No, not what you think. I was going to say .... getting published. ***

That's right folks. Note to Boy is now 64% of the way towards publication, with 125 wonderful people backing it. Thank you, one and all. In celebration, here's a little snippet-ette from the novel, to whet your appetites. 

*** PS Your eyes do not deceive. Lurking in the background of this stylish shot are two packs of Waitrose’s own Christmas-branded bog rolls. If that doen’t get you in the festive spirit, I don’t know what will. 

So, back to Note to Boy. Bradley - timid teenager - and Eloise - septuagenarian sexpot - are in the kitchen.

In the end, I put the radio on to drown her wittering. Just my luck, it’s a sixties show. Before I know it, she’s jigging round the kitchen, singing along to some ancient old song from before the war or something.

            ‘I whatsit it. I whatsit it,’ she warbles. ‘Oooh, I remember this one. I … dum-de-dum-de-dumdy-dumdy-dum. Perry and the Face-achers. They were fab.’ She holds out her claws. She only wants me to dance with her. What the heck, I think to meself.

            Only I don’t know where to put my hands. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she goes, taking them and plonking them on her waist – at least, where her waist should be. My fingers sinks in down to the knuckles. Then she stretches up – like I say, she’s a proper shortarse – and puts her hands on my shoulders. We shuffle round the table, her jigging and humming, me feeling a right melon.

            Thing is though, after a bit I get into it. The song – proper cheery it is – gets to me and I find I’m doing some jigging meself. Then the music stops and the bloke on the radio prattles some rubbish. Her face darkens. 

            ‘Kindly unhand me, Boy,’ she goes, pushing me away. ‘Such familiarity. What are you thinking? Back to your cooking.’

            Hot and cold, she blows.