Frozen Assets is a new title for my alter ego … Edward Yeoman.
Set against a background of British life in the 1970s. It is an uplifting tale of a young man making the most of every opportunity to take a step forward. To make more of himself. To bend life to his advantage. All without doing down those around him.
This is the story of a ‘Good-Guy’ making good!
Why Frozen Assets? At the time, the British were not allowed to take money out of the country. Your UK assets were frozen, unless you could find away to unfreeze them! Maybe helping someone will repay in real assets!
I am enjoying the feel of sunshine on my back. I am lying on a towel spread out on a sandy beach in Menorca. I decide to turn over before I burn. It is fabulous being warm, without layer upon layer of clothing.
For over two years, I had worked in the Arctic North. Norway to be precise, north of the city of Tromso; one of the most hostile environments in the world. Permanent darkness, from mid – November to mid – January. Cold; between October and April it seldom gets above freezing and it can get down to minus eighteen degrees Celsius. The nearest city was Soviet Murmansk. It wasn’t as if you could just pop over the border for a few days of R and R.
What had inspired me to spend a whole year in that hellhole? Money, filthy lucre, cash, the wherewithal to be able to afford to be lying on this beach today. To be able to watch some hippy chicks scrambling over the rocks across the little inlet and playing in the sea without a care in the world and even fewer clothes. That wasn’t about to happen if I had stayed in England.
Something a little different from my usual subjects … don’t worry, all the tradition Ted Bun stuff is there, just not as prominent as in some of my other stories.
As author Michael Beyer put it
This story (The Girl with a Ginger Cat) is among Ted Bun’s best. Witty, charming, funny at all the right moments, this magical tale of a young witch learning about her powers, her secret origin, and her biological family all around her twenty-first birthday wastes no time in building a world where human witches are pitted against the evil Fey world of fairies, elves, and unicorns. It is a magic-wielding comedy that offers a little bit of romance, a little bit of suspense … and a whole lot of fun. I highly recommend this book.
The thing about Nanami was that until Freddy, the ginger cat, found her in the car park of an out-of-town supermarket, on her twenty-first birthday nobody knew where she was. She had been lost. Her mother had fled a few hours before her baby was expected. All her people knew for certain was that she had been born while her mother was on the run. They had found her mother’s body, mutilated and tortured, a week later. Of Nanami, there was not a single trace.
A new genre, something a little different …
Is it #NaturistFiction? … Maybe.
Is it teen fiction … it could be
So what is it about?
The story starts with a 21 year old girl..
Then a little magical realism gets stirred in to the mix . Witches, Dragons, Elves Faeries and Unicorns that sort of thing … Oh, and we mustn’t forget Freddy the Ginger Cat!
Available on Kindle, including Kindle Unlimited and as a Paperback. I hope you enjoy reading this slight departure from my normal output
A new Crooke and Loch story escaped into the rainforest …. the first time I have ever published in three formats, the e-book, the paperback and the new baby a hard cover format edition.
There are two problems with the hard cover version. One for me, the other is for you.
My problem is with the set up. All my paperbacks are in the 8 x 5 inch layout beloved of major publishers of paperbacks such as Penguin. The closest available from the ‘Zon for their hardback format is 8.5 x 5.5! That means a separate Word manuscript for each. Not hard to do but a pain.
The other issue that comes with the change of template size … is the need for a size new cover. To add to the pain there it has to have much wider safety margins. “No problem!” just resize the images.
Nope, you need them to fit in the guide lines.
No problem Amazon have templates!
Yes, but at the minute they are for the paperback formats and sizes and don’t fit, as you are told in an overnight e-mail. Ages spent creating, uploading and adjusting to get the right; dimensions, content in the right place and getting rid of the stuff on the standard templates.
So after hours of labour … here it is …
The downside for you the customer … the rather hefty price compared with the e-book. Three pints rather than some change from one.
Then again, it will take longer to ingest than the drinks … even after the bars, pubs and clubs are re-opened
What is a writer supposed to do with bits of story, backstory and such like left over after publication?
Deliberately Left Over Story
A few years back I was working on what turned into “The Uncovered Policeman; Made For TV” when I discovered a chunk of the story was going in a different direction to the main narrative. I cut it out and dumped it into a separate file, summed up three thousand words in five lines and carried on.
