Retro sci-fi as Santa climbs the walls.

I think we've sorted the mould now. It was a horror though. We found it lurking in pretty much every room, though lots of hard cleaning work with fungicide and a newly acquired dehumidifier seems to be turning the tide.

It means I can return to 'The long Summer of war which has been taking a back role with only a small amount written on it. Perhaps today I'll do a big chunk? Still, there's no rush as the deadline for delivery of the anthology it is part of is provisionally set at next January. Plenty of time.

I sent out a manuscript via email to an agent who came recomended through two mutual friends the other day. As is often said throughout the media: it isn't what you know but who you know. Or at least, who you know who knows some-one else of importance. It was a pleasent surprise and quite refreshing to get a response within no more than a quarter of an hour from him thanking me for the six chapters and saying if he hadn't responded within two weeks to give him a prod via email. It is nice to deal with accessible and friendly professional people. I just hope that the manuscript doesn't disappoint him; fingers crossed.

I've been trying to get into an old book by Arthur C. Clarke again. Whilst waiting at the GP's surgery, it sometimes pays to have a good book to hand. At any rate, a book is better than a twelve hand copy of a three year old edition of Hello! magazine. I've got a large collection of sci-fi, and I felt I should get to work reading a few more of the ones that I bought to make up many of Waterstones' three for two offers. This one is called 'A fall of moondust' and I have to say was very disappointing at first. Books from the sixties are very much like films of the era: very slow-paced, waffley and take a while to get going. Arthur C. Clarke might be regarded as an exceptional writer, but this book from the early sixties falls into many of the sci-fi literary traps of the time. I'm halfway through it now, and it is picking up a lot though. However, I suspect if Mr. Clarke had been submitting it to publishers in this day and age, it would be flatly turned down by every single one for its slow start. How times and tastes change. He does however keep up with his knack for predicting the technology of the future, and this book predicts the computer (actually 'electronic' as described in the book, but we'll give him the benefit) spelling and grammer checker - quite a novel idea I suspect in 1961.

Summer still appears to be here. We're actually drying clothes in the back garden at the moment, which is something that most of July, August and September didn't allow. There is a little nip in the air and you can tell Christmas is nearly here, if you believe the stuff on sale in the shops. I would say I was wondering when the first council house would get its Christmas decorations up (not wishing to play to stereotypes, but doing so anyway) but I'm too late. If you want to see them, they're on the corner of St Peter's Way and Turton Street. I think though they take the record only by virtue of having not been taken down since last year. Santa looks a little weather worn now.

Imagine being born in the year zero.

I love boys. Yes, I know I'm a lesbian, but let me quantify: I love the attention. I don't actually think I look anything special. Yes, I know I'm tall and relatively thin and Zoë assures me that I'm blonde (I would have thought it was mousey-brown myself) but I never think much of the reflection that stares from the mirror back at me. It is a worrying thing of growing old that I look in a mirror and see my Mother looking back. Still, no-one else seems to notice.

Take tonight. We had our meal in the fancy restaurant, and at the end when I went over to pay, two blokes who had apparently been eyeing me up plucked up the courage to ask Zoë if she would let me know they were interested in asking me out for a date. Awwww! Bless! She had to tell them though that I was lesbian, and that she was my partner. Still, it made me glow inside when I found out. You see, I always appreciate attention, and it is nice to know that others find me attractive. It gives the old ego a massage.

At the end of the meal, as the restaurant owner knows me so well (I used to almost live in the place when I worked as a journalist and even did a live broadcast to Sky TV and News 24 from the bar - long story), we got brought a wonderful lemon alcoholic drink that was very refreshing. So nice in fact, we went and tracked down a bottle afterwards in a shop and bought it. It tastes like alcoholic lemon sorbet, and it is so nice.

Over the meal I had an idea for a sci-fi story. I'll make a note and add it to the ideas pile. It's about a time machine with a twist, but I'll get the idea hammered out a little more first. However, it will explain why the crucifiction wasn't like Woodstock - I mean, if time travel were possible, it would be, wouldn't it?

