Ok, first of all, sincere apologies for the huge gap between posts. But I have my reasons/excuse. My old sparring partner – Fibro-bastard-bloody-arsing-myalgia. It’s been a tough couple of weeks here at Blessham Hall gentle reader, a tough couple of weeks indeed. I have been a mere husk of a man. A hollow and echoing void of a human being who has existed on painkillers, CBD gummies and a whole lot of help and sympathy.

This is quite possibly the worst and most protracted episode of it I’ve had. Certainly in the last decade at least. I’ve been as fatigued as a sloth on Valium and in more pain than I would have imagined possible with only one body. I have seriously considered leaving my shoulders and arms to medical science over the last fortnight and my legs, once strong and sturdy pillars of sporting prowess, now shake, rattle and yes, even roll as I shuffle along like a geriatric version of the Tin Man. People stare and gawk at me in the street and shake their heads in pity, covering their children’s eyes from the horror as I shamble by.

In truth, I have popped more co-codamol in the last fortnight than I have in the rest of the year combined and we all know where that leads to, don’t we? That’s right, agonising sessions on the throne; moaning and groaning like some kind of disconnected and constipated ghoul. Oh how I long for the days when my bowel movements were a thing of beauty. Too much information, I know, but that’s how bad it is.

And the thing is, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it all began. It doesn’t work like that you see. It’s been a gradual build up over a couple of months, starting with a tinkling of annoying little aches and pains in the limbs, followed by a symphony of exhaustion and fatigue and rising to a resounding crescendo of pure muscular suffering and torment.

Now, that may sound a little bit over the top to you but it’s my body and I’m telling it like it is. And what you’ve just read is the absolute truth. My body isn’t working properly and it hurts. Badly. But what hurts as well is the fact that this is the first time I’ve sat down at my laptop and written since July 28^th and that ain’t gonna get the next novel written, now is it? Actually, now I think about it, that last writing session wasn’t exactly all that fruitful either.

So here’s the plan. It’s starting to ease a little, but by ‘little’ I mean a miniscule amount every day. I’m as frustrated as a eunuch on his day off but I need to gently ease my way back into some kind of routine, even if that means just 500 words a day or maybe 1000 words but then take a day off. Seriously folks, that’s how bad it is. As I write these few words I’m utterly exhausted due to having recorded this week’s Blessham Hall Podcast and the latest episode of Stevenson Speaks earlier. So that will be it now until maybe tomorrow afternoon.

Best I can do for now, I’m afraid, but it’s better than nothing. The next novel will get done. When, I don’t know, but trust me, it will. In the meantime you could always read Hot Eire or re-read any of my other books: Ah Boy!, The Ghost of Lenton Wattingham, The Pheasants Revolt or Mutch Wants Moor. They’re all good.

Bear with me gentle reader, I’ll be back.