Wish Spammers Would Get A Life

An article I posted two years ago:



June 18, 2009 by lawrenceez  |

I have some fuzzy memories of Spike Milligan’s cafe scenes about not liking spam (a form of processed ham), but now I seem to be getting loads of Spam messages on my blog. How annoying.  My site is about music and the creative arts, like novel writing and story telling.


Some things never change and the spammers are back again, pestering the site with their stupid comments.


The Novel, Psychological Intensity

I’m working on a new psychological thriller, Silent Friends, about a group of music students.  Here, central character Gavin (cello) reflects on what has been.

Keiran rings off and I stand by the seawall, watching the water join the horizon and the evening turn to night. Another day drawing to a close. I think of the old saying, red at night, shepherd’s delight. Red in the morning, shepherd’s warning. The temperature drops. The beach is empty, the moonlight still on the sand. Strains of the Requiem I attempted to compose for the others blend with Aidan’s accusatory whispers. His face imprinted on my mind. His skin is pale and his eyes full of torment and fear. He is young and doesn’t want to die, even though he and Philippa are obsessed with death.

Working On A New Novel


Part of the way through a new novel Silent Friends, a psychological thriller about music students set in flat English countryside.

I spent most of Saturday on campus, composing and practicing cello in the cells before thumbing a lift back in the late afternoon. Philippa and Aidan also disappeared for the day, emerging just as Dawn was preparing supper in the kitchen.

‘Let’s explore the house,’ Aidan said after supper.
‘Not a good idea,’ I said.
‘Why not?’ Dawn wanted to know.
‘It just seems like a stupid idea.’
‘We’ll take votes then,’ Paul said. ‘Who’s for exploring?’
 Everyone, apart from me, put up their hands.
‘The house it is,’ Paul said.

We shifted the bags of concrete and ventured into Charles and Annabel’s private lounge
again, playing duets on their grand piano and drinking wine, unaware that time was closing in around us like a hangman’s noose.