Prodding the world in a bemused sort of way.

People amuse me, especially those who think they are in a position of power but really aren't. It's quite fun demolishing these people. Get them flustered and they just end up making a baffoon of themselves. From traffic wardens to low level civil servants, the country is full of people trying to pull the big "I Am" and failing. Still, I love the smell of burning ego in the morning.

Three stories just got accepted today! That came as a pleasent surprise to find that in my inbox. Remember the trucking story and the one based on my time at commercial radio? Well, they just got accepted along with my second attempt at sub 500 word flash fiction. There might also be an option to serialise a longer story over several months' worth of one magazine. It makes this year a very good year so far.

The mould problem seems sorted. Remember children: never dry clothes indoors as they make your house go green. Actually, I think the weather has much to do with it, as when I mentioned the mould problem with friends at least three other people mentioned they were finding similar this year. It must be a humidity thing.

Hasn't the weather been a change around? Summer has arrived late to the party as always. I went with my work today up to Penrith in Cumbria. I even had the air conditioning on (is that the sound of environmentalists sharpening their swords?). Yesterday was pretty nice too. It gave me a few ideas for the new book as the countryside up around that area is gorgeous.

As I write this, an ice cream van has just pulled up outside taunting my diet with its bell. I would normally say: "September?! How ludicrous!" but then, the weather is actually more like Summer than Summer was. Will the real Summer please step forward and reveal themselves?

And finally: Zoë finished her law exam today, and I got a lovely relieved phone call from her. Hopefully she will not be so much of a stress bunny now. In celebration I'm taking her out for a lovely meal.

A mouldy interlude.

As it always happens: I settle down to write, and something comes along to distract me. Today's distraction was mould. More importantly: mould in my wardrobe, on my curtains and along the skirting board.

To coin a phrase: This Is Not Good.

The curtains went straight into the wash and I started playing hunt the mould. I dealt with the stuff on the skirting board. Then out came my underwear drawers, everything hanging in the wardrobe as well as plastic crates of other clothes in storage. The strange thing was that the mould seemed very picky. For example, I have about seven Gossard Ultrabra basques that live on a hanger together. I pretty much never wear them, but they are too gorgeous to get rid of. They are the same material and everything, yet only one basque was riddled with mould, but even the ones that had been touching it were free. I found some of my old Goth clothing mouldy, but other bits not. It seemed to be a very picky breed of mould.

I took the opportunity to throw some infected clothes that I hadn't worn in ages, and washed others that smelt a little fusty for good measure. But the basque, another basque from a box under the wardrobe, several trusty Wonderbras and my one of my two huge black velvet skirts were just too good to let go of.

None were particularly machine washable, so I had to improvise. Boiling water in the bath was a start, then I hand washed the skirt. The bras and the basques then gotr put in pillow cases and carefully placed in a wash cycle with the spin speed turned right down. Time will tell if it all worked, but needless to say I'm a tad worried at the mould.

We have had a mould issue for a few weeks. It's a very picky mould, and it mostly likes to coat wooden furniture. However, until today there was never any on walls, and so far stuff like LPs and books seem to be safe, even when the shelves they are on became infested.

This is the first time it has decided on attacking clothes. We'll have to keep more of an eye on things, and we're running the central heating for the first time since March just to heat the house through and be sure. Still, it is very annoying.

And now, back to the real job I was supposed to be doing today of writing...

Time waits for no-one - unless at Paddington waiting for the 12:15 where it'll have to wait with the rest of us.

I've been so busy this week, and with one thing and another I'm afraid I've been neglecting 'The long Summer of War'. However, all is not lost and I've found the time to sit down and do some work on it today. I don't want to give too much away, not least because even I am not so sure of where the plot is going in its entirety. But the love interest is coming along and the more I write the more that gets suggested to me by the progression of the words on the page.

