Blog Tour - Secret of Orchard Cottage by Alexandra Brown

Today I am very pleased to welcome Alexandra Brown to my blog as part of her blog tour to celebrate the publication of her new book, The Secret of Orchard Cottage, which takes readers back to Tindledale, the village where Hettie's House of Haberdashery is based and a shop I would love to visit and have as my local needle store! In this book we are introduced to Orchard Cottage, where Great Aunt Edie lives and is visited by her niece April Wilson, following the death of April's husband.

The wonderful new novel from Alex Brown, bestselling author of The Great Christmas Knit Off, perfect for fans of Trisha Ashley and Jill Mansell. April Wilson is wondering what to do next - her life has been turned upside down after the loss of her husband so she's hoping to piece herself together again with a visit to her elderly great aunt, Edith. Arriving in the rural idyll of Tindledale, she's dismayed to find Edith's cottage and the orchard behind it in a sorry state of disrepair. Edith seems to have lost interest completely, instead she's become desperate to find out what happened to her sister, Winnie, who disappeared during WWII. April gets to work immediately, discovering that the orchard still delivers a bumper crop each year, and with the help of some of the villagers - including Matt, the enigmatic Farrier - begins to unravel the mystery of the missing Winnie. Slowly, April can feel things coming to life again - but can Orchard Cottage work its magic on her too?

Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
ISBN: 9780007597420

The publishers, Harper, have kindly given me an extract to share with you, my blog readers. This is the fifth part of the blog tour and the fifth extract - you can read the whole extract by visiting each of the first six blogs taking part in the tour and the rest of the blogs have beautiful recipes which are also included in the book:

BLOG TOUR DAY 4

To find out what happens before this, head to:

http://bookaddictshaun.co.uk/

http://thisisbeccasbooks.blogspot.co.uk/

http://shazsbookblog.blogspot.co.uk/

Taken from Chapter 1

Gray had worried so much about April; often confiding in Jen, asking her to look out for his wife and to support her through his demise and when he was no longer here. Because, although Gray and April had been together for a while, they had only been married for a year when the diagnosis came, and Gray had said he would completely understand if April wanted to end things with him then and move on. Make a life for herself with somebody new. Somebody fit and vibrant. Instead of ‘saddling herself with a sickly, older, and quite often grumpy git like me’ (Gray could be quite self-deprecating at times). It was a lot to expect of her to stick by him, but April was having none of it. In sickness and

health. That’s what she had vowed, and gladly so. She wasn’t a quitter, never had been. And caring for Gray had given April a purpose, something to live for, and God knows she had needed it, because if the truth be told, her world had fallen apart that day in the consultant’s office. April had hidden it well of course, put on a brave face, stoic, and she was good at that, having trained at Great Ormond Street hospital where nursing seriously ill children required an ability to protect one’s self, close off emotions when required – maintain an emotional distance, if you like. It really wouldn’t do for a nurse to cry. No, that was for other people. April’s job was to be strong so that everyone else around her could cope. Hence, she hadn’t cried once in front of Gray or the twins. Or burdened any of her friends from the knitting group or gym classes that she used to do in the local leisure centre before Gray became seriously incapacitated. And April used to love knitting: sitting next to Gray on the sofa of an evening, they would watch TV together and he’d tease her about the chunkiness of her size 12 needles for a cosy Aran jumper that had been her last project. It was the simple, everyday ‘doing nothing’ stuff that April missed most. But now, well . . . it just wasn’t the same on her own. The happy association of knit one purl one and laughing along to Gogglebox wasn’t there any more.

‘Are you OK?’ Nancy asked, leaning forward to stroke April’s arm.

‘Yes, sure. Sorry darling, I was miles away.’

April shook her head as if to clear her thoughts, and then smiled at Nancy.

‘Don’t apologise,’ Nancy smiled back. ‘We all knew today would be extra tough for you. Another birthday without Dad.’ She shuffled her bottom backwards over the duvet and then patted the bed, indicating for April to sit beside her.

‘Actually, today has been better than I anticipated,’ April replied, conscious that underneath the veneer of being OK, Nancy was still grieving too, and she didn’t want to upset her stepdaughter by appearing to be ‘getting over her father’s death’ too quickly. But deep down April knew that she most likely would never really ‘get over’ Gray. Yes she’d learn to live without him, be happy again

perhaps, a different kind of happiness, she hoped, one day, but still . . .

