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Desert dunes, speed boats, extravagant luxury and concrete sand and dust.

¦ dialling in from Umm Suqeim #, Dubai ¦

01:34 UAE, Sunday 28th Feb 2010.

I'm hunched forward in a big L-shaped settee, firm but soft oatmeal fabric, white ceramic tiles beneath my bare feet, mercifully cool against the intense heat and humidity of the night. I'm in a large open plan lounge / dining room. Sliding glass doors to my left open up into a walled garden... a wooden gate leads into an alley formed by high wooden fencing, the alley zig-zags around various properties and ends in a large swimming pool. The house itself is all on one floor. Lots of space. I'm about to go to bed, then up in a handful of hours to catch a flight back to the UK.

Dubai is a bizarre and yet amazing location. I'll certainly come back. I could even live / work out here for a couple years if the direction of my life went that way.

Jo and I travelled out there to see the place, and were looked after by Jo's very lovely and wealthy friends H & C; a married couple in their mid-thirties who have climbed above the middle-rungs in international corporate world.

Dubai...

Vast size. Far beyond anything I'd ever imagined. Looking at the spare tourist map H & C gave us when we arrived, I figured the distance their house to the Creek was only three or four miles. An hour's walk max? Wrong. It was a staggering straight line road 15 miles long.

It's a playground for the wealthy, and for architects and structural engineers.

Building sites and luxury palace's co-existing within the vast plains of reclaimed desert; there are vast tracts where ground is a uniform grey brown of crushed concrete, dust and sand, abruptly bordered by lush green fauna or vibrant pink flora, deliberately placed there and kept alive by the myriad of thin black water tubes that bring life into the harsh ground.

Dubai hasn't even entered spring at the temperatures were already up to 33c.

And then there are well-developed and long established (couple years) locations, where the building site vibe has faded and rendering has dried and the staff and servants and guests are in full swing, and it's all magical and impressive.

Scratch below the surface though, and you hear many stories of random blisters of shoddy quality or bad workmanship appearing in even the best places.

This shouldn't spoil your fun. Rather, you should accept it as part of the character of the place and allow those moments to amuse you.

It's gone through an incredible spurt of rapid expansion. Dubai should be applauded for it's impressive enthusiasm and passion for creating the biggest and the best of everything. In that rapid upward and outward surge, small blisters of crap are going to form. It's inevitable whenever humans are involved.

Day 1

Arrived late at night after 7 hour flight. Collected by H & C and driven to their villa. Recent sandstorms had obscured much of the city-scape view with dust in the air.

Day 2

Woken by the dawn prayers of nearby mosques.

H & C head out to work. Jo and I are left to own devices.

We throw on some clothes, lock up the villa and head out into unfamiliar terrain. Yesterday we were in Bristol and 2c.

We've decided we're going to do the "Big Bus Company" tour of the city, get our bearings. We walk to Jumeirah Beach Road and end up getting taxi to the nearest bus-stop because the distances are so incredibly vast.

Bus Tour is well worth it. Two decks, upper deck open to elements. It took us 8 hours, including 1 hour on a Dhow cruise along the creek, to do the whole circuit... almost no time exploring away from the bus (we figured that would happen when H & C took us out). You do not get to see much culture by European standards (not a snobby statement, just a fact, Dubai's only 25 years old so compare that with the Roman city of Bath in the UK, for example). I had my tunes playing and my eyes open. A lot of blasting along motorways with warm wind roaring over you, or chugging past large building developments, just starting or near completion; again, that impression of concrete in the dust heat, of cranes and cladding... but also the impressive size of it all. The city's delight in its own growth.

On the Dhow boat cruise, don't expect to be glimpsing the kind of archaeological treasures you can be shown on a cruise down the Nile in Egypt. The blaring tour-recording talks about building's built in the 80's and 90's, about a large car park that can hold 2,000 vehicles to relieve pressure on the Souks. It's not enlightening stuff, but it was nice to just cruise up and down and see the city from another angle.

We got back to H & C's place around 7pm. The sun had set. Out in the wall garden, C had set up a BBQ and oil lamps fluttered, throwing off a rich yellow light. We ate and drank and told stories. We listened to final prayers from the mosques. Stayed up late indoors before going to bed.

Day 3

Woken by the dawn prayers of nearby mosques.

Friday / Saturday is the weekend for international ex-pats in Dubai.

H & C prepared breakfast outside in the walled garden. Water melon, toast and bacon sarnies. Mmmmm :o)

C had wanted to take us out in his boat, but Dubai coast guard has a very strict policy: you must get authorisation on the day you want to go out, by faxing a form from marina to coast guard office, and then wait, for somebody to fax the form back with the appropriate stamp. Sometimes the fax just never comes back. Sometimes the marina tells you that the coast guard isn't letting anyone out that day. It doesn't matter how big or small your boat is, how rich you are. If the coast guard catch you out without the stamped faxed form, they can confiscate your boat.

Today was a nobody allowed out day.

We grabbed some supplies and walked five minutes to the vast beach front. Hazy view of the Burj Al Arab hotel nearby. A sandstorm during the night had kicked up a lot of dust into the air, so all other high landmarks were hidden for now. Staggeringly beautiful beach. Crystal green waters.

Spent a few hours splashing around, swimming out to a large sandbank, lounging around in the sun.

Then we clambered into C's Range Rover and went for a drive and a tour. Vast 6 lane motorways where traffic interweaves with random insanity... almost as crazy as Cairo. A lot of hard acceleration and heavy breaking.

Drive to one of the new palms under construction. Utterly huge development. Jaw dropping tracts of deserted land that is a man made island in the Arabian Gulf. Concrete. Dust. Cranes. Half finished palaces and giant hotels. No people.

Then we blast out of the city and head into the open desert.

C turns off the strip of black top and takes us off-road in his Range Rover.

We stop. Get out. I pull off my sandals and run up a dune in my bare feet. It's beautiful, mysterious and potentially deadly. Our trust and faith is in the machine that will take us back out of here.

The sun starts to set.

We drive back as night falls upon the city.

Head to Mina a'Salam for dinner. It's a hotel that's more like some extravagant creation of a medieval Arabian fortress / palace. Lots of soft twinkling lights. £30 for four drinks. A view of the sail, the Burj Al Arab hotel with its helipad jutting proudly out to sea. To reach the restaurant we take a quick little boat, one of many, that runs guests between various parts of the hotel complex through it's internal man-made waterways. Very quaint. At the restaurant we're escorted to our table, one of a handful on wooden decking overlooking the beach.. white sands and black glassy water gleaming in the near-full moonlight overhead.

A great meal, shame about the unusual service. Our waiter was a very short, very dark-skinned Sri-lanken who I dubbed Boris Karlof, because of his deep baritone voice, monosyllabic way of speaking, and weirdly intense glaring eye contact.

