Just call me Fatty Acids for short

Apologies for the less than regular postings over the last few days. I'm back down at my Mum and Dad's at the moment. It's my Mum's 80th birthday this week, so I have come down to celebrate.

Today, we went to the bingo. Sadly, I didn't make out like a bandit this time. However, I did win a jar of Tesco Value Lemon Curd. That's saved me a whole 22p off my next week's shopping. Well, it would have done if I actually ate lemon curd. Somebody else won the packet of Strawberry Whip. I was gutted. That had my name written all over it (assuming I changed my name to Maltodextrin, Modified Potato Starch, Emulsifiers (Propane-1,2-diol Esters of Fatty Acids, Sunflower Lecithins) , Gelling Agents (Tetrasodium Diphosphate, Disodium Phosphate) which, by the way, I was totally prepared to do.

Anyway, on to the news.

Gillian Galbraith and Shirley McKay at the Inverness Book Festival on Thursday,

A great review of Chris Ewan's THE GOOD THIEF'S GUIDE TO VENICE, and the Deseret News calls it 'fun and entrancing'. Finally, an interview with the man himself over at Novel Rocket,

Ian Rankin is supporting the StreetSmart campaign, to help homelessness projects.

Breathing Fiction puts the spotlight on Denise Mina. And an article in the Daily Record on Gordon Ferris.

A review of Nicola Upson's third Josephine Tey novel, TWO FOR SORROW, one of Alexander McCall Smith's THE LOST ART OF GRATITUDE and a review for THE DOG WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD.

Lots of Irvine Welsh news: first a trailer for ECSTACY, an interview with Irvine Welsh about the film, and news on FILTH.

Caro Ramsay talks about Jack The Ripper, The Musical, amongst other things.

If you want to help set a world record, and you can be in Edinburgh on August 19th, here's your opportunity.

Custard, Coathagers and Catwoman

I am currently down at my parents (alternately being spoiled and being treated as though I have regressed to being a six year old). This is a very useful visit, as well as being lovely, because the screenplay I have just finished is set in a retirement community. And my parents live in one. Handy, eh? I'm currently editing the screenplay so some of the things that have happened over the last couple of days may well find their way into it. Today, my mum took me to the bingo (having first said "You just mark off the numbers on the card with a cross." Gee, thanks mum.)

Sadly, we didn't win the cucumber, the gravy granules or the mint sauce (or the tin of Ambrosia Creamed Rice - which seemed to be the hot prize of the day, given the oohs and aahs that accompanied its announcement), but we did come home with this little haul (the custard powder and the coat-hanger were my winnings, the rest of the booty was down to my mum).

I also made the shock discovery that my mum once walked out of a Beverley Sisters concert in the 1950s "because of the foul language". Yes, this bevy of apple-cheeked beauties. No wonder my mum doesn't like my books... I have no idea what they said, sadly my mum can't remember.

Anyway, enough of that nonsense, and on to the Scottish crime fiction news.

First of all, Ray Banks is interviewed by Allan Guthrie over at Criminal-E. And here's Mr Banks again, at Guilty Conscience.

While on the subject of Luca Veste's excellent Guilty Conscience website, she's not Scottish, but she lives in Sunderland, so that's close enough, here's an interview with Julie Morrigan. If you like dark and warped, do read her stuff.

Over at I Meant To Read That - a review of Douglas Lindsay's THE LONG MIDNIGHT OF BARNEY THOMSON.

A bit of a half-hearted review of Christopher Brookmyre's WHERE THE BODIES ARE BURIED,

Pictures of all the Ian Rankin art sculptures. Aren't they brilliant?

Alexander McCall Smith on tackling rabies.

The Rap Sheet has a piece on Paul Johnston.

Week two of the Telegraph's Kate Atkinson discussion.

Finally, what all the well-dressed assassins are wearing these days. Au revoir, mes petits choufleurs.

Now My Mum's At It...

It's not just my Dad who can be confusing. My Mum was sitting reading the paper - which is always a fraught time of the morning, since her conversation is interspersed with such gems as "Barbara Windsor is no better than she should be" and "I don't know why they don't just set fire to it" (don't ask). Today's discussion went like this:

Mum: I don't understand that Looky-Loo thingy.

Me: That what?

