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That Was The Year That Was

So we are in the Ember Days of 2025 now. The year’s fire has burned out and all that’s left are the glowing embers of a year that – quite honestly – is welcome to sling its bloody hook and never show its face again. It hasn’t been without its delights, but the heaviness of grief and loss permeated the latter part of the year and that’s not any fun for anybody. I did think about glossing through it all, but it deserves remembering. So without further ado, here is 2025 in pictures.

January

Much like Phantom here, the start of 2025 was completely nonplussed. Everything was fine.

Not a bloody care, mate.

Not a care in the world. This is Phantom’s very favourite sleeping position: she also adopts it in instances like this, when she requires your undivided attention. Which is most of the time. Shadow is more reserved and will come for attention when she wants it, but Phantom is 100% a FOMO cat. She gets furious if you go to the bathroom without her and will sit outside and shout until you return. That said, she’s also an absolute sweetheart. Just a needy, clingy, demanding one.

That tummy is not a trap. She’ll let you fuss her until the cows come home and then you can fuss the cows, too. As long as she’s involved.

February

February was cool. We went to an Actual Bloody Castle to finish our 5-year Symbaroum campaign. We sat around a massive table, in a cold dining room (where on the way out on Monday, we located the heating controls behind the door). We ate food at 2 in the morning because we were having such a damn good time, we didn’t want to stop. We saved the world. Sort of. We had happy ever afters. Sort of. And Ben had this glorious piece of art commissioned to commemorate the whole thing.

March

On a complete whim, we went to the Wensleydale Creamery. It was one of the weirdest days out that I think I’ve ever had and I can’t even quite put my finger on why that is. It was adorable, though, and this was a cracking display, Grommit.

April

Only been in this house 20 years, but in April, we finally decorated our bedroom. I had a very specific image in my head of what I wanted to put on the wall and I nailed it. I adore cherry blossoms and these just look so lovely.

Turns out that the FOMO cat and her sister also like to chew the flowers off the bulbs, so it’s a constant battle of drooping blooms, but hey, there we are.

May

The people who don’t have knackered backs and questionable knees did their annual walk in what turned out to be some pretty warm spring weather. The walk finished up at Lake Windermere, where I met up with them for a nice evening of being utterly silly. We had a stupidly posh balcony room that overlooked the lake and Pusheen, being the lush that they are, enjoyed a bottle of champagne.

June

Ben and some other people whose knees and backs aren’t completely obliterated by the steady passage of time heroically ascended the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge while the sensible halves of the couple groups had a Wild Day Out, taking in an assortment of increasingly wild locations. It was a lovely day and the day afterwards, we came home via the Ribblehead Viaduct. As anybody who knows me will appreciate, I’m an absolute sucker for a good bit of old-fashioned Victorian engineering, so I was in my element.

July

Our second trip to Toronto, in time for Tennocon 2025. We were at Tennocon in 2023 and I’ll be honest: it was better that time than it was this time. Not to say I didn’t have fun, because I did: but it was definitely more… interactive the last time. More importantly, I bought tickets to a Toronto Blue Jays baseball game when we were back in the city, ‘just for the experience’. Turns out, I’m a huge baseball fan. Who knew? And what a bloody view.

August

The year up until now was being lovely. Visits to lovely places, experiencing new things… I have never been the type of person to under-appreciate just how lucky I am to get to do these things. I was raised to be grateful for what I have and so when the call came from my brother to tell me that my dad, who had reluctantly heeded medical advice and gone into hospital, was ailing, I was on my way down the motorway as quickly as the legal speed limit would allow. Dad had been increasingly feeling the wear and tear of his own not-inconsiderable 85 years and all the little things that had been slowly going wrong finally culminated in his body putting out the white flag and negotiating terms of surrender. He passed away on August 22nd, quietly, peacefully and entirely without fanfare, just as he had lived. He left behind my brother, me and several thousand honey bees.

At the time, I posted on social media a small story: when I was a surly teen being forced to go for days out with my parents, Dad would always walk next to me and say ‘hold your daddy’s hand’. The reaction was invariably a scowl, but he’d keep on doing it just to wind me up. Eventually it worked and I would laugh. It just became a thing.

But oh, what I wouldn’t give to hold my daddy’s hand one last time.

We’d barely adjusted to this sudden change when, a week later, my lovely father-in-law Brian also passed away.

August was not kind to our families.

September

September was definitely a month of contrasts. First and foremost in my mind, of course, was Dad’s funeral: a quiet affair that was attended by those closest to him and his friends from the allotment. They all had such kind words and general kindness to share. When you lose someone close to you, hearing how well-regarded they are brings a surprising amount of comfort.

The funeral, in the middle of the month, was bookended by two separate trips: the first to a tiny little shepherd’s hut in the heart of the Lake District and the other to a lodge at Chester Zoo, which also featured a behind-the-scenes feeding the giraffes situation. It was actually lovely and took some of the numbness out of the preceding weeks.

I would like to have told Dad all about it. I’d previously suggested to him that he’d have loved Chester Zoo.

October

More up and down the motorway for us. By now, Ben and I could drive the route with our eyes shut, although I really wouldn’t recommend that as a sensible thing to do. Brian’s funeral was a much larger get-together than Dad’s but every bit as welcome in terms of closure. The day before, my new novel was released and I feel like I’ve entirely skimmed over the fact that amidst all the heartache of the previous two months, I someone made my way through the edits for that.

