The French Woman is free for a week from 21/11/17...

I wrote the 20 Minute Reads Series, for a quick read on a train, over a pint or Coffee, or for those of us who are Royalty, while just relaxing sitting on the throne.

Oops, almost forgot it's a Kindle.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01MZ1HF9Q

It might be blustery - but the air smells sweet and clean.

People who read my bio (well take the time to read it, not just skim it) ask – What are Ya At – What's an evolving Human Being? How come you claim to be one? Didn't we just evolved from the monkeys, and that's it. We are humans!

Well yes, we did. But I don't believe that's the end of it. If today I know more than I knew yesterday then I am still evolving, still learning, still expanding my knowledge.

Last week I thought I was a good writer, a nice person, not offending anyone at all, when I answered questions of tried to help writers on Createspace Or the Amazon Community, But it seems I'm not. If I am to believe posters – as a poet I'm a good bricklayer. I only post an example to how to write prose in order to sell books. Or I'm OLD and out of date. 

It seems you don't have to use capitals, or punctuation, or paragraphs or chapters any more. Neither do you edit your first draft – you just publish it. And it seems you must write Science Fiction, or Zombie tales, or time travel to engage Kindle Readers. As well some writers produce thousands of words with rambling plots and sometimes name changes they never noticed. Brad becomes Buddy, Hal becomes Terry and so on. I only used male names, I think, since I never noticed ladies getting mixed up in names, just times.

But there was worse that that. Suppressed rifle shots echoing in the hills. Communications via satellite without a subscription. Computers that did not work because the UPS was not plugged in, but main power was still available. What I think they were on about was the no break system that is used to protect sensitive equipment, from spikes, and voltage drops.

Then Lordie-Me! An identification parade for a guy blown up in a car, who was once well endowed. Now missing presumed blown up. His ex-lovers were asked to identify the shrivelled, blackened member, as belonging to the culprit.

All of the above contributed to my knowledge as an evolving human being. I now know that there are a lot more plonkers out there than I realised.

And as for living life to its full potential? That's simple. When you get an opportunity to go on holidays take it. Don't make excuses not to go.

Among The Fingal Hills? Simpler still. Out here we have clean bright see-through air, mighty trees, green fields, sea views and good healthy oxygen

I was in the city for a few hours, walking around looking for inspiration, last week. When I returned to The Rural and washed my face, the water in the sink was black with airborne city grit and dust. And that dirt if I lived in the city would get into my lungs every day! No Way Jose!

Trying to be temperate with Amazon Forum Posters - is hard work!

Now that I'm stuck in the plot of Wicker Wood II, and after the reissue, with additional material, of The Knowledge Seekers. Which is now two books Seekers book I and Cudhabeen Book II, I foolishly returned to looking at some Amazon forums. Strangly the one I viewed was titled "Voice or the Author Publisher". Don't think some posters read that, since they do not seem to be either an author or a publisher.

OMG...the posters are as bad as ever.

I always despaired that when you wrote something a Cyclops would view it and reply castigating you for something you did not say.

In an attempt to enlighten a lady a while ago I spoke about my "twenty minute read" series and mentioned the name of the books, but did not include a link.

She came back foaming at the mouth that I had broken (past participle) the rules, and was trying to flog my work, and besides she did not read “Short Stories” completely missing the point the stories were “Flash Fiction” and abiding by the rules of that medium. 

And when she took a train journey it would be longer that 20 minutes and she would bring a “Book”and only read part of it.

I could handle that but then the trolls got in on the act, using wrong names for the posters, and offering their Tuppence Worth, and accusing me of trying to sell my books.

DOH! Amazon – BOOKS - SALES MEDIUM, MARKETING, PUBLICITY.

One poster only joined a few weeks ago and has a massive number to posts for the time in the club – obviously bored with life.

Another has books with a few reviews, six in total: the ones where you can't check if the reviewer did any more reviews, even if it was only for a Toaster. To make sure I was not imaging things I just clicked on my reviewers. Full review history is available.

What kills me is that some of them are not writing books just posting while alledgly their Facebook Account is being restored, or some such like.

Others are writers who forget that their first chapters are available on the Amazon “Look Inside” feature. I used to comment on bad grammar of lack of capitals, or missing quotes or punctuation. 

Now when you notice these problems the book has been published and has 27 glowing reviews, some with misspellings, and other grammatical errors. So I don't bother any with comments any more.

Instead I blog and try to sell me books.

Was away in Italy, charging me batteries, back to work.