Mum: You know. That Justin LeStrange thing.

I, of course, am still none the wiser.

Mum: The com-poo-ter thing. [That is how computer is pronounced, by the way]

Me: WikiLeaks? Julian Assange?

Mum: Yes, that's what I said.

I mentioned in my previous post that my parents live in a wee retirement community. It's lovely, and very friendly. Every Christmas, there is a very detailed Christmas display with lights and snowmen and Santas and elves. Here's a picture of it.

But wait - let's get a close-up of Scary Santa and Evil Elf, shall we? Yep, that's right. It's a good job this place is full of pensioners, rather than children. I've only been here 2 nights and both of them have been filled with nightmares about that elf.

I think Evil Elf is saying to Scary blue eyeshadow-wearing Santa "Watch it, perv. You do that again and it won't just be your thumb I'll tie around your pipe."

My Mum goes for a walk up the corridor a few times a day. When the display was in the process of being built she was shocked to see what she thought was half a naked body lying in the corridor. It was Evil Elf when he was without his Elf costume. So, just Evil then.

I am staying upstairs while I'm here, in the building's guest room. In the room is a camp bed which was taken downstairs for my brother to sleep on. We had a little discussion about who was to carry it:

Mum: I'll send your Dad up for it.

Me: Dad's nearly 80. Darren (my brother) and I will bring it down.

Mum: Darren can help your Dad. But don't let Darren walk backwards down the stairs.

Me: Why?

Mum: I don't want him falling and breaking his neck.

Me: What about Dad? What about an 80 year-old man falling downstairs and breaking his neck?

My Mum shrugged, thought for a moment and said: Your Dad and Darren can carry the campbed. You walk downstairs in front of them, then you'll break their fall.

Cheers, Mater.

However, I finally saw her get her come-uppance today. She introduced me to one of her neighbours today. A dear, tiny 90 year-old lady who said to me "How do you put up with your mum, dear? She's a bit..." and then she made a face that I wish I could have bottled and dragged out to show my Mum from time to time.

Since I am currently writing a screenplay about a retirement community, this is all invaluable research...

Anyway, I promise I won't bore you with family tales any more. On to the Scottish Crime Fiction news.

Noirboiled Notes has a quickie with Allan Guthrie.

The Globe and Mail reviews Louise Welsh's NAMING THE BONES, the Irish Independent reviews Kate Atkinson's STARTED EARLY, TOOK MY DOG, the Book Faerie reviews Ian Rankin's THE COMPLAINTS and Shelf Abuse reviews Denise Mina's A SICKNESS IN THE FAMILY, as does Blogging For A Good Book.

See Lin Anderson, Karen Campbell and Aline Templeton at Edinburgh's Waterstone's West End on February 3rd. And Tony Black is in Florida on January 20th. Lucky Tony.

The Guardian talks about authors twittering.

Scriblets looks at Philip Kerr's Berlin Noir trilogy.

Ian Rankin on Deutsche Welle.

Bertie's Christmas by Alexander McCall Smith in The Scotsman. And an article in the Telegraph on McCall Smith and online novels.

The Guardian talks about the difficulties of bringing crime fiction to TV, particularly in terms of casting (I love the line "It's like coming home for Christmas and finding your Nan has been replaced by Dougray Scott.")

The Day I Sent My Mother P-O-R-N

I was all set to do a proper Scottish crime fiction related post but time has escaped me, so you'll just have to put up with this, dear reader.

I've mentioned before how my Mum won't read anything I write (too much swearing, and she thinks that every female over 50 is based on her). I've also mentioned how she tries to protect her neighbours from me too.

So, you can imagine the trauma of The Day I Sent My Mother Porn.

I've always had to protect her from my tastes. She's great fun and has a wicked sense of humour, but is easily shocked. I thought she would be really angry with me when I dyed her hair bright pink (by mistake I hasten to add), but she was actually quite proud and told everyone she was now "a punker".

I taught her how to do the Chicken Strut to The Cramps' I Ain't Nuthin' But a Gorehound and she surprised me by joining me on the dance floor at the Pupils and Parents school disco. Unfortunately, the whole 'Cool Mother' effect was then ruined when she stayed up to headbang to Status Quo and I had to spend the rest of the evening in shame hidden in the school toilets with a bottle of Pernod and a box of tissues.

