Another One Free


A NUMBER1 BESTSELLING novel on 4 separate Amazon sites:

It Is NOT a Jack and Jill fairy tale with a happy ending—BUT—It is an intelligent well-researched book full of intrigue, secrets, and lies for the reader who expects more.

#Murder #Mystery #Suspense



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An Irreverent Take On My Favourite Book

“Where are we going Piglet?” asked Pooh.

“We need to get supplies,” said Piglet. “For the Coronavirus”

“Ahh,” said Pooh, nodding in understanding. “Things like bread, milk, cough mixture, tissues, and cat litter even though we don’t have a cat?”

Piglet did a little laugh and a sort of leap and bit of a cough. “No,” said Piglet. “No, those aren’t the sort of supplies we need at all! What we need are family-sized bags of chocolate buttons, massive toblerone, jelly babies and crunchies and a freezer full of stuffed crust pizzas, and all of the Prosecco that we can possibly carry, so that when we get quarantined we won’t mind it even slightly. Plus of course, frozen chips for Danny Kemp if he comes round and if he doesn’t, then we can have them. THOSE are supplies.”

All of a sudden, Pooh thought that the idea of coronavirus didn’t seem quite so bad, and actually, getting quarantined with Piglet and their supplies really didn’t sound such a terrible thing after all. “Oh Piglet,” said Pooh. “I really do think you are a very wise animal.”


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To smell the perfume of an unfurling rose.
To relive the moment when it was love you chose.
To know the sublime feeling of a summers night,
As you lay together until the breaking daylight.

© 2020, Daniel Kemp All rights reserved.



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Free Kindle

Free until 4th March


It makes George Orwell’s novel 1984 read as though it’s a supplement to Winnie-the-Pooh

#Murder #Mystery #Conspiracy


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On Windover Hill and The Oddness of Time

A delightful read

Mick Canning

Yesterday, we joined a walk to the Long Man of Wilmington, on the South Downs in Sussex. The walk was led by composer Nathan James, and Justin Hopper, the author of The Old Weird Albion.


The Long Man is a chalk figure etched through the grass into the hillside, below the summit of Windover Hill, revealing the chalk that lies beneath. When and why it was first cut is the subject of myth and speculation – and that brings us neatly to Nathan’s new composition.


On 7th March, Nathan will premier his fantastic new choral work On Windover Hill at Boxgrove Priory, Chichester, Sussex. This has been inspired by the Long Man, its mythology, and the art that has arisen around it, as well as the written history and the geography of the surrounding land. It has a very English feel to it, in the tradition of Vaughan Williams or…

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An Honour

I had to go back into the hospital at the beginning of this week and with a heavy heart back to wearing a catheter for possibly 6 weeks until I’m ready for yet another operation. So not unnaturally I was feeling quite sorry for myself when at home, on Wednesday evening, opening my emails and trying to catch-up on everything.

As I scanned through them I came across four messages from my publishers and they all looked the same—‘We hope this message finds you well! We’ve recently released an updated edition of your translation, with improved layout, cover design and keywords. We have also moved to a new Universal Book Link that you can find here: —- It then explained to me what they had done with this revised version of The Desolate Garden.

As I say, they all looked the same but because I’m curious I clicked on the link in the next email—- and once more found The Desolate Garden, but this time it was translated into Portuguese.

Interest mounting I clicked on the link in the third email— and found—- What Happened In Vienna? translated into Spanish.

Finally, with a wide smile fixed on my face, I clicked on the link in the fourth and last email—  finding my novella–Why? made available by my benevolent publishers in Portuguese.

I am hugely honoured and obviously, I’m not so despondent at being home.



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God’s Distribution of Luck


I came out of a hospital yesterday having had a catheter and stent finally removed after, in the case of the stent—seven weeks. I was unlucky in some ways with the operation I’d had, but lucky in others and it’s this thing called luck I wanted to write about.

A bed in a ward was available for me at four in the afternoon last Wednesday, which meant I’d waited only two hours. However, half of that waiting time was my fault. The letter I’d received clearly said–arrive at three! Being early has been a general fault of mine, one I’ve lived with for all the years I’ve been responsible for.

The ward was designed for six patients but held only three, two against one wall and me on my own against the other. It took no time at all to become acquainted with the other two and it’s the one who was nearest to me I want to tell you about.

He was not in the opposite bed that one was vacant. He was in the bed next to that one, to my right. He came from the Orient. Although he was born in China he had lived in England for fifty-six years making him more British than Chinese, nevertheless, he spoke with a heavy influence of his native tongue. It was not an easy conversation we held as he often repeated himself. He, like me, had a catheter in place, attested to by the bag attached to the bed frame which seemed to contain more blood than anything else. It didn’t, otherwise, he would have required a transfusion, which he was not having. Everything seemed okay with him until around midnight.

