Terrible, Terrible News

Earlier today, I received some rather troubling news. I am not a man to cry easily, for I am Strong and Proud, and yet when I heard this piece of news I wept- I wept like a little baby after being jabbed in the belly with a pointy stick. My heart is broken. My dreams are ashes.

Apparently there are people out there, strange and unsettling and disturbed people, who are actually sitting down at their computers and READING THIS BLOG. In fact, if my source is correct, at least ONE of them is doing that RIGHT NOW.

I know you’re out there. I can feel you.

Why is this happening? Surely you must understand that I hate this. I have done everything I possibly can to convince you of this fact. And yet you persist in torturing me.

Don’t you understand? The more people that read this, the more successful it becomes. The more successful it becomes, the more I’ll have to write it. It is a circle, and it is a vicious one, and you are only adding to my misery. I hope this makes you HAPPY, you evil, evil people.

And comments! Some of you even have the audacity to leave comments! Do you want to know a secret? Do you?

Every time you comment on this blog, an angel loses its wings. You have been warned.

I refuse to tell you about my Christmas. You are not getting one ounce of information out of me. Not one. Apart from a complaint about the quality of my presents this year.

I knew they would be bad. I knew this would be a bleak year for gifts. I have told you, oh evil reader of this blog, about my sisters and the whole “curtain rail” fiasco. It may please some of you to know that I did not, in fact, receive a curtain rail. They passed that particular idea to my mother, who has promised me she will sort out my curtain rail requirements over the coming weeks. Oh, my joy is boundless. So what, you may ask, did my sisters get me, in the end?

They assured me, as they took the wrapped present from beneath the Christmas tree and handed it over, that this is something I NEED. This is something my house LACKS. They implied, practically GUARANTEED, that my life will be better now that I have their Christmas gift. I was not thrilled by the softness of the present. It felt suspiciously like a sensible fleece, or a terrible woolly jumper (woolly sweater, for you Americans out there). I held my breath. I opened the gift. 

Do you want to know what they gave me? Do you? Can you handle the shock? Can you withstand the AMAZEMENT?

My sisters had got me a bathmat. And matching towels.

I got towels for Christmas.

I pointed out the fact that I already HAD a bathmat. They said yes, but the new one can be a REPLACEMENT bathmat, for special occasions. Dear God, I thought, pregnancy has made both of my sisters quite insane. I backed away slowly, maintaining eye contact, keeping the bathmat and towels between us at all times. If they lunged, I reasoned, I could hurl the bathmat to distract them, and escape in the confusion. The towels would only be used as a last resort.

I can hear them still, their mad cackling...

I’m supposed to tell you something else. Something official and work-related. I was told to tell you. THEY told me. The wicked and controlling THEY. My so-called “Masters”. (I have no Masters. I decide my own destiny, I control my own fate. Some day soon they will learn this, but by then it will be too late, and I shall laugh a laugh of victory and scones. For I shall be having scones with my victory that day. Scones and jellies. I’m getting confused now. Where was I?)

Yes, something to tell you. I shall be taking part in something that is called a “Blog Tour”. I have no idea what this means. Somehow, probably through magic and bizarre occult practices, I shall be conducting a Question and Answer session across a series of blogs all this week. The five Bloggers are as follows:

Essex Library Teen Space

Green Bean Teen Queen

Library Lounge Lizard Blog

Read Kiddo Read

Wondrous Reads

Before I depart, a plea. If you have one shred of human decency within you, you will not read this blog. If you have one iota of mercy, or compassion, you will not leave a comment. If you never visit this page again, then I can stop writing it. You see? Then I will be happy. You see? You want me happy, don’t you? You don’t want to torture me, do you?

Do you?

Oh, you are EVIL.

Christmas Is Coming

Ah, Christmas is coming, and the elves are wrapping the presents and the reindeer are being hooked up to the sleigh, and all is good with the world and I’m FREEZING.

What is wrong with my house? What is wrong with this world that I have to sit here and type while my poor feet grow steadily colder? My poor, poor feet. Have I ever told you how pretty my feet are? Oh they are pretty. Far and wide, people sing songs about my feet and their prettiness. Many a Foot Competition I have won because of these two beauties. And now look at them, shivering in my boots like two hairless ferrets in a bucket. A tragedy, I tell you.

Other writers (lesser writers) in other blogs (lesser blogs) will no doubt wish all their readers a Merry Christmas or a Happy Holiday or other such tripe and nonsense, but not this one. Bah humbug, say I. And if the ghosts of past, present and future elect to visit me at all over the next few days, they shall taste the fury of my blade!