But, as I say, she has a strangely prudish outlook. When I was a teenager, during love scenes on TV I used to sweat a lot and start up a ridiculous conversation about weasels, or tulips, in a very loud voice to distract my mother's attention just so that she wouldn't start tutting like a crazed woodpecker. My Dad was no help. He'd clear his throat and vanish behind his newspaper. Protecting Mother from Indecency fell on my tender shoulders.

And it's still the same. When she used to come up to visit, she would rummage through my bookshelves (when she's not checking that the baked bean tins are properly arranged in my cupboards). "Now, dear, what have you got that I would like?" she says - unerringly pulling out Christopher Brookmyre, or Allan Guthrie, or Ken Bruen, or some other favourite author, whose books are peppered with salaciousness, scatology and...shock, horror...sweary words.

I would have to make sure I had a supply of the cosiest cosies on hand otherwise she would berate me for half an hour in hushed tones:

"Dear, I don't know what type of books you're reading lately, but you have to stop. I was shocked. Shocked I say. Why, on page 40, the heroine said a very bad word. Not just a fairly bad word. Not that word I slapped you on the leg for using when you were 10, but a really, really bad word that I couldn't even read in my head without blushing. And then on page 64 she gets into bed with a man who is not her husband, and there are three pages of description about what they do in bed. I had to read those three pages twice, before I understood what they were talking about. I don't want to read about all of that sort of stuff. Especially not when I've just sat down with a nice cup of tea and a banana. What happened to all those nice books you used to read when you were 12? You know, those ones with that nice young lady who solved crimes with her friends? She never used to go out without a fresh handkerchief in her handbag and wearing a clean pair of knickers just in case she was involved in an accident. What was that series called now?....Hardy Drew and the Nancy Boys, that's it....."

So, you can imagine how I felt on that dreadful day which is now known as The Day I Sent My Mother Porn. You see, we'd been discussing presents and she wanted a bed-jacket. She was a bit vague in what she was looking for - I wasn't sure if we were talking elegant chiffon and lace or cosy flannel. So I decided to look some up on the internet and e-mail her some websites. I typed "bed-jacket" into Google and clicked on a few. If I saw one that looked like just the thing, I immediately e-mailed her the link. I should have known that things weren't going well when she rang me up and told me off for sending one from the Help The Aged website. I think she thought I was insinuating something.

However, the second time she rang me up she whispered in a shocked way "Donna. Why have you sent me to a naughty website?"

I was confused - until I went back to the site. It was a seemingly innocuous site selling lingerie and underwear. Near the top of the page was the little bed-jacket I saw. Unfortunately, I'd neglected to scroll down to the crotchless knickers, peephole bras and... errrr...some things even I didn't recognise and which looked VERY uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as I felt when some of the pictures even further down the page showed people wearing them.

My Mum was in shock for some time after that. My Dad told me that she sat with a glass of sherry in her hand for 3 hours, shaking her head and mumbling "I wonder if they come in pink."

My Dad Reviews...oh dear...it's OLD DOGS - by his daughter

So when a proof copy of OLD DOGS arrived my Mum and Dad fought over who was going to read it first. My Dad lost.

My Mum took a look at the cover and said "Oh look, that nice young man Chris Ewan (she became his surrogate Grandma when she met him at Crimefest earlier this year) has written something about your book on the cover." She read Chris' kind words, looked at me, and said "Well, no wonder he's written that, he's a friend of yours." Cheers, Mum.

So here is my Dad's review. I will forgo the usual 'what my Dad likes' stuff.

Our Donna said "Dad will you do a review for me? You can be as rude as you like."*

"Do you mean Rude or Rued? I may be sorry that I read it."

OK. It was an uncorrected pre-print proof, and I found many errors, with capitals where they should not have been, words repeated and no spaces where spaces should have occurred.**

The story appears to have been well thought out***, even though I could not recommend that Mother read it because of all the swear words. How does a well brought up young woman know all of those? I thought they were the province of squaddies, or people of lower intelligence.

The two old dogs in question are not the two elderly ladies with dubious credentials (ex-hookers turned con artists), but a pair of golden bejewelled model lapdogs loaned to a Glasgow museum.