‘Good,’ Nancy stated. ‘You know, Dad would never have wanted you to be “moping” all over the place.’ She paused to do quote signs in the air and April winced. ‘Especially on your birthday.’ A short silence followed. ‘Um, sorry, not that you are,’ Nancy added. ‘Gosh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, you aren’t . . . um, haven’t been “moping” at all, in fact you’ve been amazingly strong and kind and lovely as always to me and Freddie, putting everyone else before yourself. Sorry, me and my big mouth. I really must engage my brain before opening my gob and just letting words blurt out.’ Nancy pulled a face and shook her head, making her fiery red hair swish around her shoulders. ‘I just meant

that . . . well, you know how practical Dad was about stuff, being a scientist and all. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive, God no, but somehow it always comes out that way.’

‘It’s OK,’ April replied. ‘Like father like daughter, eh?’ and she nudged Nancy with her elbow, before both women exchanged glances and a smile.

‘Hmm, I guess so.’ Nancy pressed her hands together as if to break the moment and lift the mood, buoy them both back up. ‘I know! How about we watch an old film together? Mamma Mia, you love that one.’ April’s smile widened. ‘Whaaaat? What’s so funny?’ Nancy lifted her shoulders and pulled a face.

‘Mamma Mia!’ April laughed. ‘It’s hardly an old film . . .’

‘Hmm, weeeeell . . . it is to me. Or would you prefer to watch something really ancient, like Dirty Dancing perhaps?’

‘Or how about Some Like It Hot?’ April couldn’t resist, and Nancy creased her forehead.

‘Sounds like filth to me.’ Nancy folded her arms. ‘April, you fox! Never had you down as a porn fan,’ she teased.

‘Noooooo!’ April protested, her cheeks flushing. ‘Oh gosh no, nothing like that. It’s a classic, starring Marilyn Monroe. With Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon – they dress up as women and—’

‘Cross-dressing! Hmm, guess that could be cool.’ Nancy raised her eyebrows.

‘Hmm, it’s a bit more than that,’ April said.

‘Well, I’ve never heard of it!’

‘Ha! Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ April gave her stepdaughter’s thigh an affectionate pat.

‘You know, I feel reeeeeally old now.’ She shook her head and let out a long sigh.

‘Oh don’t be daft! You’re still young. A million miles away from the menopause.’ April shook her head; trust Nancy to be so blunt. ‘Tell you what . . . why don’t I do your hair and make-up this afternoon? I could do your nails too; we could have a girly makeover party. I’ll get us some chocolate and maybe a cheeky bottle of bubbles . . . what do you say?’

‘That sounds lovely, are you sure though?’ April said, surprised, as it wasn’t really Nancy’s thing.

‘Yep. It’s your birthday and I want to make it nice for you. And you love all that beauty and pampering stuff.’ A short silence followed. April swallowed, hard. And then Nancy added, ‘Weell,’ she hesitated, ‘you used to before Dad died, and I know it’s hard, I really still miss him too, but he’d want us to make an effort on your birthday and you made an effort on mine, even though I bet you

didn’t really feel up to it.’ She pulled herself off the bed and went in search of April’s beauty paraphernalia. She opened the top drawer of a chest. It was full of underwear. ‘Sorry,’ she said, closing it again. ‘Nail polish?’

‘No problem,’ April replied, ‘it’s in the basket on the shelf in the ensuite.’ She paused and fiddled with the belt of her dressing gown. ‘And I say that a pamper afternoon is a very lovely idea, thank you sweetheart.’

‘Great!’ Nancy chimed. ‘But I’m sensing a big but!’ She stopped moving and turned to look at April.

‘It’s just that I thought my hair looked OK! Why didn’t you tell me before we went out for lunch?’

April pretended to admonish, but knew seriously that she hadn’t really bothered with all of that since Gray went, often wondering what was the point. Of course, she always made sure her hair was brushed and that she looked presentable and had clean clothes on, that sort of thing (well . . . underwear at least), but she had found it hard to muster up much enthusiasm for applying make-up

or painting her nails. To be honest, the last eighteen months had seen her operating as if on autopilot, going through the motions really.

