The Book

What's this book, then?
"Spirebeck Road" is a collection of humorous short stories which obviously have no basis in real life whatsoever, because the author wouldn't want to be sued, would she?

What's it about?
Here's what it says on the back of the book:

"Kevin, who is passionate about admin; Andrew, for whom it's the winning and not the taking part that counts; Aunty Barbara, who thinks that if everyone lived like Aunty Barbara, there would be no ills in the world but, perhaps fortunately for the world, it has chosen not to. Welcome to Spirebeck Road. 10 pocket-sized stories will introduce you to these any many other comic creations in this new collection by Ann Spellman."

Sounds nice and cosy, doesn't it?

How can I buy it?
I'm so glad you asked. You can buy it on Amazon, but they charge a sourcing fee, whatever that is. It's also available in a seemingly random selection of bookshops, but most will order it for you. One reader apparently ordered it from a Christian bookshop in Liverpool...

Is it any good?
Depends what you call "good". You may well delight in some of the characters you will have come across all too often in real life, and there are certainly worse ways to while away an afternoon. We're told it's also perfect reading material if you're sitting on the tube or the toilet. Any feedback is welcome! Feel free to post on the comments section - those of us at "Self-promotions 'R' Us" have been sweet/reckless enough to open up the comments section of this blog to anyone who cares to use it.

How about a taster?
Why not? Here's an extract from a nice little story about a dead cat to cheer us all up.

When all were assembled, Katy began in a low, dismal voice, wracked with pity for the family of the deceased, “We are gathered here today to mark the passing of a much loved family member, Bernard O’Malley, friend of Tiddles and Tufti” (next door’s tortoise shells) “and devoted cat to Catherine, Francis, Anne, Teresa and Stephen.” Here she paused dramatically. Her brother sniggered. “So let’s celebrate his life by joining together and singing “All Things Bright and Beautiful”, which was one of Bernard’s favourite hymns.” Eyebrows were raised: they hadn’t come to sing, they had come to eat Helen’s fairy cakes. Even Francis, who had known Bernard all his short life, had been unaware of his fondness for “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.
“And now,” Katy continued, after they had mumbled their way through all the verses, “Uncle Francis would like to say a few words.” She withdrew gracefully from her makeshift pulpit on the patio step.
“Would I?” Francis replied as a reflex before he had time to think.
“Yes,” hissed Katy. “You always have to do that at funerals. We did it for Aunt Margaret.”
That wasn’t quite true, thought Francis. The Priest had done it for Aunt Margaret. Nobody else had been able to think of anything nice to say.
“Go on!” Katy urged, and just as he cleared his throat to speak she announced again, “Uncle Francis is just gathering himself to say a few words.”
“Er, yes. Hi. Thanks for coming. Er…this was a last minute thing…”
“Do it properly!” Katy hissed behind him.
He took a deep breath, and began.
“We all remember Bernard as a fine and loving creature.” The congregation sniggered. When he was four Stephen had pulled Bernard’s tail to see what would happen. What happened was that Bernard reciprocated with a few sharp, reproachful scratches to his face and arms, and as a result relations between the two had been very cool ever since.
“He had a tough beginning, poor chap. Thrown out of a car onto the M1 on a cold October night, and while the others were picked up in a jag and a Mercedes, well, poor Bernard drew the short straw and ended up in our metro.” He paused. The family sensed this as a moment where a laugh was expected, and responded accordingly. “Well, after that Bernard was plagued with health problems that seemed never-ending. Ear mite, worms, conjunctivitis…”
“Fleas,” Catherine muttered, cynical at the memory.
“Well, we spent so much money on sorting him out that at the end of it Catherine suggested we chuck him back on the motorway.”
Another laugh, except from Catherine, because she’d meant it.
“Well, the children all welcomed Bernard into the family, but the dog wasn’t so keen to begin with, but they soon made up, and one night during a particularly loud thunderstorm I found them curled up together under my bed, taking care of one another. All was forgiven.”
This wasn’t entirely true. In reality, Kelsley the jack russell, named after Kelsley’s bitter, the best (and incidentally only) beer brewed in the Elby district, was terrified of Bernard. For a start, Bernard was bigger than him – after several years considerably bigger, especially round the stomach – and Kelsley became his slave. Bernard would chase him out of the garden if he decided he wanted it for himself. If Kelsley caught Bernard asleep in his basket, or eating from his dish, he knew better than to make a fuss out of it. The two would simply exchange meaningful looks, and Bernard would always win, and Kelsley would trot away meekly and hide behind the sofa.
“In the old days,” Francis continued, now well into his stride, “Bernard was a keen hunter, and would often bring us presents of dead mice and birds, and once even a rabbit which he had killed for us.” Another titter, but the audience was getting hungry. The O’Malley members of the congregation remembered these surprises all too well. On more than one occasion Bernard had leapt onto Anne’s bed and pawed her awake, and she had opened her eyes only to be confronted with a disembowelled thrush resting on the pillow beside her, and Bernard, licking away the remnants of bird’s intestine from around his lips and beaming up at her with a look-what-I-just-did-aren’t-I-clever? expression on his face.
“But recently he’s traded in his valiant past for a more relaxing life.”
You could say that again. It was well known to residents of Spirebeck Road that mice from all over Elby migrated to the O’Malley back garden for a quiet life, and when they got bored they would totter across the garden and back again in front of Bernard, sometimes in pairs, to see if anything would happen. It didn’t. Bernard would watch with supercilious apathy, seeming to say “Please. I’ve seen it all before” before mooching inside to get some more food. His life revolved around eating and sleeping, usually on Anne’s bed, so when she came home tired from an evening shift at the hospital in need of a good night’s sleep he would look straight at her with his round green eyes, and she knew he meant “I was here first, don’t even think about it.”