Many people decide that they would be better in their keeping and decide to steal them. The foremost are the elderly ladies, who, through a previous scam are on the run from an Eastern European Australian hit man from whom they relieved a large sum of cash, a pair of Glaswegian low life losers, and a supposed Western Islands monk who wants to return the dogs to his master guru for reinstatement in his Tibetan monastery.

The story involves the fates of the museum curator, his assistant, and various bodies that get in the way. The twist at the end is both humourous and a surprise.

Even though I may be a little bit prejudiced****, I can recommend the story to those not of a nervous disposition, and those not averse to a bit of swearing. "Honestly Dad. It is not me swearing, it is the characters."*****

* That's my Dad, making up dialogue, now.
** That's my Dad, the editor and critic.
*** 'Appears to have been well thought out'? As in 'but wasn't really'? This has the same sting as my first swimming certificate, which said "Donna swam one width of the pool in shallow water", as though to say "we know she put her feet on the ground, but we can't actually prove it."
**** Not so's you'd notice.
***** There's my Dad and his imaginary conversations again.

My Mum, who has just started the book and put it down after about five pages, says "I worry about where you get your inspiration from as to the old ladies' occupations." My Mum thinks every female character I write, who's over 50 is based on her (sometimes, she's actually correct).

Then, dear merciful heavens, my little brother weighed in:

Brother: "I'd like to say how good the book is."

Mum: "No need to butter her up- she's already wrapped your Christmas presents."

Brother: "Obviously, not a lot of foul language."

Mum: "Exclamation mark."

Darren "That's all I have to say for now. Of course, I haven't finished reading it yet. Well...I haven't actually started."

Isn't it amazing how I turned out so normal?

And remember, you, too, can join in the rather dubious fun by winning a copy of the unedited OLD DOGS.

This will probably be my last post now until after the New Year although I will probably be able to pop in an answer any comments - at least until January 28th when I will be away for a few days.

So I just wanted to thank all those who have visited, left comments and sent me e-mails since I started this blog in May this year. I've had a lot of fun.

I hope you all have a happy Christmas, a lovely festive season, and that 2010 brings you everything you wish for yourselves and more.

Love,

Donna x

Extremely Chuffed of Glasgow

First of all, the winners of Tony Black's LOSS (which is out in January) are Tim from Edinburgh (who left a comment) and Helen (who e-mailed me from the US). If you both e-mail me your address I shall send your copies as soon as I've bought them - which will be as soon as it's published next month.

And now, an offer you CAN refuse. Look at this which I received today! I hope I never lose this feeling of the first time I hold a proper copy of my book. Isn't it beautiful? How chuffed am I? I've been wandering around stroking it. It's the Uncorrected Proof of the US edition of OLD DOGS which is not out until June but the lovely David at Busted Flush Press has made up some ARCs. It's beautifully bound, shame about the writing.

As you can see from this second photo, I offered a copy to my Mum and Dad but, for some reason, they seem less than keen. I have no idea why. So what that means is that I have an ARC to give away to someone who's had too much sherry at Christmas and is foolish enough to request one. Remember, it's a VERY Uncorrected Proof, so if my old English teacher should win it, I'm very sorry Mr Browning - you did try and teach me spelling and grammar. When you wrote on my report card "Needs to talk less and listen more," you may find you have been proved right if you read this book (as an aside, if, by any chance, my PE teacher Mrs Griffin reads this, you, too, were right when you wrote "Donna needs to get off her fat bum more." To my biology teacher, Mrs Povey, I told you that was disgusting and I would never do it, no matter how much I loved someone...I lied. (As an aside to the aside - Dad - that bit was just a joke)).

Where was I? Ah, yes. So, if you would like an ARC, please leave me a comment in the comments bit, or send me an e-mail to the usual address telling me what my Mum or Dad are saying in the photo.

Incidentally, my little brother, whose arm is in the photo, has decided to vet the book for profanities, just to see whether it's suitable for my Mum. He's just given up at page three saying "I don't think people should write words like that in a book..." OK, so now I've alienated my whole family.

Happy Anniversary, Happy Sunday

Well, I hope you've all had a lovely weekend. I certainly have. It's my Mum and Dad's Golden Wedding Anniversary so they are away on a wee jaunt in the Isle of Wight. Bizarrely, when I rang them yesterday to congratulate them, this was the conversation that ensued:

Me: Happy Anniversary Dad! Are you having a lovely time? How is the hotel? What's the weather like? Is the food nice? What have you been doing? What have you seen?