‘April, your hair looks lovely. Honestly. I just thought it would be something nice to do for the rest of your birthday.’

‘Ahh, OK. Then thank you, and sorry, ignore me, I’m just being oversensitive. Come on, you grab the chocolate and champagne and I’ll sort out what we need up here,’ April chivvied, seizing the opportunity to busy herself and be in her preferred state.

‘Perfect.’ Nancy walked towards the door.

*TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT HEAD TO http://blabberingaboutbooks.weebly.com/

TOMORROW FOR THE NEXT EXTRACT*

Thank you to the publishers, Harper, and to Alexandra Brown for visiting my blog today. My review will follow soon but I absolutely loved it!!

Blog Tour - Time after time by Hannah McKinnon

Today I am pleased to welcome Hannah McKinnon to my blog, on the blog tour to celebrate the publication of 'Time after time'.

Time After Time is a fresh and funny work of women’s commercial fiction, which explores the romantic paths that could have been . . .

For fans of Laura Barnett and Dani Atkins, Hannah McKinnon has written a moving story that will resonate with any woman who has ever wondered, in a moment of frustration, “what if?”.

Hayley Cooper, a powerful but now struggling lawyer, fantasizes about what her life would be like if only if she’d made different choices. It’s understandable; the past two years have been hell. She barely sees her kids, her boss is trying to sabotage her, and her marriage is falling apart.

Burnt out, Hayley goes to sleep wishing for a different life. When she wakes up married to her first boyfriend, one she has not seen in over twenty years, she realizes there might be some truth in the saying “be careful what you wish for”. Over a single weekend, like Ebenezer Scrooge, Hayley gets to see her life on other side of the white picket fence – not just with her first ex, but with each of her past loves. But is the grass always greener, and will she ever want to go home?

I have been kindly given an extract to this fantastic book, when Hayley has just woken up in her ex-boyfriend's house:

Chapter 6

A Different Life

Hayley stood perfectly still in Chris’ kitchen, unable to move despite her instincts telling her to get the hell out of there. The steady tick-tock from the clock on the kitchen wall was deafening.

What the … how …? Did I meet Chris somewhere and go home with him?

She shook her head. That wasn’t something she’d do. Maybe she’d spotted Chris on her way home, asked the taxi driver to give him a ride and ended up at his place? She tried forcing her memory but nothing came.

It doesn’t make sense.

Nothing made sense. Cold sweat trickled down her back and the dressing gown stuck to her body, making her shiver, so she pulled it away from her skin.

I need to get back to Rick and the kids. Oh shit.

She’d never cheated on Rick, never even kissed another man since they’d met. Yes, they were having problems, but cheat on him? She hadn’t seen, let alone spoken to Chris in almost twenty years but now she’d woken up in bed with him. Images of his bobbing penis flashed through her mind and she shook her head again in an attempt to get them out of her brain.

What did I do? Why can’t I remember? Did I go to a club? Or a bar?

She dismissed the theory as quickly as it had entered her muddled brain. She’d been at Ellen and Mark’s. They’d had drinks. She’d gone straight home.

Unless … unless I went on somewhere afterwards and someone spiked my drink?

She reached for the counter to steady herself.

What am I going to tell Rick? He must be frantic. Do the kids know I’m not home?

Hayley’s eyes darted around the kitchen for her mobile and when she couldn’t find it, she grabbed the phone on the kitchen counter and punched in her home number.

Before she heard it ring on the other end, she slammed the phone down.

No! We have caller ID.

Taking in big gulps of air, she closed her eyes and breathed out through her nose.

Think, Hayley, think.

She ran to the bathroom by the front door. Her head pounded, and as she sat on the toilet her stomach twisted itself into knots the size of tennis balls.

How could I let this happen?

She washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face. It slowed her breathing down, but only until she looked in the mirror.

‘Argh! What the hell?’

Her hair was cut in a cropped bob, much shorter than it had been the night before.

Why can’t I remember Ellen cutting it?

She smoothed it down with her damp hands and swallowed. Of course it would grow back eventually, but Rick was in for a surprise. He loved her long hair.

Will he think I did it to spite him? How many lies am I going to have to spin?

