I’m a happy writer today, gentle reader. In fact, I can honestly say that I am feeling positively smug about myself. Smug! Now, there’s a word you don’t hear too often these days, but I can use it freely today because that’s exactly how I’m feeling.

And what could possibly be the cause of such unbridled self-satisfaction? I hear you ask. Why, it was only this time last week that you were belly-aching like a big cry-baby that needs a nappy change and a bottle of milk, Stevenson, because you’d done a little water based exercise and buggered yourself up. What’s changed?

Well, to keep a long story short, I wrote almost 3500 words yesterday.

Big deal! Some may say.

Really? You have a go at it then. See how many words, lines, paragraphs and chapters you can churn out in a single day? Actually if the answer is considerably more than 3500 words then fair play to you and I’ll shut the heck up.

The thing is that a target of 3-4000 used to be something that I would reach easily, each and every day. Whereas, as documented on this very blog recently, I’ve been hitting nowhere near that. That is why I am so happy and utterly smug with myself this sunny day (well, it’s sunny where I am).

Plus, I can really see the end of the new novel in sight now. Yes really. Like travelling through a long, dark, slimy tunnel of grammar and punctuation, I have been squinting to see the light at the end. I’ve slipped and fell a few times as I stumbled through it; tripping over gaping plot holes, stepping over stagnant puddles of rewrites and looking over my shoulder in terror listening to the scurrying of colloquial slang in the darkness behind me, as I made my slow progress though the murk.

Now, I feel invigorated! Well, in mind if not exactly in body; I’m still burning in every single muscle group, including a few I wasn’t even aware that I had, after last week’s arduous aquatic adventure. But my mind is buzzing with ideas and excitement as I plough headlong into the final third of the book.

My goal today is to beat yesterday’s word count and I honestly think I can do it. I’ve done over 500 already and I’m planning to work until four o’clock, by which time I will be thoroughly exhausted, so yes, I do believe it is possible. Although, I am a firm believer in the old saying about not counting your chickens until the eggs have hatched. So we’ll see how it pans out.

I am really eager to get this new book out asap. It’s quite different to anything I’ve done before yet still instantly recognisable as an Ingleby novel. Eagle-eyed readers might even recognise a few names here and there from previous IN’s (Ingleby Novels) and the familiarity of that fictitious, yet factually based, town is evident.

So will this new burst of inspiration and high word counts lead to a pre-Christmas publication? That’s what everybody wants to know.

Never say never (wasn’t that a Bond film?) I always say. I’d like to think so, but with less than five weeks to go to the big spend-fest itself it seems unlikely. However, chins up. You can always read my five other books again to tide you over until that great and glorious day when I proudly announce ‘I have a new novel!’

Until then, get out that dog-eared copy of The Pheasants Revolt and have a guffaw or two.

This is just going to be a short blog post gentle reader and I apologise in advance. My reason? Well, my entire body feels like it’s been through a mincing machine and turned into Stevenson pies. And it’s all my own fault as well. I’ll elaborate, albeit briefly.

Yesterday my exquisite wife and I attended our local swimming pool to partake in something called Hydrolates. Basically Pilates in water. Or so I thought.

What it ended up as, or so it seemed to me at least, was nothing short of Aqua Boot Camp.

The highly energetic session was led by a pretty, athletic young lady who bounced eagerly around and shouted encouragement and buzz words from the side of the pool accompanied by the sound of a boom-box playing dance/trance/techno music. Now, I’m fairly sure that I was the youngest person there (and the only male) at 56 years old and I have a penchant for the likes of Yes, Rush and Jethro Tull, so who exactly that gosh darn awful music was aimed at I just do not know.

But that was the least of my worries.

I had imagined that we’d be doing a series of gentle exercises and stretches, letting the water take the strain, and that by the end we’d have a serene sense of well-being. Pah! It was high impact aerobics brilliantly disguised as water based Pilates. The only well-being I felt was from the sticky piece of delicious and desperately needed flapjack I just had to have in the cafe afterwards to prevent myself from fainting. I even had half of Ange’s.

The session was akin to some form of medieval torture wrought by some tyrannical despot. And to be honest, the young lady didn’t really fit that description but she was definitely relentless.