Dad: Hello love, I'll pass you over to your mother.

Me: Hello Mum, happy Anniversary!

Mum: Eee, I've just sat in some shit, but your dad says it's chocolate.

Me (confused): How did he know? Did he lick it?

So there you have it. My parents and I love them. Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad, and here's to another fifty years.

And can anyone tell me why, given that DOWN BY LAW is one of my favourite films, I have never seen another Jim Jarmusch film until this weekend? We watched DEAD MAN and I absolutely loved it - what a great film. Anyone have any other favourite Jarmusch films they want to recommend?

And now, onto the regularly scheduled Scottish crime fiction stuff.

First, an interview with Alexander McCall Smith, serial novelist. And talking of McCall Smith, how about winning a signed manuscript along with a diamond necklace? And here's a review of THE LOST ART OF GRATITUDE.

Quintin Jardine on childhood memories.

And, not for the first time, I point you to novelist and journalist Tom Morton's blog, where in this post he talks very entertainingly about his week.

An article from DNA India about DNA dramas, talking about Denise Mina and others.

The Guardian reviews Val McDermid's FEVER OF THE BONE.

And an interview with Iain Banks in the FT.

And, finally, the imprint that I am absolutely thrilled to be a part of is announced. The Mike Hodges mentioned is the director of the original GET CARTER, and his novel WATCHING THE WHEELS COME OFF, sounds brilliant. The back cover copy says "The next Houdini and one of Mark’s few remaining PR clients, Reg Turpin, is about to attempt a great feat of escapology, and then Dr. Herman Temple, the self-appointed guru, will arrive to conduct a seminar on the dynamics of leadership at the Grand Atlantic Hotel. It’s going to be his big day and nothing’s going to spoil it. Well, nothing apart from the seedy private investigator who’s just unpacking his thermal underwear, pyjamas and a .32 Smith & Wesson at a local bed and breakfast; Avril, the voluptuous, insatiable wife of the drunken hotel owner; a man called Bela; and Alice, Temple’s beautiful, if terrifyingly ambitious, assistant." I'm really looking forward to that one.

Keeping It In The Family - Number 1 - AN EYE FOR AN EYE - Frank Muir

Well, here is the first in an occasional series where Mum, Dad and I will all comment on the same book. Since we all like different things, here's a quick reference guide to the reading habits of the Moore Family (like the Addams Family but not as rich and twice as scary).

Mum

LIKES: cosies, historicals, puzzles, police procedurals where there is not a lot of gore, no sex and definitely no swearing.

DISLIKES: gore, sex, swearing, romance, science fiction. She once tried a Martina Cole (The Ladykiller) and rang me up whispering (god alone knows why she felt the need to whisper, she was sitting in her own living room at the time) to tell me she'd just read part of a pornographic book, and she was shocked. "It had 'lady' in the title, but they weren't, dear." And, apparently, after she read mine, she had to have a small glass of sherry, and then spent the next hour wandering around the house shaking her head and muttering "Weird. My daughter is weird, weird weird." Guess that'll be the blurb for the next one then.

PREFERS: Miss Marple to Philip Marlowe, Inspector Morse to Homicide (and don't even ask about The Wire).

Dad

LIKES: thrillers, spy novels, war stories and books with elves in (the elves can swear their heads off as far as he's concerned). Oh, and maps. He bloody loves maps. If you ever meet him, for goodness' sake don't ask him for directions. Not even to the bathroom.

DISLIKES: romance, books that have too much swearing in (I guess that's my Dad not going to read my next book either, then - I thought it was just my Mum I had to keep away from it). Also doesn't like horror, and books with vampires, pterodactyls and the living dead in them. Also, something called an ungoliant. No, I have no idea either - I think my Dad has been at the sherry too.

PREFERS: Philip Marlowe to Miss Marple, Inspector Morse to Homicide.

Me

LIKES: noir, hard-boiled, capers, PI novels, police procedurals, warped, quirky and funny books.