Rick would assume she’d spent the night at Ellen and Mark’s. After all, she had said, ‘Don’t wait up.’

Maybe he hasn’t phoned Ellen yet. Hang on, that’s it! Phone Ellen.

Hayley rushed back to the kitchen, snatched up the phone and dialled Ellen’s number.

‘Hello?’ a male voice said.

‘Mark?’ Hayley whispered into the phone.

‘Hayley,’ Mark said. ‘Trust you to be the first to call for the gossip. How are you?’

Hayley ignored Mark’s cheeriness. ‘Is Ellen there?’

‘Sorry, no. She went to pick up Morgan.’

‘Pick her up?’ Hayley frowned. ‘On a Saturday morning?’

‘Oh, she wanted to go last night.’ He chuckled.

‘What?’ Hayley said, then pressed on. ‘Fine. Will they be back soon?’

‘Any minute now. Shall I ask her to call you?’

‘Don’t bother. I’m coming over.’

‘Okay, see you. Say hi to Chris.’ Mark hung up.

Hayley still had the phone to her ear.

How did he …? Oh Christ, who else knows?

Shaking, Hayley realised she had two choices: leave and rush around Ealing in a sweaty dressing gown or go back upstairs to hunt for her things. While the first option meant she wouldn’t have to confront Chris, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the house so scantily dressed. She crept back upstairs, bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation. She needn’t have worried; he was lying on his back, fast asleep and snoring with his arms stretched out. The room smelled of a fresh fart.

She wrinkled her nose and looked around for her clothes. She spotted a pair of jeans, knickers, bra and a shirt lying on the floor next to ‘her’ side of the bed. They weren’t hers but she didn’t care – she would have donned a Ronald McDonald suit if it meant getting out of there.

Thank you to the publishers, Harper Collins, for sending the extract and for inviting me to take part in the  blog tour.

Blog Tour - Let me tell you about a man I knew by Susan Fletcher

Today I am pleased to welcome Susan Fletcher to my blog. Susan is the author of 'Let me tell you about a man I knew',

Lucy has written a letter which tells us, the reader, about the conception of the story:

A snowy, dark weekend in Amsterdam in 2013 – and I found myself standing before a painting from the Van Gogh Museum. It was an olive grove, late in the day. The trees were in full leaf; the grass was scorched to the colour of earth. It was painted, I read, during the artist’s stay at an asylum in rural Provence. I stood by this van Gogh painting, as if warming myself.   As I did, a thought came to me: had van Gogh been alone as he painted this? For these olive groves could not have been painted from a distance, as some of his cornfields had been. I felt certain that his easel had been planted amongst these trees, that he’d left the safety of the asylum’s grounds in order to paint them. If so, how had this been allowed? A disturbed and self-harming patient, walking out on his own? As I stood there, I wondered if he’d been accompanied. And with that, I began to imagine it: a warden – modest, quiet, hard-working – by the artist’s side.   At home, I began to research. There had, indeed, been a warden at the asylum in Provence – Charles Trabuc. But he’d also had a wife. And intriguingly, van Gogh had painted them both. It was on seeing Jeanne’s portrait – her high-necked dress as if being restrained, and the soft, sad kindness to her face - that I felt my new novel settle around me. I knew, with certainty, whose story I would tell.    Whilst I’ve used van Gogh’s letters, art and numerous biographies as a basis for this novel, Jeanne’s tale is all my own. It is her year, as I imagine it – her year of knowing this extraordinary man and how it altered her. 

Susan Fletcher, 2016

The publishers, Little Brown, have kindly agreed to let me share with my blog readers, the first chapter of the book, which I hope will encourage you to buy the book and continue this fantastic read. Enjoy ......

One

All morning she washes their clothes in the yard beneath the

lime tree, the metal tub by her side. She hunches on a stool.

She unfolds the wet clothes, rubs soap on them and scrubs

the cloth against the wooden board. Rinses. Scrubs. Rinses.

After this, she takes the clothes and hangs them – on a

rope, tied between the lime and the stone wall. She does

this with care, a hand’s width between each garment. Then

with a forked branch Jeanne hoists the clothes so they find

the high breeze and they sway above the flattened earth and

their own shadows and the stool and the metal tub.

She pauses. Looks across the fields.

The breeze finds the hems of her apron and skirt.