I changed the dedication in the front of the book before it went to print. It just says ‘To dad: my first hero’.

November

Life, so they say, is for the living and things have to move forward. However, determined that my brother wouldn’t be on his own for his birthday, I made my way back down the M1 (eyes fully open) and had a lovely week varying between making a start on sorting out Dad’s house and going up to That There London to take in a couple of shows. I finally saw ‘The Book of Mormon’ for the first time, despite having had the soundtrack for ever, and we also went to see ‘Oliver!’ which was genuinely brilliant. I haven’t enjoyed a show that much for a long time. Heartily recommend it to all!

December

And so here we are.

2025 has not been a great year – but it has been studded with moments of greatness. The sadness has been pierced by laughter and smiles and a vague sense of wonder that four giraffes stampeding into a barn are really intimidating. There has been the love of friends and family, many of whom I’ve entirely failed to see this year due to the obvious circumstances.

But things move forward. As they say in Les Miserables, even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise. (Speaking of which, check out this sky over the hospital where I work from earlier this month).

December also marked the 25th anniversary of my mother’s death. Guess that makes me an orphan now, but thankfully Victorian workhouses are no longer a thing.

I have been privileged beyond measure to have had those two as my parents. Mum taught me the value of kindness. My dad taught me the value of generosity of spirit. When Mum died, me and Dad had to redefine our relationship. It was never smooth: there were fractious moments across the years when we did not see eye to eye on certain matters, but never once did I feel anything but love and respect for him. The world is a poorer place without him and Mum in it – but Terry Pratchett puts it best as evidenced below.

Peace out, 2025.

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Fuck You, Hyopthetical Mary

Fuck you, hypothetical Mary.

A Sunday rant, because… well, because this is my blog and I can do what I want, so there.

Today, I am talking about my staggeringly awful low self-image and lack of self-esteem.

Let’s start with my daily ritual. I call it ‘active mirror avoidance’ and it does exactly what it says on the tin. Avoid the mirror, don’t see your reflection, don’t get into a spiral of misery about how fat/ugly/awful you are. You know that moment when you’re sitting quietly of an evening, watching television and the screen fades abruptly to black? That horror-filled moment when the screen is suddenly filled with you, a vision of hideousness: a shapeless, formless blob, indistinct and filling that screen in a way that makes your very soul shudder? That even Steve McQueen would run screaming from?

Yeah, that. God, I hate that. The Blob looks like a Slimming World lifer next to me. When the show comes back on again, I heave a sigh of relief.

Objectively I know it shouldn’t matter. Looks are superficial, they say. Beauty is only skin deep. She’s got a wonderful personality. Mate, I’d give up my embarrassingly good manners, holding open doors for people or putting a random twenty quid behind the counter at Costa to surprise the next few strangers for a moment of looking in the mirror and actually feeling satisfied that I am OK. I’d give up every time I’ve politely asked people in the hospital if they know where they need to be and frequently going out of my way to ensure elderly folks get to where they need to be because hospitals are fucking mazes just to know I look great in a pair of jeans.

It’s not self-loathing, not exactly. I don’t loathe who I am as a person: I just utterly hate the wrapping. I’ve spent most of my adult life on a diet, never able to achieve the slender, toned body the adverts promised could be mine. That brings me on to another thing I hate.

Here’s what Mary used to eat in a day, the success story begins, showing a photograph of the newly slim Mary in front of a table groaning with a full fry-up for breakfast, an entire baguette filled with a whole cow for lunch and seventeen takeaways for dinner – not to mention the metric fuck-tonne of chocolate, bags of crisps and other snacks imbibed during the average day. All washed down with twelve pints of Theakston’s… It’s never been about food, with me. In fact, my problem is the opposite: my metabolism can’t be fucked. There are days when I barely hit the 1,000 calorie mark. Not out of any desire to under-eat, but simply because I’m just not that hungry. I’m overweight because I under-eat. It’s a fucking paradox that I can’t articulate and which sounds insane – but there it is.

Fuck you, hypothetical Mary.

I’ve never been – and never will be – thin. I’m descended from Sussex farming stock: a solid, sustainable frame built on the sturdy side. I’m wide and broad and stocky, the latter of which makes me sound like a bloody soup. As I’ve trundled onward into middle age and acquired meno-belly, I see that svelte silhouette scuttling even further away from me. I will never be a 5’9” willowy blonde, it’s just not in my genetic history. Oh, oh! And the NEXT thing that grinds my gears.

I hate how I look, says pretty person, posting up an endless selection of selfies and assorted outfit changes. Please validate me, says the subtext and you know what? That bit’s OK. Everyone needs validating. Everyone needs someone to pat them on the head and say ‘you’re fine’. But if you truly hated how you looked, you’d not be putting it out there for people see. Don’t do that shit. If you’re having a bad day, just say you’re having a bad day. Don’t use it as a vehicle to demand people look at you. It’s bordering on narcissism and that isn’t pretty. At all. If you post up once for validation and people reassure you, please take it as read that you’re absolutely perfect in all possible ways. Don’t beat yourself up over it, I beg of you.

