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I am happy to announce that through May 13th, my book has been reduced to $.99 so makes a very affordable read. Of course, if you pick it up and enjoy, a review will be greatly appreciated! Thanks for your support!http://bit.ly/two-minus-one
HiI hope you are all well and coping ok in these trying times - everything seems insane at the moment.
Anyway
If anyone is interested my new book
'Fall of the Romanovs' has just gone on sale on Amazon for purchase on Kindle (£0.99p or $1.39) and hard copy paperback (£6.99 or $9.60)I've attached a small example for your pleasure:-
"Okay, everyone, call to order, order."
The words came from the newly appointed chair for the Westfield Amateur Theatrical Company, Geoffrey Mayweather and were accompanied by a banging of a gavel on the table. He was pleased with his new position and he looked it. Portly, balding and shiny-faced, every inch the bank manager.
He banged the gavel again and said, "First on the agenda...this year's play."
His wife, Melody, a tiny, 50-something brunette with delicate features, a surgically preserved hand span waist and well-shaped legs, determinedly a Little to his Large, interrupted his smug survey of the assembled committee members with a quiet but forceful, "Er...first Geoffrey, just to let you all know, Emily popped in earlier and left cakes in the kitchen for us." She had no intention of partaking herself but needed her female friends to dive in and engorge themselves.
There was a chorus of 'oohs and aaahs'; Emily Clunk's exquisite cakes were legendary.
"Should I get them now?" This offer came from Clive Bowthorpe, middle-aged, paunch and comb over, perennial bachelor of the parish, known to have a soft spot for both Emily and her cakes.
"Not yet," said Geoffrey, his sweet tooth fighting with the need to keep time, "things to do."
"Don't mind him, Clive," Melody's laugh tinkled through the words, "he's thinking about the football."
Clive was half-way out of the room before she'd finished speaking.
"Kick off in just over an hour," murmured a voice. Eric Stones, his mind on the game and how long it would take them to get home. He seemed to be unaware he'd spoken; the words emerging of their own volition.
His wife, Deirdre, all gym toned body and Botox face, was sitting well within earshot and raised her immaculate eyebrows, (in so much as she was able) and gave him a stern sideways look. Eric's face folded in on itself and his enthusiasm for the beautiful game waned.
"I nominate Time's Up," said a loud voice. There was a collective groan from the assembly and Derek Greene stood up, using his height to dominant effect. He was determined to get his nomination in first. "Mable," he said, indicating his wife who looked startled to be named, "will second the motion."
"Oh no," sighed Melody, "not again, surely."
All eyes turned to the hapless Mable. She was squirming, embarrassment writ large across her pretty but vacuous face. Would she be the dutiful wife and support Derek's play for a third year? Despite knowing how badly it was received and attended last time, bearing in mind it had been just as badly attended the year before that and that was before people knew how awful it was.
"Mable," pressed Derek.
She gulped.
"Mable?"
"Seconded," she said, her voice barely audible.
"You'll have to speak up, Mable, old love," said Geoffrey, using chair's privilege, hoping she would take the opportunity to withdraw the nomination or at least have the decency to faint, "I don't think the others heard you."
"Yes Mable," said Derek, "Speak up girl."
"Seconded," said Mable, this time more forcefully. She shared their misgivings about putting it on again but knew from personal experience how pig-headed Derek could be. He would give her such grief at home if she didn't support him and he was quite capable of nominating it year on year until it was accepted and somehow made into a hit or until they all died of the sheer agony of going through the same torment again and again.
Deirdre had told Eric she intended to oppose Derek if he put forward his play again, and true to her word she spoke up, "I think we should call time on Time's Up!"
There was a light titter at the pun.
Eric began a vigorous nodding, indicating his support of his wife. He forbore to speak, unsure if it was safe to do so. Naturally, anything that sounded like disagreement would be met harshly later and in most cases the nod was the safest course of action. As his nodding slowed to a head bob, he remembered with a clutch of concern that there were times when a nod wasn't enough and full-on verbal heart felt support was required. The problem was that he never knew which was what at the time and would be instead informed about the lack of said support at a later stage and in no uncertain terms. He sighed at the tenuous nature of his survival.
"How exactly," said Florence Chestnut, Flo to her friends, in her best deep-throated actress voice, "were we to make anything of that tosh of a script...I would defy Olivier to do anything with it."
Despite entering her fifties, she was still, nonetheless, a gorgeous looking woman; milky-white skin, flame hair and a figure to die for or get extremely excited about depending on your proclivities, however she had the personality of a hungry crocodile and therefore she garnered no support.
There was a collective groan at the name drop.
Even Martin, her husband, Ken to her Barbie, made a sound, quickly suppressed. She had once appeared in film in which Sir Laurence had starred. She'd tried to steal the scene and had been banished from the studio. The scene ended up on the cutting room floor. Florence explained the missing footage on an error in set design. No matter, they couldn't go through a meeting or a rehearsal without her drawing reference to having once appeared with Olivier.