Day 4

Woken by the dawn prayers of nearby mosques.

A lazy breakfast. Marmite on toast, fruit smoothies and water melon, sitting out in the walled enclosure of the garden.

H & C take us to one of the marinas and take us out on their twin engine speed boat. The weather turns weird however. There's a promise of rain in the air, the sky turns misty, the horizon vanishes. C gives me the helm and I grin like a kid in a candy store as I gun this thing past 4,000 rpm, trim the engines a little and carve great sweeping arcs into the Gulf of Arabia.We head into the bays formed by the vast development of a new palm area… one of the gargantuan man-made islands. Nobody around. Eerie hazy sky merging with grey brown dust and concrete landscape. It was like something out of Yellow Dawn. Very evocative.

In fact, Dubai has had a massive influence on me for my writing within the Yellow Dawn world. Dubai is like the early days of New Tokyo, perhaps.

That night we head out to the Atlantis. A monstrosity of a hotel perched on the edge of the original palm... a man-made island nosing far out into the gulf. A round of drinks. And then the heavens open. We wait a while for the rain to ease up a little. The bar is out on its own. To get back to our car we have to cross a badly lit pleasure area of swimming pool and sun loungers, go through the main hotel and out the far side. I come outside the bar, trot down a couple of steps to the ground area that is reflecting the moonlight back as if it's a layer of water. Two steps down and I'm ankle deep. JESUS! I yelp and jump back, to much laughter from the others. I'm convinced I've been a dumb-ass and tried walking into the swimming pool. But no. In the half hour of rain, the Atlantis has started to sink. We reach the hotel and discover the lower floors have started to flood. C and I take off our boots and wade back through the hotel with bare feet and trousers rolled up, much to the chagrin of hotel staff who are apologising to everyone we see.

Reaching the car we discover that most of the roads are flooding.

Even off the island, in the city, which doesn't have the storm drains to cope with the deluge, surface water is causing mayhem.

We have dinner at the Royal Meridian, with big discounts because the rain has closed the Arabian restaurant we'd booked into. Instead we have Thai. Probably the best Thai food I've ever eaten in a restaurant. Nuff said. Bloody perfect.

Back home, with damp feet, full bellies and big smiles, we chilled out.

Now everyone's gone to bed and here I am, writing this...

Back home tomorrow, due to get to Bristol around 6pm, and 2c. Brrrrr.

The Rebirth of my social life

¦ dialling in from Sky Bunker ¦

17:13 GMT, Sunday 21st Feb 2010.

Sitting in the warm breeze of life support, wrapped up in Starsky and squinting at my screen through the throb of a receding hangover and the general fug of a non-functioning brain. No writing today.

I'm playing Enigma's first album again, on vinyl. The sun is starting to fade beyond the horizon and the distant rural hills overlooking Bristol. It's been a glorious day; cold, but blazing sunlight.

Another stellar weekend.

As was last weekend... 13th Feb, headed out to the Square lounge, part of Berkley Square hotel, tres up market, tres good vibes. Ant and Annas combined 30th b/day. Everyone dressed up as circus freaks or burlesque ladies. No costume for me: I'd been too deep into writing or frazzled from work intensity during days leading up... but I was able to borrow a really cool hat.

The double-whiskey's flowed and I got a buzz on.

DJ playing classic rave tunes from late 80's and early 90's. I danced my ass off.

Party relocated around 1am to a nearby club: Dojo's... more Techno / Trance, and I'm in there wearing a freaky Gangs of New York hat and handlebar moustache.

Great response from everyone there.

A lot of happy club vibes. A general crowd of familiar faces builds up on the dance floor around me during the night.

Fun city all around.

A girl comes up to me around 6 A.M., taps my arm with a mischievous smirk on her lips and says, "I've pulled then."

She's referring to me.

Hmmm.

I smile and keep on dancing, then walk over to corner of club, grab my jacket off the floor, walk out club into a taxi and head home. Flattered, but not for me.

I get home, strip off sweaty clothes and crawl into bed next to Jo, loving what I have with her.

It's Valentines day.

Later in the morning she wakes me up with breakfast in bed. Eggs cooked with a heart-shaped template... on toast and gallons of tea. What a lady.

Sunday is a write-off regarding doing anything with my brain, but, there's a whole day of Poirot on TV. Bliss city. I lay on sofa and enjoy.

The week is busy. Work is ramping up with project pressures. I'm back into eating Sushi a couple times a week for lunch; not cheap but worth it for the fuel for the brain.

Dog Eat Dog evolves slowly, but I'm finding a groove with it again and very happy with what I'm pushing out.

Doc Toc has been reading the raw draft and says it's my best work to date.

I get a great review of God Seed from Matthias (Mr Vega$).

Read Review

And Edge, my last book, a thriller set in a snowboarding resort starts to spike in sales again, surging ahead of the other novels.

Preview Edge

So, happy days.
Except...

This week has seen my mum settling heavily on my thoughts.

I miss her loads.

Friday night appears almost as if the week has vanished in the blink of my eyes.

Jo's away all weekend and I'm up in the Sky Bunker, laying down the final part of chapter 22... but I'm in the mood for not staying in.

I arrange to meet Doc Toc at the scene of last week's crime: the Square lounge.

Late night drive into town.

A couple pints of lager shandy for me and fun night with the man.

A very late night trip to the Magic Roll to feast on food heaven.

I drive Doc Toc back to his palace and then depart home.

Some Modern Warfare 2, online multiplayer mode.

Then I crawl into bed and sink into deep slumber.

To be woken, before 9 am, by the new guy next door shouting at his girlfriend: Jack and Elspeth, the new characters in Crazy Chronicles - where does the landlord advertise for tenants? I roll over onto my back, inhale a lungful of air and shout SHUT-UUUP!!!

Psycho Jack goes quiet.

I doze, then crawl out of bed and brew tea. Sit in bed for a bit reading a book. Then I'm up and out, driving Rocket into town and settle into my familiar seat at the Arnolfini Cafe. Strong coffee and a pain au chocolat.

2 hours later I've finished chapter 22.

The next chapter has got me excited. I have to write my first Dead City run.

The rest of the day is spent in the Sky Bunker. Then last night arrives. I grab a bus ride into town and feel liberated not having to worry about my car: where to park, limiting consumption.

The Big Chill bar. Off Corn Street. My new favourite place. I get friendly with Chris, the barman. He pours shots of double whisky with European style... fuck the exact measures... whisky overspills and floods my glass. Good man, Chris.

I'm meeting with Dan B. Like Ant / Anna, he collects intelligent good natured people. A crowd gathers at our table and its fun and smiles all round. The bar starts to heave. I get chatting with a lovely Kiwi bloke called Matt; grabbed his number so will hopefully keep in touch.