This morning my body is a total train wreck. My shoulders are shouting, my biceps are burning, my midriff is moaning and my legs are limp. Fibromyalgia has never been happier and is having a whale of a time with me.

I honestly believe that if I’d gone for a 25 mile route march across the Highlands with the SAS and a full kit bag I would be feeling better than I am right now. And I must confess that there were several of the exercises that I just didn’t even attempt at the risk of losing my life or at the very least separating muscle from bone. Yes, that bad.

I won’t be going next week, or the week after, because it’s going to take a lot longer than that for my body to recover (if it ever does) and besides, I simply don’t have medication strong enough to cope with it.

Ok, that’s it. I said it would be short and I need to take a muscle relaxant and lie down now.

So, the clocks have gone back and plunged us into near perma-darkness, Halloween came and went in a haze of badly carved pumpkins and cheap plastic tat and Bonfire Night is just a mere smouldering, cordite scented memory of mindless thuggery and terrified pets. That now means of course that the marketing men can hurl Christmas in our faces with gusto. And oh boy have they already made a cracking start.

Christmas adverts account for about 90% of the ones we’re currently seeing on TV and one of them in particular has already managed to get right up my nose to the point where it is uncomfortably close to piercing my frontal lobe.

I speak, of course, of the Tesco Christmas advert.

What a monstrous pile of rotting household garbage they’ve dished up for us this year. A whole minute’s worth of the most detestable shash you can think of. But, in case you’ve been fortunate enough to not yet see it, I’ll fill you in on the gory and thoroughly unpleasant details of this affront, nay assault, to decency.

It’s basically a faux party political broadcast where the supermarket in question have branded themselves as The Christmas Party. See what they did there? A play on words. So clever. I can’t help wondering what overpaid, hipster lickspittle came up with that absolute gem.

Yes, I am being sarcastic. Well spotted!

Having established this the ad then goes on to display tables groaning with food, decorations and presents galore whilst an annoying voice over tells us that thanks to good old Tesco we can all have a wonderful Christmas this year and still work to a budget. Prices of £25 for a Christmas dinner are freely bandied about as if that should make all those strapped-for-cash families, who rely on food banks and the Salvation Army to survive, drop to their knees and weep with festive joy crying out “Gawd bless ya Mr Tesco, sir.”

And of course, as always, the streets are shown to be four inches deep in snow which we know is an extremely unlikely event. But lets, for arguments sake, assume that it does snow and we get that most longed for of yearly wishes, a white Christmas, is it really going to bring us as much joy as the grinning/gurning actors in the advert.

Sadly no.

Simply because every time we get snow in this country we collectively soil ourselves and spend the two or three days that it’s here clearing the supermarkets shelves of bread, beans, rice, pasta, salt, tea bags and toilet paper in a contagious and widespread panic, imagining the UK will turn into some kind of frozen Siberian wasteland where we’ll all be found dead from starvation and hypothermia in the Spring.

But I digress.

The fact that the snow in the advert is so obviously fake makes it even worse. A bearded and somewhat dishevelled man in his dressing gown and slippers is shown standing in the street with his neighbours, querying when the bin men are coming. When he finds out it is that very day he begins to rejoice and prance about in the fake snow like a… a… a moron, for want of a better word.

This is then followed by a bizarre dance routine involving wheelie bins. Wheelie bins? Really? That’s so Christmassy. The sight of a wheelie bin is always guaranteed to make you want to fill up with tears of nostalgic yuletide cheer.

NEWSFLASH! Wheelie bins have a tendency to reek!

No longer will the fragrance of cinnamon, clementines, ginger and cloves remind us of Christmas. No, wheelie bin interior will be the next big aroma on the market, thanks to Tesco. I can see it now. Wax melts scented with wheelie bin interior? Wheelie bin interior pot pourri? Wheelie bin interior essential oil? I’d better write it up now and fire my idea off to Yankee Candles before someone else thinks of it.