Three thousand words, it was a lot of work, I wasn’t going to waste it, surely? Certainly not.
I added a few characters and followed the narrative. I ended up with one of my longer stories, “While Bees Sleep.” A story described by one reviewer as “a fine contribution to the literature of the body-positive movement.”
My last novelette, D-Day for Ruth is very much a one Point of View (PoV) piece. However, there are other characters in the book and to make the story work, they need a backstory.
One of the backstories developed into an interesting narrative of its own.
I was tempted to write it into the timeline of the existing story. I soon realised that it would involve extending the story beyond the ending as it exists. Effectively, it would become a different story.
I think it may appear as a second story however, it lacks an ending … Perhaps, one day!
The Unfinished Book
A third type of left over material is the incomplete work.
I have a half finished science fiction book. I think it has a rather good plot. I’d got to an ending … except as an early reader pointed out I give away the ending on the third page! That, he pointed out, makes reading the book rather pointless.
On re-reading after that blow, I discovered that I also break an established rule of the universe I set it in, which was very silly.
I still hope to return to this one and straighten out the mistakes.
So, No Waste
As you’ll see from the examples above I hate waste! It doesn’t mean that I don’t have old ideas, half paragraphs and unfinished stuff floating around. While some writers may discard work, I don’t; everything is recycled eventually.
Ruth is a young woman, she is on the verge of her divorce from a controlling husband. She sees her divorce as a liberation, her D-Day! The day she regains her freedom. A day worth celebrating. A day for sticking two fingers up at her soon-to-be absolute ex!
Her first decision is how to mark all three days in one action.
The story of D-Day for Ruth was inspired by the cover image (used with kind permission) by @nudismnu.
I had asked on Twitter for a cover image for the next NBL Solutions story. This missed the brief by a considerable margin. Melody is a lady of a certain age and generous proportions. Ruth in the image is much too slim, young and agile. The image needed a different story. This is it!
Once again I found myself writing in a female voice, something I feel comfortable doing. I’ve not been criticised for my tone or phrasing by a female (yet). I read several segments of this as a work in progress to the Creative Writing Group (thank goodness for Zoom!) and the lady authors all managed to empathise with Ruth!
D-Day for Ruth is a Novelette, 10 000 words long. Amazon included it as a 90-minute read. Which makes it ideal for a day’s commute, a flight, while ignoring the TV News or just lounging around the pool!
A short read … for those quiet few minutes that occur every Christmas.
A Short Story
I walked into a bar. Well, I couldn’t very well ride my bike through the door.
In truth, it was a café; my summer holiday, a cycle tour of the South of France had degenerated into a café-crawl. The intense heat, that arrived with the rising sun and lasted until well after it had set, meant my original fifty-k-a-day plan was in ruins. I knew that five minutes after leaving this place, I’d be looking forward to my next drink break.
Inside it was dark, cool and pretty quiet. A small group sat around a table, not watching the pop music videos playing on the television, passing the odd comments to and fro. There was a solitary man, propping up the bar, a half-finished beer in front of him.
“Bonjour!” I greeted him, while I waited to be served.
“Nothing bon about today mate!” He continued to stare at his beer.
The Proprietor arrived, I looked at the clock, nearly midday. Lunchtime; I allow myself a longer break for lunch and it would be too late by the time I’d climbed the hill to the next village.
“A large bottle of cold water and a beer, please. What is the plat du jour?”
“Confit de canard, avec frites et salade.” He put the beer down in front of me.
“His duck and chips are good.” The eyes were still on his beer, condensation running down the glass.
“Can I buy you another?” I point at his glass. One of the problems with cycle touring solo, it is a bit lonely. A conversation with an English speaker over lunch would be pleasant.
“Yeah, why not. Thanks.”
“Seeing as you know about the food here, I guess you live locally.”
“Lived. Sold up and I leave this evening, going back to Kent. My wife has found a houseboat on the Medway that we can afford to rent while we search for a house we can afford.”
“Oh, didn’t you enjoy ‘la vie française,’ I have always quite fancied the laid-back way of life here.”
“I used to really enjoy it, but it has all gone wrong.”