So moving away from the horrors of self-image (or lack thereof), let’s just touch lightly on the self-esteem thing. Some of you may have noticed that I’ve written books. And short stories. But you know – actually published author and all that. For fifteen years or so, now, to put a time stamp on it – although I was writing stories for years before that ever happened.

And yet…

…and yet, it’s only in the last couple of months that I’ve felt comfortable saying so. I don’t know what it was previously. Maybe it’s a hang-over from when my dad, when I told him about my first published novel (‘The Gildar Rift’), who said ‘yeah, but it’s not a real book, is it’? He didn’t mean it in quite the disparaging way it came out – trust me you guys, I know my dad better than most people and I know he doesn’t mean to be hurtful. Brain not in gear before mouth moving and all that malarky, can’t think where I get it from. But now I’m much more able to bring it casually into conversations that involve questions like ‘so what do you do’, or ‘do you know anything about Warhammer’ or that sort of thing. I got to write a novel for Marvel, man. One of my top two IPs! (The first is Star Wars, but that’s an absolute pipe dream and well I know it!)

Perhaps the one thing will lead to an improvement in the other. I don’t know. I just needed to get this out of my system today. Do I feel better for it? Yeah, maybe, because reading back over it, I realise one fundamentally good thing about myself. Even when I’m feeling low, I can still find something to laugh about.

But still, fuck you, hypothetical Mary.

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Well, That Was… Unexpected.

I was not expecting this in my inbox this morning, but here we are. After years of quietly sliding beneath the radar, one of my books has been nominated for an award!

I am honestly stunned and delighted in equal measure and want to extend my heartiest congratulations to all my fellow nominees.

Official Press Release follows.

The International Association of Media Tie-In Writers’ 2024 Scribe Award Nominees

With the annual Scribe Awards, the IAMTW celebrates and honors excellence in the field of writing tie-in fiction for media franchises. These works include novels, short stories, audio dramas, and graphic novels tied to licenses of movies and TV shows, as well as video games, comics, songs, and even book series. The licenses run the gamut from James Bond to Jessica Fletcher, from Star Wars to Star Trek, to everything in the Marvel and DC universes, and much more.

We are thrilled and privileged to announce the nominees for the 2024 Scribe Awards. The winners will be named at San Diego Comic-Con on Friday July 26 during the Scribe Awards and Media Tie-In Panel in Room 32AB at 2pm Pacific time.

Adapted Novel – General or Speculative

Assassin’s Creed: Daughter of No One by Maria Lewis

Marvel’s Secret Invasion by Paul Cornell

Marvel’s Wastelanders: Star-Lord by Sarah Cawkwell

Ultraman by Pat Cadigan

Audio Drama

Doctor Who All’s Fair by Max Kashevsky

Doctor Who Face to Face by John Dorney

Doctor Who Pursuit of the Nightjar by Tim Foley

Doctor Who Sins of the Flesh by Alfie Shaw

Doctor Who Spirit of the Season by Georgia Cook

Graphic Novel

The Expanse Dragontooth by Andy Diggle

The Mighty Nine Origins: Critical Role by Jody Houser

Red Rising by Rik Hoskin

Skull and Bones The Savage Storm by John Jackson Miller and James Mishler

Star Wars – The Nameless Terror by George Mann

Original Novel – General

Legend of the Five Rings: Three Oaths by Josh Reynolds

Murder, She Wrote: Fit for Murder by Jessica Fletcher & Terrie Farley Moran

Watch Dogs Legion: Cold Reboot by Robbie MacNiven

Original Novel – Speculative

Assassin’s Creed: The Resurrection Plot by Kate Heartfield

Marvel Zombies: The Hunger by Marsheila Rockwell

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine – The Autobiography of Benjamin Sisko by Derek Tyler Attico

Star Trek: Picard – Firewall by David Mack

Star Wars – The Eye of Darkness by George Mann

Short Story

Unioverse “Singing a Deeper Song” by Tim Waggoner

Warhammer 40,000 “A Forbidden Meal” by Carrie Harris

Star Trek Deep Space Nine “Lost and Founder” by David Mack

Valdemar “Needs Must When Evil Bides” by Jennifer Brozek

Diablo “The Toll of Darkness and Light” by Jonathan Maberry

Kolchak the Night Stalker “Touch of Silk” by Deborah Daughetee

Star Trek: Discovery “Work Worth Doing” by Keith R.A. DeCandido

Young Adult / Middle Grade

Disney Chills: Circle of Ter-ROAR by Vera Strange

Disney Twisted Tales: Set in Stone by Mari Mancusi

Minecraft: Return of the Piglins by Matt Forbeck

Shadowrun: Auditions: A Mosaic Run Collection by Jennifer Brozek

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Nobody Can Do It Like A Steam Train

Starlight Express review – 6/7/2024
Disclaimer: There are spoilers regarding the changes to the show here. Read no further if you don’t want to know.

Context is important. What you need to know is that in my mid to late teens, I lived and breathed this show. My brother took me to see it on my 14th birthday and I used up all my post office savings to pay for four more tickets over the next few months. That was about the time I discovered the joy of paying £2 for a student standing ticket at the back of the stalls. I then proceeded to see the original iteration of the show 84 more times. Don’t judge me.