But despite all this the worst is yet to come. For what have Tesco chosen as the musical backdrop to this tacky and tasteless celebration of excess? A nice carol? Something classical? Jingle Bells even? No, they’ve given us The Final Countdown by 80’s hairspray heroes Europe. This is not the final countdown, oh no, this is the final straw that well and truly breaks the camel’s back. Keyboard driven, generic hair metal that contains the words “We’re heading for Venus” being used in a Christmas ad.

F*** me sideways!!!

I mean, if you’re going to use rock music (and I am a huge rock music fan by the way) in a Christmas advert, then please, at least, use Slade or Wizzard or even that awful Christmas song by The Darkness. Yes, they’re all overplayed to death and quite dreadful but at least they all have the word Christmas in the title and lyrics.

I feel physically ill now, just at the thought of this monstrosity, so in conclusion I’ll just say that this years Tesco Christmas advert is a strong contender, alongside last years John Lewis crash-landed alien one, for the worst ever in the history of television.

And I shop at Tesco occasionally as well! Makes me want to burn my Club Card and protest outside my local store.

Final Countdown and wheelie bins my Aunt Fanny!

I was on fire on Monday gentle reader. Not literally of course, that would have been spontaneous human combustion and I’m not even sure I believe in such a thing. Anyway, I’m talking metaphorically, from a writing perspective. My fingers positively danced across the keys and the laptop was all but smouldering to their touch as a result.

What was I writing?

Well actually, if you really want to know, it was a synopsis for The Pheasants Revolt.

What’s this Stevenson? I hear you all gasp. Surely you’re not throwing in the self-publishing towel and running to the mainstream with your tail firmly betwixt your hairy, knock-kneed, bandy legs are you?

No, at least, not yet.

The synopsis was for me to read out on the Blessham Hall Podcast as part of a new series I’m going to be doing. It wasn’t the first synopsis I’ve done though as in the past I have approached many publishing houses and have the rejection letters to prove it. What was different this time, however, is the fact that it did all pour out of me so quickly and easily whereas in the past I’ve found synopsis writing to be tedious, laborious and very difficult. I mean, think about it. A synopsis is basically a whole novel condensed into somewhere between 500 to a 1000 words. No mean feat for anyone let alone a humble, overweight, eye patch wearing fibromyalgic such as I.

In short, I found it to be both a doddle and a pleasure…

…Which is in stark contrast to how my new novel is progressing!

That, not to put too fine a point on it, is an absolute nightmare of replanning, rewriting, blood, sweat, tears and cuss words. I’ve used more expletives in the last four months than the teenage me would have done after a ten pints of Everards Old Original. And believe me, that would have been a lot. And the truth is, even though swear words make frequent appearance in my books, I’m not all that keen on using them personally.

Yes, I’m not afraid to admit that I’ve rather tied myself in knots with this one. I’m a humorist you see and I’ve made it far more complicated for myself than I should have because after all, when all’s said and done, humour shouldn’t be complicated.

Now don’t you worry your pretty little heads. It’s not going to be a complicated novel to read, by any stretch of the old grey matter, but it’s just so darned complicated to write. And yes, I do appreciate that makes about as much sense as the working classes voting Conservative, which they did en-masse at the last election. But let’s steer clear of politics shall we?

To avoid confusion I’ll try and explain. It’s in the structure and composition of the book that my problem lies. I wish I could elaborate but obviously I don’t want to give too much away at this point. The structure of the book is somewhat unusual and not something I’ve attempted before.

And of course, it’s an Ingleby book so things are never straight forward there. Are they?

I made the huge mistake of announcing on the podcast last week that I was hoping to have the wretched thing published before Christmas and I’m now having serious doubts about that. As a result I feel a bit of that sense of being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea kind of thing. I don’t want to let my readers down by delaying it but on the other hand I don’t want to let my readers down by producing something sub-standard and unworthy of me (and them).

Whilst writing Hot Eire, my most recent, utterly hilarious, novel I found that on most writing days I was hitting the 5000 word mark and on one occasion I did over 7500 words. On writing days of this vicious little beast I come wheezing in at the end of the day somewhere between 1200 to 1500 words. And that’s not laziness on my part, I assure you, although the fibromyalgia and Bell’s palsy have hampered things considerably lately. No, it’s more to do with how arsing complicated a task I’ve given myself. Seriously, most days now I do a little jig in my chair when I cross the 1000 word mark and pray for the mental fortitude to do another 500.