I sense a story worth listening to, so I offer to buy him lunch and a pitcher of wine. He readily accepted.
“So, what has gone wrong?” I ask, as we move to a table ready to get our starters.
“I cocked up. I mean I made a disastrous mess of things.” I pour us both a glass of water, we were nearing the end of the beers, and encourage him to continue.
“We moved here two and a half years ago; I was going to write my great novel. Ha!” He drained his beer glass. “I’d spent the last few years of my working life writing bids for government funds, I was good at it. Bids I wrote often attracted the funds they were supposed to. The sad thing from my point of view was that most of them were totally fictitious, I assembled a set of stock phrases and buzz words and used to arrange them into a coherent story. I thought if I can do this, I can do the great book too. We sold up and moved to this beautiful place.”
Our starters arrived, along with the wine. He poured a glass of the rich, red, liquid and held it to the light. He took a sip and sighed. We sat in silence for a while, eating our melon with ham.
“The move here was an interesting experience. We met some of the locals and eventually we hooked up with an ex-pat group. We started going out to lunch with the local British group almost at once. Over lunch, we would all exchange anecdotes and war stories about the idiosyncrasies of French administration, laws and drivers. Imagine, thirty boozy Brits sat around a table, the banter, witticisms, laughter and gossip. It was an incredible source of material. I started plotting my version of ‘A Year in Provence,’ based on what we were hearing at these lunches. Ah, the duck!”
Our main course had arrived. He had been right when he said it was good, the confit de cerise tasted just like a genuine home-made cherry jam.
“You were telling me about your idea for Not A Year in Provence,” I prompted my companion.
“Ah, yes. I had all these snippets and anecdotes but no real theme to hang them all from. With that in mind, I invented a couple, retiring to France and wrote it so that almost everything happened to them. It wasn’t autobiographical, apart from a chapter about the useless estate agent, that was based entirely on our Immobilier. No problem. I wrote the whole thing, both my wife and I proofread the manuscript, several times. We corrected the spelling and changed the point of view of some scenes. Once we were happy, I posted it to Amazon as a Kindle book. Then I made the mistake of turning it into a Print-on-Demand paperback.”
“Doing a paperback was a mistake?” I asked, as I used a piece of crusty bread to wipe up the last of the tasty sauce on my plate.
“Hindsight is wonderful; if only you could have it before you make the mistake.” He took a sip from his glass. “I was excited about having my first book published and I wanted to share it. I ordered several copies of the paperback and sent them to the family. Hoping they would write nice reviews. Some did, some didn’t.
“The Kindle sales were steady, low, but steady at two, maybe three, copies a week. I got on with writing my great novel. It was tough work, each sentence made up of the very best handcrafted words. Arranged and rearranged until they were all in a perfect sequence, leading smoothly from the preceding sentence to the succeeding one. Paragraphs that took what the last one had said, and building on it, passed the narrative forward. Or some such bollocks!” He paused to pour the last of the wine into his glass.
“All the ex-pat group knew I had retired here to write; they would ask time after time about how things were going, blah, blah, blah. Slowly, I’d reply and leave it like that. The conversation would move on to a new topic and my writing would be forgotten about.” He raised his hand to attract the Patron. “Dessert? Tarte Tatin avec crème anglaise s’il-vous plait.”
That sounded like a good idea, “Apple pie for me too, but with vanilla ice-cream instead of custard, please.” I placed my order.
“As I was saying, the Great Novel was slow work. Writing a serious book was nothing like as much fun as that first book. Then, just for a giggle and to make the sales look better, I bought a copy of my own story for my Kindle. Then one wet and windy autumn evening, some months later I started to read it. I was surprised to find myself laughing at some of the tales. That was when I found the error.”
“You found the error? Why was it such a disaster then?”
“I’m coming to that. I needed someone, a character that would know everyone, to let a semi-secret about a couple, who were only part of the group during the summer months, out of the bag. Someone in a position like the organiser of our little lunch group. I changed his whole personality, writing him as a short, posturing, bombast, a cross between Colonel Blimp and Captain Mainwaring of Dad’s Army fame. Nothing like Jerry, who is the group organiser. I needed a name for this character so I used Jerry as a placeholder and had never got around to changing it.”
