This is me being serious: it's not my new name, just a comment.

It's time to get serious – become a serious person that is.

So from now on I am a serious person.

I will no longer ask the Window's Help desk, who ring unannounced because there is a problem with my windows, when I have an Apple system, if they are bringing my meals on wheels? And inform them I don't like Zoup.

Then when the lady or gent, well abled – that's not what I mean! Well enabled to work or look for work, stops me in the street and asks if I can spare any cash? I will reply that no I can't but not to worry about me that I will be fine. This reply is prompted by an urban legend that lots of beggars are let loose on the streets of the capital in an organised scam to enrich their masters, usually a Godfather figure in the clan.

I won't get annoyed when a news reader says two men were shot, in the leg, in a gangland feud. This cracks me up – two men sharing the one leg! And what part of the city is gangland?

When someone, a “writer” on the Createspace Forums asks how long should a paragraph be? I will resist replying if you don't know that, wait 'til you get to a chapter end - never mind a bloomin' book ending.

“Are there any poets on here?” is another Forum Title I hate because they continue to post some song lyrics that could not be improved by the music of Mozart, or indeed Johnny Cash. (Could he sing? I don't think so, just drawled the lyric.)

Then there's the book aimed at pre-teens that is full of grammatical and punctuation errors, that was read by my friends who say its good, complete with the missing ' in what is meant to be it's.

Oh I could go on – but from now on I'm a serious person! I am, I am...am am am. (Raspberry Sound like Milligan.)

That's O'Reilly from Drung!

Frank drove his wife mad, when on holidays and he saw someone he thought he knew.

She knew he was mistaken, but off he'd race.

“Just a minute, while I say hello.”

Over he would go to a complete stranger and strike up a conversation. It never mattered to him that it soon became obvious that they were not acquainted. A foreign language response usually revealed that.

But still he persisted in “recognising” strangers and approaching them.

Sometimes they walked away, but sometimes he seemed to trap them and proceeded to engage in one-sided conversation.

“I mind the time at the fair when your brother Joe bought the calf that the brother, mine that is, fancied. Boys oh boys: there was some language in the car on the way home. Truth is, however that the calf was better off on the rich grass of Meath, that the whin fields of Cavan”

Then he would return to Mary, his wife, with a smile and a comment “Terrible jokers them O'Sullivans. Cat men!”

Over years he persisted, no matter where they were, he would see familiar faces from familiar places.

Finally the family came together and banned him from approaching strangers. He would still recognise strangers but was prevented from approaching them.

“You know the rules, the girls have told you, more of those auld ideas and it's away they will put you – the nursing home.”

Frank was miserable, but over the years he accepted the facts. He was mad, he knew, to be at that crack all those years. How people he accosted must have laughed at him later, when they told the tale of the Mad Irishman.

Eventually, at years passed he just wore out, the well tuned walking engine, the mind that had been curious dimmed, and eventually he just died. One day he just shut his eyes, his breathing stopped, and they found him in the chair in front of the television. He looked content. In fact he seemed to be smiling in death.

He was dead, he knew that, the pains were gone, the fog in his head had cleared. Truly dead – that's it. Here in this bright grass-filled field, buttercups dancing in a slight wind. A warm wind. Jeepers warm? Hope this is not the place below!

A path led away towards a hill. There was a big wall up there, and gates – the Pearly Gates?

A man was walking towards him down the hill, on the path. A large crowd of men and women followed slowly.

Frank looked at the man. That's O'Reilly! From Drung. But it can't be he was just imaging things again. The man was smiling and offered an out-stretched hand, as he now hurried up to him.

“Frank. Don't you know me? O'Reilly – from Drung. They have been waiting for you.”

“Who?”

“All of them. The ones you saved.”

“Saved?”

“When you came up and talked to them when they were down. Suicidal, some of them, and you went up to them and started talking. They did not understand you, but that big sun blotched, ruddy face, and that smile, and the hands waving, enraptured them and took their minds off their troubles. Some laughed afterwards, not knowing why they did. Relieved maybe. They went back to their lives – the one you saved for them. Eventually like all of us, the years caught up on us. They are here now to welcome you.”

“To Heaven?”

“To our paradise. The Man inside wants you come in and talk with him.”

“Will I know him? Will I be able to talk to him?”

“Frank, you have been recognising him all your life, and you have been talking to him, sometimes even for him, all your life.”

I am starting to strongly believe in existence after death.

We were a bunch of pals, who started our real living together – in our teenage years of discovery.

We went to films: tennis club hops, later dances, fell in love, fell out again and finally went our separate ways.

And then young and with a life ahead of her, in another land, Deirdre died.

We had danced together, talked together and went on walks but were not a couple. She and Joe were that.

But her death – even if it was twenty or so years later affected me in such a way that I sought memorial solace, by giving her another life in poems and stories and eventually as a central character in my first book.