We depart the bar and everything is a swirl of movement, noise, and grins. A lot of whisky in my system. We end up heading to a house party. During the walk I turn round and find a solitary girl behind us, strolling along with a pint in her hand. Random character. I say hello and she ends up joining the gang and the party.

There's a bottle filled with what looks like luminous green fluid: Absinthe. 80%. Say goodbye.

I wake up in daylight on a random sofa, blankets and sleeping bags draped over me.

I depart and walk to Boston Tea Party and treat myself to scrambled eggs on toast with salmon and a massive mug of tea.

The sun is out and it's a beautiful day.

I decide to walk back home.

It's 5 miles.

Tunes come on my headphones that are from the period of mum's death and the subsequent days.

I get depressed and misty eyed.

Near the end of the walk I have to hike up a massive hill. I try to take a short cut and enter a labyrinth of streets... and actually get lost and totally disoriented. The lingering Absinthe and whisky in my system isn't helping me. I end up asking an old granny putting her bins out for directions to the main road. I find the main and discover I'm almost opposite my house. Surreal.

The house feels alien. I feel glum and my mind keeps conjuring images of mum... I miss her. And I suddenly miss the house, and Jesmond, and I want to be there. And at some point this year it'll be sold, and it'll be gone.

Hot bath and mugs of tea dispel my feeling of gloom.

Then I resume my love affair with driving the silver Rocket... hood down... Russian tank hat on... Theory of a Dead Man and 30 Seconds to Mars blasting out.

I drive and drive and feel good. The air is freezing but the hat keeps me snug. The sun is hot on my skin.

Stopping for a coffee with Doc Toc the lack of movement catches up on me and I crumple into a hangover.

So now I'm home, taking it easy. But there are new names and numbers in my phone; new contacts and people to meet; new stories to hear and more laughs ahead.

I can still write and make progress with the new novel, but no longer at the expense of my social life.

Crazy Chronicles RELOADED – The Wolfman – Dog Eat Dog 86,000 words

¦ dialling in from Sky Bunker ¦

19:27 GMT, Saturday 13th Feb 2010.

Buzzing on coffee and bopping up and down in my chair to the tunes thumping through the big speakers mounted either corner of my desk. Currently listening to : "Vertical" by Vibrasphere, from their feking mind-expanding feet pounding arm waving album called "Exploring the Tributaries".

Life support is on, blowing hot air across my bare legs. I'm wrapped in Starsky and big wool Norwegian socks, skin all pink and steaming since I just climbed out from a hot bath. Hair. growing long and shaggy again is damp against my skull. My handlebar moustache is still in place... and continues to generate a lot of positive feedback (surreal).

Talking of surreal. New neighbours have moved into the house next door; the house was bought around same time Jo and I bought ours, a semi detached. The owner carved it up into upstairs / downstairs flats. Downstairs we never hear. Upstairs... well, some of you will recall the nutcase who shared his nazi / military / ufo rantings with us by shouting them through the wall. He vanished many months ago. It's been silence since. Then, a week ago, a young couple move in and ... several mornings now I've lain in bed with my first mug of tea hearing the bloke (tall, gangly fuckhead with an irritating whiney voice that never stops to take a breath) yelling about something.

This morning, Saturday, not long gone 8 a.m. he kicks off again. I tell Jo to protect her ears. She grins and does so. I yell at the top of my voice, "Blah blah blah!"

I hear him react, I hear him yelling back at me coming closer to the wall, outraged...

"BLAH BLAH BLAH" I continue, louder.

He screams something.

I respond with an aria like baritone, something like from the Walls Ice Cream advert, "Just one corneto" but without any words. (YouTube for Corneto, http://tinyurl.com/yb36klo)

He falls silent.

So....
It's been an indulgent day. I cooked a big pan of bacon in the oven this morning and put together so divine tasting sarnies... a little cheddar cheese, a little French mustard. Mmm, mmm. Then coffee from the steel octagonal coffee god. Then upstairs into the sky bunker to work on Dog Eat Dog.

I'm at Tappan Zee bridge; an infection free zone, north of the living city of New York. The character is anxious about being this close to the dead zone.

So I do post-apocalyptic narrative for the morning, then jump into my silver rocket, pull down the hood despite the grey chilly day, bang on "30 Seconds to Mars" the MP3 player, pull on my Russian tank hat, and hurtle into town with a grin stitched across my face.

Arnolfini Cafe.

More coffee.

More Dog Eat Dog. I hit 86,000 words. Chapter 22 is going to be a bit of a beast.

Then rendezvous with Doc Toc, go see Wolfman. Great flick. Amazing how much Benicio Del Torror resembles Lon Chaney Jr; I've loved the George Waggner version since first seeing a ton of these b/w horror flicks in my early teens. The writers on this version have done a great job of keeping the spirit of the original film whilst adding in some brutal and very dark twists.

Back home and here I am, bopping in my chair to Vibrasphere, about to get ready for a night out on the tiles. Been too long since I've gotten dolled up and into a party groove. I'm getting flashbacks to mid-20's and that pit-of-the-stomach flutter of anticipation about what the night ahead might hold.

Mexican hangover-again, crap Spook Country, Wordpress and vBulletin

¦ dialling in from Sky Bunker ¦

11:02 GMT, Sunday 7th Feb 2010. Cold grey misty light flooding into the sloping room through the glass canopy behind me. Enigma’s first album is playing on the turntable below my desk; vinyl, I can hear the needle scratching through a groove that is 20 years old now.

Had to turn it down a little, though. My head’s feeling somewhat sensitive.

The Mexican vibe has continued from last weekend when Sharky was over here, visiting from Spain with his bottle of lethal Tequila. Jo’s twin sister stayed with us last night, and we found we had some triple sec left… so made a quick trip to shops for another bottle of Tequila and lemon juice. I crushed salt, coated the rim of broad glasses, and mixed up some margaritas. Just as fatal as last weekend. Within two sips I was gibbering and laughing along with my girlfriend and her twin.

Also cooked up a DAMN fine chilli.

They crashed before midnight. I stayed up until 3 A.M. playing Mordern Warfare 2. So I think today’s fluffy head is a combo of too much booze, too little sleep, and too much PS-Fekking-3.

It’s been an indulgent weekend. Based purely doing only what I want to do.

DocToc stayed over Friday night after a city centre rendezvous with James Catholic Funboy. Drove back home that night in rocket with hood down, DocToc grinning like a shark at a car load of girls that pulled up next to us as some lights. I had my Russian tank gunner hat on, with floppy furry ears, and my handlebar moustache draped above my pout. Lights turned green. I floored it. Can’t believe how quick this car is.

Saturday morning took DocToc back into town and had rendezvous with Nice Guy Tony. Too much coffee and only a chocolate croissant for breakfast left me with the shakes. I got home and failed to settle into a comfortable writing groove… only a few lines, and too much PS3 (perhaps). But like I said, the weekend is about doing what I want to do, so I make no apologies for putting my life in front of my book.