So while other people my age from school were spending their Saturdays mooching around town, doing teenage girl things, I would get on the train to Victoria station and spend hours sitting on the theatre steps on the Vauxhall Bridge Road entrance waiting for opening. I made friends in that queue: people who would come every week, who I got to know, whose interests aligned with my own. The staff knew us, the cast knew us – I made lifelong friends out of those days. They were happy times. Starlight Express was my happy place and maybe more importantly, a safe place where I wasn’t afraid to be myself, a place where people didn’t bully or tease me in my capacity as the shy, awkward kid that I was (I mean, I’m still two of those three things, let’s be fair).

So that’s the context in a nutshell. StEx was the first professional theatre production I ever saw and at 14 years old, that was a pretty high bar. It was a spectacle that blew me away with its set design, up-tempo numbers, gentle humour and sheer daring. As the years went by and I made the inexorable slide towards the grand old age of 17, life took over and the visits decreased and dwindled until at the age of 19, I moved away from the South East and that, I assumed, was that.

My brother and I got tickets to see the revamped version somewhere in the early 90s and I was content that my time for the show was over. I managed to wrap up my number of times seeing it to a lovely 90. Disappointed I never made my 100, StEx became a Thing That Happened When I Was Young.

When its closure was announced, I felt a pang of genuine sorrow. That Thing That Happened When I Was Young had shaped me in a certain way and the world felt sadder for its passing. (Yes, I know it’s been running in Bochum since the dawn of time, but I’ve still never had the chance to see that version. I must rectify this post-haste).

Then, last year, the revival was announced. Follow the chain of emotions very closely, because this happened very quickly in real time.

Well, that’ll be rubbish.

I don’t care about that.

Still, it’s nice that it’s being revived. Lucky new generation.

I still don’t care about that.

But it’s been so long and it meant so much to me.

Shut up, inner self, I don’t care.

You do.

No I don’t.

You do, and I won’t stop until you…

Hey, Big Brother, look at this.

Happy Christmas, little sister, I’ve got us tickets to go see Starlight Express in July 2024!

Told you. Nobody can do it like a steam train!

Choo choo, motherfucker.

And so it was that I found myself outside the Troubadour Theatre at Wembley Park on Saturday, 6th July 2024 for the matinee performance of the revamped and reborn version of Starlight Express. Some further context required:

A friend and former cast member had seen the show while it was still in previews and provided me with some very entertaining voice notes on his feelings. As a direct result of this, I decided to lower my expectations of what I was going to see. Expect nothing, kids, and you’ll never be disappointed.

The theatre lobby was… some sort of clash or other. I have no idea what they were going for, but it was campy kitsch. Which may be what they were going for, in which case, hooray! There were disco balls and neon everywhere, but there was still a strange sense that it was a converted warehouse. I peered myopically at the merchandising list and gave a little half-shrug. It was expensive, but so is everything, but there was very, very little in terms of choice. The show logo or ‘Nobody Can Do It Like a Steam Train’ and that was pretty much it. (Note: post-show, if they’d had any Hydra-related merch, I’d have been all over it like a rash – a t-shirt or hoodie with Hydra’s riff line on it would have been sweet).

Merchandise thus not purchased (it’s all available on-line anyway, so why queue?), we proceeded into the auditorium and my brain immediately registered a series of things.

1. Holy shit, this place is TINY. (For comparison purposes, please see pictures below of the original lower-level layout of the Apollo Victoria set and the new one).

2. Hah, more neon, that’s cool. Who doesn’t love neon?

3.  No, I mean, really small. How is this going to work in this space? Are the cast all miniaturised in some way? Like the tiny food that Iceland produces at Christmas? Small. S. M. All.

4. It looks super modern, though, and I kind of like that.

5. Tiny.

We took our seats and enjoyed looking at the (small) set while people filtered in. I’ve heard/read somewhere that the theatre is about a 1,000 capacity auditorium, but it felt really intimate. This is not a bad thing.

Finally, the lights dimmed and the music blared out those achingly familiar notes of the Overture and all of a sudden, I didn’t care about anything except the music. I’d been made aware of the fact that a Small Child was on stage for much of the show as actual Control and this Small Child was present now. My immediate (and lasting) impressions were that the concept of having Control as a visible thing was acceptable, but it might have been nicer if the Small Child had done a lot less shouting into their microphone and had actually been given some guidance in articulation – or at least the sound mixers should do something with him. We could barely understand him at times because his treble was so high it was like those devices they install in shop entrances to deter surly teenagers. Nonetheless, he was cute and whatever and the Overture gave me old-fashioned goosebumps. So let’s get into the important elements.

Firstly, let’s talk about the set and costume design.

The set was extremely compact and what they’ve achieved with this minimal space is pretty cool. For me, an alumni of the original, the ‘races’ were not that exciting, consisting mostly as they did of people scooching back and forward and up a single ramp. However, they made a concerted effort to provide structure through the narrative of Control. At least, I assume they did given that we couldn’t understand a muffled word of the commentary and had to rely on the convenient video screens to even remotely follow along. The set design let down this critical element of the show, I’m not going to lie.

However, in terms of utilising the available space, the choreography was nicely done, some of the set elements were beautifully implemented and the way the entire auditorium lit up during the Starlight Sequence brought genuine tears to my eyes (see: nostalgia). It was simple, but effective, so yes. The set was OK, largely fit for purpose, but was a massive step down from what made the original so innovative.