I often thought about her and my other companions of our Bog Midland Prairie, Pine Wood Rambling Days, shuffling among the leaves, or climbing the banks to walk along the railway lines and canal tow-paths, or gathering pocket money working the turf banks.

A few nights ago, just drifting to wakefulness alert, a girl came to me into my arms and cuddled me. She was vivacious, full of life and I tingled in her embrace. I felt warm and secure. She apologised for going away, and said she was back now. But I knew she would go away again. She mentioned a name, a boy-man's name.

I awoke wondering – why did I meet and cuddle Shamie? He was at school with me, we were good pals, and then he went away to England. Why am I dreaming of him now?

The day passed and the images were re-run and solidified in my thinking. Eventually I realised the girl was Deirdre.

And then I remembered Shamie had died about a year ago. But why was he bringing this girl to me in my dreams. Then I realised that Shamie, had been married to Deirdre's older sister.

What impact did, this dream sequence, have on me?

Well – the sequel to In The Wicker Wood is now on the back burner, and I'm back completing the book version of Here Lies...

The “…” is important since it will be followed in the book by an inscription on a headstone.

As usual with my writing there is a BIG Clue to the start and end of the book in the “...”.

Like Frankenstein's Monster - Georgie is becoming aware!

He had toughed it out: persevered. Won back his sanity: if ever it had truly been lost, that is.

At first it had been confusing, sometimes he was faking it, and sometimes he believe the Duchess was truly there – in control. Mostly in control? He didn't want to kill again: his soul was clean after his confessions. He meant to keep it that way.

When he was in control of his personalities; that's what the shrink had said, when discussing him. Believing he was out of earshot, or that Georgie was drugged and not responsive. “He has a dual personality condition,” he had explained, “and the old woman is dominant. As a man I don't think we will see Bowen again.”

Dream on Crap-head. I am here all the time just waiting.

Befriending the old boys in the day-room was easy. What old codger does not want to have female company. Getting their trust and access to their wardrobe took a little time. Finally Georgie found it convenient to start appearing in the day-wards as a visitor. “The Major here to visit me Uncle Nigel, Ya know.” The staff were far to busy and lazy to bother checking anything out. He was not able to get off the premises though and had to go back to a convenient closet, empty toilet – wherever he had stashed the dress, and appear once again as the deranged stumbling, leaning on the walls Duchess.

As the months passed, and it appeared he was not recovering, his accommodations changed. He was moved to a small cell and his personal minders left. “I know who sent you to mind me, and why.” He often muttered. Now they had been withdrawn. So the Chief had given up. Stopped fearing that Georgie would spill the beans, reveal his secret. Tell where the treasure was stashed. Sometimes he felt like a pirate abandoned on an island, with a treasure map and a cross drawn to mark where the booty was hidden. It is hidden in my mind, and now I am starting to remember more, I have to be more deranged and then I will be safe. Until I get out of here.

As time passed the staff became comfortable with the visitor. “Here again Major. Visiting Nigel?”

“Why not dear boy. It cheers him up I think. Me too. Dashed rain will come again soon. Must get back to my charitable works. What!”

Then one day an old dear he had also cultivated was very poorly – near the end it seemed. Georgie had an idea, of how to get away, outside, free. And when he considered the plan it appeared so simple – a child, even a frail old Duchess could carry it off.

Plagiarism on a big scale.....and it was paying well.

Read an interesting article in the Sindo (Sunday Independent) Ireland this week about a lady living in, it appears , in Cork Ireland who ripped off three books by another Irish author: from the back catalogue.

It was accomplished it seems by typing in the books and then INDIE publishing, and offering them for sale on Amazon, with a change of title and character name changes. And of course a new author name.

Amazon sold the books unaware and I estimate the first rip-off book alone earned (if 70% KDP royalty applied) over €10,000.

The figures were also given for the second book – but Amazon had been made aware by then and suspended payment.

The third book – I presume is now on the back burner.

What a cheek! What a cheek! To steal another writer's work – and blog, give interviews, and generally market yourself as the genuine author. What a bare-faced cheek! How did she think it would be un-noticed? Obviously nothing between her ears!

Wonder how “entrallingdimple” feel about the glowing tribute and interview they did for the Plagiarist.

It's important to note that the figures for the royalties given in the article and elsewhere do not agree with mine. But I'm basing my calculations on the fact that I earn 70% royalties on Amazon (where the books were sold). Bloggers are getting incensed that the quoted royalties stolen are so low.

Bit of a red-herring I think. The point is that an author of it is claimed 26 books: three of while we know were plagiarised, needs more careful scrutiny than the payments she received.

Some also wrote that they did not know if the person was a she or he.

Well lads, and lassies, the photo I tacked down was for sure a lassie.  