It’s been an intense week at work: project echo. Migrating a bunch of commercial / editorially driven websites from a disparate mix of platforms, onto one standard: Wordpress. Spent many months doing requirements capture, then devs built up a vanilla version with tons of cool functionality, sans any branding; then reviewing with stakeholders and project board, getting sign-off. Early January we took a copy of the vanilla code base and began applying it to the first in my list of sites to migrate (17 in total). This means getting new designs (created by web design team, or print art editors going through a steep learning curve for web); skinning the vanilla version, migrating data, testing, and launching. We’re also migrating away from phpBB forums to vBulletin; and have written a single sign-on plug-in, allowing users access to the forum, to comment on the site, and request newsletters, all with one registration form. Some sites will be fresh vBulletin installs; others will require data migration. Phew! We successfully launched the first site last Wednesday. Almost flawless. Very pleased.

And each editorial team that gets given “the keys to the new cms” always seem to go gaga and fall in love with the simplicity, power and ease of adding content to their new site. So, Wordpress works for me as a commercially viable platform.

That night Game Breaker Hagen (GBH) came round with a surprise for me. A proper waffle pan from Norway. Holyyyyyyy Shiiiiiiiit! Fantastic. We spent the night cooking up authentic Norwegian waffles, to the point where you could have rolled us out of the house and down the street. Ugh. Too many. But just divine.

So I bought “Spook Country” by William Gibson. What a heap of crap. What’s happened to William Gibson? He used to be so good. I had to re-read the first page about 6 times, and then struggled to get through the first chapter without yawning: in the end I thought, “life’s too short” and chucked it away.

I’ve still got my handlebar moustache. Really liking it: I’ll post a picture when I find time.

Ooooh, the sun’s just poked its head out. I might go for a spin in Rocket, hood down, clear the tequila fluff from my brain.

Book of Eli, MW2, 30 Seconds to Mars, Project Echo, Uncharted 2... my handlebar moustache

It’s been a good week.

I’d gone to Newcastle but came back early, after discovering the Jesmond bubble no longer existed. The privilege of jumping on an early flight cost me £70 but it was worth it. Why linger in a place when you’re unhappy. Life’s too short. So I got back to Bristol Saturday evening and had Cosy Castle to myself for the rest of the weekend. This consisted of me playing Modern Warfare 2, writing Dog Eat Dog and going for zoomy drives in my silver rocket.

Kelvin arrived from Spain on Monday.

He’s the perfect house guest. So a week flashes past. Busy days at work with lots going on, generating a sense of purpose and professional pleasure (Project Echo); my writing crammed into a small window in the morning before starting, lunchtime and a little at night. Then long evenings at home with Jo and Kelvin. I built a log fire every night. We went to cinema with Doc Toc on a Monday night: saw the incredible film THE BOOK OF ELI. Beautiful soundtrack, shaped by some of the musical minds behind NIN; wonderful cinema photography and visual metaphors. A lot of late nights playing Modern Warfare 2.

I’ve got two new soundtracks in my world.

“Scars & Souvenirs” album by Theory of a Deadman. This is my weekend in Hayling Island and the brilliant drive back through winter sun kissed rural landscape.

“This is War” album by 30 Seconds to Mars. This is Dog Eat Dog at the tail end of New Tokyo and also the tracks playing on my MP3 player when I headed up to Newcastle for my bum weekend.

The weekend arrived.

Friday night was Mexican night. Rather appropriately I’ve acquired a thick handlebar moustache. When I shaved my beard off mid-week, I left the thing as a joke… when downstairs to creep out Jo and she went, “Wow, I love it.” Hmmm, right… I wasn’t expecting that. Kelvin brought with him a litre of high quality tequila from Spain. I bought triple sec and lemon juice. We got a fire going. I made a jug. After the first two sips we were all wankered. Hilarious. By the end of the night we’d gone through a litre of tequila.

Amazingly, woke up Saturday without a hangover. Just a cotton-wool wrapped brain and a feeling of having had a good time. Early morning drive to hang out with Vega$ at his Hazmat labs in Bath… me driving in cold winter sun with the hood down.

Saturday night was Jules party. I wasn’t going to drink but there was a good crowd there and the gin flowed, followed by Jack Daniels.

Sunday didn’t leave the house. Build up the log fire and had the front room ultra toasty. We made food food food, guzzled gallons of tea and watched Poirot all day. I also started playing Uncharted 2: Among Thieves.

Sunday was also the last day of the £6 GBP discount on Edge. There was a sharp spike in sales after I tweeted as such, so thanks to everyone who’s bought in.

That’s it.

Happy Sunday

¦ dialling in from Hayling Island ¦

10:38 GMT, Sunday 17th Jan 2010.

It’s only a day since my last entry but feels much longer.

Languid, blissful time here.

Yesterday: Drove to a pub called The Raft, 4 miles along the shore.

Finished Chapter 19 (already finished Ch 20) and now working on reviewing my plan for the rest of the book, as the story is about to go through big change, and the characters thrust in a new direction. The plan I’m currently working to was created back in 2006 / 2007, during two trips I took to South of France (Montpellier/ Perols/ Aigues Mortes). Like any plan, once you engage you discover the need to change things: so this is a good point to pause writing, pause pushing forward, and taking time to check the road map is still relevant.

Late yesterday afternoon I took a walk on beach in rain with Pete. Went much further than he’s ever been before: this island is where Pete grew up since a small child. As we walked the rain stopped and was replaced by a magical light: there was not another soul in sight. The atmosphere became ethereal. Pressing on we discovered a wonderful part of the island, very hard to describe, but involved distant coastline half lost in mist, dark smudges and blocky outlines… closer to hand were vast stretches of wet sand and the odd sandbank poking out of shallow waters. A lot of space. A lot of distance.

Pete returned by a different route. I walked back on my own with headphones in, racing the setting sun to get off the beach before dark… incoming tide… stop, turn and look behind me, and then ahead of me, not another soul in sight. Fantastic.

Last night saw the traditional game of Fury of Dracula.

I relished the idea of bed, and being able to go to sleep with window open; which I did, and was serenaded by rolling waves on the shore.

Woke up 7 a.m. today, mug of tea, then dressed and out, walking the same lengthy route in the early sunrise. Golden light. Fire burning in a blue sky, reflecting off gently lapping water.

I texted all the friends I have in my phone book to wish them a happy Sunday… a lovely, divine and genuinely happy moment.

This has been very special trip.

Sountrack to these memories, and to this stage of Dog Eat Dog is “Scars and Souveniers”, by Theory of a Dead Man

I left mid afternoon. Pete was flying up to Newcastle later that night.

My drive back, nosing Rocket into sweeping corners, hugging tight bends and blasting along empty straights of the A36, a brilliant rural road cutting across SW England. I had the hood down for most of the way; I was wearing my snow jacket with a snood tight against my neck, and a Russian tank hat with thick fur trim… the “ears” flapping up and down with the rush of air, probably making me look like some kind of demented dog with a human face.

