Saturday, 10 November 2018

New crime/mystery by B A Spicer

Alice isn't a conventional woman.  And she isn't a conventional detective.

Tall, slim, and some would say elegant in an old fashioned way, she has never married.  Her vocation as a policewoman is all consuming.

Long ago and far away, there was a man she cared for and who cared for her.  She sometimes remembers him, especially when she is in the company of her daughter, Jude.  It occasionally occurs to Alice that Harald will appear out of the blue, and she wonders what would happen if he did.  But for the most part her work absorbs her, sometimes too much.

Climbing the ranks to Detective Chief Inspector was not easy.  However, it was an undeniable fact that Alice Candy had a talent that could not be ignored, and finally she settled in a medium-sized town called Allarton, in the East of England, close to her daughter and her new husband.

Teamed with Detective Sergeant Will Brady, a bright, meticulous and loyal officer, they make a formidable duo.

Now in her early forties, Alice feels a calm brought on by personal and financial security.  She observes the world and the people she knows with a rye understanding, free of cynicism or judgement.  She is content.

Excitement comes when a case arrives on her desk that ignites her senses to a certain anomaly or incongruity in an otherwise obvious crime.  Then, with Will at her side, she dives into a world of subterfuge and lies, sniffing out clues that will lead her to success.

In her latest challenge, a simple hit and run turns out to be anything but...

Available in paperback or as an ebook.

Thursday, 8 November 2018

We all want the same things, don't we?

Once we are fed and watered, once the bills are paid, once we feel stable and secure, we look for something more.  A challenge of some sort, perhaps.

And as we become more sure of ourselves, more accomplished, we gravitate towards others to share something greater.

We can call it Love, but Love has many forms.  And many obstacles stand in its way.

Set in France, and with a definite French flavour, A Life Lived Twice follows a group of surprisingly disparate characters whose lives are linked in unexpected ways.  They are intelligent people, capable of making intelligent choices.  But choices bring unforeseen consequences, don't they?

A Life Lived Twice is FREE for one day only (9th November).

Click here to view on Amazon

Wednesday, 31 October 2018

Humorous Books by Bev Spicer

Colourful, Fun, and Full of Joie de Vivre!

There are three books in the humorous Bev and Carol series:

One Summer in France (just 99p for your kindle and £6.49 in paperback) is the first adventure, which takes place, you guessed it, in the South of France, and is based on the author's experiences during a study break from university.  I wanted to write a humorous memoir about the wonderful sense of freedom and possibility we all feel when we are just starting out in life as independent people.  It's true that I had some very strange experiences but I had a lot of fun too.  What's more, I learned a great deal about France, its language and its culture.
Although Carol is an entirely fictitious character, the friendship we share in the book is real.  We don't always agree on everything, and like to get the better of one another from time to time.  Bev and Carol are certainly very different characters.  They see the world in very different ways.
One Summer in France has received many positive reviews from readers who perhaps remember a similar time in their lives, when they took so many things for granted that, in adult life, seem to have all but disappeared.
You can download a free sample to your kindle by following the link below.  Why not relax for a while in the company of Bev and Carol in One Summer in France (two girls in a tent).  I hope it puts a smile on your face and takes you back to a less complicated, more spontaneous time:

Bunny on a Bike is the second in the Bev and Carol series. This time, the author recounts her real life experiences as a Playboy croupier in London in the 80s.  Bev and Carol are eager to stick together after university and find the prospect of the graduate jobs available too dull to contemplate.  They see an advertisement in the newspaper for blackjack dealers and apply.
I think you will be surprised at some of the realities of the less than glamorous lives they lead, always looking on the bright side even when faced with landlords from hell and stringent training schedules at Victor Lownes' mansion in Tring.
Bunny on a Bike has the same light touch as One Summer in France.  It's a humorous memoir which follows the lives of two girls thrown into 80s London, and gives an impression of what happened behind the doors of the Playboy casino.
Again, you can download a free sample by following the link below, where the Bev and Carol adventure continues:

Stranded in the Seychelles is the third and most recently published volume in the Bev and Carol series, although I do have plans for a further book at some point.
Our intrepid heroines have had a few years apart after leaving Playboy and have met up once more for a new adventure, this time in the Seychelles as teachers.
Stranded in the Seychelles is based once more on the author's real life experiences as a teacher on the tiny island of Ste. Anne in the middle of the Indian Ocean, and includes lots of local colour and cultural insights along the way.  Bev and Carol are older, but not particularly wiser.  They savour this new opportunity to duck out of the lives they are leading in England and jet off to somewhere altogether more exotic.  Of course it's not all plain sailing and, as usual, the girls have to cope with the unexpected, such things as giant spiders, insect infested cornflakes, heart-stopping bus rides and accident prone cleaners.  But they enjoy their experiences and learn a lot about expat society.
Stranded in the Seychelles will make you laugh just as much as One Summer in France and Bunny on a Bike, but this time, Bev and Carol are faced with rather more sobering choices from time to time, in between the absurd and the hilarious.
Follow the link below to download a free sample and find out what they get up to this time:

So, that's it for my humorous books.  If you would like to look at my other books, please go back to my home page and select Novels by B A Spicer.

Tuesday, 30 October 2018

Free on 30th October - One Day Promotion

What would you do if you woke up in a dark cellar, tied and silenced, with no memory of how you got there and no clue why?

...and, after your mind had calmed, you became aware that, on the other side of the door, someone was watching you?

What readers say:

"LOCKED AWAY provides an engrossing reading experience." 

"Absolute must read.  Loved how the chapters were short and full of twists and turns."

"For anyone wanting a quick, tense read about abduction and mind games, then I strongly recommend Locked Away."

