When your Father cuts your Mother in half most nights, life’s never going to be run-of-the-mill. But when Sandra acquires a whole bunch of relatives she didn’t even know existed, things turn really bizarre!
Bidding a swift farewell to the new-found nearest and dearest becomes a priority, although as someone who’s never met a mess she couldn’t sort, she feels obliged to at least try and leave the failing hotel business run by the relatives in a better place than she found it. Issues to be resolved include a possessed chef, a doppelgänger, a tv documentary, an age old curse, the Psychic Society, and Rostropovich. But as things slide rapidly from farce to worse, it becomes clear, there are some questions that are best not asked.
Targeted Age Group:: All ages from YA upwards
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Actually this book lurked in my head for a long time. We all ooh and ah at the brilliantly clever magicians and illusionists who entertain us, and wrack our brains as to how on earth they do what they do. But when there’s no possible explanation for what we’ve seen, isn’t it logical to look at what’s left and think, it’s not clever, it’s real.
After all, haven’t you wondered why, over the years, beans have never been spilled? Is it really likely that of all the technicians, carpenters, stage hands, stage managers, and glamorous assistants, not one single person could have been bribed to tell all?
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
They seem to spring, fully formed into my head, which is a little worrying because it only goes to show what my subconscious must get up to when I’m not paying attention.
Who they are, how they act, what they say and how they say it, their short-comings, affectations, inclinations, and reactions are pretty clear cut, because of how well I get to know them.
Murray had, as he did fairly frequently, hit the roof,
“Are you out of your teeny tiny mind?” he’d shrieked when my Father announced his plans to introduce a lion into the act. “… And where, may I bloody ask, are you planning to keep the frigging thing?”
My Father, who usually exploded immediately Murray did, maintained for a brief while, a saint-like demeanour. He explained that strict rules and regulations governing the appearance of performance animals meant there’d be a fully qualified trainer on hand at all times. Additionally, the necessary authorities had to be happy with the conditions under which the animal was to be kept, as well as entirely confident on safety and security. Murray remained as unmollified as I’d ever seen him, and there then followed a great deal of shouting and gesticulating from both parties. My Father finally told Murray where about his person he could stick his old-woman worries, while Murray suggested to my Father he might like to find similar accommodation about his person for the lion, its flipping trainer and its blasted cage.
Despite all the drama and hoo-ha, my Father got his way. The lion duly joined us on tour and from his mournful expression, viewed the whole enterprise in much the same dubious light as Murray. His trainer, Johnjoe was a tall, skinnily anaemic young chap who appeared to have outgrown himself height-wise, and always looked in imminent danger of suddenly folding over in the middle. He was a bit short on conversational skills, and thrown into frequent blushing incoherence by the brevity of the costumes worn by my Mother and the dancers. But he was a sweet chap, always found time to answer my numerous big cat questions and, when he wasn’t busy mucking out, was always happy to muck in.
Languid, as we nicknamed him, although no doubt a fine specimen of lion-hood, was not a stage natural, and unlike my parents didn’t perk up and perform at the first whiff of the greasepaint or roar of the crowd. His natural inclination seemed to be to lie down and sleep a lot. This was so far from what was required, that all sorts of desperate measures had to be resorted to, including dubbing. Poor old Johnjoe was dispatched to London Zoo, armed with a tape recorder and strict instructions not to return without some blood curdling sound effects. These were duly played over the theatre’s sound system when the cage was rolled onstage. Sadly, Languid never got used to that, invariably jumping and dropping to a defensive crouch, convinced he was under attack by another lion. My Father was livid,
“He’s nowhere near wild enough,” he yelled at a hastily convened crisis conference, “we want pacing and roaring, growling and threatening.”
“We want, doesn’t always get,” muttered Murray, living dangerously as always, smug in the knowledge he’d vetoed the idea from the start. Johnjoe scratched his head, and averted his eyes from dancers energetically rehearsing nearby.
“P’raps I could give him his supper a fair bit earlier, so’s he’s a fair bit hungry by time he comes on?”
“Well, why didn’t you damn well say so before?” snapped my Father,“ and for God’s sake, can’t you spray him with something, he smells.”
"Well, that's lions for you." murmured Murray.
Links to Purchase Print Books
Buy Witch Dust: A Paranormal Comedy Thriller (Witch Series Book 1) Print Edition at Amazon
Links to Purchase eBooks – Click links for book samples and reviews
Buy Witch Dust: A Paranormal Comedy Thriller (Witch Series Book 1) On Amazon
All information was provided by the author and not edited by us. This is so you get to know the author better.