Briefly, Jeanne thinks of closing her eyes – to feel this

wind against her, to open her mouth as if drinking it. The

mistral, she knows, tastes cool. But this is not the mistral.

It’s a warm southerly wind – and Jeanne goes back to the

tub, grasps its two handles and lifts it until the tub rests

against her thigh and like this she hurries unevenly to the

west side of their house and the boundary wall where not

much will grow except dandelions and moss. She strains,

momentarily; then there’s a sudden clattering sound and

the tub is on its side and the grey water rushes across the

ground, runs the length of the wall. Jeanne stands, watches

this. When she was young, with every upturned pail she’d

imagine it – this water’s path, its second life. Where now?

What might it do? Jeanne would think of it – the roots, the

dark and dark-scented world beneath her feet where worms

and busy, velvety moles might feel this surge and pause in

their tunnelling, tunnels that took this water to streams or

the Rhône itself, or elsewhere. The sea? Could it find distant

lands? Princes and kingdoms? Or could it – Jeanne’s emptied

bucket – make new trees and flowers grow? Roses because of

She thinks this now, as the water sinks away. Roses that,

if pinned to her hair, would leave a rose-scented trail in her

wake. They grow against south-facing walls, in June and

July. She’s cupped them, inhaled.

When the tub is empty Jeanne props it against the wall to

drain. Walks back across the yard and goes inside.

They watch for the mistral in these parts. Mostly it’s an

autumnal wind – yet it came early last year, blew when the

chestnuts were still forming. It cracked glass. It threw back

every unlocked door so that the town banged on its hinges

and livestock kept to south-facing walls. Mistrau in the local

tongue. Wind of change, of shallow sleep. By November the

hills were powdered with snow and, in the fields, there was

sleet. Jeanne would see the bluish glow of Mont Gaussier in

the afternoons as she walked back through the olive trees,

clutching her shawl to her jaw.

‘Spring will come,’ Charles assured her. In March, green

shoots pushed up near the gate; April was the month of drip-
ping lanes and a frailer, younger bleating in the moving herd

of goats. It’s only now, in May, that there’s enough warmth

in the sun to dry clothes or walk without her woollen shawl

and so Jeanne moves from to room to room, unfastening the

windows that have been shut for so long and pushing them

wide so this new, warm air can find its way into the corners

Each window’s clasp cracks at her weight, like a seal.

Each view is known to her. From the parlour, Jeanne can

see the lane and the olive trees beyond. The kitchen, too,

faces the lane – but its second, smaller window looks into the

yard with its drying clothes, the lime tree, the wash-house

and a hen. She opens this window; the hen looks up.

She climbs the stairs to the bedroom – their shared room

with single beds – which sits above the parlour. She’s higher

now, can see more. More olive trees, in their rows; the eaves

of Peyron’s house, beside the hospital walls. If Jeanne leans

out of this window and looks right she can see Mont Gauss-
ier and Les Deux Trous and the five blowing cypress trees

and she used to do this in her early married days – lean out,

her hands on the sill and smiling, feeling the sun on her face.

Her best view south. Beneath her, the road to Saint-Rémy.

Sometimes she sees the tops of heads. The dusty spines of

A second bedroom. It looks into the lime tree – green,

And there’s a final room. Was it a cupboard, before they

lived here? Or even a room at all? It’s the highest part of the

house, reached by three more steps, which means it feels safe

to her – a little tucked-away land. It used to be the nurs-
ery. Here she cradled and fed and sang to each boy – and

this made it her best place in the world, for a time. How

they’d grasp her finger with all five of their own, how they

seemed like fish with their soft, soft sucking sounds and

round, reflecting eyes meant they seemed other-worldly to

her, made for elsewhere. Jeanne rarely comes here now. But

In the kitchen, Jeanne thinks this: he comes from Holland.

Dutch means he comes from there. Her father had had a faded

antique globe, the colour of parchment or yellowed bone.

By the fireside he’d turn it and say, What would you like to

see, mon chou? Anything. All of it. Lands where ebony came

from or where volcanoes were or big, white bears or where

camels trod through deserts with spices and rolls of silk on

their backs. Holland, he assured her, was a flat, flat place –

land claimed from the sea, which the sea wanted back. Dykes

and walls built against it. A blowing sky.

