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Okay, so I am an erotic romance writer but regarding that title we are talking one thing here, MORNINGS, so loosen up, when the song goes like this .

………one misty, moisty morning when cloudy, (oh what a surprise in Scotlandwas the weather. conv

And, as if that wasn’t every bit bad enough for us all to endure –

there  I met an old man all dressed in leather.’ (saying nothing. Each to his own after all.) I am not even saying how I came to be writing sumexy romance in the first place. As to how I got involved in this…


well, we all have silly moments. These ones that seem like a good idea at the time. How nice to be like all the other writers and sport a little label on my blog thought I. halloween_2013_participant

I mean, I am doing nothing else, like ripping a book to pieces and writing another two and fielding sobbing, I need to speak to you, phone calls and prancing about being dramatic and musical with pupils, keeping the social media up to date, not to mention just loving how it says FUN!! in that blog logo above. All of which is why we are cutting to the chase here. conv

I am blogging over at long and short reviews, talking about why the first time I went treat or tricking was also the last. And the scariest thing is telling you NOT to leave a comment ……

in case I have to put you in the draw……

and then I have to give away Callm, my Black Wolf. In ebook form only.


I gather this in the link.  http://wp.me/p2ZcT9-6g5

Only this is one of the many problems living in Scotland and  writing for across the pond….it’s not just the spelling that is different. The clocks are too.  The last time I looked it wasn’t active. But sometimes today it will be.

Anyway here’s the gory story of that trick or treating…

‘Halloween, when dead leaves rustle along dark edged pavements and graves give up their dead…was that really the time to be out like this?


At four o’clock when the sun’s dying fingers crept above the grey clouds, making them shiver? At five in the softly perishing light? Maybe. But now, when tiny clock hands pointed to seven?

Yes. Yes, of course it was.  Three of us had gone from door to door, door to door. Doors we were told were safe. Safe to knock at. Safe to enter. Safe to sing the words of the immortal song….

One misty, moisty, morning,

When cloudy was the weather,

There I met an old man

All clothed in leather.

Look….think slow, think menacing, think some twisted old dude in leather with a face like the grim reaper.

convOkay, so I was trying to. But it didn’t help I couldn’t remember the words…..

All clothed in leather,  (kinky old git)
With a cap under his chin.

How do you do?

Not terribly well actually since I was wearing my blazer back to front and it was cutting my throat. Not literally you understand. If it was doing that would I have been laughing so hard my mind was blank?

No, though it was just as well it was. Our first night’s guising was soon to become our last.

And how do you do?

And how do you do again?


Outside, the world had turned darker, tendrils of fog snaking across the cold, wet paving stones. Still, jingling our money, we stepped into the frost, the cold, unbroken ground of a winter’s night. A howl rent the air.  We froze in our gym shoes, these things we wore because they made no noise. But whatever pounded towards us made a noise. Slavering and snarling, it bounded closer. Closer. And as it did and we stood, as if our toes had grown shoots, we each knew with sick certainly what it was.

“Ahhhhh! The dog from 172!”

We said 172, but maybe it was 162, or even 168. We weren’t actually clear where the dog was from. What we were clear about was at one foot tall, the dog was a terror.


Scary-DogIt could probably jump fences that were four foot high and see through houses we hid behind.  It could certainly chase the three of us at once. Robert, the quarter mile home, Laura and I through barbed wire topped fences where our money spilt from our pockets and I somehow lost my blazer.  The old man all clothed in leather could not have been scarier than that little dog. It was Halloween after all. Having our fingers blown off by some random firework seemed safer, bonfires seemed safer, which was why, the next day at school, we made a solemn, never-to-be-broken vow.

To stick to Guy Fawkes Night instead.