Having spent a lot of the past two weeks reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and especially today with such brilliant sunlight flooding the landscape… I felt as though I was chasing the sunset like the heroes at the end of the story.

Getting home I discovered my right hand was almost frozen into place around the steering wheel: I lost all sensation in it for half an hour. Whoops. But I spent most of the drive with a massive grin carving my face, what was visible within the thick fur of the hat and my big golden sunglasses.

Blissful moments in time.

A weekend writing by the sea

¦ dialling in from Hayling Island ¦

09:13 GMT, Saturday 16th Jan 2010. I’m sitting at a round table in the heart of a small lounge. The wall ahead of me is dominated by a window that looks out onto a ridge of shingle, beyond which is the vast expanse of the sea…grey and angry and throwing out whips of white foam. No lights are on and the morning is the colour of blue-grey ash, matching the colour of the dead light that uniformly fills the horizon stretching out in front of me, above the sea.

This is Hayling Island, on the south coast of England. I’m with Pete, my friend and the neighbour of my parent’s house up in Newcastle. This house belonged to his recently deceased father.

I’ve come here to write, acting upon Pete’s invitation.

The snow has finally melted from the roads.

Drove here yesterday. For some reason, despite having Rocket for 6 months now, it’s the first time I’ve been on a long journey on my own. Great feeling of freedom, and the anticipation of new things. I took the A36. Almost no traffic. Good speed along winding blacktop, clear of snow and ice, through rural landscape that was mostly still locked in the grip of chill white.

As I neared Hayling, the freezing fog patches and grey skies cleared to make room for a golden sunset. After I arrived there was time for Pete and I to hurry onto the shingle beach and stroll a while before dark.

Then Pete cooked up a feast, a rack of lamb each, thick cut steak and roast potatoes with onions cooked in stock. I worked on my laptop for a while but after the meal we just settled down with glasses of wine and relaxed. A game of “Fury of Dracula” of course; I brought my copy down from Bristol.

The room Pete gave me overlooked the sea. I cranked open the window and fell asleep to the pounding of the surf and the wash hissing across shingle.

Then a storm came in, and thankfully blew the window shut… I was woken by howling wind and rain slamming against the glass. I rolled up, smiling in the snug heat of the duvet and drifted off again.

Perfect.

This morning I was up at dark; brewed a coffee and sat in my room watching the sky lighten to the colour of ash.

Some reading of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

And now to start my day of writing.

Reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula by thunderous firelight

¦ dialling in from Sky Bunker ¦

19:19GMT, Tuesday 12th Jan 2009. Sat in glow of one tablelamp. Snow is swirling beyond the glass canopy behind me… it’s freezing out there, bitter winds and a nasty wet snow which may, or may not lie. I’m playing a vinyl album by Enigma, their first release from 1990. Lovely.

Today was my first day feeling normal.

It was also the first day I managed to dig my car out to get to work since all this snow began a week ago; up to now I’ve been relying on the utterly crap First Bus service, or simply not able to get to Bath at all.

Really good day at work today. Back into the swing of things and less of me shuffling around in a sort of numb daze.

Got home tonight just as fresh snow began falling. I lit a fire in the front room, turned the lights off; kept the TV off, and got back to the book I’ve been reading since New Years Eve, at the fabulous hotel by the sea in Devon…. Dracula, by Bram Stoker. I’ve never actually read the story, only fed from the smorgasbord of film and TV adaptions…

Wow! The book is incredible.

So tonight, I sat cross legged in the dark room, leant slightly forward so as to catch the blazing firelight in the open pages before me. I had the vent open full throttle so create a bed of hot embers so the thing was roaring, thunderous, blissful…

All that was missing was a glass of red wine.

So I’m up in the Sky Bunker now. Not writing tonight. Did plenty this morning before work, and during lunchtime. Yet another difficult chapter – number 19, Carlos wrestling with the demons of his past and a new threat to his liberty in New Tokyo.

Instead, I’ve got a date with Modern Warfare 2. Online, multi-player mode, rendezvousing with Jamieson (who’s I London) at 8pm to join a mass arena. Blue-tooth headsets allowing us to talk to each other in real time. Faaaantastic.

Did the very same thing last night, with Vega$ joining in. A three-way mash up with full voice capability. I’m loving this technology.

Very much getting back into early Enigma. I found out that Sandra Ann Lauer was the female voice. You can find her page here:
Sandra Ann Lauer Fan Page

Dog Eat Dog 72,000 words

¦ dialling in from Sky Bunker ¦

19:28 GMT, Thursday, 7th Jan 2010.

Thursday already. Where has this week gone?

Monday was first day back at work after being off 2 months. Compassionate leave. A little bit of a bumpy re-entry but fundamentally fine. I work with good people. A positive crowd and a lot of love.

Monday night saw me freak out a little at the fact I'm back to squeezing all the Me-Time into tiny bundles of a couple hours either side of the work day.

I was still living in Jesmond Bubble mode. Being able to stroll up to St Georges road during the mid-morning. Being free.

Wednesday morning woke up to 20 cm of snow. The city ground to a halt. Even the buses stopped. No way to get to work for Jo or I. I trudged to the local garage and bought 10KG of smokeless fuel and two sacks of logs. Got the fire going in the lounge and settled into alternating between watching Poirot, playing PS3 or spending 45 minute slots upstairs writing Dog Eat Dog.

I'm 72,000 words in now. Onto Chapter 20 after finally nailing that bloody Ch18... however I have to come back and write Ch 19.... I skipped it because it's a Carlos Revira scene and I'm currently into the mind state of Mikhail Drobna. I find it easier to write a couple chapters within one mind state, and then go back, rather than chop and change between mind states each chapter... it takes a lot of mental energy to move between these two characters. Still loving them though.

I popped outside and watched a car coming slowly but persistently down hill. Bloke behind wheel had window down. He looked at me and said, I've got my brakes on. I looked at his wheels are saw they weren't turning. The whole car was just sliding out of control.

I took a 15 minute power nap. I tried to listen to Fungi From Yuggoth audio (Lovecraftian prose accompanied by eerie sountrack) and was thrown into a state of intense reverie: sitting in my old bedroom in Jesmond, listening to this same thing, gazing at eerie sunlight flooding through the forest of the Dene…. I wished I could be back there.

I feel like an automaton. I’m not myself right now. I’m missing a big chunk of me.

Thursday, it’s stopped snowing but now the temperatures are dipping deep into the minus figures. I didn’t want to risk Rocket on the icy roads. Took the bus to Bath. It turned up 50 minutes late. I was frozen to the pavement, almost.

