Mavis is over the moon to show you her very own trailer produced by the lovely Maria at Bloodhound Books.
We’re hoping it won’t go to Miss Upton’s head, but she is already showing signs of believing she’s a ‘leg-end’ in her own lunchtime!
BLOODHOUND BOOKS presents…
đ
WHATEVER NEXTâŚ
Sheesh!
So you see, I was never going to go out quietly, well behaved and ordinary.
I was, as I will always be â with Polyester Thong on show to the whole worldâŚ.
Mavis Jane Upton
Mum
Wife
Police Officer
Colleague
Idiot
Feckwit
Melt
Friend
Bad-ass cousinâŚ
⌠and a total bloody shit-magnet!
THE END
âŚor is it?…
(Blues, Twos and Baby Shoes Š 2019)
Those immortal two words. The End. The two words that will always make any writer feel a myriad of emotions that range from achievement to relief, from elation and love to sadness and a sense of mourning.
In all honesty, itâs not really the end. Itâs just the bit where youâve managed to get all 86,000 words down, in a semblance of order that will maybe, just maybe, make a decent story without you going completely bonkers in the process⌠once youâve done several read throughs yourself then shoved it under your poor hubbyâs nose demanding that it be appraised immediately even though heâs engrossed in a Wales v England rugby match.
After he has reluctantly obliged, you then spend hours picking up on and altering all the bloopers, spelling mistakes and predictive text howlers, swap chapters around, delete 
chapters, create paragraphs, delete paragraphs, wake up in a hot sweat when a dream has uncannily mirrored reality and shown you a very gaping and obvious plot hole at 3am and then finally you have to endure the agonies of discovering one of your main characters who started out as a Frank in chapters 1 to 18 has now somehow morphed into a Fred from chapter 18 onwards!
I donât think there ever is an âEndâ, not even when you have finished and you hand your âbabyâ over to your Publisher and their team for them to work their magic. There will always be something you pick up on five years later that you wish you had included or even worse, should have deleted. Such is the angst and uncertainty of a writer.
In the book scribbling world, we all suffer at some point from what is called âImposter Syndromeâ which is quite simply our inability to believe that we are worthy of our standing and do not deserve the title of author. I was told that you cannot possibly have this syndrome until you have published your first edition of blood, sweat and tears, as before that point, there is only you or your *mam/dad/nan/bezzy mate (*delete were applicable) who after copious bribes, will judge your work. Once it is out there for the unrelated world to see, the doubts begin to craftily worm their way into your soul. As soon as someone refers to you as duh duh duhâŚ..
đ âAn Authorâ đ
âŚ.you are doomed for all eternity and beyond to suffer The Syndrome, usually in solitary silence as you would be further mortified and ready to drown yourself in a vat of gin/vodka/wine if anyone should know the true fragility of your confidence.
Recently I had to divulge my occupation. This has never been a problem for me before. As a Typist in the 1970âs I could rattle off a mean 86 words per minute and was pretty hot on the old Pitmans shorthand. I was quickly promoted to Secretary/PA to the Managing Director so was more than happy to loudly declare my standing whenever asked. In the late 1980âs I became a Police Officer. Oh the pride I felt in having that title, I had worked so hard to achieve it and loved every minute of my career. If I could have shouted from the rooftops that I, Georgina Jane Kirkham was an Officer of the Law (said in an Inspector Clouseau accent) I most certainly would have.
It is now 2022 and suddenly, even though I feel such privilege to be in the position I am in to have five books published and a current work in progress, Imposter Syndrome has smacked me around the back of the head once again.
Gulp!
âWhat is your occupation, Mrs Kirkham?â A discreet head tilt from the Bank Manager followed her question whilst she waited for my reply.
âErr, Iâm an⌠authâŚhrrrmphâŚâ I breathed out heavily, smothering my mouth with my hand as I faked a cough.
âA what?â
âAn autho⌠rmphmfffff.â Another cough, this time caught in an old shredded tissue Iâd hastily recovered from my jacket pocket that had a half-sucked Fishermans Friend dangling from the edge.
âAn Auditor?â
âNo, Iâm an auth⌠oh dear, erm a writer⌠I meanâŚâ Another wipe with the tissue to muffle my mouth lest the word âauthorâ should coherently leave my lips.
âAh I seeâŚâ she smiled, or maybe grimaced as she quickly scribbled her understanding of my occupation on the form in front of her.