The links given if you Google her name are  no longer available, the website is down, and most of her 26 published books are no longer available to buy.

But so far I can not find any legal action having been initiated by the genuine author: it would not be me. 

Getting back into the swing of the sequel - and Detective Fanahan!!!

 “This way Garda.”

“It's Detective Inspector. Lead on Mc Duff.”

“In here, we only cut her down and laid her on her bed. Nothing else was disturbed. The letter is on the nightstand.”

“Thanks. Who cut him down?”

“The porter cut her down. Will I send for him.”

“No not yet. I want to have a look at him, he has changed hasn't he?”

“I..I can't say. I'm only here a few years. Looking after her.”

“OK! Can I have a minute?”

Fanahan started to hum a tune, a song he heard somewhere, and at time of thinking inside, he ran it through his mind, often vocalising it as humming. He also muttered to himself, silently. Cardboard programming he called it. Saying out loud what was worrying him. Sometimes even finding a quick solution, that formed in his brain and became reality.

You have changed Plonker, smaller, skinnier. Jees when you fell on me in the street – you almost flattened me! How many years ago. Five? Six? The wig fell off. Christ is that a wig? It's a better one anyway. Did someone buy it for you Georgie, or did you inherit it. If someone looks in and sees me smiling and talking to myself they may try to keep me in here. Shay you are here to identify Georgie. Is it him? Who the feck, else could it be?

He has changed, but as he was incarcerated in here – it must be him. I need to get out of here quick and have a few scoops, before I report back. Well a lot of people will be relieved – the killer brought to justices. God's justice, if not man's justice. Dead as a doornail – no danger any more.

Can't believe he hung himself. Did he come back to himself and do it, or did he come back as he did it. Feck we will never know. Good riddance. Hung himself? Now that's something I always wondered about. They say when a man hangs himself, he gets a big Langer, a big erection. No Shay you wouldn't – you wouldn't take a peek. Sh-one-t I would. But what if someone sees me – the detective was observed peeping up the dead woman's skirt. Jees no I can't risk it. Crap you will never get another opportunity to find out. Get rid of yer woman first.

Still doing the setup for the sequel to WW - hard work remembering what I did in book 1.

Sidesteps to Beat Steps

“You're welcome Superintendent Tyrell -  to the show.”

“Now Ivor. I'm retried it's just plain Bob now.”

“But you did spend time in the force and rose to the rank of Superintendent.”

“I did, but now as you know Ivor I'm here to talk about my Memoir “Sidesteps to  Beat Steps” my time as a footballer and pounding the beat.”

“On the beat, walking the streets, on patrol. I never knew you did that.”

“Ivor in the old days all rookies started in that way, but again Ivor – the book, that's the mission today.”

“You solved the serial killer case and brought the killer of eleven women to justice, Bob.”

“ I had help, there Detective Inspector Shay Fanahan made the first breakthrough, when he recognised the killer, even though he was dressed in drag. Sergeant harry Roycroft down in Port Siney initiated a search of the Bowen place and found the graves. Dogged police work on both their part. And the dogged detection work of Sheba as well.”

“So it is true a seeing eye dog, sniffed the killer out even in his Grannies clothes.”

“Ivor if you were afraid of dogs no matter if you were up a tree, when one gets sniffing for you - you panic. The late Prunty Senior always said that one of these boys will stand beside a prancing stallion going down to the start at the Currough, but put then in a room with a Shih Tzu, they … well I will leave the rest to the viewer's imagination. It was his record keeping for the customers of his handmade shoes that first put us on to Bowen. I could almost hear him and his cackling laugh as I wrote the case into the book. A gentleman and we all miss him, may he rest in peace.”

“Where is the killer now? Bob.”

“In a place – you couldn't call it a hospital, or a prison – it's a place for the criminally insane.”

“Are the staff, and maybe even visitors, safe from him? Could he kill again?”

“Ivor – he doesn't even know who he is, or where he is, all that remains is the personality of a frail, elderly lady. I say lady because she believes she is the mistress of a large house, with tended gardens, servants and people to cook her meals and serve her. In fact unless she is seated at the end of a dining table with a few candelabra with lighting candles, and a tablecloth on it, she will refuse to eat until things are restored to normal, as she says. I'm afraid that for Duchess Bowen, there are no today's or tomorrow's just yesterday's.”

“Bob are you sure Georgie, the serial killer, is gone?”

“Jees Ivor! I hope so. A killer with no conscience or regret, must never be allowed out into the population.”

“What if one day he woke up and said – I'm back, it's me Georgie. I'm myself again.”

“Then we could charge him with the murders. We have never been able to so far, because basically we could not bring an old lady to court and charge her. You see Georgie is gone, long gone - I don't believe he exists any more. Wish he did – there are many unanswered questions.”