DISLIKES: cosies - especially those where the protagonist has a heavily featured hobby (I once got a gluten allergy from reading a book where the heroine made bread every three pages), or books where an animal solves the crime. Unless it's a dinosaur (as in Eric Garcia's wonderful series about basil addicted Vincent Rubio).

I'm not a big fan of serial killer books (and I'm not talking books that just happen to have a serial killer IN (I love books by Steve Mosby, Mark Billingham etc)), I mean books where it's all about the quirks. The more patterns or quirks the killer has, the more blood is spilled and body parts mutilated, the more good writing, character development and a decent plot seem to go out of the window. The ones I don't like are where the author seems to think that making their killer a murderer of blue eyed women with one arm (the women, not the murderer), who drowns his victims in an increasingly violent way in a vat of hot chocolate, while narrating The Rhyme of The Ancient Mariner, drawing a picture of a squirrel on the wall and scattering rose petals around the bathroom is all the character development and justification the avid reader needs. A-ha - the serial killer was burned by a scalding mug of hot chocolate as a baby, force-fed him by his mother Rose, a blue-eyed ex-Womens Royal Navy sailor who lost an arm in a bizarre accident involving a rabid squirrel.

I'm also not big on spy thrillers and medical thrillers. If I see a jacket blurb which mentions the White House, and the words 'explosive' and 'conspiracy' and which has a shadowy picture of someone rappelling down a big building, carrying a large knife dripping blood, or an enormous syringe, then I'm more likely to put it down in a hurry than slap in into my shopping basket with glee. I have the same reaction to 'Knights Templar' and 'Illuminati'.

I don't like gratuitous anything - but then, one person's gratuitous is another person's prerequisite. My Mum would definitely find most of the books I read have gratuitous sex, violence and swearing. I find the books she likes have gratuitous cats. And butlers. And people being poisoned with rare poison from the Three Kneed Scarlet Guatemalan Tree Frog. And gentility. As for the sex, well, if it fits (oo-er missus) then it's fine. But again, one person's unnecessary may not be another person's. I have read crime fiction where it seems to be put in for titillation purposes (as though someone has said to the author "There's not enough heaving bosoms. Spice it up a bit. Page 58's a bit dull, stick a sex scene in there." And, since I do a lot of my reading on public transport, I don't particularly want to be titillated at 8am on a wet Monday morning while sitting on the bus next to a drooling bloke who's oozing curry and beer from every pore. Call me straight-laced, but... And sometimes, sex scenes can be funny without meaning to be. I read a mystery a few years ago where the woman was asleep and the man slid one hand between her thighs and the other into her mouth. And this was supposed to be erotic. I'm sorry, but if anyone slides anything in my mouth while I'm sleeping, then I'm probably going to dream it's a chocolate eclair and chomp down hard. On the other hand, there are plenty of books that do it well, but I'm not going to mention any of them just in case you tell my Mum.

PREFERS: Raymond Chandler to Miss Marple, Homicide to Inspector Morse.

Whoops, sorry about that. Got carried away there. I'm not even sure that any of the above is useful. The only area where we all agree is the romance category (none of that icky luuuuurve stuff for the cold-hearted Moores thank you very much). As far as all of our dislikes are concerned, there are, of course, exceptions to every rule - I was going to say I didn't like vampires until I remembered that I love Charlie Huston's books.

I shall shut up now and leave you with the reviewlets - in order of how popular the book was with us.

Frank Muir - EYE FOR AN EYE
Publisher: Luath Press 2007
Published: 2009

Dad's Comments:

The story tells of the investigation into eight deaths by DI Andy Gilchrist, who due to a jealous or incompetent DCI is suspended from the force and decides to go it alone. The murders of men who habitually abused their wives were carried out in a gruesome and unique way, and part of the investigation concentrates on locating the source of the murder weapon.

This was an easy book to read, though I was not sure about the Anglo Saxon words used. The ones that referred to bodily functions were, in the main, used in context. it was rather like hitting your thumb with a hammer, strong language sounds better than "Oh bother". I thought that the references to reproduction were a little overdone.

There are quite a number of false leads or suspects which are relevant to the story, and the twist at the end is bizarre to say the least. It was a story that I enjoyed reading, I look forward to HAND FOR A HAND, the next in the series about Andy Gilchrist.