Papa. Two taps of his fingernail. On finding a country,

he’d tap it twice and say to her, See? Just there.

There must be better hospitals than Saint-Paul-de-
Mausole. There must be asylums (although Charles is less

fond of that word) where the director is well and the paint

doesn’t peel and the food’s more than haricot beans. Where

the fountain works, at least. Yet Salles is bringing this new

patient here? Jeanne knots her apron, looks out at the fading

light and can only suppose that Salles thinks the empty

rooms and overgrown garden at Saint-Paul will suit this

She washes the plates, dries them. She slows in her drying,

fingers the stem of a dark-pink bud. In the rue de l’Agneau,

there was jasmine; she’d make crowns of it, walk home like a

queen. Or she’d press herself into its soft, white curtain with

her arms held out, embracing it – and she’d do this still, if

Dutch. She washes, dries.

When she glances up, dusk has deepened into night.

Thank you to the publishers, Little Brown and the author, Susan Fletcher, for visiting my blog today.

100 little crochet gifts to make - Search Press Studio

Crocheting has had a huge surge in popularity in recent years and continues to be a very popular craft, and this book has a very wide appeal both to beginners and more accomplished crocheters. This book represents amazing value, comprising 100 projects from some of our best-selling crochet authors. The book covers a wide variety of themes from beautiful crocheted flowers, beanie hats, Christmas crocheted projects, cute bears, lovely hearts and stylish purses, so there is something for everyone to enjoy. Crochet requires very little in the way of tools and materials, which are widely available from major yarn stores and relatively inexpensive. The techniques used in this book are simple enough for experienced beginners to master, and easy for more seasoned crocheters. Special stitches used are explained in detail, and yarns are described in generic terms, so that readers can use what is available to them, wherever they live. The projects cover a wide variety of themes from Christmas crochet, beanies, hearts, flowers, purses, bears and granny squares. They are simple enough for experienced beginners and will also appeal to seasoned crocheters. The tools and materials are inexpensive and widely available and these charming crocheted items make fabulous gifts for family and friends.

This book is one of those that you can pick up when you want to craft but don't know what! As the title suggests it contains 100 crochet patterns which make perfect gifts. It is jam packed full of great ideas including teddy bears, hats, purses, decorations and gifts for the home. 

Each pattern is accompanied by a full page colour photograph of the finished item  and many of the patterns have at least one more smaller photograph showing a proportion of the design shown more clearly. The patterns are clearly written, with a full material list, hook size and tension check. The patterns included are 1-2 pages long and are written in clear, easy to follow steps.

The book can be used as a pattern library or inspiration for creating your own gifts. Many of the patterns can be used as squares to repeat and make bigger projects or used on their own. There are also flowers which can be used to decorate hats and bags.

I would recommend the book to any crocheters who want a book to dip in and out of, as a go to for that quick present you need to make. It would also be great for any craft groups to have in their library.

I haven't made anything myself out of it yet but have my eye on the cute penguin and the festive wreath.

I received this book from the publisher, Search Press Studio, in return for an honest review.

Blog Tour - Lad Lit author Steven Scaffardi

Today I am pleased to welcome Steven Scaffardi to my blog. Steven is a lad lit author of two books.

It is day 27 of the Lad Lit Blog Tour and I am delighted to be here at Sarah’s Book Reviews! It is nearly four weeks since the tour started and I have been lucky enough to write several guest blogs already on the subject of lad lit.

So today I want to change things up a little bit J

To try and help readers who are not familiar with lad lit get a better understanding of what it’s all about (and whether it’s something they would like to read), I have compiled my top five favourites stories from my first book, The Drought.

Enjoy…!

5. The beginning of the end

I wanted to start the book in a way that grabbed the reader and made them to read more, so I opted with an opening chapter called The End, which basically is the end of the book! Here we find Dan slumped at a bar, bemoaning the past eight months of sexual wilderness. But there is a hidden backstory – a betrayal – which Dan refers to, and sets the story up for the series of comical capers that ensue. Not before Dan gets himself into an award altercation with a barmaid of course. You can read the first chapter here.