I had tried to sleep but could not, and that state of affairs was just about to become worse. The man I’m speaking about first let out a soft moan, then he started to cry,  whilst all the time urgently pressing the buzzer for a nurse. My offered help was refused for which, if I’m honest, I was grateful for, not having the faintest idea what to do other than to stand there looking useless. Anyway, as the nurse arrived he screamed in such a manner that it was easy to recognise the extent of agony he was suffering. The curtains were quickly drawn around his bed as another nurse arrived and from the conversation I could overhear he was unable to pass anything through his catheter due to clotting blood. Together those two nurses cleared away some clots. I say ‘some’ with reason, because after half an hour of freedom from pain, he started to cry then scream all over again. This pattern went on for the next three and a bit hours until the nurses changed his catheter and decided to call the on-duty urologist team.

When the privacy curtains were pulled back I lay watching him as a nurse sat beside his bed with him asleep peacefully with an oxygen mask placed on his face and another drip going into his arm. That’s when it happened.

Without any warning he removed the mask and sat bolt upright, coughed and then lowered his head as if he was about to be sick. The nurse grab a container placing it under his mouth, all the time trying to calm him down by saying soothing things such as—‘you’re all right darling. I’m here. I have you.’ Suddenly his eyes closed and the pasty colour of his face turned more to stark chalk. No longer able to maintain this sitting position his head fell back onto the pillar with the nurse frantically softly slapping his face, calling his name with—‘You’re not going to die here my lovely.’

As all this was happening the nurse had rung the emergency bell and the cardiac arrest paddles were being placed on his chest as he miraculously opened his eyes and the surrounding mass of clinicians heaved a sigh of combined relief that was plainly auditable across the corridor to the similarly watching patients as I. All was well or was it? A man with his back to me asked the nurse who more than any other human had saved this man if he had lost consciousness at any time. She replied. ‘Yes, he had. For about thirty or forty-seconds.’

Both of us survived. He was moved to the ICU and then onto another ward where I saw him the following day. To me, he appeared fine and that’s what I was subsequently told when I asked one of the nurses. I moved out of our medically cluttered ward into the peace of the lounge and watched tv for an hour or so, still mystified how God distributes that thing called Luck. I have seen people die. I have been with some who were dying, but I have never seen a person die, then recover before. Perhaps he was close to God in his life, if not he should be now.

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#Still #writephoto

An amazing write

The Light Behind the Story

spring Photo Credit: Sue Vincent


The body, subject to the mind,

reaches for more, grabbing at an illusion

never realized. It seeks to be sustained by want

collecting treasures to adorn it.

False garments of the self dim the light inside.

The body, subject to the heart,

becomes a vessel of love.

Its hands, stilled from grasping,

hold only peace, and its face

reflects the light of the sun

free to move through its skin

igniting the world around it

like a beacon of hope

For Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt, #still

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I Love My Blogger Group

A ‘Gap’ Closer

Old Things R New

On the Porch

Onisha Ellis

Life has been a combination of hectic and slow this past two weeks. My husband’s breathing and energy levels have swung wildly, somedays hour by hour. I am accustomed to this but it does unsettle me.

On a positive note, Valentine’s day our blogger group met for our annual dinner and everyone was able to attend! We welcomed Janet’s husband to the group. I think he is a keeper. We had so much fun talking and catching up on everyone’s lives. To my delight I learned that Bill Lites will be taking a Fall journey into Canada and may possibly be in Victoria, BC, Canada when we will be there.

Louise Gibson our poet emeritus turned 91 years old on February 13 and she was not able to be with us but her two daughters were. At 91 Louise still has a lot to say…

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I was agonising over my latest visit to the hospital thinking of all the bad stories I’d heard about people with similar problems and how they were affected after having catheters removed. So, when I was discharged yesterday after a successful removal of that sitting have my first coffee in three days, waiting for a cab home, I telephone the consultant’s secretary to thank her for putting up with me regularly on the phone to chase appointments, adding my thanks for the efficient way the consultant handled my problems, asking her to pass them on.
I next called the unit where the catheter and stent were removed. I was not rude to the four clinicians in the room when I entered but equally, I was not shy in putting forward exactly how I felt being there in words leaving them in no doubt as to my position. When they finished I thank them, but with the coffee warming my throat I thought I perhaps another thank you might not go amiss.
But the one person I needed to thank the most did not have a phone line connection. I had to thank Him silently which I did and I’m still doing it.

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