Clutching my paperwork some ten minutes later, I was mildly amused to see that I had, for the purpose of an overdraft facility and without any training in hospitality or food preparation whatsoever, suddenly become a âWaiter at the Arautha Restaurant & Barâ situated on our local High StreetâŚ
So, here I am, five years down the line, five books under my ever expanding belt (blame those damned biscuits again) and work has commenced on my sixth novel along with an even bigger dollop of Imposter Syndrome.
Iâve had an amazing journey with Urbane who placed so much faith in me, nurtured me, endured my over-excitable emails full of ideas and off the wall gifts for launch events that ranged from small knickers to big knickers and donuts to handcuff charms, their support, book love and enthusiasm has been second to none. I wouldnât be in the position Iâm in but for Matthew Smith and the Urbane team, but now is the right time to give Mavis from my first three books a respite and try something a little different with a fabulous new team at Bloodhound Books.
Taa DaaâŚ.
I present to the worldâŚ. well to my long suffering hubby and a few special friends and to you on the QT â Iâm sure nobody will ever know Iâve told youâŚ.
âMurders at the Winterbottom Womenâs Institute and Murders at The Montgomery Hall Hotel â ‘Books 1 and 2 in the Prunella Pearce Mysteriesâ
My latest foray into the world of penmanship (but on a typewriter) has been well and truly inspired by the wonderful ladies of the various Womenâs Institutes around the UK, in particular the Cheshire Federation and their branches. I have been so fortunate to have been invited to speak at their meetings over the last four years, and yes it is true, they bake fabulous cakes and are the most welcoming, fun and kind hearted ladies you could wish to meet with the added bonus of a great sense of humour â which is just as well knowing me! The WI characters have been based on a group of their lovely ladies who asked to be included, larger than life and fun. They have been fabulously instrumental in creating Ethel, Clarissa and friends.
I have had a wonderful time killing people off, something I havenât had to experience before. I have become a sort of elderly female Cato Fong from The Pink Panther films, jumping out on my poor unsuspecting hubby trying to murder him in an array of 
humorous ways. He is distraught and his pacemaker is continually in emergency mode although he did admit that due to being on a diet, having his face shoved in a Lidl Lemon Drizzle cake to see how long it would take before he suffocated was the highlight of his year so far.
I wonât spoil the plots but the taglines of âA spoonful of jealousy helps the membership go downâŚâ and âYouâve got to pick a victim or twoâŚâ might give a little hint. It is more crime romp than crime serious, best enjoyed with theatrical tongue in cheek expectations and an âooop northâ pinch of humour.
Extract
It is different to Mavis and her escapades but Iâm becoming very fond of my new protagonist, Prunella. She is a survivor, sassy, funny, a little bit mischievous and a Librarian with a deep love of books to boot â so whatâs not to love.
I do hope you learn to love her and her quick witted, frisky friends as much as I have.
Gina
Mother Nature’s Wicked Sense of Humour
It was quite a revelation this morning when I jumped out of bed in happy expectation of a brand new day only to find that for the first time in my life something other than my feet hit the carpet first.
As I sleep butt naked, Iâm sure you can imagine what I forlornly ended up dragging along the beige shagpile towards the bathroom, whilst avidly avoiding hubbyâs boots that had hastily been kicked off the night before. Â Needless to say, double nipple burn is not pleasant but I counted myself lucky that I hadnât smacked them into the wrought iron candle holder on the landing.
Somehow, and I donât know why I hadnât noticed it sooner, I had grown old.
Everything that had previously pointed North, had suddenly decided to take a road trip South. They didnât bother packing an overnight case or think it necessary to let me know where they were going or even leave a forwarding address. They just bloody got up and went between 10pm the night before and 8.30am the next morning.
As I plonked myself down on my silent flush, low level budget loo, my once pert nellies rolled out to comfortably drape themselves across my upper thighs.
I wanted to cry.
Iâd got used to pulling out the odd grey hair that had begun to adorn my head. Even a single stray that had hung tantalisingly out of what was left of my right eyebrow last February, got the rapid tweezer movement but THISâŚ.. this was something else.  Whilst brushing my teeth, I desperately tried to console myself that at least nature hadnât combined the two and given me hairy nipples.  Then again, on closer inspection, I could be wrong. Plucking at the fine fluff adorning them I gave a sigh of relief.  Carpet fibres.  I quickly offered up a solitary, half-hearted thank you to God – although what a man would understand about despair and hairy nipples was beyond me!
As my luck would have it, Mother Nature decided she wanted to give me one more kick in the Tena Ladies as my day got gradually worse.
