Robin Williams

I wasn't intending to write a post about the recent death of Robin Williams...much has already been said about the man, his life, his work and his recent death...but I find myself unable to rid my mind of such thoughts. And as so often in my life, I find that writing is a cathartic process which perhaps does not heal a wound but at least lets the pus drain away.


I cannot claim to have known or even ever to have met the man but I do know of his work. I remember him best as the madcap Mork from Mork and Mindy, the fast and furious speech, the wide grin and the endearing behaviour. But most of all I remember sitting watching it, perched on the end of my parents' bed with my dad laughing uproariously and occasionally explaining the finer points to me - I guess I was about seven then.


I remember too, watching Mrs Doubtfire with my own children, my heart wrenched at his character's obvious love for his family despite his flaws.


Robin Williams was the very essence of a comic genius who could wring sentiment from even the coldest of hearts. I have no idea how this affected him in his personal life or whether he was afflicted with the neuroses that seem too often to accompany genius...all I know is that he left a family who loved him and a world that [to echo his daughter] will be a little darker with his passing.


For me personally this news comes at a strange time, for I am undergoing a small grieving process of my own. I seem to have come to a crossroads in life, I can see the many roads of the past which led me to where I now stand. Some of those roads are now careworn and covered with a thin veil of dust - the passage of time and the losses it wreaks on our souls serve to decay and rot the surface of such trails but other roads are yet fresh and beckon towards me with a strange eerie call. To go down those roads previously well trodden would be dangerous but the appeal is there nonetheless.


The future is less clear. And I guess that is true for all of us. We can only ever see to the very edge of where the light shines forth, beyond that is a darkness as thick and impenetrable as Sleeping Beauty's forest.


I don't know where the future leads, where its path will be smooth and where I might stumble upon the way...but I am nevertheless driven forward. Sometimes I wish I were not 'blessed' with the dark disposition that occasionally comes upon me but then again, it is this darkness that fuels my novels I am sure.


So to the family of Robin Williams, I would say this : venture down that path ahead as far as you feel you can and when the darkness gets too much, cast your eye back to the blazing trail your father left behind him. What that may have cost him I would not like to speculate but I hope that the knowledge that he made one little Glaswegian and her dad very happy, may light the darkness, even just a tiny bit.


Rest In Peace Mr Williams. x

The Boy Who Rescues Pigeons

I promised you a snippet so here it is.

He reached under the bed for the laptop. It felt strangely wrong for it to be in his room in the middle of the night, when darkness patrolled outside the window like an intruder, seeking a way into the deepest vestiges of his soul.

He stared at it for a moment without switching it on, willing himself to replace it under the bed and knowing he did not have the courage to do so. He couldn't know his father and not know him at the same time. He could not know his name, his identity, his face and leave it at that, not follow it up in any way. He was not brave enough to face the world alone after all!

He pressed the on button and watched the computer flick into life. Without conscious thought he googled how to contact his dad. Twitter seemed the most obvious and instant way since it was listed that his dad had at least two accounts there.

Speedily he signed up for the social media site and listed his details sketchily. It didn’t matter that he had no picture listed and nothing about himself, he wasn’t interested or intending to post tweets; the account was merely a means to an end.

He took a few minutes to investigate the site, seeing how it worked and how he could use it to achieve what he desired. There was a direct messaging service, where he could send a message to his dad’s account without releasing it to the general Twitter followers. He clicked on the button.

Two small rectangles popped up. In the first he typed his dad’s Twitter user name, bringing up the face which was becoming more familiar to him than his own. He moved the cursor to the next box. There was a number next to the box, 140, which he presumed stood for the amount of characters he would be allowed to use.

How could he say what he wanted in 140 characters? He doubted he would even be able to get the message out in 140 words let alone characters! And what was he to write? How should he begin? With some explanation about who he was? Too boring! His dad would probably not even bother to read further.

What if he said he liked his films? Surely that was something every actor liked to hear. But it reeked of a suck-up! He didn’t want to suck-up to him, he wanted him to know that he was his father!

He positioned his hands over the keyboard. He was over-thinking it. When he overthought anything it always turned out badly. Perhaps it was best to just go with impulse or gut reaction, whatever it was called. He typed.

‘Hi. You don’t know me. But you knew my mother, Anna Pertwee. I know that you will remember her even though it was a long time ago.’

 Poor Lucas ...he is in for a shock!

Happy Reading! 

The snippet below is taken from the book I am currently working on, where the main character believes Hugh Grant is his father.

His fingers trembled with a mixture of anticipation and fear as once more he typed in his father’s name. This time the plethora of images and references to his dad did not faze him. He found what he was looking for quickly and clicked on the tab.

Slowly he read the article to the end and then went right back to the beginning, reading it again, taking time to chew on the information before he interrogated himself to find out how he felt about it.

Hugh Grant had fathered another three children! Two boys and a girl, meaning that now Lucas had two younger half-brothers and a little half-sister. Neither of the two women who had borne him children were engaged or even married to him. He was as single now as he had been when Lucas was conceived. Surely this mean that his heart still ached for his one true love? That no woman could compare to the charms of Anna Pertwee?

Belatedly he wondered if his mother knew about her rivals for his dad’s affections. Did she know he had had other children? Was this just part of the secrecy? Part of the reason she was adamant that no good could come of him knowing his father?

There is a long way to go yet before this book is finished but I promise to keep you updated. In the meantime, check out The Owners volumes I-IV, available on Amazon.

Happy reading :)

And now I present the wonderful Mr Hugh Grant.

Today I had to contact Hugh Grant as I have used his name in my newest book. Here is a little snippet for your delectation:-

 “You know who he is? Your father?” Josh asked stupidly, as if he had not been following the conversation. “So who is he?”

Lucas took a huge breath before he let loose this momentous piece of information. “He’s Hugh Grant!”

“What?” Josh snorted as if the idea was preposterous.


“She went to London for a few weekends before I was born. She’s never talked much about them and when I ask she goes quiet, just like she does when I ask about my dad. She loves movies, especially ones with Huge Grant in them.”


Lucas stopped talking long enough to examine himself in the long mirror attached to the wardrobe door. Did he look like Hugh Grant? He had the same dark hair and general build but his face was rounder than the actor’s and had none of his fine bone structure. Then again everyone said he looked quite like his mum so that was no indication one way or another.


“None of that means anything…” Josh began.


Lucas interrupted. Josh was merely jealous because up until now he had had the upper hand since his father was a famous stunt man in Hollywood. But Hugh Grant had topped that. Hugh Grant could top anything. He was the scissors that cut the paper in Scissors, Paper, Rock and the paper that covered the rock in the same game. Hugh Grant was everything. And he was his father!






If he gets back to me and asks to be removed then I will have to do so...until then...


Happy reading.