A few words about some seasonal stories

And speaking of the so-called Mr Priestley - if that is indeed his name - he has apparently produced yet more of his Tales of Terror.  Once again he fails to acknowledge out collaboration.

These new tales are rather tastelessly gathered into what is no doubt intended to be a frightfully festive collection.  I am informed by Franz that Christmas Tales of Terror - oh, the hours it must have taken for Mr Priestley to come up with that - is, at present, only available as an 'ebook'.

No, I have no idea either.

Ghostly Netherlands

It is many years since I visited the wonderful city of Amsterdam.  Mr Priestley has apparently set his as yet to be published novel, Through Dead Eyes in that location, and I am sure it is merely coincidental that during his last visit to Pity's End I happened to tell him the story of a boy called Alexander who was haunted by a girl called Hanna - a girl who had died long before during the Dutch Golden Age.

Their fates became horribly entwined when Alexander bought a Japanese mask and put it on.

Mr Priestley's publishers are kind enough to send me advance copies of his work and I see that apart from moving the story to a contemporary setting and shortening the boy's name to Alex, Mr Priestley has once again shamelessly appropriated one of my stories.  I have written to his publisher and I await their response.  Franz is very vexed.

The intended publication date is March 2013, but I urge you not to buy it.

In which I receive a diverting postal communication

I rarely receive any post. Postmen used to be made of sterner stuff in my youth I feel. Our local postie seems increasingly reluctant to come to Pity's End and has taken to hurling any postal communications I do receive over the garden wall and then running away, whimpering like a poet.

Just such a package thudded against the door this morning and Franz scuttled off excitedly to retrieve it. Opening it with the rusty dirk I keep for such purposes, I discovered it to be from Mr Priestley's publisher, Bloomsbury.

It contained a suggested cover for Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror the proposed reissue of the three Tales of Terror book in the spring of 2011. Mr Robert's illustrations have been dropped in favour of a more sombre treatment. Though I am fond of Mr Robert's Gorey-esque illuminations, I feel that this cover perhaps more accurately represents the dark heart of the tales. It will be interesting to see what readers make of the stories without the relief supplied by his finely crafted decorations.

At any rate I was pleased that Bloomsbury had taken the trouble to send it to me. I note that they did not ask my opinion of it, but I will let that pass. Franz became very agitated on my behalf, but I have tried to explain to him that Mr Priestley is credited with the authorship of these books and we must let him take the lead.

For now.

Mr Priestley has been insufferable

Mr Priestley has been insufferable ever since The Guardian newspaper article. He finds every feeble excuse to telephone and within moments he is once again reminding me that 'we' were on the list of 'best children's books ever'.

How the man has the audacity to say 'we' when he alone takes the credit for those stories I do not understand. He is, like all authors, utterly without any sense of shame.

In desperation, I asked Franz to scream down the line whenever Mr Priestley called, and the telephone has not rung for days.

Bliss.

In which Mr Priestley pays me an unexpected visit.

Mr Priestley came to see me today. He seemed even more agitated than usual. He is such a nervous fellow. The least little movement from Franz or the children causes him to leap to his feet, his voice higher than Mr Simon Cowell's waistband.

I took this likeness of him using the eye-pod Franz bought me for Christmas. I ask you in all seriousness: is that the face of a sane man?

Oop north

I must thank the various railway companies with whom I travelled for giving me the opportunity to taste the delights of so many provincial railway stations. Halifax, Wakefield, Leeds, Peterborough - their names are like some roll call of heroes from days of yore. And it has taken me a mere forty-three and three quarter hours to get home.

I do not get to the North so very often. The architecture is so wonderfully grim, of course. Rain-polished cobbles. Soot-blackened mill chimneys. Windswept car parks. But the people are so friendly.

To each other.

I am joking of course. They are not friendly at all.

I am joking again of course. Oh dear, Franz has warned me never to attempt humour and yet I will persist. The people of 'the North' are wonderful folk. I could listen to their amusing accents for many minutes without growing in the least bit fatigued. I mean that most sincerely. Mr Priestley himself hails from 'the North' and it seems not to have held him back so very much. A certain coarseness of manners remains, it is true - but I am perhaps a little old-fashioned in that regard. I'm sure that manners do not matter at all when you are 'prodding' strangers on 'Facebook'.

And so Franz and I say one last 'Ay oop, lass,' to all my northern friends as we retreat once more to the quietude of Pity's End.

I marvel at the efficiency of modern rail travel

I am making good time on my return journey from Halifax, a small town in the north country between Leeds and Glasgow. The speed of modern travel is breathtaking and I will almost certainly - weather allowing - be home by the day after tomorrow. I had decided to go to Halifax having learned that Mr Priestley had been nominated for the Calderdale Children's Book of the Year award.

Mr Priestley's book, Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror, has been nominated for several awards but so far, he has not managed to win one. Not one. This award proved to be no different. It is embarrassing to be connected to such a person and have my name associated with his rejected work, but there is nothing I can do it seems.

I stayed at the same hotel as Mr Priestley but of course he will not acknowledge me in public. He likes to maintain the fiction that he invented these tales and I am contractually obliged to play along. Franz and I ate in the hotel dining room and listened to Mr Priestley taking credit for the children's stories. Franz became very agitated.

Calm yourself, Franz, I said. The time will come. The time will most definitely come.

Oundle

I hear that Mr Priestley is off to Oundle School today. I knew a boy who boarded there many years ago. He told me a story that chilled me to the bone. It was a tale so terrible, so ghastly, that I can hardly bear to recall it even as I sit here in the security of my study at Pity's End, a cup of Earl Grey cradled in my lap.