Once Iâd hoisted my hooters back into their rightful place with a bra that had seen better days, I casually dressed myself in shorts and t-shirt for a bit of gardening. I have an agreement with my hubby. Â His knees creak less than mine, so he does the weeding and I do the watering. Â Actually, talking of watering, thatâs another aspect of impending old age. Â A need for whatâs commonly called amongst us oldies as A.P.P.
Advanced Pee Planning.
If you donât monitor your fluid intake you sure as hell better carry plenty of change and know the prime location of every toilet facility within a three miles radius â intimately. Pretending youâre an Irish Clog dancer to cover the jiggling, whilst dragging the depths of your handbag for a 20 pence piece is absolutely soul destroyingâŚ..and dangerous!
Right, so far weâve got droopy nellies, hairy nipples, creaky knees and bladder weakness, all signs of old age that has crept up on you whilst you have, in sublime ignorance, carried on with your blissful life, believing you are drinking from the fountain of eternal youth.
So, where was I? Â Oh yep, gardening. Â
So there I am, happily watering the back garden in my best cerise pink Crocs, you know, those delightful plastic things with holes all over them, allegedly for aeration, but in stark reality itâs really where your street cred slowly seeps out with each squelchy step.
This, my lovely friends, is my shameful confession â I am a secret Croc wearer.
I never venture out in public for fear of ridicule, although I did get shitfaced once on the cooking sherry (one for the pot, two for me) whilst making a Beef Bourguignon, forgot I was wearing them and went out to empty the bin. Â The look on my neighbours face said it all. Â I knew from that moment on I would be forever ostracised from the Meols Mummies Group and as a consequence, invites to their Ann Summers Fineries & Accessories Parties and Gin Evenings would never again rattle through my letterbox or bleep on my mobile phone.
I was so distraught at being caught red handed, or should I say cerise pink footed, that I finished off the rest of the bottle, burnt the Bourguignon and woke up eight hours later in bed wearing nothing but my bloody Crocs and a half-hearted smile.  According to Hubby, getting my clothes off was easier than trying to prise those dratted things from my sweaty feet, so heâd left them on. Well at least thatâs what he told me. Maybe he really has a âthingâ about naked women wearing Cerise Pink Crocs. Unfortunately due to my alcohol induced coma, I will never know, but if he buys me a new pair for Christmas Iâll be seeking an appointment with a Deviancy Counsellor.
Anyway, back to gardening and Croc wearing.
I was happily enjoying a quiet five minutes whilst still mourning my loss of gravity and bounce over a glass of chilled white wine.  The glossy pages of the La Redoute catalogue, open at the underwear section, fluttered and shimmered in the sun along with a landing strip of hair on my shin that I must have missed during my most recent leg de-fuzzing session without my specs.  I studied each youthful lingerie model with growing envy.  Not one of them had droopy nellies, flabby tums, nasal hair or cellulite. One well-toned beautiful red-head, her hair tumbling across her shoulders to softly drape over her buoyant boobies grinned out at me from the pages, gloating.  I was just in the process of wishing a thousand boils upon her pretty face along with a pair of septic bunions, when the doorbell rang. I scurried to answer it, slopping wine on the hall carpet in my haste to see who was callingâŚ.
âŚ..and this is how my day ended.
âOh hello, I was just wondering if you could take this parcel in for one of your neighbours?â
There, standing on my âFeck Offâ doormat was the epitome of manhood. Â A Poldark lookalike. Â His smouldering eyes swept from my feet to my head, a glint of a smile touched the corner of his full lips.
Rooted to the spot, I grinned, desperately trying to stretch my jowls and wattle for a more youthful appearance whilst alluringly sloshing my wine glass in his direction.  Hoisting my newly drooped baps up another two inches with my arm, I leant backwards against the doorframe whilst simultaneously trying to hide my Croc-clad feet behind a nearby plant pot. Unfortunately, this ridiculous action enabled them to suddenly emit a horrendously loud fart as my damp, sweaty feet forced a rush of air through the holes.
âOh dear, thatâs one good reason for not wearing these dreadful plastic shoes isnât it?â Â I coyly proffered, desperately trying to hide my embarrassment whilst exaggeratingly lifting one leg and waving my foot around to show the cerise pink creations at their best angle as proof of the noisy origin.
Mr Poldark grinned. âI wouldnât worry too much love, no need to make excuses. Youâre like my old Nan, she suffers from flatulence too.  She has tablets for itâŚâ he offered in a smooth, almost pitying voice.  He winked and turned on his heels to slink panther-like, down my path leaving me drooling with unrequited lust mixed with an expression of utter horror.