The costumes… well, I’m split down the middle here. I loved how colourful everything was. I liked how Greaseball and Slick had similar colour schemes. I liked the sleek electric component design. But it all felt a bit… last year of theatre costume design project in places. I loved the cast member playing Electra, but I did not like the new Electra look. I’m not sure what the point of the inflatable elements during ‘AC/DC’ were, for example. It felt a bit like someone going ‘WE NEED MORE GAGA’. For me, the original Electra design was just too iconic.

I did like that the costumes for the coaches were more individual and less ‘tiny skirt in a different colour’. (Also, I prefer Pearl’s purple tones to pink, not gonna lie). Rusty was definitely more orange than he should have been: a more muted tone would have gone down well here. One of the racing locomotives looked like a can of Irn Bru and I kept mixing one of them up with Hydra because their costumes were so identical in colour.

Then there was the revamped story. Characters were taken out, new characters were brought in, the story (not that it ever really had a story as such) was altered a little. Songs that were in the original version and removed for the first revamp made a reappearance in a new guise, sung by a new character… there was enough new content to make it a whole new Starlight Express while still retaining some of the original. (If they’d dropped ‘Rolling Stock’, for example, I think my brother would have got up and left). The new songs are, for the most part, pretty good: catchy and socially relevant in a not in-your-face way.

The new characters, particularly in terms of the freight trains and carriages, are a trimmed-down version of the original. Pearl and Dinah get to remain, but Ashley and Buffy are history. Instead, we have a return of Belle the Sleeping Car and a new character, the Quiet Coach. But you know what? Whatever. It’s the changes to the freight line-up that has the biggest impact. CB went in the original revamp The Rockies are out. Flat-Top is gone. Dustin? Shmustin.

The whole lot has been changed. Now, we have fuel tankers/loads. Wood, coal, oil and hydrogen. Slick and Hydra are the stand-outs, with Porter and Lumber basically being pointless. Slick (the oil tanker) becomes the villain that CB once was, while Hydra picks up the slack left by dropping the big hopper. Again, it was a startling change, but nothing jarring about it.

The foreign trains seem to have been replaced with random Other Trains. I’d elaborate, but again, because of the sound mix on the Small Child’s vocals, he may as well have been shrieking ‘A HAMSTER, SOME CHEESE BOARDS, A BANANA ON A MOTORBIKE’ during their introductions. It was only when the races started and their names appeared on the video screen that I was clued in. So yeah, the countries element seems to have been ditched, although they still retain the right (as indeed they should) to mock the UK rail system with sly digs at the British train. Greaseball, however, is still introduced as the Union Pacific.

Which… given that every single person in this version of the show speaks with extremely British accents seems… a bit misplaced. Also, Dinah (while brilliant portrayed by the cast member) sounded borderline bonkers when singing U.N.C.O.U.P.L.E.D – it worked as a country pastiche when being sung by someone with an OTT accent, but it seemed to fall a bit flat here.

On the whole, though, the changes are fine. What will probably upset some people with their memories of the original staging are the gender swaps. We have a female Greaseball (more on that later). Slick is female. Electra’s components are (I reckon deliberately) styled in an identical, androgynous way. Electra is referred to throughout as ‘they/them’. For me, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. A key thing to remember about the characters in this musical is this.

They. Are. Locomotives. And. Carriages.

If gender swapping in this context upsets you, then give your head a wobble. Because it doesn’t matter. What matters is if the part is well played and well sung. Which brings me onto…

The performances.

I’ve seen a lot of people dismissively say ‘oh, this is a young cast’, or ‘so many of them are making their professional debuts’. Well, to those people, I say ‘do you not know how young the original cast were?’ Yes, they are young, but they were almost universally excellent.

Greaseball during this performance was understudied by Lara Vina Uzcatia and given that the show has only officially been open for a short time, it must have been a lot of pressure. However, she settled some of my concerns about whether a female Greaseball would work. Her voice was not the strongest – there may have been nerves involved – but her swagger was most definitely there, so kudos for that.

Particular shout-outs to Jeevan Braich as Rusty, whose sweet manner and beautiful voice have brought new life to this character. He was just adorable and that’s what you want in an underdog. Jade Marvin, as Momma was the heart and soul of the piece and Braich and Marvin’s duet during the ‘Starlight Sequence’ was everything I had hoped for.

Jaydon Vijn as Hydra was also worthy of mention. I liked his blend of Dustin-esque innocence and cocky self-assurance of being the future.

Emily Martinez was great as the villainous Slick and gets big points from me for breathing new life into the role once taken by CB.

A thing I want to mention here is my admiration for the cast members who caught eye contact with some of the young children in the audience – all of whom were fully spellbound – and made damn sure to interact with them with sly winks and little waves. It was lovely to see that and those children will remember that forever.

So let’s talk about overall. I’m even going to give it a rating.

When I came out of the theatre, I was smiling. I had a good time. There were a handful of times during the performance (notably during the ‘Starlight Sequence’) when I genuinely felt myself choking up with nostalgia and the fact the show achieved an emotional reaction from me suggests that I enjoyed it. I’ve given myself a few days to sort out the nostalgia from the reality and here’s the bottom line.