Our desserts arrived and we ordered coffees to follow.
“So, you found your mistake, what happened next?”
“Ah! That was easy. One of the joys of ebooks and Print-on-Demand is you can make almost instant changes to the manuscript, repost it to the website and within hours the new version takes over. I went through the file on the computer, I took out all the references to ‘Jerry’ and replaced them with ‘Charles’, reposted and went to bed. The next morning, I had emails telling me the ebook was updated and later, that my paperback had been too. Job jobbed.” He scraped the last of his custard up onto a spoon and popped into his mouth. “That is my last taste of real French food. I don’t think I’ll ever persuade my wife to come back to France.”
I raised an eye at that.
“She couldn’t stand it any longer, she went back to England to sort out somewhere for us to live. I had to stay while I dealt with winding-up everything down here.”
“What happened? It sounded like you had a pretty good life here.”
“We were ostracised, dropped from society. People stopped inviting us to dinner, to barbeques, even the emails telling us where the next ex-pat lunch was stopped coming. My wife told me she was ignored and even snubbed by our former friends in the supermarket. She is a far more sociable person than me so it was very hard on her.”
Our coffee arrived, he paused while I paid the bill. “This is on me, call it a leaving present. Did you find out what had caused your fall from favour?”
“Yes, my wife eventually trapped one of the other women and forced it out of her.”
“And?” We were both toying with our spoons in the coffee saucers.
“It was the book. My wife had tired of me evading questions about my writing. She had passed a copy of my book onto one of the other women at the lunch club. They had read it a few weeks after that, then passed it on, in anger. My wife, unaware of that grievous error, had introduced a ‘first edition’ copy of my book into circulation. Eventually, they all agreed that what I had written, was if slanderous, not only about Jerry, but the characters that they imagined were other people in the group. Mind you, I think that it says more about how they see each other than anything I would have put on paper. In the end, the book got to Jerry and the rest is, as they say, history.”
We both picked up our cups and toasted each other with the bitter taste of coffee. We both stood up, I went to buy another bottle of water for my onward journey. The writer headed for the door. By the time I’d paid and stepped out into the solar furnace, he had gone. I strapped the bottle of water to my luggage pannier. A quick check of the tyres and brakes and I was ready to go. I clipped my helmet straps together, then looked up at the road that lay ahead as the Proprietor emerged from the kitchen door carrying a bundle of ready meal cartons to the bin.
“Au revoir, Monsiuer.” he called as he stuffed the frozen chip and heat and serve Confit de Canard packages into the overflowing trash receptacle.
“C’est triste!” I gestured towards the bin with the bike wheel. I was bitterly disappointed to see another bit of French culture going down the chute.
“Oui, Puis, il raconte la même histoire tous les midis!” With a gallic shrug he turns back to the kitchen. I point the bike up the road and start to peddle in the blistering heat.
I’d gone about a kilometre up the road when I started to unravel that parting comment from the Proprietor. I’d caught the bit about the same story every lunchtime and accepted that. ‘Puis, il raconte …’
Finally, I got it. “Then, he tells the same story every lunchtime.” The cunning old scroat!
Two new publications for November in the Year of the Great Plague .
The first new book to get published is brand new tale about Melody, the NBL.
Problems in the Pyrenees
Publishing 1st November 2020
Melody is on an early summer holiday on the Mediterranean coast of France, when she gets a call from her ‘Head of Research’. They have a new set of problems to solve, just a few kilometers away in the foothills of the Pyrenees.
Generous with her time, the generously proportioned Problem Solver swings into action.
The other November publication is an old favourite.
The Uncovered Policeman: The Whole Story
Rags, The Uncovered Policeman finally gets the collection treatment, all twelve (Yes! 12) of the mainline stories from the Uncovered Policeman (the original novella) through to A New Home in the Sun in a single paperback volume.
There wasn’t room in the binding for the short stories!
even so, the collection turns out to be quite a tome; 330 000 words, 655 A4 pages and weighing in at almost 2kg.
All for little more than the price of the series in Kindle e-book format!
The Whole Story joins The Uncovered Policeman: Secret Casebooks in November, in time for Christmas. Sadly it wont be available in the Bookstore because the shipping costs are outrageous.
