I’m back from spending a few days at Center Parcs, where I managed to get a bit of Heavy Ice written on my husband’s laptop. I won’t quite say that I was gladder to see my ergonomic keyboard when I got in than I was to see the cats, but it was a close-run thing. The holiday was a lot of fun, and included the stellar line of dialogue ‘Are these all your personal owls?’
Meanwhile, my mother has also been on holiday, and has read the first book and liked it, and apparently read bits of it aloud to my father. I thought it was about fifty-fifty whether she would like it, or whether she wouldn’t be able to get into it and would tell me off for taking the name of Artemisia Gentileschi in vain. Apparently she tried to leave a copy in the cruise ship’s library, but the library was closed because of the norovirus. So it goes.
Sales of the books to people other than my parents are puddling along – the most recent ones have all been of The Hawkwood War, which I find kind of cheering, as I assume no one would buy the second book unless they’d at least moderately enjoyed the first one.