Yeah, that bad.

So, when will the new novel be out? Well, I’m not going to make any more rash promises of seasonal holiday publication but what I will say is that I’m going to try and make November the month when I finally get to firm grips with it and get it hammered out.

I’ll not promise any more than that.

If there is one ray of comfort that I can take at the moment though it is the fact the 40000 words I have managed thus far are all really good. I mean sparkling dialogue and witty prose, some of which would make Oscar Wilde blush.

And here’s another thing. This blog post is 870 words long and it’s only taken me 40 minutes to write.

See what I’m saying?

We have just had the most delightful little long weekend break in the gorgeous town of Berwick Upon Tweed. Ange and I made the last minute decision on Friday morning to head North for something we booked six weeks ago. And I’m damned glad we did.

Of course, me having a lop-sided face, a pronounced slur and an eye patch meant that Ange had to take over all driving duties. It irked me immensely that my Lovely would do all the work behind the steering wheel whilst I just sat like a big girl’s blouse and navigated but she really did most superbly and we arrived in the centre of Berwick just before two in the afternoon.

A lengthy post-journey snooze followed by food and wine was then the order of the day and we sat in our comfortable, en-suite Anchor-Hanover room which we paid the princely sum of £20 a night for (yes you read that correctly) and made plans for the next few days.

Saturday saw us up early to move the car to a 24 hour site. Berwick really does have the most marvellous parking scheme and moving the vehicle occasionally is a small price to pay for parking for £1 for the whole weekend. Who says you can’t do cheap and cheerful any more? Not us!

We then spent several charming hours meandering around the pretty town, myself aided with my stoutest walking stick. I bought a new hat to go with the nine I already have and a lot of cake was consumed during the day. Seriously, a lot of cake! And coffee and tea and Blytonesque levels of ginger beer as it happens.

Berwick is a very smart little town. Bright and clean, and you get a genuine sense of civic pride from the oh so friendly locals. And, I was able to buy some haggis to bring home, something I’d been unable to do last month in St Andrews. Being a huge fan of Scotland’s national dish, you’ll appreciate what this meant to me. Still, the jovial gentleman market trader who sold it to me was from across the border so that gave it a ring of authenticity.

We decided to dine out in the evening and paid a visit to the Leaping Salmon pub. Basically one of those poor-mans Wetherspoons kind of places where all the food is either battered or breadcrumbed before being fried, or turned golden brown by some other means. Still, it retained the cheap and cheerful theme of the weekend. The staff in the Salmon were lovely, however, and I mean this most sincerely, that was the most awful steak I have ever eaten. I asked for a medium rump and was presented with the distressed sole from an old Air Wair boot. But, that was the only downside to the whole show.

After another swift one in the Brown Bear (Guinness) we went back to the room feeling all tingly inside. No, it wasn’t the steak doing it’s worst to my innards but rather the thought of visiting the Holy Island of Lindisfarne on the morrow.

And that’s exactly what we did.

Lindisfarne has been on both our to do lists since before grass was invented and we set off good and early to that we could beat the tide and clear the causeway. We read some horror stories about people taking silly gambles with the North Sea and we didn’t want to add to the statistics.

Holy Island was all and more that we could have wished for. There’s a serene air of calm and peace about the whole place (except for one shop that insisted on playing 90s dance bollocks; we didn’t stay) and Ange was snapping photos faster than a freshly caffeinated paparazzo. And, despite the gentle mist that snuggled around the coast we could still see all the sights that this wonderful island has to show.

We bought souvenirs and gifts for family and a bottle of spiced mead for ourselves. I like mead, I like spice, ergo…

After three hours, and yet more cake, we bid a fond farewell to Lindisfarne and headed back over the causeway in good time to get back to Berwick were we had ice cream on the sea front at the unfortunately named Spittal Beach. By now our weekend calorie count was reaching dizzying and dangerous heights and so we bought some fruit from Asda to temper things a little. And the guy on the till was a real card and no mistake. We had a good chortle with him. You know, jests about wanting to see our ID to buy alcohol. That sort of thing.