Haunted House is a story made up to meet a string of keywords, characters and a situation during a creative writing class. Start to finish in 20 minutes … Flash fiction!
See if you can spot my 5 required elements! I enjoyed writing this little tale, I hope you enjoy the silliness!
The Haunted House
No money, nowhere to stay and the gig cancelled, what was I
going to do? I’d wandered around town and it appeared that everywhere was in
lock-down. It was getting cold, I needed somewhere to sleep.
I just wish I hadn’t chosen that
It was a deserted house. The door
was open so why not. I let myself in and by the dying light of the day,
filtered through the grimy windows, I looked around. There was dust everywhere
but the sofa in what had been the lounge looked pretty solid and would be
better than sleeping on the floor.
I propped my guitar in one of the
armchairs, opened my rucksack. The first thing I pulled out was the sandwich
I’d made before leaving home. The one and only thing that had gone right all
day. OK so the bread was a little stale, but it was still edible. As I chewed the dry bread and cheese, I
reviewed the day.
It had been a bit of a red-letter
day! I had a paying gig. I play guitar and sing songs, folky sort of things. I
am available to play in pubs, clubs, private parties, christenings and bar
mitzvahs, give me a call!
It has been a while since I had a
paying gig, so I took the bus from home. It was a long ride, but cheaper than
the train, and I’d have to find somewhere to sleep overnight. The buses stop
running at eight in the evening, public service for you.
As I was saying, I’d got to the
town, found the pub I was supposed to be playing; it was shut. A family
bereavement according to the note on the door. I expected there would be a
message on the answering machine at home. Just as well I’d spent the last of my
dole money on a return ticket!
I’d walked the streets looking
for somewhere to sleep and the streets were deserted. It was strange, nobody
walking the dog and no cars moving either, nobody. Then I’d spotted this place.
My sandwich finished, I settled down on the sofa, pulled my
coat tight around me and tried to get to sleep. In the distance I could hear
the bells of a church chiming the hour. I counted ten chimes before I dozed
“What are you doing here?” I was woken
with a start, it was a female voice. There was someone shining a torch in my
“I needed a place to sleep, the door was open and the place
looks deserted. Sorry, is it your house?”
“So, you chose the towns haunted house. Talk about bad
luck!” At least it didn’t sound like I was going to get thrown out on the
“I suppose I should ask why are
you here? At the dead of night?”
The torch moved away from my eyes
and flashed around the room.
“I am a psychic and spiritualist.
I have been asked to see if I can bring peace to the spirit that haunts this
house. My spirit guide says that you being here is part of the solution. That
I was about to ask more questions but the room started to
get cold. In the distance the church bells chimed midnight.
Then the sounds started, a low undulating “Oooooo
Then a glowing form started to
coalesce in the middle of the room. “Oooooo ooooo!”
I looked at the psychic lady, she was frozen watching the
form slowly developing. Then I got the tingling in my hands. I had to play. I
I hastily pulled my guitar out of
its’ case and started to play. Why I played what I did I don’t know. Maybe it
was the shape of the form in front of me. An arm raised, a body curled in
almost into a ball, well, that’s what it looked like to me.
I hit a chord, and dum-dum, dum-dum, dumpa!
“Oooooo ooooo! Bloooo Blooo Blue
suede shoes …”
We played every Elvis song I
knew; the ghost sang them all. We even did ‘Love Me Tender’; I am sure I have
never learnt that song, but we covered it. I played and the spirit sang for
what seemed liked hours.
Then it disappeared. A voice in
my head ‘Elvis has left the building’ was echoed by the Psychic.
“The spirit has gone … Thank
I looked at my watch five past midnight. My fingers were sore and blistered, I can’t have played for just five minutes, can I?
Several people have asked about the setting for many of the
Uncovered Policeman stories, L’Abeille Nue. It is entirely fictitious. The
location as described in the book “Goodbye Blues.” The stream, the orchard, the
buildings and the pool exist only in my imagination now that I have lost the
sketch map I made when I started the story. I could take you there I know exactly
where it is but you would be disappointed.