Eric saw an opening for some manly behaviour of which Deidre might approve. He stood up, heavy-set, 5ft 11 in his socks, clumsy and un-coordinated, tugging at his jacket pocket and saying, "D'you like me to read the reviews?" He was pleased that he'd taken the time to dig them out in anticipation of Derek nominating his dreadful play again. He tugged at his jacket again, the moment almost lost. He could feel Deidre's head shake without seeing it, and he tugged harder. Then the cuttings from last year were in his hand and he was flourishing them in Derek's general direction. He spoke loudly from memory, "Dull, tired, meaningless drivel, poorly scripted...nonsensical..."
"Steady on, Eric, that wasn't my fault, it was the cast...if they had more belief in the..."
Geoffrey cut across Derek's protestations, saying, "Ok, we've heard from the Nay sayers, now, who's for Derek's motion?"
Derek's hand shot up whilst the others round the table determinedly folded their arms. Mable tucked her hands under the table and ducked her head.
"Mable," hissed Derek, spotting the lack of support, "hand."
Mable grimaced, then raised her arm, quietly confident that it would make little difference if the others remained strong.
"Clive?" said Derek.
Clive swallowed the remnants of his third cake and squirmed in his seat.
"Clive," Derek said, "come on, I've always backed you."
This wasn't true, Clive felt inferior to Derek and was intimidated by him. Slowly, he raised his hand.
The room sighed.
Derek turned to the next on his list of likely targets. Daffyd Brodsky had supported him every year so far and he was confident he would do so again.
Daffyd was, as usual, draped on his chair, louche and languid, yet there was an air that was unfamiliar about him. And more worryingly, he showed no sign of raising an arm.
"Daffyd," repeated Derek, fixing the younger man with a dark stare.
"Actually..." said Daffyd, his voice a slow drawl, "I have a play of my own to offer this year."
He'd changed significantly since he'd made the decision to come out as gay, to himself, and to the public, albeit at some unspecified time in the future. His confidence levels had risen and that had altered his general demeanour. A few of the women on the committee had noticed; he was dark and brooding in a Welsh Heathcliff-like way, and this new confidence added emphasis to that. They'd spent several hours in huddled sessions, speculating on the probable cause, none of which had been anywhere near the mark. Daffyd was adept at keeping his cards exceedingly close to his chest and this hand, in particular, was well and truly clamped tight within his ribcage.
Derek stared open mouthed, the others turned in surprise, Daffyd never had ideas.
Melody gave Flo a knowing glance, Flo elongated her face raising her left eyebrow towards Deirdre who sent her own coded look to Mable who gulped; Derek would not like this one little bit, and she was bound to hear about it for weeks on end, especially if Daffyd's play was chosen over Derek's which in her heart of hearts she desperately hoped would be the case.
"What play is that Daffyd, my boy?" asked Geoffrey, turning slightly away from the dumbfounded look on Derek's face.
Daffyd's burst of courage had deserted him. "It's not all that, something I came up with...."
Derek felt rage coursing through him, "What could you have possibly written about? Spit it out," he said, a vein was now pulsing in his temple, "you've started now, so finish it."
That did it. "It's about the Russian revolution," Daffyd said, no longer sprawling or languid, "and actually...I'm quite proud of it."
"A revolution?" said Florence, her hands theatrically cupping her face, "I don't think we want anything to do with revolutions, do we girls?" She could see no role for herself in this and was immediately disposed to oppose it.
Daffyd wasn't about to leave it now the subject had been broached, "My paternal grandfather was an émigré...he fled the revolution...and my play charts the history of the revolution right up until after the Great War."
"How on earth do you expect us to put something like that on?" demanded Derek, "No, no, no, I think we all know we'd be better off sticking to something that we know..."
The others winced visibly, there was no way they could stomach appearing in Derek's disaster again.
"Anyone else?" asked Geoffrey.
"We could revive 'Horticulture Harriet'?" said Deirdre.
Eric seized his opportunity, "Hear, hear, darling."
"Ah yes, a wonderful concept, Deidre," said Geoffrey, groaning inwardly, "although we must consider what happened with the Daffodil boys? In of itself a superb idea of course, but the realisation of the idea was less..."
"Can't be done," said Derek, "not worth contemplating."
Deirdre was disappointed but didn't want to strain her facial muscles so restricted herself to a sigh.
"I'm working on something," offered Clive nervously, "but...urm...I haven't finished it yet."
"Well how close are you?" asked Melody, "To finishing it, I mean?"
"Oh...well...not so close really," said Clive, "perhaps it might be better saved for next year."
"Oh, for God's sake," Derek said, "there's no alternative...bar Daffyd's preposterous call to revolution and I'm sure we're all opposed to that, which just leaves Time's Up."
The room fell silent as each committee member stared into the nightmare that would be a rerun of Derek's play. The endless rehearsals with him bossing them all around, the same awful lines of what had been a tired script the first time round, the mounting despair as opening night approached, the group humiliation of staring out at empty seats and the same soul-destroying reviews as the local rag ripped into them once again. In short, the horrendous prospect of yet another mortifying flop.
"All in favour of Daffyd's Russian Revolution?" asked Geoffrey.
With the exception of Derek all hands shot in the air.
Links to Amazon are listed below:-
Amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fall-Romanov...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Fall-Romanovs-...
Thanks for your time
Cheers, good luck getting through the months ahead and happy reading
Arun
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