We sat up fairly late listening to music, Rush and Kate Bush if my memory serves, and having another wee drink. There was no hurry to leave in the morning so it didn’t matter what time we turned in, which in the end was about half past eleven. And I slept like a hibernating log.

Morning came and with it glorious autumnal northern sunshine. We loafed around for a couple of hours; like I say, there was no rush being Anchor residents. Membership truly does have it’s benefits.

We finally set off for our lovely North Yorkshire home just before midday and the furnace like blaze of turning trees lit the way along the A7 Border Route back to the motorway like a golden corridor. Again, my sweet Ange doing the driving and I cursed Bell’s Palsy for it. But oh, my wife is a wonderful lady.

Got back to Settle by half four, following an M6 pit stop (Greggs and Costa) and left the unpacking until the next day. I feel fat and sluggish having gorged on choice, delicious food (and that steak) all weekend, but I also feel a fatness of another kind. A fatness of contentment at a truly special time spent in a truly special place with my truly special lady.

It was simple and basic, no bells and whistles, and it sure didn’t cost the earth. But it’s a trip we’ll never forget and one we intend to make again very soon.

I’ll cut right to the chase gentle reader. I look a mess. I have a droopy face and mouth, an eye that won’t shut, slurred speech and horrible side effects from steroids. In short, I have Bell’s Palsy. Not something I ever thought I would hear myself saying and what’s more, not something I knew very much about until now.

But I’ve got it for sure, and it’s a bugger.

It’s something that I could really do without as well. I mean having fibromyalgia and Depressive Anxiety Disorder are more than enough to be going on with I think. But no, I have been visited by Bell’s Palsy and am reliably informed that it could take between 4 to 9 months to clear up. Oh deep joy!

I’m not even sure how it happened. In fact, nobody ever is. One minute I was happily cooking tea for me and Ange and the next I was talking like Roy Hattersley’s Spitting Image puppet. Yeah, just like that.

I have drops for my eye which is very sore, and extremely red and angry to the point where I now wear a piratical looking eye patch to hide it and to get a little light relief (get it? Light relief? No? Please yourselves) and I’m on a course of ten, yes you read that correctly, ten, steroid tablets a day.

I’m not sure how they help the palsy but they’re playing all merry havoc with the rest of me.

Long story short, I feel like crap and not very creative at all. My sleep is badly disturbed, which I put down to the aforementioned steroids, and I’m finding it incredibly hard to concentrate on anything much. As for eating and drinking… let’s just say, your average toddler makes less of a mess with their food than I do right now as it pours out of the side of my mouth with every bite or sip I take.

My mood is at an all time low and I really don’t feel like writing. The fact that I’m constructing this very brief blog post is nothing short of a miracle. I started at seven o’clock this morning and I’m just wrapping it up now at ten past one in the afternoon. There’s a bit of an indication of the state of play, or rather lack of it.

I’m going to lie down now in a darkened room and I’m not joking when I say that. I’d love to sit and read but it hurts my sight to do that. So I’ll probably just try and get some chemically aided sleep; there’s a box of diazepam in the bedside table. Yummy!

They say you can’t keep a good man down but right now I’m very down. Oh, I’ll be back, you can rely on that. Can’t say when but I can say where. Right here on this blog.

See you soon.

A x

Regular readers of this blog as well as listeners to my Blessham Hall podcast and indeed viewers of my Stevenson Speaks videos will know, without me saying, that I have significant physical difficulties, especially when it comes to walking. This is due to the condition known as fibromyalgia. I won’t bore you with the details but if you do want to know more then check out all the aforementioned media platforms and you will be enlightened.

So with that in mind imagine my horror at having to take the car in for it’s M.O.T yesterday, plus a full compliment of new tyres, and having to walk home the whole mile from the service centre. For most a mere stroll, for me an exhaustive expedition along the lines of Scott or Livingstone.

But I set off on my mission with good cheer and optimism as, despite the prospect of a hefty bill for India rubber products, it was actually promising to be a good day on the home front. I won’t go into the whys and whatnots but let’s just say that I was in something akin to a good mood.