The spirit of L’Abeille Nue is based on fact. During the
early years of the last decade, Mrs Bun and I managed the Quinta da Horta, a
naturist place in the south of Portugal.
The fabric of the resort was on its very last knockings.
Held together by the paint we lashed onto every surface. The water pipes burst
with alarming regularity. The roofs leaked when it rained and the drains were a
total mystery, the man who had dug them had died taking their secrets to the
No matter when the sun shone the place had a beauty and an
atmosphere of peace. The wonderful guests and the volunteers that stayed
created a buzz about the place. They would paint murals and pictures. Translate
jokes from one language to another and laugh at the retelling.
We would all dine together under the night skies several
time a week. Then play guitars (and for two weeks the accordion) and sing songs
late into the night.
You see now the spirit of L’Abeille Nue, all it needed was decent,
solidly constructed buildings. In an arrangement that would work better than
the random dotting of old farm buildings, converted to cottages. Oh’ and a good
electrical and water supply, drainage and for the twenty-first century proper Wi-Fi
Rags and Bea were luckier than Mrs Bun and I were, they got
the perfect set up! While we now have the small but perfectly form L’Olivette …
Where Chas and Di entertained guests in “In and Out of the Blues” and in “When the
Music Stops: DC al Fine.” So we are good.
June 2020 will see me in print in three different places!
1 Dark London
Dark London is a two volume anthology of stories drawing on the darker side of the Capital’s streets and the people that fill them.
My story that lurks between the covers of Volume 1, hidden between stories by Jess Popplewell and Anne-Marie Ormsby (The Tower) and a safe distance from the foreword by Alice Castle (The London Murder Mysteries)
December Fog is one of those stories that floated around in my mind for several years with no natural outlet … until Dark Stroke came up with this collection.
A period piece set back before the Clean Air Act, in a time when heating was by coal and gas lighting was pretty high tech stuff!
The tale follows one man and his … No, that would give too much away!
I wonder … will you find the contemporary political joke in the tail?
The list of authors includes some fabulous writers:
Miriam Drori Jess Popplewell Ted Bun Anne-Marie Ormsby Kate Braithwaite Donna Cuttress Sue Barnard Sam Hall Cathie Dunn
And there are more stories in volume 2
Featuring tales by these talented scribes:
Angela Wren Chris Dommett Alice Castle Richard Savin Alan Taylor Marie Gault Tom Halford Denise Bloom Harper Channing
All the royalties from the sales of these books will go to The London Community Project and Centrepoint.
2 Murder in the Nudist Colony
A second Short Story in a charitable anthology.
Murder in the Nudist Colony, not a very PC title but it was chosen deliberately using the antiquated term “nudist colony” for a slightly retro, humorous touch. All the stories feature a murder in a place used for naturist recreation. The original idea was to have all the stories called “Murder in the Nudist Colony” but that was abandoned as too silly. Except …
My story is called “Murder in the Nudist Colony” and is set in a very British Nudist venue of considerable vintage. The crime is however very contemporary.
The other stories by such luminaries of naturist fiction as Paul Z Walker, Wallace Greensage, Robert Longpre, Matthew McDermott, Will Forest and Jacob Drake.
As well as new comers to the genre James Gault, Stan Muir, Adreas Nudetzki, Ana Juric, Hannah Steenbock, Gregg White and Robert Payne.
The collection sit behind a superb cover illustration by Fabien Barabe
Diverse, humorous and dark … read it! It is fun.
Royalties from this collection will be going to Médecins Sans Frontières (aka Doctors Without Borders)
3 The Last Day of June
A serious tome, for me. Hence it is published under a different name, Edward Yeoman and not Ted Bun.
Once again it is a story with a very long period of gestation. It started back in 1974, when I heard Al Stewart sing a song with a similar title. I kept returning to the idea’s and images the song had brought to mind and eventually I started to write the story in summer 2019.
The tale starts in 1934, when the last day of June was the last day of life for a lot of people. Taking three different view points the book sweeps through Europe and European History to the conclusion in 1974.
“I started to read it and couldn’t put it down!” Robert Whiston-Crisp
According to Robert’s wife, “He sat out in the garden and started reading it. He didn’t move until four o’clock when he went to the loo, came back and kept reading!”