(By fury I mean annoyance. And by blade I mean spoon.)

My Christmas presents, I fear, will be somewhat lacking in size, quantity, and existence this year. My sisters announced last week that they would DO something, instead of BUY something. Last year they did the same, and I pointed to my rather drab downstairs bathroom and asked, “Can you brighten this up?”

I was expecting nothing more than a small table, maybe with a narrow vase atop a doily, some potpourri perhaps. You know, the silly things only truly odd people know how to arrange. They arrived over, surveyed the bathroom, spoke at length about nothing in particular, and left. They didn’t return. Eight months later I bought some potpourri myself, and now it sits, somewhat forlornly, in the sink.

So I was not altogether thrilled by the prospect of another “gift”. But both sisters are pregnant now, and my mother insists that they must be treated delicately. I reasoned that an entire room, no matter how small, was simply too much to ask for last year. So this time, I told them that all I need is a new curtain rail. One single curtain rail. That’s all. Just one.

A curtain rail. For Christmas.

They arrived over yesterday, surveyed the window in question, spoke at length about what it’s like to be pregnant, and left.

I rather fear that I shall never see this curtain rail. They didn’t even take any measurements, for God’s sake.

The second blog entry: I don't do pithy

Bah- the second blog entry and already I’m running out of things to write. I mean, what do people want to read about? My work? My day? My most innermost thoughts? A combination of all three with an amusing sidebar into pithy anecdotes?

I don’t DO pithy, and I’m terrible at anecdotes.

So, fine, my day.

I woke up, then I got up. Ate some apples (apple-eating is my new thing). I let the cats in and they immediately demanded food. They’ve been looking kind of fat lately, so I only gave them half their usual amount, which is still probably too much. I know NOTHING about cats.

This afternoon I bought a few DVDs and some cat food and dog food. I also bought some human food, for the people who live at the bottom of my garden. They can be harsh and vicious if they haven’t eaten, so I hope to appease them with meagre offerings of raw meat, flung from my back doorstep in much the same way as Roy Schneider flung that chow off the back of the boat in Jaws.

One of the DVDs I bought was GI Joe. I bought this because I thought it would be a good idea. It was not. I now hate this movie, for it is awful. It is worse than X-Men 3. It is even worse than Transformers 2. I have not hated a film so much since I saw Van Helsing. Van Helsing was directed by the same man. There are lessons in life I should learn, and yet learn them I do not.

After I watched this film, as punishment for some terrible thing I must have done when I was a small, potato-headed child, I got back to writing, and made the final revisions to Book Four, Dark Days. This one was a lot of fun to do- quite a few bad guys return, and bad guys are always fun to write. Now it’s all ready to be designed and printed, in time for April. I decided to give myself the rest of the night off to celebrate.

And then I remembered this blog, of which I am coming to the end. It is now 2:36 AM as I write this, and to celebrate Dark Days being almost done with, I am now going to bed.

They’re making me write a blog.

I hate blogs. Hate them. Don’t know why anyone would want to read any blog I write. Who could possibly be interested in what I have to say? Who could possibly be interested in my movements, plans, or thoughts? Lunatics, that’s who. Lunatics and weirdos. Are you reading this? Are you?

Allow me to be the latest to tell you- you are a lunatic and a weirdo, and your brain scares me.

They want me to write a blog, but we all know what they’re REALLY after. They want to keep TABS on me. That’s what all this is about. They want to find out what I’m thinking. They know I’m dangerous. I know all their secrets, you see. They’re scared I’ll TELL.

Hate blogs. Hate them.

One of them is standing behind me right now, a golden crossbow aimed at the back of my head. He’s telling me to be nice, and write nice things. I can see his reflection in my computer screen. I can even see the GLEAM in his eyes. He’s serious. He’s telling me, in a whispery voice of evil, to be nice. He’s telling me to give you the official spiel.

The following passage, I assure you, is written under duress.

Hi everyone! Welcome to the Best Blog Ever! Written in a land of Rainbows and Moonbeams! Where everyone is a friend! I love you all! Even the ugly ones!

In this blog, I’m going to be keeping you up to date with my many goings on! Oh it’ll be so much fun! You’ll be told about tours, and publication dates for my books, and all my zany and wacky writing adventures!

We’re going to be the best of friends!

He’s gone, drifting out the window like a ghost, leaving me with nothing but his sadistic cackle. Fine. So I’m writing a blog. Big deal. I can handle that. I can play their game.

Until it’s time to strike...