Thus, having deposited Zebedee (that’s the name of our car; don’t ask) at the garage I made my painful way slowly back through town and in the direction of our comfy home once more. It being Tuesday the market traders were setting up their stalls and wares (a lot of tat mostly) and the town centre was a bustling hive of activity.

Being in such a good mood I found myself smiling at the various traders and bidding them a hearty ‘Good morning’ as I shuffled/shambled/ambled/rambled by, rapidly running out of steam and starting to panic about whether or not I would make it home. I swear that to a man (and woman) I received no response.

Except…

Except for one old Asian gentleman who smiled broadly and cheerfully said ‘Morning!’ back to me.

Now, I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but there are four things I deduced about this chap.

1. He was old.

2. He was Asian.

3. He was male.

4. He was friendly.

He made all the smiling and helloing I’d done without yield all worth it. Just that little bit of human interaction made me feel a connection to my fellow man and for a brief moment helped me to forget about the pain in my legs. Ok, so yes, the traders were all busy setting up their stalls, I appreciate that. But what effort does it take to bid someone a good day. None! And it only takes a nano-second to do it. Plus, in business, politeness is a game-changer. I don’t want to buy my tat from a grumpy stall holder.

Maybe it was the fact that this gentleman was older and Asian that prompted his courtesy, I don’t know. One thing is certain, however, and that is we seem to be losing that peculiarly British art of greeting strangers.

I hope not though. It’s a simple pleasure in life that gives one a lift and can make the difference in feeling good or bad about how your day is going.

So, no matter how rough you’re having it, give someone a smile and a kind word. You never know, they may really need it just as much as you.

PS – The garage bill came to £534.00. Eek!!!

So, a couple of things have happened in the last 48 hours to make me ask questions of myself and what I truly believe. You know, not meaningless likes or dislikes, all that airy-fairy I don’t like semolina but I like rice pudding kind of thing. No, I mean real truths that I hold dear and which form the basis of who I really am and what makes me Alan Stevenson.

So basically, here’s my credo. But before you read it, please take time to consider point number 5 before losing your rag as it may help you when forming or reforming an opinion of me.

Ok, here we go.

1. Bigotry and racism is a massive no-no with me. As is a negative stance on immigration. Immigrants saved my life when I was at death’s door in 2003. If it hadn’t been for a Chinese doctor and an Indian nurse then I wouldn’t be typing these words right now as I’d be deceased.

2. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE has a right to believe in which ever faith or religion they choose to follow without slander, abuse or piss-take. My own beliefs are Christian but if you follow any other faith I may not agree with you but I’ll stoically defend your rights and decisions to have that belief; as all men should.

3. Tik Tok is wrong on every level. It’s just wrong. Morally wrong.

4. Number three was just put there to lighten the mood a little bit, although it is true.

5. You may have opinions that differ with mine or you may not appreciate my opinions. You may even get offended by what I say, write or do. And that’s ok, although I do think we all get offended too easily these days. It’s become almost fashionable. My point is, if we do differ on opinions or get offended with one another then I like to think we can be adults and discuss our differences without the need for social media unfriending or having long-standing tantrums with each other. Let’s all be grown ups, shall we? Like we used to be. Also, if you should ask me for my opinion on any matter please be respectful of the fact that I might not want to give it to you.

6. Women, or men for that matter, are not to be sexually objectified and the voyeurism that we now have to contend with on our TVs, computer screens and phones has reached such levels of depravity that would make Mary Whitehouse soil herself and reach for the Valium. I’m looking at you again Tik Tok.

7. Contrary to popular belief, science does not have all the answers. In fact, it has very few.

8. FOR FUCK’S SAKE STOP USING SINGLE USE PLASTICS!!!

9. I’m an omnivore. Always have been, always will be. If you choose to pursue a vegan or vegetarian lifestyle I shall certainly respect that decision. All I ask is please extend to me the same courtesy. My human teeth are designed to eat both plants and animals and my digestive system can cope quite easily with meat. Now, whether you believe in Creationism or Darwinism that is a plain, unavoidable fact. Incidently, I don’t eat meat with every meal, so there.