The sequel is progressing, but as yet I don't know where I'm off to with this story. Think I will have to kill someone, but hate using that avenue of getting attention....

He added as Bob started to raise his hand. “That was all crap. The Commissioner called me up and told me I was mistaken...when I identified the wrong corpse.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have a look at this. He left me a note. Listen to this.”

“Hold on Shay, hold it up, I'll read it myself.”

Tyrell took his time, reading the words, then re-reading them again. “A brandy and port man Shay. Are you sure this is genuine?”

“It was on the night stand, beside the bed the body was on. The envelope was addressed to me. Don't know about the writing, we will have to check that out.”

“We, again Shay. Why we?”

“Because, Bob, I've been told Bowen is dead. He was cremated, and that's the end of it. That's the Commissioner's message. “

“Cross of Christ detective, why did you come up here, I can't help.”

“But, boss. I have no place to turn, and if Georgie kills again, would you share the blame? No, but we caught him the first time, we and this time I mean we, have unfinished business, with George Edward Bowen.”

“Shay, did anyone else handle that note, or the envelope, besides yourself?”

“No Bob, just me.”

“Well then so, Shay give it to the fingerprint boys, see what they can turn up.”

“And if it's Bowen's prints, then we are shagged.”

“Jeees Shay! Don't tell them where it came from, say you are just tying up loose ends on some case or other. But I would bet: if you find fingerprints on that, it won't be Bowen's.”

“Grand. I'll try and do that, but Bob I have few friends left in the force now. I will have to try an official approach, won't be able to hide it away.”

“I can't help you there. I'm retired.”

“OK! I'm off so, thanks for seeing me Bob, appreciate it.”

“Fine Shay, see you so, soon I expect. By the way where did you get my mobile number?”

“I detected it Bob, knew there was one person that you would give it to, in case he needed to talk, sometime.”

“How did you con him, into giving it to you?”

“I didn't con him. Came clean. Told him I was in the crap and needed your help.”

“Did he offer to make a bit of furniture for you, a wardrobe, in his spare time? Bye Shay, be safe.”

“Wardrobe?”

“Woodworking keeps his hands busy, helps with fighting the craving for drink.”

“Bye Bob. Might take that up myself.”

Still writing the sequel to Wicker Wood, I think, it's draft one, half completed.

 In drafts of novels, I tend to write paragraphs, or sections, quickly. Later I pad them out as the story requires. This will be much longer in Version Last.

In Georgie's mind the question had to be was he ever mad and believing he was his own granny, or was he just dressing up, to escape his sins. Did he believe he was now clean since Father Gaffney had pardoned him: in confession, in a confessional box, all good and catholic. But was the absolution even good now that the priest had give up his vocation and was away on the continent working in a Disco Bar, complete with lap dancers.

Strange world. Anyway his information had been coming from a reliable source. That was the key to him escaping – a reliable pal, a helper, someone in the know. Nursie, as he now called her, was supposed to be his warder, his prison guard. In the so-called enlightened practices of looking after the criminally insane, such names were not used. Attendant that's what they are called. So she attended to his needs and he attended to hers. A sexual relationship at his stage of life, who'd have believed it? With no shame or guilt or rages strong enough to kill as in the past. But none of those girls had welcomed him, like nursie did. Then one of her other charges had died and they put their plan into operation. They dressed the corpse, in his “Granny Clothes”. Moved her to his room and strung her up, as if she had hung herself. Then nursie raised the alarm, laid the red herring trail, while he hid in an empty room dressed in his General's clothes. While alone there he assumed the personality of an old fashioned military man, complete with west-Brit accent, mannerisms and phrases.

Maybe after all he had not been mad believing he was deranged in the personality of Duchess. Maybe he was just a damn good actor and performer.

The fly in the ointment revealed itself when Fanahan had arrived on the scene. That so called detective was now a shadow of what he had been and would never figure out that the lady who had died was not himself in his drag costume.

See, this Georgie was even starting to develop a sense of humour.

Then nursie from her spying position in the next room, through a peep-hole: necessary the authorities said for a patients' safety, saw Fanahan lift the dress. Dirty Bastard. Only a degenerate would think of checking for the sex of the corpse.

They scarpered then and headed for their safe house. One of nursies' inherited properties. A previous occupational vocation of nursing the terminally ill, had made nursie a nice little fortune and a property portfolio.

I'm starting to motor again – dreaming my plot for the WW Sequel.

In the past when I'm well into a book plot I start to dream scenes.

This is a scene from the rough draft of the WW Sequel.