A New Year, A New Decade

¦ dialling in from Sky Bunker ¦

12:27 GMT, Saturday 2nd January 2010. I'm sitting in the dusty, cluttered chamber of the Sky Bunker, with its cracked roof a reminder of the storms that hit the house whilst I've been away. Enigma's first album from 1990 is on the record player, some old vinyl for nostalgia.

I saw the new decade in with Jo and a group of wealthy strangers, holding flutes of champagne in the cinema room of a very eccentric and swanky hotel, in Devon. The big screen was showing footage broadcast from celebrations in London. We counted down to midnight and then everyone congratulated each other. It was excellent.

This experience was a surprise for me arranged by Jo. She didn't want me coming back from Newcastle and going into a nosedive. So the day after I got back, we loaded up my car and drove from Bristol to Devon. The hotel's run by the same family that own and run Glencott House in Wells. It's only been operating for three months, so a few creaky aspects to their operation but overall the experience was fantastic. The hotel is on Exmoor - very Hound of the Baskervilles - and was so close to the sea you could lean out your window and touch it. After midnight I went outside in the sub-zero chill, and stood supping the remains my champagne whilst gazing at a new full moon reflecting off the glassy black water.

New Year's Day. We got up late. I had a very leisurely breakfast with fresh orange and coffee, and worked on notes for the final part of chapter 18... this has been a very difficult piece of writing. Jo surfaced and we went for a walk along miles of pebble beach. Then back to the hotel for a final coffee (on the house), before wending our way back to Bristol in Rocket. The day was glorious. Clear blue sky and golden sunshine, with the chill air biting your face. Driving Rocket along the country roads of Devon was a pleasure unto itself. We stopped at the tiny hamlet of Bossington, walked up to a ruined coastal house that looked like something from The Shipping News; and then went to the medieval town of Dunster; walked to the rook-tower; sausages with garlic potatoes in a quaint English country pub.

Then home.

Hmm, home. Not so quick. My brain is still playing catch-up with all the time I'd had to spend in Newcastle. The house here in Bristol is a slightly alien thing. Lying in the bath I stared at two objects mum bought for me this summer, when I took her to Cornwall before she died. Sadness.

And today. I'm missing Jesmond. The house. The streets. The people.

But I just grit my teeth and accept that this is where I've built my life. I belong here now.

And yet, a little voice in my head says, "Surely there is more than this..."

Something better?

I've seen two excellent movies in the past few days. Avatar, whilst in Newcastle, with Pete and family; and then Holmes, with Jo, last night. A lot of people have slated Avatar for a weak story. I found it thoroughly entertaining. And I was totally immersed in the world they created on-screen. As for Holmes, I could go and see that again this instant. Great characters, fantastic musical score, very Cthulhu by Gaslight.

A ceremonial burning

¦ dialling in from Jesus Mound ¦

15:56 GMT Tuesday 29th December 2009. I'm sitting at the oak refectory table. A few occasional lamps cast a warm glow in small areas of this cavernous room. A log fire is blazing in the corner, throwing out a blanket of heat. Outside, the final glimmer of light is oozing through the dense grey clouds overhead. Freezing rain is falling on the now solid remains of snow that is almost two weeks old. I can't recall a winter like it. The temperature hasn't risen above zero in days. The roads and streets are treacherous, pavements are unending strips of glassy ice. The council have gritted the main roads but nobody has bothered to clear their own streets or sidewalks: another symptom of the selfish, fuck everyone else generation.

I've barely walked anywhere for the time I've been here. No marching around Jesmond on my 4 mile nostalgia circuit. No hikes into town. Too damn slippery.

This is my last full day here. I fly back to Bristol tomorrow afternoon.

End of an era.

I've been counting the days since I got here. I don't feel sad, just aware of the taught emotional strings. It'll hit me when I'm gone from here. A lot of anger and tears no doubt.

Today I was up early as usual, two mugs of tea whilst reclining on the sofa bed in dad's old room... enjoying the darkness of the morning and watching shite TV.

Then up and out to my local cafe. Still on chapter 18. Now 68,000 words in.

Tonight Pete and I burn the physical reminder of what has occurred here.

Nearly two months ago now. It was weekend I watched my mum dying. I stepped out to help Pete build a huge bonfire in his back garden as per tradition... old doors, shelving units, tree limbs and skirting boards, scavenged from the ubiquitous skips that dot the streets around here as another wave of new owners move in and upgrade the interiors, gutting the previous contents. Rich pickings for our bonfire.

The bonfire was never lit.

My mum's condition deteriorated dramatically that day. Pete discovered his dad was dead.

The bonfire has remained erect and intact all these weeks, clearly visible every time I walked between our two houses via the decking at the back, an effigy of that weekend and what it represents; first soaked by torrential rain and now more recently locked in ice and painted white by frost.

Tonight is my last night here before everything changes. Tonight we plan to burn the fekking thing.

Last night was -4c. I stood outside with a T-shirt and thin jumper, gazing at beautiful stars gleaming in a pure indigo night sky, and savouring the brightness of the moonlight casting the bare limbs and fingers of all the trees around me into inky silhouette. My ears began to burn with the cold. Then I started to shiver uncontrollably. I stuck it out, grinning in grim enjoyment. Tonight will be just as cold...and getting close to a full moon, making the white frost look fabulous and eerie under those cold twinkling stars.

Tonight: a litre of good whisky and several litres of diesel fuel. Mwahaa *mischievous smile* If we manage to avoid drunkenly blowing ourselves into heaven I think it'll be a pretty damn good affair. Oh, anybody involved in Health & Safety industry out there is welcome to climb on and scream like a banshee as their flesh crispens, burns, splits with melting bodily fats and ignites in its own thermal furore.

I'll raise a toast.

To the dead and dying:

May they rest in peace and have the comfort of floating in the calm seas of eternal bliss.

To the end of an era.

And to the bright prospects that cling to the underside of every dark horizon. Jewels, that drop into the palm of your hand when you least expect and when the universe deems it right.

I bow before you now, dear reader of this blog, a close-mouthed smile curving my lips, and I tip a bottle of whisky in your direction, and raise an eyebrow before taking a long and brain numbing swig.

To the end of an era.

EDIT:
01:52 GMT, wow, what a night. The bonfire was awesome to the extreme. I feel like Richard Dreyfuss after being in Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind... my face is red, as is much of my body. Can't work out if it's from the extreme cold or extreme heat or combination of both. I stripped naked. Yep. Getting hot from the growing mass of the bonfire I took off my snow jacket and then my jumper. Pete grinned and said "I dare you to get naked." Oh dear. I'm never one to back down from a dare. So, naked I became. Not sure his 17 year old daughter was terribly impressed but I had a blast, standing there, feet going numb in the snow and ice, body blasted by heat waves radiating from the intense bonfire, washed in cold starlight from above.

Spent 3 hours with the bonfire. Mostly dressed. Back inside Pete's house we played Fury of Dracular (Pete won!) then watched Bladerunner - Director's Cut, and drank more whisky.

