I was thinking about 9/11 today and was remembering when I first saw it happening. I had been working and the TV was on in the background, I think it was Murder She Wrote, when there was an interuption and a newscaster announced one of the towers had been hit by a plane. There was no reason for my thinking it was a deed of evil, I should have looked at it as a tragic accident but I felt wierd inside; and then the second plane came into view. I looked at my tiny baby lying asleep in her baby bouncer and I felt cold. I could not telephone my husband and father quick enough as if by telling people it would distract by body from the shock it felt. I will never forget that day.......

I was right. I didn't sleep a wink and I feel shattered. Even splashing a little water on my face, giving my teeth a brush and having a nice hot breakfast hadn't made me feel any better. The captain announced the chance of rain this afternoon with temperatures reaching around 46 so I guessed the jacket I brought wasn't going to suffice. Luckily my suitcase was already riding around on the carousel so I could grab it and get out through customs before the onslaught of economy invaded the area where my chauffeur was waiting for me and who I gratefully handed my bag. The car was comfortable and it seemed only a matter of minutes for my eyes to close but my quick nap was troubled by a recurring dream I had been having lately. It is so vivid. A young kid is sitting in the back of a car, his mother turns in the passenger seat to smile at him. It is such a warm feeling. She then places her hand on the gentleman next to her and he glances at her with a cheeky wink; there is so much love between them. Then suddenly the window screen is shattering around them, shards of the glass cutting through their skin, blood is everywhere.....and that is when I awake, every goddamn time.

Well I am now at the Marriott in London's Westminster, it's a comfortable suite but all I am interested in is the bed and a long and much needed sleep.

I had a drink earlier, well a drink turned into four but it didn't have the effect I wanted and sleep didn't come. I tried watching the TV but out of the 30 on demand films I couldn't find one to hold my attention. Why do I find it so hard to sleep on a plane? The bed is comfortable and quite spacious and it's dark and peaceful in here but my eyes never seem to close more that a couple of minutes. God I am going to be knackered tomorrow.

I'm a good girl.
No, really, I am.
I eat my five a day, I read bedtime stories to my children and I call my Mother every day.
I like to think my reward will be an afterlife like George Best, but in the meantime I make sure I floss my teeth.
So what then, is a nice girl doing writing crime fiction?
It's a question I'm asked all the time. In fact, when I was doing the publicity stint for my second book, I was asked a variant of it in every one of the fifteen radio interviews I did.
And I suppose it does seem odd that I should choose to spend so much time dreaming up violent criminals and their brutal activities.
Why don't I shy away from imagining what goes on in the mind of a sociopath?
Why do I enjoy exploring the twisted logic of the damaged and the dangerous?
It seems strange, sick even...but it's not.
Hang on and give me a chance.


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Cue gripping music, drumroll, audience shuffling nervously on their seats. The curtains twitch with hidden movement, and in the dead air before the show begins you can’t help wondering if it’ll match your expectations…

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I was walking past my bedroom on my way to the office earlier when I heard something tapping at the window. I opened the door and almost had a heart attack when I saw what I took to be an enormous (we're talking bird sized here) wasp. I thought, for a moment, I was in Dr Who; it's far more scary than you'd think.

It wasn't a giant wasp. It was a coal tit and it was stuck (coal tits aren't renowned for their window opening skills).

So, when I'd remembered how to breathe again I opened the window for it. I almost didn't, I didn't want to cause it any more panic but then pretty quickly realised that the longer it felt trapped the longer it would be panicking for.

So, I opened the window wide.

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Just a quick post to let you know that I've a very short story, Blink, up over at Ink, Sweat and Tears.

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I was looking forward to reading The Lovely Bones, after finishing Sebold's other novel, The Almost Moon. I admit I was expecting it to be a stronger novel than Moon, if only because of its stellar success as on the bookshelves. For my money, Moon is the better novel. And I think it's about structure, about the place where my thumb rested in the book as I was reading. I haven't considered the significance of this Thumb Measure before, but I thought about it all the way through Bones. I was partly judging the success of the story on how comfortable my thumb felt while I was reading. The Thumb measure is about whether what's happening on the page feels right in terms of how far I am into the book. Will I read on? How soon is it due to end and is there enough story left to satisfy my expectations as as reader?

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I slide into the room, back pressed to the wall. My heart is clattering, my breathing is shallow and my palms are sticky. Dots are dancing in front of my eyes, but my senses are on high alert to the slightest movement. It looks safe…but wait, what’s that in the corner? Did something move? Got to be certain. When I’m convinced the coast is clear, I make it to the bed and collapse, exhausted.
I made it. Until the next time….

Yup, it’s spider season again.


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