Starlight Express is a fun piece of immersive theatre, with a thumping soundtrack that deserves to be seen by anybody who wants to detach from reality for a couple of hours. Is it perfect? No. But neither was the original. Is it fun? Absolutely. Is it the best musical you’re ever going to see in your entire life? No. Does that matter? Also no. Would I go and see it again? Yes. I absolutely would. Would I recommend it? Yes, with the caveat that you aren’t expecting something mind-blowing. Go see the show – particularly if you’ve got kids.

So what would you rate it out of 5, Sarah? Well, having contemplated this I’d rate it at around 3 stars. I am acutely aware that my attachment to the show could have given it a higher rating and I’m prepared to step beyond that. I think it has room for improvement: the cast are still in their early days and there were some moments that felt confused or forced. That may improve with time and increased confidence.

Let’s just say it’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when.

If you know, you know.

If you don’t, trust me, if you go and see this. You’ll know.

  • Original set photo credit to Adrian Rhys
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Giving Up Control [Journee Entry 1]

So, here’s a thing I suspected about myself but didn’t know for sure until today. I am a complete control freak when it comes to holidays and booking them. In the 20+ years my husband and I have been together, he’s always been quite happy to leave the booking of holidays and associated shenanigans to me. Because I like it, I really do. I like picking flights, picking hotels, sorting car hire. I like checking and re-checking. I like printing off my itinerary and putting it in my borderline obsessive plastic wallet. I like fretting that I’ve forgotten something and then I enjoy the satisfaction of everything going 100% according to plan.

Well, today I’ve thrown caution to the winds. Today, I gave in to Himself’s encouragement and I booked a Journee trip.

tl;dr, I’ve given the reins to complete strangers. They’ve selected a destination for us based on a questionnaire we completed (no obligation – it’s worth doing just for the curiosity factor!). They will sort the flights, the accommodation and three specific excursions in the four day/three night stay. All they’ve given us at this stage is an early description and they’ll send more clues as we approach departure. (I think I’ve worked it out from the initial proposal, but that’s OK, because even if I’m right, I have never been to that place and it looks dead cool). They send you a pack right before you leave with a ‘reveal postcard’ that they encourage you to open only once you’re at the airport.

‘That sounds exciting,’ said Himself.

I didn’t reply. I was struggling with the idea of stepping one big toe out of my comfort zone. But in the end, the concept of the adventure of it all won through and we committed. So I figured I’d put some bits and pieces about it all in here – but not too much, because I’m acutely aware that other people may choose to book such a thing and I wouldn’t want to create inadvertent spoilers. I won’t share the clues they send or anything like that for the same reason. What I will do is report back as to how the entire process goes and feels.

First impression is a good one. I had a couple of questions both before and after booking and the team got back to me swiftly, with courtesy and good humour. I suspect they’ve already got me pegged as Mrs. Anxious from County Durham, but they’re super kind about it. I am a great believer in talking about good customer service when I get it and so far, these guys are outstandingly good.

I have a ‘Journee Passport’ on my phone home screen now: lots of it is locked, but things they will open up to us as we get closer include:

  • Weather forecast
  • Packing list
  • Curated lists of suggested places to visit and good restaurants

It’s exciting and terrifying in equal measure – giving up control like this is alien to my mindset, but for the sake of Adventure[tm], I’m willing to give it a go. I also figured that it was a good reason to get back to posting on the blog, so there’s that, too.

Wish me luck, people, I’m going in.

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Wastelanders: Star-Lord [Excerpt 3]

* * *

Kraven approached Warn slowly and deliberately, relishing the moment. He was ready to claim his victory. Every muscle in his body tensed.

There was a spluttering noise.

“The Second Dawn is…”

PuttputtputtPOPputtputt… and punctuating the sound came a long, loud shriek.

“What is this?” Best sat forward in his chair and stared at the drone footage as a speck appeared on the edges. The sound of failing engines and faint screaming became gradually louder. “I… I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking at here, folks, but it looks as though someone is flying towards our combatants…”

One of the boots gave out.

“…very badly. I don’t know what to tell you, folks. But this gatecrasher is out of control! He’s… yes! He’s collided with one of the canyon walls! Ouch, folks, that had to have hurt, but whoever that is refuses to quit. He’s hit the opposite canyon wall…”

A loud thump could be heard across the transmission and then a shot rang out.

“He’s armed! This interloper is armed with a gun and… yes! He’s firing on Kraven! A fellow insurrectionist, perhaps. One of Warn’s supporters. He’s powered by what appears to be rocket boots. Or boot, I should say since only one of them is working.”

For a few moments, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of the newcomer crashing into canyon walls and swearing as he entirely failed to make an impressive entrance. He careened into the canyon floor, bounced back up and then off the wall again.

* * *

Excerpt from ‘Wastelanders: Star-Lord, reproduced here with kind permission of Aconyte Books and Marvel Entertainment.

US paperback/Kindle editions available now from this link.

UK paperback available September 2023

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Wastelanders: Star-Lord [Excerpt 2]

* * *

When Rocket spoke, there was something achingly sad in his tone. “So that’s it? The world’s just… doomed?”

“That’s it. Sometimes, things have exactly the right name, y’know? Like… oranges. Or sloths. On that basis, Doom is perfect, wouldn’t you say? We’re all doomed. Or Doomed.” He somehow successfully pronounced the capital D. Rocket didn’t know how. Neither did he much care.

“Yeah,” he said, disconsolately. “I guess.”