It's been a great final night, a great END to the era. Am sure I'll feel fucked up, confused and upset in a few days but right now... it's all gooooood.

The Final Christmas

¦ dialling in from Jesus Mound ¦

14:06 GMT, Saturday 26th December 2009. I say it's Saturday but it really could be any day and I wouldn't know the difference. A combination of the natural breakdown of normal time-keeping during the Christmas period and a result of being here for nearly two months now.

I've just had my last Christmas in the house I grew up in and that has been a central touchstone in my life since the age of 9 years old. My parents are now dead. I'm 39 and about to enter a new year, a new phase, a new paradigm.

Although I'm wary of rawness of the emotional scars I may be carrying, I'm excited for the future; in the words of Jim Morgan; "...is a mixture of tradition and innovation - so revere the old ways and welcome the new ones."

Christmas was as wonderful as I could have hoped for, considering the circumstances.

Jo and Kelvin were here for almost a week, plenty of time for us to retrace the contours of traditions laid down over the past 8 years: they've been coming up every year for a Norwegian Christmas since December 2001. There was the ubiquitous visit to Tynemouth, to walk the pier and munch the best fish and chips in the world from Marshalls. For Kelvin this was a goodbye. There's no longer any reason for him to come back here. For me, it was awareness of the end of an era.

I'll still be doing Tynemouth and the Pier when I come back to Newcastle over the next few months in the final phase of wrapping up the house to sell, or just rent (still not sure). So my final goodbye to Newcastle is still a little way off.

There were walks in the Dene. There was Modern Warfare II on PS3. There was Fury of Dracula. There was the languid quality of the passage of time whilst relaxing and savouring these moments together.

And the lovely interchange of people between the two houses, here and the family next door, with the open gap in the boundary between both back gardens, we can step outside, cross the decking and enter the other house through the back doors. This is a redolent memory of life here, since I came up in 2006, staying for 3 months... and my mother and I "found" each other again.

One night, alone, I opened a bottle of 1992 Oreghegy in an act of nostalgia. It's been here in this house, all these years, matching the 17 years since I moved to Bristol... it was a golden colour, utterly divine on the taste buds although not as amazing as the 1979 Muskat I opened last Christmas...that was 30 years of history in a bottle.

We celebrate Christmas Eve, rather than the English Christmas Day.

Just before 4pm my sister and I went upstairs to mum's bedroom and "brought mum downstairs". We placed her urn on her favourite armchair, wrapped in her favourite scarf and the green cardigan she wore on her final days, and placed a Santa hat on her head... the one we used to share amongst us before opening the presents one at a time.

At 4pm (one hour behind Norway) we tuned into Norwegian radio and listened to the bells ringing, something mum did every Christmas stretching back into our childhoods. With tears streaming down our faces, we stood up, raised glasses to the mum in her chair, made a toast and drank and remembered.

My sister and her partner cooked up an absolute feast. Truly spectacular.

6 A.M. Christmas Day Jo and Kelvin left to spend Christmas with their families, back in the South West.

That was yesterday.

So now it's Boxing Day, I'm sat at the Oak Refectory table. Mug of strong coffee. Pale sunlight reflecting off thick icy snow that's been lying around for over a week now. I'm playing one of mum's CD's, by the Oslo Gospel Choir - Det skjedde i de dager. It's become the soundtrack to this final Christmas. It's evokes profound memories of the two years I spent Christmas in Norway (1981 and 1982) when I was 11 and 12... two of the most magical times in my life, ever, and so carries with it a deep sense of FAMILY, of what I've lost and also what I still have and belong to.

It's the kind of CD that'll rip my heart when I next play it, when I'm long gone from here.

I wonder where I'll be next Christmas. Everything will be different and new.

I've got four days left here before I return to Bristol, and my phasing back in to reality.

I'm going to watch Sherlock Holmes Hound of the Baskervilles, on TV, and Poirot of course.

I'm going to tinker with the new design of my website, and work on the new novel Dog Eat Dog. If you've not caught a sneak preview of the first chapters of the new book, you can do so here

Quick promo note: I've slashed the price on my last novel, Edge, as part of a promotional campaign, grab it now or before the end of January and you'll save yourself £6 GBP (compared to normal price) preview or buy here

Snow

¦ dialling in from Jesus Mound ¦

08:40 GMT, Friday 18th December 2009. I'm sitting at the oak refectory table in that beautiful blue white light that comes with heavy snow cover. To my left, double french doors and two wide windows look out onto decking, all the hard edges wrapped in snow, beyond the garden and the dense forest...the rich contrast of deep evergreen and white dusting.

Yesterday, I spent two hours dressed in jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, soaking wet, working outside in temperatures just above zero, grimacing with the burning sensation as I had my hands in water a lot of the time. I finally fixed the fekking blocked downpipe from the guttering. Earlier I'd been sat in the cafe, as I've been doing almost every morning now, writing... and suddenly something "rare" and amazing happened. The sun came out. Holy sheeeeit. Sunlight kissed my face and I realised it had finally stopped raining. Now was my first chance in weeks to get out onto the back of the house.

However, Easy Jet charge you £9 GBP to put a bag in the hold of the plane, so I also stick my fingers up at that and travel light, with a carry-on bag. Light, means no heavy or warm clothing, or spare clothing should the one's you have get wet... such as clearing a blocked gutter of mouldy leaves and stagnant water. So... the only option I had was to throw on my gym kit.

Deeply satisfying though. And no sooner had I finished then the snow started; which if it had been any warmer would have bee more fekking rain.

When I realised how much snow had fallen last night, I threw on my walking boots, a thick woolen jumper and my snood and hat and headed out for a stroll through the ancient streets of Jesmond. Tunes on my headphones. A magical moment, coming back into our street, a blizzard of snow coming down, and Dead Can Dance - Within the Realm of a Dying Sun playing spookily... it was a real Cthulhu moment. I stood there for five minutes, squinting against the stinging snow flakes zipping into my eyes and bouncing off the visible part of my face, grinning, hot breath from nose and mouth catching in the snood and keeping my jaw warm.

Coming back inside the house, I felt a pang of sadness that I couldn't communicate the experience to my mum. I glanced up at the open doorway to her room, which was in darkness. But I shrugged off the negative cloak and smiled and brewed up a hot mug of tea, sat down in an armchair and spent some time reading through the proof copy of Pete's first novel.

Oj and Sharky are supposed to be driving up from the South West tomorrow, to spend the next few days here leading up to Christmas, as they have done for the past 7 years. This is the last one we'll ever do together here, like this, in Kosekroken. However there is a forecast for more heavy snow fall so I'm hoping they'll be able to actually make it.