This boy - Bernard Taylor was his name - told me that one evening he had been reading alone in the library when he had looked out of a nearby window (the library overlooked the churchyard apparently) and had been horrified to see -

But Franz has reminded me that I promised Bernard that I would not repeat that particular tale for fear of permanently upsetting the present young boarders at the school. Franz is quite correct. I did make that promise. Sadly.

I shall leave you to imagine what it was that Bernard saw. Suffice it to say that the poor boy had never fully recovered from the experience and was given to much involuntary twitching and whimpering.

Wedding bells

I am very honoured to be asked to attend the wedding of Miss Helen Szirtes and Mr Rich Horne tomorrow in that fine city, Norwich. Franz will accompany me as always and I can only hope that he does not disgrace himself as he did at the Cholmondeley wedding last year. I never thought to receive another invitation.

Weddings can be tedious affairs of course, though I am sure this one will be the talk of Norfolk society for many weeks to come. I was rather more meaning they can be tedious for children. I have memories myself - distant ones now of course - of such events: insufferably drawn-out affairs involving distant relations. Tight clothes and false smiles.

Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror has story set among the poor victims of such a wedding set in a large house. It is in actual fact young Victoria Harcourt's story as she has just pointed out to me. I am well aware of that, Victoria. There is no need to scream.

In the book, the story is called A Ghost Story. How does Mr Priestley keep coming up with these titles?

On the rejuvenating effects of the sea

I do so enjoy a walk on the beach. I defy anyone, no matter how forlorn or downcast, to deny the recuperative effects of a stretch of unbroken sand or shingle. I regret that Pity's End is too far from the sea to do this as often as I would like, but occasionally I will persuade Franz to pack up a picnic and we will set off north or east until we reach the ocean. Standing there, with the sound of the waves in my ears, I might almost believe that I was any other elderly day-tripper. Until I catch sight of Franz again, that is.

Actually Franz is rather a liability on such excursions. The last time we went to Aldeburgh a little girl asked me if my 'monkey' would like some of her ice cream. Franz then made the mistake of smiling at the poor tot and she howled like a kettle and ran away.

Once again, I thought it best that we leave.

Some observations on a visit to the ruins of Hawton Mere

I decided to pay a visit to the ruins of Hawton Mere. I have not been there in years and immediately wished I had not returned. Franz accompanied me, as always.

It is a terrible thing to see such a great old house reduced to such a state. It was never what one might call a cheerful place, but it did have its own rather gloomy style. I must confess I always felt rather comfortable there - though I was in a small minority. If those stones could speak, what tales they could tell. Although some stories are perhaps better left untold.

I had hoped to find the ruins free of any. . .presence. But sadly that was not the case. A white form flickered past a gaping door mouth. I am all too used to the supernatural of course, but when I saw her walking along the moat's edge I was not tempted to tarry. Franz took no persuasion to quit that place.

Some places - some things - are too disquieting, even for us.

Death's head

I see that my young friend Mr Kirkham has been showing examples of the moths he has recently trapped. Some people have a dread of moths: mottephobia I believe it is called. Their fat, furry bodies, their constant fluttering, their sudden appearance out of the surrounding darkness and their seeming inability to steer a straight course.

Moths hold no particular fear for me, I hasten to add. This handsome fellow was crawling up the curtain the other evening. Acherontia atrapos - The Death's Head Hawk Moth. Now who in their right mind could be afraid of anything quite so beautiful?

Franz wants me to also point out that it was very tasty. Tasty? Good lord. So that's where it went.

Sometimes you disgust even me, Franz.

Children of the night

I do not often leave Pity's End now. Franz and I occasionally venture into nearby Cambridge, but people do seem to find Franz rather alarming, and so we tend to make our visits nocturnal ones. But it is a fine thing, to walk among those old colleges and churches with only the howl of intoxicated students to disturb the deathly hush.

Children of the night - what music they make.

Why do I not write these tales myself?

Some of you may be wondering why I do not simply write my own books, rather than let Mr Priestley take the credit for these so-called 'Tales of Terror'. You may have a point. I do have rather a lot of time on my hands these days.

I suppose the fact is that I was flattered by the interest in my stories and allowed myself to be persuaded that Mr Priestley ought to ghost write them. Really, Franz - every time? It is a most unpleasant laugh, by the way. And I am trying to concentrate.

Mr Priestley has on occasion visited me here at Pity's End. He is most enthusiastic about the venture. His taste for horror does has its limits, however, for I remember that the last time he was here, he left screaming like a parlour maid. He had seen something moving in the woods, he said. My young nephew Edgar has more backbone.

It was only one of the children after all. . .

A swift apology to those of a nervous disposition

Franz has pointed out that some people have a phobia about our eight-legged friends. I apologise profusely if I have jarred anybody's nerves.

In which we welcome an arachnid visitor

This fine looking fellow has taken up residence outside my study window. Lovely by day, he is especially handsome at night, illuminated by the glow of candlelight. Almost everything looks better by candlelight - even Franz.

Perhaps not Franz.

In which I continue my struggles to master this curious new medium

Ah. I see. Franz informs me that this so-called 'blog' contraption, is a rather more primitive communication system than I had imagined.

It seems that I write something and this is then 'posted' on something called 'the internet'. I then wait and see if someone wishes to respond. If they do, they can leave a 'comment'. I can then respond to them by leaving a comment of my own. And so on.

No, I confess I do not completely follow it myself.

But as Franz has been so insistent that I embark on this endeavor I shall do my best to oblige. It does not pay to upset Franz.

Oh dear me, no.