10. Don’t judge me and I won’t judge you. That one’s easy innit?

11. Your sexual preferences are yours and yours alone. Personally speaking I’m hetero but I won’t lambaste or belittle gay people and neither should you. I have gay friends.

12. I have a sense of humour that is rooted in the 1970’s and 80’s. That’s when I grew up. I’m able to laugh at myself and I’m ok with people laughing at me. The world needs to be able to do more of that.

13. Bullying at any age is reprehensibly vile and should not be tolerated in a civilised society.

13a. I know what I consider to be bullying and what is not.

14. Look after the elderly. Hopefully you’ll make it to that age one day and if you do don’t despise it. It’s a gift that’s not given to everyone.

15. If you’re unhappy with the current government yet you voted for them, stop belly-aching on social media and lobby your MP. Also, next time, use your loaf in the polling station.

16. Jimmy Carr is not funny. Never has been, never will be.

17. On the other hand, I really like Tim Vine. He’s delightfully silly.

18. Travel may broaden the mind but literature enriches it.

19. If I see you throwing litter on the floor I will ask you to pick it up again.

20. Lists are great!

So there you go. Please feel free to unfriend me, unfollow me, loathe, detest or verbally disembowel me if you feel so inclined. After the last 48 hours I no longer care. I am who I am. I am Alan and I like Alan. Don’t try to change me baby.

Where on Earth have you been Stevenson? You piss-poor excuse for a scribe. I hear you cry. Or not, you’ve probably just got fed up with waiting for me to pull my chubby, stubby finger out and given up. It’s been quite some time since I last blogged and I’m just as unhappy at the situation as you are; believe me.

But before you go off on me like a Prosecco cork (I can’t afford champagne) please give me a chance to redeem myself or, at the very least, offer some explanation as to my whereabouts for over a month now.

Let me break it down into sections for you. I think that would be easiest all round.

1. We’ve moved home. Whilst not a particularly valid excuse for not blogging it does offer some insight to what I’ve been up to and, as most of you will agree, it’s a very stressful and time consuming job which requires a great deal of both mental and physical energy. Which brings me nicely to my next point.

2. I’m seriously lacking in both of those energies. My brain is immensely foggy at the moment to the point where I wake up in the morning and panic that I’ve ben kidnapped in the night only for the realisation that I’m in my new bedroom to kick in after a few seconds. Added to this is the fact that my body can’t take much more. I seriously think it can’t. It’s at breaking point and I mean bedridden breaking point. It’s now just a matter of when.

3. My lovely wife has gout in her right foot and is in a lot of pain and therefore unable to do any of the more manual tasks involved with a home move. I’ve been caring for my carer and been extremely worried about her. We spent a whole evening in A&E one Saturday in August. Five hours we were there with Ange in the most awful discomfort. Very stressful indeed.

4. We had a holiday a few weeks back. A much needed and well deserved break to the charming seaside village of Crail near St Andrews, Scotland. I spent the first 24 hours of the holiday in that muddled place somewhere between sleep and waking as my whole being gave a collected sigh of relief.

5. This is an odd one but I’m actually struggling to put words together in a coherent way. Either on paper or verbally. The only thing that I’ve been able to do with any degree of success is my podcast which I’m determined to do every week without fail. The novel I’m working on hasn’t seen a shot fired in anger since… well, that’s just it, I can’t remember because I’ve lost my little pocket diary with all that information in. But it was the back end of July.

Anyway, that’s my 5 point excuse. In a nutshell, we’ve moved home and I am…

EX!

HAUS!

TED!

I’m tired, worn out, spent, shattered, weary, depleted, drained, fatigued, on my last legs and oh so bloody knackered.

So, apologies for the huge gap (no I’m not talking about my front teeth) but I’m going to try a little bit harder. Even if it’s just a paragraph or two here and there. The thing is, I do enjoy blogging. Been at it for years. In fact, the final episode of Stevenson Speaks, my video series, will be about my blog, so you might want to tune in to that. And, I’ve even set myself a little challenge. I’m going to try and do a follow up blog tomorrow; just to see how it goes. Watch this space!

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.