Rain, rain, rain

¦ dialling in from Jesus Mound ¦

13:24 GMT, Wednesday 16th December 2009. It doesn't seem to have stopped raining for a month now. It's a cold, unpleasant sort of rain, not helped by the lack of heating in the house. Can't afford to have it on much at the moment. I've just lit the big cast iron stove and stuffed it with logs (one's I spotted on the side of road whilst out with Pete earlier this year - I recall wondering if mum would ever get a chance to burn them when I was cutting them up). Weather forecasters reckon the temp is going to drop to around zero during daylight hours from Friday... I reckon it's going to be mighty cold in this house with me and little sis living huddled next to the stove.

I'm deep into the modified bubble world of Jesmond. Dealing with each day as it comes. In the mornings I go upstairs to mum's room. Light a candle. Deal with the emotions. "Sound of silence" by Simon and Garfunkel is still in the CD machine from those last days. I play it sometimes when I'm up there. Talk about heart-wrenching.

Then I head out to my cafe and I write. Dog Eat Dog is coming along at a good pace. This morning I finished a Drobna chapter: brilliant character, such good fun to write with.

I spent the last couple of afternoon's rebuilding my website. Stripped out all of the design fluff and got it down to essential information: I'm very pleased with it. Minimal.

Late afternoon there's usually a game of "Fury of Dracula" with Pete and the gang next door. Certainly always one after they finish dinner around 8pm.

So in a way it's life as usual. But of course it's not. It's just a semblance of how it used to be... but that's what I'm here for. To soak up these final moments of the house as it always was... before the big changes come sweeping in at some point next year. It's all psychology but it's working.

My sister and I are closer than ever. I'm cherishing these days alone with her. She's good company.

As part of the website rebuild, I'm getting my mind back into promoting my work.

So, if you've not yet read EDGE, or if you're looking for a new writer to get into, now's your chance to buy this novel at a discount price. Here's the promo blurb:

**********************************************************
December '09 and January '10, promotional discount on EDGE. Save £6 GBP!!!

Normally £16.95 you can now buy EDGE for dramatically discounted £10.95.

Order a copy now

Offer ends January 30th 2010.

EDGE: (novel) One of the world's most successful technology innovators is close to burn out. Desperate to find himself, he goes on a somewhat impulsive trip with a relative stranger to an exclusive snowboarding resort in New Zealand. Instead of rest, he is plunged into a world of spine chilling terror as something monstrous and unseen oozes into our reality from a place beyond time and space.

<<Themes>> Cthulhu Mythos horror/thriller, new Great Old One; Mount Ruapehu, Whakappa; Snowboarding community; development of HTMD technology.

<<Comments>> "The main characters are wonderfully described and you really get under their skin. It's a wonderful story with the typical unexpected turns. It's not the usual pulpy Mythos story either, it's subtle and mature affair. I can really recommend this book for everyone, especially Stephen King, Cthulhu and cyberpunk fans." Preview•Buy

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Moving On

10th December. Bristol. Sky Bunker. Tomorrow will be one month since mum died. But I'm not going to dwell on this, be maudlin or negative. It's going to mark a point where I move on.

I tried going back to work on Monday. Interesting experience. A case of the arrogance of male logic being over-ridden by the deep well fount of powerful emotions. My boss and I had a long chat. Back to my original plan when I first left after the phone call from my sister, return to work 4th Jan.

Time is the agent of recovery.

I've had to wait a couple days for a flight back to Newcastle. I don't mind the wait. It's given me a chance to spend some quality nights with Jo before I vanish on her (again). I've also been getting back into my writing. I'm damned if I'm going to spend this time shuffling around in a numb daze. It's time to be positive and strong, and productive. It was a surreal case of de javu: the very same lifestyle of early 2007... after I got back from Newcastle following my dad's funeral. As now, back then my house had been burgled around the time of the funeral, leaving me to deal with the sense of violation in the house, dealing with the death of a parent. Back then I was spending days and weeks and months of living up here in the Sky Bunker; this time it was just a few days, but still the same routine: committing myself to 45 minute writing sessions broken by 15 minute snoozes, repeat, repeat, repeat throughout the whole day. Listening to H.P.LOvecraft FUNGi FROM YUGGOTH audio book/poetry... the eerie yellow sunlight flooding across the city which I can see from this high vantage point.

So the past couple days have been a concentrated blur of creativity. Dog Eat Dog is now onto Chapter 17. I'm about 58,000 words in.

Newcastle tonight. My sister has gone to London...her first time leaving the house in months. So I'll be arriving at an empty place. And she'll be dealing with the disconnect, and then the return...herself.

Floyd, my Northern Monkey, is over from New York for family reasons and it'll be good to catch up with him and share feelings. We're planning on heading out to Tynemouth on Friday. Walk the pier. Grab legendary fish and chips from Marshalls.

So I'm looking forward to good times. I'm determined to enjoy these final weeks in the house, whilst the house still looks the same as it has done during my lifetime there... whilst the house still holds the essence of mum, and before we strip it down to bare walls and forever lose the ability to go back to that place we once called home.

Newcastle. Jesus Mound.

I've been in Newcastle for a couple of days.
I'm bordering on moments of depression but I'm determined to push through it.
I'm currently sitting in my cafe on St Georges Road... working on Dog Eat Dog.
Yesterday I met up with Floyd and we rode the Metro train to the coast. Got off at Whitley Bay rather than Tynemouth, and then walked along the coast to Tynemouth. Awesome weather. Calm but ice cold and foggy. Walking alongside the ocean I was gripped by the idea of throwing myself into the freezing water and swimming. I settled with taking off my boots, rolling up my jeans and wading in up to my knees. It was so cold it burned. I couldn't feel my toes for an hour afterwards. It was great though.

Later...
I've just been sitting in mum's room. It's not been touched since she died. I sat in the spare chair feeling very emotional, gazing at the bed, at the hollow indent on the pillow. And then my gaze tracked to her chair, where her ashes are now, in a maroon coloured urn, which my sister and I wrapped in her favourite scarf and her green cardigan. I got really fucking angry then. I'm not even 40 and my mum has become a box of ash. I'm never going to be able to play cards with her again, or laugh with her or squeeze her hand when we used to walk side by side.

Later...
Somebody tried breaking into the house today. I came back from a long walk and found the cast-iron chimneia that sits out on the decking had been dragged to the side of the house, giving somebody a step-up onto the roof of the extension... allowing them to try all the upstairs windows. Fuckers failed.

Later...
Sat in my cafe. St George Road. Dog Eat Dog in good flow. Outside is grey and ice cold. Pete's cooking Sunday lunch for his family today and invited me to join them. Yesterday he popped round with Penny and a 7ft Christmas Tree; handing it over he said, "Just because she's gone doesn't mean I won't carry on tradition. Here you go, Dave. This is for your last Christmas here."

Beautiful gesture and action.

Heading back to the house now. Get ready for my lunch and then an afternoon introducing Pete and family to Warrior Knights.