“Missus Green. It's Detective Inspector Fanahan. Can you open the door?”

“Inspector, just a moment.”

The door was opened in a confident manner. Then Shay saw why there was no hesitation. The largest Alsation dog he ever saw was sitting in the hall between himself and Aoife Greene.

“That's not Sheba!”

“No Inspector. Sheba died a while ago. Old age. She went peacefully. This is Davy. He minds me now, don't you boy. Come in.”

“Will he let me?”

“Of course, don't be silly.” Aoife turned and walked down the small hall, and headed for the back room. A kitchen he presumed.

Not fit for the parlour am I? That's where you used to bring Tyre ll.

Carefully he entered, closed the door and stepped around the dog.

After the carefully presented tea and biscuits, arranged on the tray, so that her blindness would not lead to an accident, a cup doped, milk spilled, or a biscuit being replace on the white table cloth after a bite, Aoife asked “ How can I help. Not another kidnapper in the area is there?” Then she smiled.

Jees if you only knew. No nothing like that Missus Greene. It's a new initiative I am working on. Policing in the community, bring pets to visit patients in Nursing Homes. I want yourself and Sheb...sorry what's his name again

“Davy.” At his name the dog stirred, then figuring he was mentioned in passing, not being called to work, went back to his light snooze.

“Davy, to be one of those visiting dogs. Will that be OK?”

“I can go with him. Is that part of the plan...you see...”

“No Missus Greene, that's the plan. If you agree, I will check it out with the office and ring you with the time and place. Then I can collect you. I lost your mobile number, can you write it down.....No can you ring me please my number is....”

Last night I had a dream that Aoife rang retired Superintendent Bob Tyrell to tell him Fanahan had called and that they had visited the Insane Asulyum.

He tells her he knew she had a new dog: some of his ex colleagues rang him now and then with the news from his old station.

When she told him about Fanahan bringing the dog and shoving him in the inmates faces, he twigs that Georgie, who is terrified of dogs is missing and possibly in hiding again.

Up to last night I did not have this plot avenue.

Roll on tonight and more dreams.

Shay Fanahan in another graveyard!

Fanahan yearned for the old days: the days when a policeman had a house and two derelict properties, bought cheap, being “done up”, renovated, to sell or lease out. Nowadays he was struggling to live on his salary. He hadn't been on a real call out job for a long time. He needed a stay away from base, living on subsidised meals and collecting mileage, for visiting suspects in his own car. When he rang Tyrell for a discussion, trying to pick his brain, on Georgie: he almost asked him if there was a job in the offing.

He had moved from his city apartment to a place in the country: a dream some people had, a nice bungalow, a few acres of land, a few outhouses and in the phrase of the old days ...room for a pony. Instead he was living in a one horse village, in a so called new house, bought at the top of the market, and now, like a lot of others in The Village, it was pyrite cracked and he was fighting with the developer to try and get it remedied. Bloody pyrite no one ever heard of it until recently when it was discovered in filling under foundations. It apparently caused the footings: sub walls, under the wall bricks, to move, maybe even crack. The results was that the door frames, and window sides, went on vacation from the places they had been fixed into.

The kip, hadn't even got a decent pub. It had two: family owned, one at the bottom of the main street was called the Bottom Shop, and the one at the other end of the street was called the Top Shop. A group of visitors on a pub crawl recently remarked that the local patrons resembled each other, and followed that with a derogatory remark about their origins. But there was some truth in his observations because for generations farmer's sons, married farmer's daughters. This ploy kept farms, and land, in family ownership for centuries.

The clientele also had men on the scratch, the local name for welfare, who always seemed to be drunk and making a nuisance of themselves. Shay suspected that some subsidies were being paid outside of the tax system.

He went for drink early in the evening, apart from the welfare pay day the place was relatively quiet. Since no one knew his profession, his day job, he sometimes overheard so called confessions about this folding money, payment for working on farms for cash. He kept this information for a rainy day, when he might have to assist Revenue in one of those dawn raids: with a press release later that read "Illegals arrested", working without work permits. A raid that only yielded welfare spongers would not be news.

One night, feeling shattered, after a dressing down about the lack of progress in the hunt for Georgie, he stayed drinking most of the day and into the weekend lock-in. He fell over on the way to the cigarette machine. Someone suggested they pick him up, call for a taxi, and send him on his way. They searched his pockets for his address, found his warrant card, with his name and rank. He woke up later: where he had been thrown, on a flat gravestone, above a crypt, in the nearby graveyard.