silly as it may seem, I have the desire to launch it at a truckstop...possibly one on the M25, or even at a port...Poole or Dover. Funding and co-operation with the places will be the big problem, of course.

Any suggestions? Ideas? Willingness to help organise it? Bear in mind that the best I can do re publication date so far is *July*, so details are so far quite slim, and I can't really afford to pay much more than a signed copy of the book and drinkies on the day :)

I am quite chuffed

Look!
<--- Me, chuffing

Some of you may know I am attempting to help the grandchild of a friend of mine to improve her educational standards...
One of her homework tasks over christmas was to write (and this makes me shudder...this is, I promise you, a direct copy of the DTP'd instruction leaflet, labelled *literacy*)... "a story flashing back to a tine in a charcters life where something funny, sad or interesting happened. We will give a prise for the best story"

Tine, characters and prise are heart-breaking!

Anyway...I got her to sit and think about places where a character could be thinking, and got her to act out everything, so that she could describe her feelings, and examine in detail her actions. I am so proud of her efforts so far. Please bear in mind that she has typed this out left handed, as she broke her arm yesterday, so please excuse the missing words and typo/layout problems. We'll fix them when we are done. So...I give you:-

Dead on time

Michelle stomped angrily up and down the platform. She was tired and cold and it had just started to rain. Where was that waiting room? She was convinced it was here, and yet the door was nowhere to be seen. She had only left it ten minutes ago so she could use her mobile phone and when she wanted to go back in it was nowhere to be seen.
Instead of a large wooden door there were just posters advertising perfumes and books. This made her even more angry because she wanted a new book to read, because she had read her other one while she was waiting for her train. Of course, because it was so late the shop was shut.
She kicked the wall where she was sure the door had been and her eyes fell on a framed photograph …


Michelle stomped angrily up and down the platform. She was tired and cold and it looked as if it was going to rain. She had a three hour wait for her train and there was nothing to do except walk up and down the platform. She had walked up and down four times already and once, when she was sure no one was looking, she had played hopscotch on the paving slabs and leap-frogged over the bins. Then she had seen the CCTV cameras, so now she was tired cold and embarrassed.
She sat on the bench and hid her head in her hands. Through her fingers she could see a flickering light reflecting on the pavement. Then she lifted her head out of her hands and saw a grass green door with grimy glass. Michelle had to look twice because she could not believe her own eyes. She was drawn to the light like a moth to a flame. She rubbed at the grimy glass of the grass green door with her grey glove and then she peered through the window.
Inside she saw an inviting coal fire.


She entered the room quietly and looked around. Along the walls were leather chairs. They looked very cosy. Then she realised it was a waiting room so she made herself comfortable in a leather chair next the coal fire. Maybe she dozed because suddenly she heard voices. She looked up and looked around. In the corner she saw two people dressed in 1940s clothes with a bag saying “Just Married”. Although she was there they were talking quite loudly as if she wasn’t there. Michelle couldn’t help but listen. The young woman was talking excitedly about her honeymoon in Cornwall. The man was talking about the fact that the railway company had given him three days off. The young man lit up a cigarette. Michelle did not smoke and thought it very rude of him to smoke. This put her back in a bad mood so she decided to ring her boyfriend to moan. However she could not get any signal so she went outside. To do so she had to walk past the young couple and so got a good look at them.
As soon as she left the waiting room she had a good signal on her phone so she rang her boyfriend and chatted for ten minutes. Then, as she was getting cold, she decided to go back into the waiting-room and ask the two others not to smoke. When she returned to where she thought the door was, however, there was no sign of it…


She looked at the picture. It was an old faded photograph. Underneath the picture was an equally old piece of paper, with a typewritten label.
“In memory of Edith and Albert Chappel. Albert was the stationmaster at this station between July 1938 and April 1940, when he and his bride Edith were killed by a stray German bomb which fell on the station, destroying the waiting-room, where they were waiting to catch a train to take them to Cornwall for their honeymoon. This plaque and photograph were presented in memory of them, and are placed where the waiting room used to be.”
Michelle looked at the picture, and felt her skin grow cold. Looking out from the frame were the happy faces of the two people she had seen, not ten minutes previously, as they happily discussed their honeymoon. She swallowed. What, she wondered, would have happened had she not left the room to make the phone call?







. Not bad for an 11 year old, though Smile