It is typical though that I am already thinking in the back of my mind the next project. I have a habit of doing this all the time, and it can be very annoying. It distracts from the job in hand and, especially towards the end, it becomes a powerful attraction to want to do something new instead. But usually I manage to fight through that feeling.

The next piece though is more of an edit job. For this anthology I've decided it might be interesting to add in at least one piece of work that was cut from one of my already published books. They go through a couple of drafts, and sometimes something that doesn't quite work gets dropped. I never delete these, but instead move them to another file that gets saved on my computer for posterity. Usually they just languish. However, occasionally the odd piece gets used in another book in the series, though I cannot think to hand of an example of this such is the scattiness of my mind this morning.

There is a large piece cut from 'Syndicate Dawn' that I am planning to edit up and put into the anthology. Some people may find it quite interesting, not least because it contains charectors who were cut in the final edit of that book (long story - the final edit dropped around 30,000 words of text and I removed a weak charector from the plot entirely because he did sweet Fanny Adams). It is pretty rough at the moment and I'm not prepared to show off warts-and-all a piece I wrote in 1998/9 without some cleaning up!

I think there is also floating about somewhere the short story that 'Orb of Arawaan' grew from. I'll have to think about whether that goes into the anthology or not, as I don't think it changed much at all before the book was written around it a few months afterwards. If it is too similar then as it is only around 1,500 words I might just not bother with it. I am tempted though to use the piece that 'Countdown to Extinction' came from which was written way back in 2001/2 for a magazine.

Time though is once again my enemy. Where does it all go? Little time gnomes keep coming and stealing it away from me when I'm too preoccupied at a keyboard to notice.

All work and no chocolate coated jellybeans.

Work at the moment is very strange. I feel less secure, but at the same time am working more hours than ever before. Money is tight, but only because of spending commitments on things like a wedding that seems very good at soaking up cash.

Note to self: Don't get married again. Well, I'll try not to. All this means that whilst working on the bread and butter I'm struggling to find time for the books. Still, I've had the same struggles in the past, but I've met the deadlines in the end.

There should be another book reading at some point soon, given the tremendous success of the last one in September. By popular public demand I'll be reading another. Actually, this time it really is a book rather than a short story. I've been looking at serialising 'Daytrippers' over around four readings (you can't expect people to sit and listen for more than 90 minutes at a time, hence the need for four parts).

The recording we made at the last reading should be getting edited and I'm told may be available as an audio CD to buy. I'm also thinking of approaching one of the radio stations where I've worked at in the past to see whether they might be interested in broadcasting it if we can nibble it down to under an hour in length (It's about sixty-seven minutes). That might mean sitting down and rerecording a little. Or perhaps speaking a little faster?

And finally. It isn't often I get motivated to respond to an editor or agent who displays such crass arrogance and scant regard for professionalism. Actually, scrub that, I've never bothered before, so congratulations, because this one's the first. Quite an achievement given the ten, no, eleven years I've been doing this. The man does not return the submission despite it having a fully paid up SAE, then just sends patronising abuse when I politely ask for it back because a less time-wasting publication responded favourably to me over it within a more reasonable length of time.

I think it is safe to say that there is a reason that the magazine in question isn't widely available. Indeed, I had a job tracking it down in the first place when I was looking for a magazine taking longer stories than the ones I normally write for. Still, I'm sure the credit crunch will weed the wannabes from the big boys.

A thought occurs: given Americans call jam 'jelly', and jelly 'jello' does that mean that in America jellybeans are called 'jellobeans'? I must check next time I'm over there. No there's a wonderful excuse for a jolly abroad; I'll go and see if I can sell that idea to some-one.

Still sucking the air in and out.

I still exist! Working hard on the 'day' job as well as a new novella, I'm just keeping my head down. There should also be a few short stories to be appearing on the portfolio section of the website over the next few weeks.

Time is a rare commodity these days for me, and I never seem to have enough. Bring back my spare time thief!