I closed the front door and kicked off my sweaty, embarrassing crocs, sending them sailing down the hallway, narrowly missing the cat. Â Slumping down on the sofa, I jiggled my unclad feet, paying particular attention to several stray hairs that now adorned my big toe, another unwanted extra of old age, as I slugged back the dregs from my glass.
Jeez, depressingly droopy nellies, Crocs that fart and hairy toes! What else could dear old Mother Nature throw at me whilst she giggled in pure, unadulterated gleeâŚ.
All Iâve got to look forward to now is giving my granddaughters the obligatory electric shock from my upper lip hair which Iâm currently in the process of excitedly cultivating when I kiss them goodbye, along with milky cocoa, Ponds Cold Cream and a ruddy hair net at bedtime.
So, whilst you digest that depressing thought, Iâm off to pencil in my ever diminishing eyebrows so that when the postman tells me about Nora from next door-but-one dragging her droopy nellies across her memory foam mattress whilst pleasuring the milkman, I can at least raise something worthwhile to show how surprised I am!
Gina x
ÂŠď¸ 2020
A DEAD END JOB
“Right you little monkey, come and sit here for a cuddle, I’ve got crisps, Twiglets and Chocolate Buttons.”
Ellaâs face lit up as she bounced down on the sofa next to me. Clicking the video remote I started the film. Our favourite. Mary Poppins.
She crunched a Twiglet and pointed the remaining bit at me. âMum have you ever seen a dead person yet, you know a real dead humung beening?â
I tried not to laugh. âIt’s human being Ella, erm no, not yetâŚ.but thatâs such a strange thing to want to know sweetheart.”
She shrugged her shoulders as her hand disappeared into the Twiglet tube. âI just wondered if they had wings when you found them or do they come later?â
Jeez, questions on Theology, I could spell the word, not have an in depth discussion on it.
âErr Iâm not sure I get what you mean Ella.”
âOh nuffink, I just thought it would make it hard to get them out of the front door if they were dead AND had a big pair of wings. Can I have another Twiglet?â
âŚand with that the conversation on dead people was over.
*******
âNeighbour from No. 32 is reporting he hasnât seen the old lady next door for several days Mavis, voters show an Alice Creighton, 87 years.â The ensuing silence from the other end of my police radio gave me time to think.
I groaned. Thanks Ella!
No sooner does she mention something, then it happens. Iâd avoided the optional Post Mortem visit during my early probation as I didnât quite fancy savouring my breakfast twice in one day. After all, I wasnât going to be the one that had to bloody dissect them. I just needed to know how to deal with finding them.
Standing in front of the dull black door to No. 34, the abode of the unseen Mrs Creighton my heart sank. The backlog of newspapers and milk bottles could mean only one thing.
Grimacing, my stomach did a huge flip. It’s more the anticipation of death that is so disturbing, so unless someone has ever taken the opportunity to actually keel over and expire in front of you, the chances of seeing a dead body are probably few and far between.
I lifted the letterbox and had a discreet sniff. I baulked. Yep, something smelt very dead inside the little terraced house.
âHere yer are love, itâs her spare key, use this.â
The kindly neighbour from 32 proffered the shiny bit of metal on a piece of string. I looked at it, looked at him and looked at the front door. It was at this exact moment I realised that I was the one wearing a uniform, and as such, I was probably expected to do something about the unseen Mrs Creighton.
Why on earth couldn’t I have worked at Sainsbury’s, they never have to find dead people do they?
I let that thought hover in the air before slipping the key into the lock, tentatively turning it and stepping through the door. I glanced back to a sea of faces belonging to the concerned neighbours outside, watching in a medley of keen anticipation and sheer nosiness.
Just on the remote chance that there was anyone alive to hear it, although I did seriously doubt it judging by the stench, I loudly announced my arrival in a quivering voice.
“Mrs Creighton, Mrs Creighton, it’s the Police Mrs Creighton…….”
No reply, nothing. Not even a whisper.
I carried on along the hallway, checking each room in turn with no sign of Mrs Creighton. In the kitchen I found a pan of some foul smelling gunk on the old enamel gas stove. The furry growth on top had been fermenting for some considerable time. I held my breath, this was going from bad to worse. I tried again.
âMrs Creighton, donât panic, itâs the Police, just need to know youâre okayâ
Silence.
With my heart thumping in anticipation, I began to climb the staircase. Picking my feet through the threadbare runner, I swept my fingers along the dark brown bannister. I was utterly convinced I was going to find the elusive Mrs Creighton rather deceased somewhere upstairs.