“Doom is a feeling,” said Red, now clearly into his stride. “And Doom is a man and Doom – depending on whose opinion you get – is our president, or our dictator. He’s sometimes even a god, or occasionally our devil…” Red was interrupted by Quill’s snoring, a sound akin to a walrus being attacked with a buzzsaw. Rocket turned and delivered another swift kick to the man’s ribs. The walrus won a brief reprieve.

“How does someone like Doctor Doom end up running the country anyway?”

“Not the country. There is no country, least as far as I know. Doom runs the Wastelands. That’s what everyone now calls what used to be the Midwest and the Great Plains.”

“OK, so what’s on either side of the Wastelands?”

“Different places,” said Red, grimly. “With different troubles.”

* * *

Excerpt from ‘Wastelanders: Star-Lord, reproduced here with kind permission of Aconyte Books and Marvel Entertainment.

US paperback/Kindle editions available now from this link.

UK paperback available September 2023

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Wastelanders: Star-Lord [Excerpt 1]

* * *

Rocket’s claws clattered on the console, his dark eyes fixed firmly on what he was doing, and he pushed a slider upwards. The background whine went from low to high and then a steady thrummmmm filled the room. Lights flickered on, revealing the ship for the mess that it had become beneath the onslaught of the Brood. “Oh yeah,” said Rocket. “Bow down before me, because I am a god among…”

“Raccoons?” the recorder interjected. The look Rocket shot her could have melted her circuits.

“No! I keep telling you all! I ain’t a…”

There was a sudden change in the background sound, an audiological stutter and then the pause of a heartbeat. Rocket’s look of triumph become one of panic. “Oh, no.”

“‘Oh no’ is never good,” said Quill, abandoning his position by the recorder and moving to the console. “Why are you saying ‘oh no’, Rocket? What did you do?”

“I didn’t…” There was a cessation of noise outside the door as the Brood simultaneously picked up on the same thing that everyone else did. The background noise ramped upwards to a pitch so high that it could possibly have attracted dogs from galaxies hitherto undiscovered. Rocket, who could pick up the ultra-high frequency of the sound, clamped his paws over his ears and said something in a language Quill did not know.

Then all the lights went out.

* * *

Excerpt from ‘Wastelanders: Star-Lord, reproduced here with kind permission of Aconyte Books and Marvel Entertainment.

US paperback/Kindle editions available now from this link.

UK paperback available September 2023

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Holiday Time!

Over the weekend, I was talking to my friend about childhood holidays and it brought back a million memories. Throughout my childhood until I was about 13 or so, we always went to a Pontin’s holiday camp. We generally went to one of three places: North Wales, Somerset or just up the road in Sussex. I have vivid and strong memories of all of those places and the journeys to get there.

I wanted to capture some of those memories before they slide off back into the quagmire of my mind again so here is a non-exhaustive list.

  • I used to get car sick. I still shudder at the flavour of Strawberry Chewits because I remember clearly that they taste much worse coming back up. To a degree, the same with the smell of freshly cut grass (not that I ate it, you understand: just the smell of it triggers memories of car sickness). I remember taking ‘Quells’ before each trip with varying degrees of success. To this day, I am a terrible passenger.
  • Mum’s packed lunches that we’d eat sitting in a layby somewhere.
  • Milk that came in bags and the blue jugs you used to put them in! I’d forgotten about these until recently when the hospital Costa Coffee had bags of milk and the memory surfaced like a wallowing hippo.
  • Embassy (even number chalets) vs Castella (odd number chalets). We always invariably ended up in Castella and I still remember the one time we were in Embassy being like some kind of rare treat. Naturally, we were mortal enemies.
  • The Dragon Club song to the tune of Glory, Glory, Hallelujah . (‘We’re all in the Dragon Club, our best we try to do… some of us are Embassy and there’s Castella too… we have a secret password of which we’re very proud but we won’t shout it out loud… fishfingers is our password, that’s the Dragon Club’s own password… fishfingers is our password, but we won’t shout it out loud!’) Note: ‘fishfingers’ should be whispered at each occurrence, because it’s secret. How the heck I remember that song the better part of 40 years later is anybody’s guess.
  • My mum winning the jackpot on a fruit machine in 10p pieces and having to carry them back to the chalet in her handbag. I can remember sitting there counting it all up. It was like £100 or something, which at the time was a HUGE pile of cash. Still is, really. Note: £100 in 10p pieces is heavy.
  • The ‘spot the new car registrations’ game.
  • All the kids getting kicked out of the ballroom (which I can remember reeking of stale tobacco and beer in the way that pubs used to when you’d walk past them in the morning) at x o’clock so the adults could do adult things, whatever boring stuff that was. What could possibly be better than a group of pre-teen kids charging at top speed around the floor?
  • Prize Bingo! Oh my god, that was so much fun.
  • The year my mum, dad and brother left the camp site to go do a Thing (I think it was go to Cheddar Caves) and I stayed behind. I was 11 years old. Can you imagine leaving an 11 year old alone for a whole day now? I randomly entered a talent contest and came second. I still have the trophy somewhere.
  • Making friends with a boy called Peter whose birthday was the same day as mine and us being friends all week. I still sometimes wonder if he remembers me too.
  • The only time we had a two week holiday being the ultimate in excitement. If I recall correctly, the first week was sports week (and there were various sports celebrities of the time on-site – I became firm friends with Tony Gubba’s daughters) and the second week was arts and crafts.
  • Locking everyone out of the car at Stonehenge.

