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Oct. 13th, 2019 08:13 pmAm consoling Mr C over Scotland’s loss in the rugby today. There was a ten minute period when it looked like they might win, but alas the Brave Blossoms were too good for them. As they say, it’s the hope that finishes you.
News
Delighted with the 4.75 stars review for Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune at Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words. its intriguing, all the clues scattered enough to tickle the brain and keep the reader truly puzzled,
Read the rest here.
My latest works in progress are a short Christmas story featuring my two actor laddies-come-sleuths and a thinly disguised Bletchley Park and a follow up to Don’t Kiss the Vicar where The Reverend Dan Miller gets drawn into finding out more about his lover Steve Dexter’s family history and discovering just who Steve’s grandfather actually was.
This is a snippet from the original story, where our two star-crossed lovers finally start to thaw the ice.
Excerpt:
The sudden, insistent ringing of the phone broke his intercessions.
Normally Dan would have ignored it if he was at prayer. Using the 1471 service or responding to an answerphone message was always possible so nobody would go completely unanswered, especially if the need was urgent.
But this time, with a whispered, “Sorry, got to go”, he reached over and picked up the handset.
“Vicarage. Hallo?”
“Vicar.” Steve’s well-modulated, surprisingly calm tones came down the line. “Sorry to bother you.”
“That’s fine.” Dan waited, not inclined to make this easy in any way.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For being such a clown about my hand.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” Tongue-getting-tied time again. He hadn’t expected quite such a gracious apology.
“You were right. The hand’s a bloody mess.”
“You should have it seen to. And tell them if your jabs aren’t up to date.” Tetanus. Dan had seen somebody die of it in his gap year.
“Will do, matron.”
“Less of your cheek.” Was he being flirted with? No, he couldn’t be that lucky. “Do you need somebody to run you down to casualty?”
“It’s not dropping off! I’ve rung the surgery, and they reckon I just need to see the nurse. I can drive down there myself. But thanks for the offer,” Steve added belatedly, although not, it appeared, begrudgingly. “Anyway, if I do die of blood loss en route, at least I’ve squared my conscience beforehand. I was a pillock, and I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“You were, and I do.” Dan toyed with offering to cook the bloke dinner, or at least get some fish and chips in, but decided that was a step too far. Steve was volatile and—so the doubting voices in Dan’s head kept hissing—was probably apologising for theological reasons rather than romantic ones. Life didn’t pan out like a gay romance e-book, not least because neither he nor Steve resembled the oiled, chiselled, six-pack bearing guys who always seemed to feature in them.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Sorry.” This habit of day dreaming was getting worse. “The line went a bit odd. I was trying to tell you to let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate rather than worrying about me. Although...”
“Yes?” If that sounded too enthusiastic, too desperate, it was too late to take the word back.
“I was wondering whether you should report that bloody dog. Rescue or not, it’s a danger.”
“You could be right.” Dan tried not to sound too disappointed. “I’ll have a word with the local community officer. He’ll know who to contact.”
“You do that. Right, got to dash. Wish me luck with the nurse.”
“Break a leg!”
“I damn nearly did. Don’t wish anything worse on me.”
“Daft beggar. Take care.”
Dan put the phone down and absent-mindedly fished out the relevant contact number, consciously not thinking of Steve. Again. He’d report the dog, although that would probably be a vain exercise, he’d finish his sermon, which now didn’t seem such a daunting task, then he’d have a soak in the bath and gird up his loins in preparation for doing battle with the standing committee that evening. And he wouldn’t fantasise about anything to do with Steve Dexter’s loins.
And finally – We've had a few days away admiring planes and walking in the footsteps of heroes. This is Petwood hotel, used as the mess by 617 (Dambusters) squadron.
Charlie
News
Delighted with the 4.75 stars review for Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune at Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words. its intriguing, all the clues scattered enough to tickle the brain and keep the reader truly puzzled,
Read the rest here.
My latest works in progress are a short Christmas story featuring my two actor laddies-come-sleuths and a thinly disguised Bletchley Park and a follow up to Don’t Kiss the Vicar where The Reverend Dan Miller gets drawn into finding out more about his lover Steve Dexter’s family history and discovering just who Steve’s grandfather actually was.
This is a snippet from the original story, where our two star-crossed lovers finally start to thaw the ice.
Excerpt:
The sudden, insistent ringing of the phone broke his intercessions.
Normally Dan would have ignored it if he was at prayer. Using the 1471 service or responding to an answerphone message was always possible so nobody would go completely unanswered, especially if the need was urgent.
But this time, with a whispered, “Sorry, got to go”, he reached over and picked up the handset.
“Vicarage. Hallo?”
“Vicar.” Steve’s well-modulated, surprisingly calm tones came down the line. “Sorry to bother you.”
“That’s fine.” Dan waited, not inclined to make this easy in any way.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For being such a clown about my hand.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” Tongue-getting-tied time again. He hadn’t expected quite such a gracious apology.
“You were right. The hand’s a bloody mess.”
“You should have it seen to. And tell them if your jabs aren’t up to date.” Tetanus. Dan had seen somebody die of it in his gap year.
“Will do, matron.”
“Less of your cheek.” Was he being flirted with? No, he couldn’t be that lucky. “Do you need somebody to run you down to casualty?”
“It’s not dropping off! I’ve rung the surgery, and they reckon I just need to see the nurse. I can drive down there myself. But thanks for the offer,” Steve added belatedly, although not, it appeared, begrudgingly. “Anyway, if I do die of blood loss en route, at least I’ve squared my conscience beforehand. I was a pillock, and I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“You were, and I do.” Dan toyed with offering to cook the bloke dinner, or at least get some fish and chips in, but decided that was a step too far. Steve was volatile and—so the doubting voices in Dan’s head kept hissing—was probably apologising for theological reasons rather than romantic ones. Life didn’t pan out like a gay romance e-book, not least because neither he nor Steve resembled the oiled, chiselled, six-pack bearing guys who always seemed to feature in them.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Sorry.” This habit of day dreaming was getting worse. “The line went a bit odd. I was trying to tell you to let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate rather than worrying about me. Although...”
“Yes?” If that sounded too enthusiastic, too desperate, it was too late to take the word back.
“I was wondering whether you should report that bloody dog. Rescue or not, it’s a danger.”
“You could be right.” Dan tried not to sound too disappointed. “I’ll have a word with the local community officer. He’ll know who to contact.”
“You do that. Right, got to dash. Wish me luck with the nurse.”
“Break a leg!”
“I damn nearly did. Don’t wish anything worse on me.”
“Daft beggar. Take care.”
Dan put the phone down and absent-mindedly fished out the relevant contact number, consciously not thinking of Steve. Again. He’d report the dog, although that would probably be a vain exercise, he’d finish his sermon, which now didn’t seem such a daunting task, then he’d have a soak in the bath and gird up his loins in preparation for doing battle with the standing committee that evening. And he wouldn’t fantasise about anything to do with Steve Dexter’s loins.
And finally – We've had a few days away admiring planes and walking in the footsteps of heroes. This is Petwood hotel, used as the mess by 617 (Dambusters) squadron.
Charlie