My Comments:

The premise of AN EYE FOR AN EYE is that there is a serial killer called The Stabber terrorising Saint Andrews. The victims are all men who abuse women, they are all attacked during storms, and they are all stabbed in the left eye. Anyone who has a copy of the Moore Family checklist in hand is by now licking the tip of their pencil and saying "Hmmmmmm, this one won't go down very well with the annoyingly verbose one." Well, in one way, you would be correct. I sighed when I read the prologue - why must serial killers always write in italics? I mused to myself, twisting the legs off a wasp. However, there was a lot about this book that I liked - particularly the main character - DI Andy Gilchrist, and a couple of the supporting cast. There were things he did that I didn't agree with, but I found him an easy and interesting character to read about.

The dialogue is excellent and it's very well paced. I also enjoyed the St Andrews setting - traditionally the home of golf and where princes go to university. I will be interested to read the next one, but hope that there's no serial killer next time.

Mum's Comments:
Eeee, our Donna, why did you give me that book? I only read a page or two - not even a whole chapter. It's not my sort of book - you know that. I like a nice story with a nice beginning, a middle and an end and with no language in. I didn't read enough to see whether I liked it. Not my cup of tea. You can have a nice story that's down to earth without all that in it.


So there you have it. Was that remotely useful? Interesting? To be repeated, or never again?

In Which Your Lazy Blogger Enlists Family Members To Do The Work

This is my Dad. My Dad likes thrillers, spy novels and war stories. (He also likes books about dwarves and elves, but that's irrelevant for the purposes of this blog post.) When the very nice people at John Murray Publishers sent me a copy of THE INTERROGATOR by Andrew Williams (who is either from Edinburgh, or lives there - I cannot find a website, unfortunately) I took one look at the back and thought "My Dad would love this." It's set in 1941, and is partially about the cracking of the Enigma Code. My Dad was born in 1935 and in 1941 he lived about 8 miles away from Bletchley Park where the code was cracked.

"Donna," I said to myself. "What is it, now?" I answered, "You're always such a pest." "Alright, alright, no need to be quite so stroppy. I've got an idea that will mean you can do less work on this blog thing of yours." "Really?" I said, suddenly interested...

Anyway, I thought I would get my Dad to review the book, because he would do it far more justice than I would. This has, of course, left me in a bit of a pickle with my Mum. (That's my Mum, on the left. She wouldn't let me use a proper picture "I don't like being on blogs, you get all those funny people on blogs...What is a blog anyway?) "What about me?" she said. "Am I not good enough to review books?" Now, my Mum as a reviewer would also work well, since I enjoy dark, warped books with lots of swearing, violence and bodily fluids. And my Mum...well, she doesn't. At all. At Crimefest in Bristol she met the charming Chris Ewan. He was so charming that she bought one of his books. Well, she got my Dad to buy it for her. My Mum is like the Queen, she doesn't carry cash. After she'd read it she rang me up. "Our Donna, why can't you write nice books like that nice Chris Ewan?" she said. "He doesn't need all that swearing and not nice stuff you go in for." The subtext was "I wish that nice Chris Ewan was my daughter."

So, I decided that any nice books I get, I will send to my Mum to review. Any thriller-y, spy-y, war-y sort of stuff, I will send to my Dad. So here, without further ado (since there has been far too much ado already) is my Dad's review of Andrew Williams' THE INTERROGATOR.

THE INTERROGATOR is part fictional, but based on facts about naval operations both at sea and on land. It tells the story of a naval interrogator questioning German submariners about their operations at sea, and whether the powers that be have knowledge of the codes in use by the British navy at that time. It also deals with the distrust of the so called intelligence forces, many of whom are based on actual people, though the story is fiction. The main character is of dual nationality, having a German Mother, and is not fully trusted by some of the people he works with. His friendship with some of the Germans grows, which also alienates some of his comrades, and he does maintain contact with them after hostilities have ceased.

A very enjoyable story, I was captivated from beginning to end. The heroes and villians were so lifelike, and in the end the villians turn out to be heroes, or so it seemed. I found it difficult to differentiate truth from fiction, as part of it was fact, the rest being of the author's imagination. The love interest part was believable as I understand this an acceptable part of life during wartime. Station X was mentioned a few times, a secret so well kept that it was not publicised until the 90s. Many residents of Bletchley were not aware that it existed until much later.

Thank you pater.