4. The road trip to Brighton

In an attempt to try and help Dan get over his drought, his three best friends (Rob, Ollie and Jack) organise a road trip to Brighton for the weekend. Across the two days the boys end up in all sorts of mischief, but the funniest scene has to be when they accidently gate-crash an OAPs 80^th birthday party. Without giving too much away, it is fair to say the family of grandma Betty are none too pleased with the uninvited guests and what the boys have to do to escape their wrath is nothing short of hilarious! You can read Jack’s rules of the road trip here.

3. The break-up

From the start of the book, the reader knows that Dan is on a sexual drought, and that dry patch all starts the day he breaks-up with his long-term girlfriend Stacey. After waking up to 47 irate voicemails from Stacey on New Year’s Day morning, Dan sheepishly heads over to her flat and the inevitable break-up does not exactly go to plan, especially when Stacey’s best friend, Sophie, takes great offence to how Dan handles the situation and storms into the bedroom with… well, you’ll just have to read to find out exactly what she does!

2. The reason why men hate shopping

One chapter that is especially close to my heart is when Dan’s good friend, Kelly, asks him to go shopping with her to buy her boyfriend a birthday present. I actually wrote this chapter while traipsing around Top Shop on Oxford Street with my wife. I poured out all of my feelings of being made to walk around looking at high heels and jersey tops (whatever the hell they are) into the pages of that chapter. In my mind, I was speaking for every man and the pain we suffer when our wives and girlfriends drag us around those shops. You can read the whole chapter here.

1. Dan gets horribly drunk on his first date with Grace

We’ve all been here. You are on a first date with someone you really fancy and you’ve chosen to meet them in a bar, surrounded by this liquid called alcohol that has been known to make people do silly things. When Grace – a girl who is so out of Dan’s league – agrees to go on a date with Dan, he is super keen to impress. So much so, that he makes sure he gets to the bar early so not to be late. However, he is a little too early and by the time Grace arrives, he is already three or four drinks ahead of her. What follows is a car crash of a first date, including a very drunk Dan hitting the dance floor in what he describes his moves as looking like “An octopus who only has two tentacles left and is trying to compensate for the missing six.”

Steven Scaffardi is the author of the Sex, Love and Dating Disaster series. His first novel, The Drought, is the laugh-out-loud tale of one man's quest to overcome the throes of a sexual drought. After the stormy break-up with his girlfriend of three years, Dan Hilles is faced with the daunting task of throwing himself back into the life of a single man. With the help of his three best pals, Dan is desperate and determined to get his leg-over with hilarious consequences!

The Drought and his new novel The Flood – a comedy about one man trying to juggle four women at the same time – are both available for just 99p on the Kindle at Amazon.

Follow all of the fun on his blog tour by following him on Twitter @SteveScaffardi or by using the hashtag #LadLitBlogTour. More information about Steven and his books can be found on his blog.

Thank you to Steven for joining me on the blog today.

Blog Tour - Die of Shame by Mark Billingham

Full of betrayal, deceit and suspense, Die of Shame is the spectacular new book from number one bestseller Mark Billingham - author of Time of Death and In the Dark, both soon to be major BBC series. Every Monday evening, six people gather in a smart North London house to talk about addiction. There they share their deepest secrets: stories of lies, regret, and above all, shame. Then one of them is killed - and it's clear one of the circle was responsible. Detective Inspector Nicola Tanner quickly finds her investigation hampered by the strict confidentiality that binds these people and their therapist together. So what could be shameful enough to cost someone their life? And how do you find the truth when denial and deception are second nature to all of your suspects?



This is a standalone novel by Mark Billingham. I adore his popular Tom Thorne series of books and I was interested to see what Mark would do with a complete new cast of characters. What he has done is fantastic and I love the unusual setting of a support group for addicts. The support group is full of characters from all walks of life and within it there is a great relationship between its members and I imagine lots of curiosity but also secrecy within. It is a setting I haven't seen used before and, although I felt in places uncomfortable that I was spying into an emotive and trusting environment, where only the members are party to what is said in the room, I also thought it made a brilliant setting where any number of crimes could be committed. 

I loved the style of book, with the murder investigation being worked, and interwoven with the events building up to the murder itself. The reader is able to follow the police investigation, which is told in real time, while being intertwined with recounts of the events leading up to the murder. 