They were simple holidays, but they were so special. My mum never travelled well and the idea of an overseas holiday just never came up. (I didn’t even go on a plane until I was 18 years old). My dad worked hard to make sure we were all looked after and these holidays, the kind of thing that people today turn their noses up at, were so wonderful. I still remember the many times I cried when we left on a Saturday to go home, wanting desperately to stay in this magical wonderland where nobody knew me. To this day, I will stoically defend those holidays against the snobbish reaction it seems to draw from people.

That’s it, really. I just wanted to get some of these memories down. My brother doubtless has many others he could add to this list!

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Imposter!

The amazing Neil Kleid posted on Twitter recently about how finding it easier to deal with imposter syndrome as he gets older and it set me off thinking about my own experiences with this terrible thing. So I figured I’d try putting it down in writing.

Let’s start with the great news! My latest novel, a prose adaptation of Benjamin Percy’s amazing audio drama, was announced and the cover released over the last couple of weeks. Look at it. Look at how lucky I am to have been gifted the most incredible cover by the effortlessly awesome Steven McNiven. Look at how lucky I am to have been given the opportunity to write something for Marvel – whose comic imprints I have been reading since I was thirteen. Look at how lucky I am to have been given the opportunity to do this. And how lucky to have been involved with the scripting in Darktide. And how lucky I am to have written stories for Twilight Imperium, Wild West Exodus, Warhammer, World of Warcraft…

How lucky I am. Also, it’s here.

So I find myself thinking – and if you know me at all, you’ll understand how big a leap of faith this next statement is – that I’m not lucky at all. I’m capable. These people – Games Workshop, Warcradle, Marvel (freaking Marvel), all of them, have trusted me to represent their intellectual property and that’s not lucky – it’s an honour. I’ve always written stories for the same reason and that reason has been to entertain people. I have a very vivid memory of my first teacher – so I was 5 or 6 years old at the time – asking the class to write and draw their own version of a Mr. Men story. I chose to write a story about Mr. Happy planting an acorn and standing in the garden waiting for it to grow.

“He’ll be there a long time,” laughed Mrs. Chapman, delighted by the image I’d drawn (badly) on the page of Mr. Happy with his watering can and a huge, beaming smile on his face (he is Mr. Happy). “What a lovely idea!” From that moment, I wanted nothing more than to see people smile after they’d read something I’d written on the page. For me, it’s the single most rewarding thing about being a writer. I love to tell stories. It’s genuinely as simple as that. That all these people have given me the chance to build castles in their sandboxes is glorious and I adore it.

And yet…

And yet.

I’m not good enough, my brain tells me. There are people whose standards I’m never going to reach. What am I doing? How did I get here?

I had a lot of this writing the Star-Lord book. Not only was it writing for Marvel, which was a burden in and of itself to someone with a brain like mine, but it was handling a well-known character. I focused harder on writing this book that I think I’ve focused on anything else. I thought like Peter Quill for several weeks while writing it. I found little things: gestures and quirks that I dropped in. I heard his voice whenever I wrote one of his voice lines. It was a project of complete passion and devotion. The whole time, I was telling myself this is fine. This is all fine.

Then I sent the manuscript off to my wonderful editor. The second it left my mailbox, I went into a quiet anxiety meltdown. Would it be good enough? Will it be OK? Is the fact the first draft ended up nearly 10k words over the agreed total but I managed to edit it down to only 5k over be OK? Will she like it? Will she hate it? She’ll hate it. Oh my word, what am I doing?

Then Christmas happened. Then the manuscript came back to me with eloquent and thoughtful edits – none of which were huge and/or major and which all served only to make the story even better. So I did the edits within the allotted timeframe and sent them back. Everything was fine and then it was time to send the manuscript to Marvel.

To actual Marvel.

Well, given everything I’ve said here, you can imagine where my poor, overthinking brain went at this point. It packed a suitcase and took a long vacation in Paranoia City. From the moment it was sent to the moment it came back, I was certain that it’d be rejected. That the excitement bubble would not only burst, it would explode, sending shards of bitter shame and disappointment flying over a large area. I refreshed my inbox about twenty times an hour. When it did come back, it was on a Monday. I saw my editor’s name flash up on the email notification and I think my heart stopped for a good minute.

I opened the email.

I opened the attachment.

I looked through the edits back from the Marvel editor.

I emailed my Aconyte editor.

“Hi,” I wrote, because I’m a writer and I know how to start an email. “Just wanted to check that I’ve got the full thing back? Because there’s like… less than a dozen changes here and…”

It was the right thing. There were barely any changes and two of them were slight tweaks to stuff on my acknowledgement page.

My own imposter syndrome practically throttled me over writing this story and yet, everything was fine. Everything was more than fine. Everything was great. And for perhaps the first time ever I realised that I’m more capable of this writing thing than I give myself credit for. Imposter syndrome is a real thing when you’re writing stories, it absolutely is, and it’s a many-headed monster with a metric fucktonne of sharp, pointy teeth. But then you take a step back and it turns out to be a fluffy kitten. Sure, the claws can be sharp and they can lacerate you quite badly, but you know what? You get better.

And that’s lucky.