Oh please God donât let her be all horribly….. well, you know what I mean… just make her sort of fresh…ish…!
The first bedroom was empty apart from an old 1930âs wardrobe, several dead flies on the ledge of the cast-iron fireplace and a commode. Motes of dust whipped up, catching in the muted sunlight from the window. Coughing I closed the door. Creeping out onto the landing, I put my very sweaty hand on the door handle to the second bedroom, pausing long enough to control my breathing as my heart threatened to explode through my shirt.
I turned and pushed.
The door creaked openâŚ.
âŚâŚ and there, lying in bed amongst her pink rayon sheets and green polyester quilt, mouth wide open and eyes hooded was Mrs Creighton.
Very grey, very still, very cold and very, very smellyâŚ.
âŚâŚand in my expert opinionâŚ. just a little bit dead!
I froze.
Oh shit, I’ve got a dead body, a real life dead body.
My first.
Panic ensued.
Think Mavis, think. What did they teach you at Bruche?
For a split second I didn’t care what they had told me at Police Training college, it didn’t matter. All I wanted to do was to get the hell out of there…….
…..and then I remembered. It all came flooding back, I knew exactly what I had to do.
My priority was to confirm that there was no output from Mrs Creighton, no breath, no pulse, nothing that could be resuscitated, no signs of life.
Way to go Mavis.
I held my breath and walked gingerly over to the bed, jumping as the floorboards creaked. Oh blimey, facial hair! Mrs Creighton has facial hair. I hesitated, wondering if she still had her false teeth in, which in turn reminded me of Marj at our first aid classes. A quick glance at the bedside cabinet confirmed that her teeth were accounted for, they were floating in a glass of disgusting yellowy green…errâŚ. something.
Fantastic that was all I needed. Iâd never get a good seal around her mouth for CPR if it was caving in through lack of teeth. The thought of shiny gums and spit made me feel sick.
Taking hold of her limp wrist, I bent over her to check for a pulse. As I tentatively moved closer to her face, I paused waiting to see if any air was being expelled from her nose. The hairs on her top lip remained static. Oh dear, this seriously wasn’t looking good.
I moved in closer, my own breath barely perceptable. At the exact moment my nose almost touched hers, her eyes shot wide open. A low moan drifted from her mouth as she suddenly sat bolt upright in bed. Every nerve in my body went into high alert as I stumbled backwards in fright, knocking into the mirrored wardrobe.
Letting out an almighty screech akin to a banshee, she flailed her arms in the air. “What the fuck are you doing in me bedroomâŚâŚ?”
I screamed.
Mrs Creighton screamedâŚ.
âŚ.and I legged it out of the bedroom in sheer terror, flying down the stairs, missing several steps as I went.
The neighbours, fearful of my findings and the wailing from inside the house, crossed themselves in godly reverence before disappearing back into their own houses as I fell over the door mat landing sprawled out on the pavement.
Standing alone outside, I gathered what was left of my dignity and quietly meditated my predicament before forcing myself to return inside the House of Horrors.
I made Mrs Creighton a cup of tea, washed her dishes and contacted a relative to advise them she had been suffering a rather awful bout of influenza, which had been aggravated by a Nightnurse induced coma.
Plumping the pillow behind her, I folded back the quilt and handed her a bowl of chicken soup the next door neighbour had brought round. âHere you go, thatâll make you feel better Mrs Creighton.â
She grumbled, sniffed, tasted the soup and let the spoon rattle back into the bowl. âDâya know what would really make me feel better?â
I was mesmerised by the flake of chicken adhered to her top lip as her tongue snaked up trying to dislodge it. âAnything, just say and Iâll see if I can sort it for you” I gently crooned.
She wiped away the chicken with the back of her hand, flicking it across the counterpane.
âIâd feel a whole lot better if youâd just fuck right offâŚâŚ and donât let the door smack you on the arse on the way outâŚ!â
*****
Back at the nick I filled in my report on Mrs Creighton before going off duty, still stinging from her ingratitude and gobsmacked that an 87-year-old lady could actually know, let alone use, the F-word.
“There you go Mave…” Bob dunked his biscuit in the chipped mug, brought it up to his mouth with seconds to spare before it drooped, “…it’s the four S’s, you should’ve known that.”
I closed my notebook, “What on earth has sun, sea, sand and sex got to do with an ungrateful old biddy with Tourette’s?”
He grinned, cramming the rest of the biscuit into his mouth.
“Nope, it stands for not all Shitty Smells Sniffed are Stiffs….”
******
Extract from Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong (c) 2016
Gina Kirkham
GINA KIRKHAM 