I love Mark's writing style and have devoured all of his Thorne books and still love the main man although I am hoping that we may see more of this new 
DI Nicola Tanner in future books. Mark has a fantastic style where he is able to get wit and excitement into his books and having recently spent an evening with him at Chipping Norton Festival's famous Saturday night Quiz I can confirm that this is Mark's personality to a T!

I recommend this book to anyone who is looking for a new gritty police drama to try.

Thank you to the publishers, Little,Brown for sending me the book to review and inviting me onto this tour,

Blog Tour - Skin and Bone

Today I am pleased to welcome Robin Blake to my blog as part of the blog tour for his new book, Skin and Bone, which is a Cragg and Fidelis Mystery.  Below is an extract from the book .

Within the gateway arch, and built as part of it, was a small stone lodge with a single room below and another above. It was halfway to ruin, the thatch sagging, the ceiling pocked by rot, the interior damp and draughty. With the whole company in attendance I was led inside and shown a trestle table in the lower room. Walking ahead of me, Kite reached the table and grasped the square of sack¬ing that covered it. With one movement he pulled it away to expose a tiny dirt-caked heap of human remains.
It was clear that this was, indeed, a newborn. Its body was wrapped in what appeared to be a piece of sodden filthy linen, but its head was exposed. I stooped to look more closely. Smears of stinking mud lay across the face, whose features were yet hardly formed. The eyelids were shut, but the round mouth was a little open and the nose was flat. I was suddenly almost overwhelmed by a rush of pity at the sight of those closed eyes and parted lips. I stood upright once more.
‘What happened? Does anyone know how this poor thing came here?’
I looked around at the faces surrounding me. They were uni¬formly anxious, but otherwise blank. I addressed the one who had earlier seemed to put himself forward as their leader.
‘Mr Kite, can you explain the circumstances?’
‘By some wickedness, we suppose, the babby got into one of the handler pits,’ he said. ‘Our Ellen found it this afternoon.’
His daughter was standing next to him. He hooked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tightly to him.
I said, ‘Ellen, I need to know exactly where this was. Will you show me? No! No! The rest of you stand off!’
Her father released her and she preceded me out of the lodge.
The skin-yard was about half an acre in extent. The central part comprised the area of the tanning pits, each about ten feet square and lined up in three rows. Above them were erected frames from which hides were lowered for soaking in the tanning fluid. As we reached them. I turned to survey the whole perimeter of the yard. Against the surrounding wall a run of sloping roofs had been pitched to make a kind of gallery. This sheltered tuns and troughs and stone-topped work tables, as well as further racks for drying or storing hides. There were also fires burning here and there, heating great iron pots which steamed sulphurously into the afternoon air. This air was everywhere rank with the smell of decayed vegetation, rotten flesh and manure, a smell which evidently came from the tanning liquor inside the pits.
Ellen led me directly to the nearest pit ‘It were this pit I found it in.’
‘Your father said it is a handler pit. What is that?’
‘That’s a pit where we start off the hides, where the ooze is weakest.’
‘The ooze?’
‘What’s in the pit. Hides go from pit to pit, with the ooze getting stronger every time, see?’
I saw that each of the pits was slate-lined, and that the frames surmounting them were equipped with crude winching machinery, operated by turning a wheel. By this means the hides were dipped and brought out of the ooze, which was a dark brown, like coffee.
‘How long do the hides stay in this pit?’
‘Twenty weeks. But meantime we must handle them every day, which is what I came to the pit to do after my dinner.’
‘Handle them? What’s that?’
‘We wind out the hides and stir up the ooze.’
She pointed to a long-handled paddle lying beside the winching wheel.
‘Why do you do that?’
‘If you don’t the goodness settles at the bottom and the leather doesn’t cure properly all the way up.’
‘So when you stirred the pit you found the remains?’
‘Aye, it came up on the paddle, like. I just took it out and laid it on the side. I was right shocked. I shouted for me dad. He came and carried it into the gatehouse, and sent me up to get you.’
‘I see. That means you are the first finder, Ellen, and shall go down in the record as such. You shall have to swear a deposition and in due course give evidence at the inquest into what you found and how you found it. Will you be able to remember everything that happened?’

Thank you to the publishers, Little Brown, for sending me the extract and invited me onto the tour