(no subject)

[desperance]

M'friend Val McDermid has won the Theakston's Old Peculier award for crime novel of the year, with her book 'The Grave Tattoo'. I'm very pleased. What with m'other friend Ann Cleeves picking up the Dagger, I'm beginning to feel encompassed by awardees.

[Edited for accuracy: it's not 'The Grave Tattoo' at all, and I'm an idiot; it's 'The Torment of Others'. Hangs head in shame, and creeps away...]

Speaking of Daggers, though, their new sponsors Duncan Lawrie have sent me a copy of their in-bank magazine, with an article about the awards and the Crime Writers' Association more generally. Very sweet of them: just a bit of a pity that they can't spell either John Creasey who founded the association or Ann Cleeves who has just won their inaugural award. Ah, me.

Barry has caught the note of celebration in my typing, and celebrated himself by assassinating another of my chilli plants. I am going to have no harvest at all this year, between his depredations and the greenfly. Though I have successfully hatched five ladybirds, which is something. I suppose. Can't eat ladybirds.

Comments

[desperance.livejournal.com]

Of course she's sick & tired of it, but it's entirely her own fault. She married a man called Cleeves, and then she took his name; this double folly deserves every detail that you so aptly describe...

(Actually he's very nice - Britain's Best Birdwatcher, I'm told - and they've just moved back to the north-east, so I am much chuffed.)