It’s been a while since I blogged. No excuses, I’ve been busy working on my latest novel, On Lucky Shores.
It’s an adventure yarn set in the Colorado Rockies. Well, I finished the latest draft last Friday and sent the manuscript to my editor. Nothing I can do now but wait for her to hack it to pieces and return it (I can almost hear her cackling as she hits ‘send’). But more of that in another blog, this one’s about something completely different.
Now, you know me, right? I’m a hard-arsed, insular, old-fashioned dude. I write crime and action novels. My stories often involve police trying to catch violent arsewipes who do nasty things to innocent people. Some of the characters in my books swear, kick up rough, and use foul language, and for this, I make no apologies. Try to mimic real life, right?
In short, I write books for adults, not for the faint of heart. If you prefer cosy crime, don’t read my novels. No frills, no excuses. I don’t cry. Blokes my age never cry, at least not in public.
So why the rant? Why the chest-thumping?
No reason really, except that I became a granddad for the fourth time last Thursday and when I received the news, tears filled my pale green eyes. I turned my back to my wife to hide them. I’m tough, see. A hard man.
My elder son, Matt, he with the wonderful wife, Anna, and angelic daughter, Isla, became the proud and soon-to-be-doting father of a seven pound boy, Jude Morgan Donovan. And Jude, like my other three grandchildren, is gorgeous, stunning, handsome/pretty (no gender bias), intelligent … well, no hype there, right?
Before you ask, ‘Morgan’ is a family tradition. The first-born male of each generation has to bear that particular cross. I, being the second-born, got away with it. Teehee.
As you probably know, my wife and I live in France, but all our children and grandchildren live in England. As such, we’ve not met Jude yet (apparently not named after the Beatles song, nor the actor fellow—excellent though he might be), but the wonders of modern life mean we’ll be video-calling until our next UK visit at Christmas.
This blog is my way of welcoming Jude to the world. Hey, Jude, no sad songs for you, Mum and Dad will make it better. Granddad (and Nanny) will provide a few smiles and hugs along the way, and we will love you to pieces, as we do your sister.
You never know, I might even write a children’s book one day. After all, there’s no way you’ll be reading my other stuff, not for at least eighteen years.
Jude, I haven’t even met you yet and you already have a place in my heart. I love you, grandson. As does Nanny.
Hugs and kisses,
PS: I told you they were gorgeous, didn’t I? No rose-tinted glasses for this old gramps!