Click here to view on Amazon

(Also available in paperback.)

Thursday, 25 October 2018

I Get It

Reading through some of the one-star reviews of this book I was interested to note that a lot of people, twelve percent in fact, left comments like: 'ramblings of a teenage drunk', 'pile of rubbish', and my personal favourite: ' a blasphemy to the beauty of the English language'.  It was variously described as dull, tedious, repetitive, and lacking any kind of plot.  But the most frequent complaint was that it was disappointing.

When a book is described as a classic it's difficult not to expect something great.  Something that will perhaps change your perspective on the world.  If you read it, looking for this something and fail to find it, then, yes, it will surely disappoint.

It's happened to me and it's happened to you (I'm assuming).  We've all been disappointed by classic reads at some time or other.

The Catcher in the Rye is just one of those books.  You love it or hate it.  You find treasure or you don't.  You get it, or you don't get it.

This one, I got.

Now I have to say what it is that I 'got'.  To the best of my ability.  Which, I can tell you, is a daunting prospect.  It really is.

If you've read J D's classic, you'll notice the style of the last paragraph - a poor mimic, I'll admit.  But the style of writing is what first strikes the reader.  Here we have a seventeen-year-old boy telling us in 1950s teenage language, about his situation - he's at a prestigious boarding school, about to be kicked out after 'flunking' his exams.  And he's talking directly to us, first person, up close and personal.

I could describe the plot, but if you want an excellent summary you can visit Wikipedia.  I'd recommend it, especially after you've read the book, for all the snippets of peripheral information about the author.

What I want to say, to try to say, is why this book is one of my all-time best reads.

It's true that Holden Cauldfield (I love the strangeness of his name) is lazy, reactive, immature...but he is also hanging on to what he sees as 'real', what is not 'phony'.  His thoughts and interactions with other people are often superficial, his conversations repetitive, but mixed in amongst the simmering chaos of his life there are moments of astounding beauty.  It's like walking through a field of mud and finding something precious.  I don't mean something like a diamond or a wallet.  Rather consider coming across a baby bird, injured and near death.  Holden would pick it up, carry it away, make it well, if he could. 

Now, I've made the book sound soppy, but it's not.  True, it's nostalgic.  It takes you back.  Makes you remember feelings you had as a child growing up.  Holden Cauldfield reminds you that in a world of  fixed pathways through education, to a career and happiness, there are stop-offs along the way that blow any plan out of the water.  For him, it's where the duck go when the pond freezes over, the essay he wrote about his dead brother's baseball glove, the record he bought (and accidentally broke) for his sister Phoebe, or the trips to the Museum of Natural History when he was younger (he notices small changes and wishes things had stayed exactly the same).  These moments stand out amongst the mud and daily grind to nowhere like a beating heart.

As he gravitates towards home and his beloved younger sister, Phoebe, he follows a young boy walking carelessly in the gutter along a busy street.  He feels the boy's parents are unaware of the danger he is in.  Then, the boy begins to sing:

"If a body catch a body coming through the rye,"

which strikes Holden with its simple joy.  It also leads him to formulate a plan - a plan based on his understanding of the above line, which is a misquote from Burn's poem.  Holden sees himself standing at the edge of a field of rye where children are playing and shouting near a cliff edge.  As they run and play, unaware of the danger, Holden will stand guard and catch them when they fall.

I must admit, as I came to the final pages I wondered how on earth there could be a satisfying ending to a book that covers a three-day period in the life of a moody teenager.  The final paragraph, for me, is genius.  See what you think.

Whether or not you get the punch to the stomach and the shock to brain from these moments of insight, of clarity and simplicity, is probably down to how you are wired.  I don't want to sound smug or superior - there's plenty I don't get about a whole plethora of things.  I just can't help being amazed by this particular book and grateful to J D for writing it.

Here's the link if you want to give it a try:  Catcher in the Rye

Thursday, 2 August 2018

Review: The Legacy of Beauregarde by Rosa Fedele

Five stars from me!

If you like authors such as Daphne du'll love The Legend of Beauregarde

I read The Red Door before being gifted an ARC copy of Rosa Fedele’s new novel, which, I must say, is well worth a read if you enjoy strong characters and an intriguing plot.  The style is on the literary side – which I love.  Skilled and imaginative use of language add an extra layer of delight in my opinion. 
The Legacy of Beauregarde is moody and, at times, sinister.  There are touches of the paranormal and shades of horror.  As you read, you feel as though you are sinking into the history of the place, its houses, and its characters (some of whom are not at all what they seem at first), wrap themselves around you.
It’s true that there is a lot to take in, and that you need a sharp mind to keep up, but some of my favourite books make me work hard in order to repay my efforts tenfold.  And why not?  That's the way a good book draws you in.
I must say also that the artwork scattered throughout the book, even in the ebook version, is captivating, and certainly helps to enhance the reader’s experience.
Would I read it again?  This is one of my personal yardsticks in judging the quality of a novel.  And the answer is yes!  In fact, I’m looking forward to it.

Wednesday, 18 July 2018

New Release - Download Hit and Run using the link below.

Here's what readers are saying:

'UnputdownableAmazon reviewer

'I found myself wondering what was happening with the characters while I was at work, or driving (you know those times when you can't just pick up the book to find out!).'  Amazon reviewer

'It kept me guessing as to how all the clues would pan out and kept me turning the pages.' Amazon reviewer


I’m excited to announce the publication of my second Alice Candy novel.

It’s been a real test of endurance, having needed one major re-write and several drafts, all because characters grew, sprouted their own personalities and refused to be sidelined.  So we have, in no particular order, a handsome Reverend, a talented artist and her wild, dysfunctional sister, a dodgy-dealing ex-husband, an enigmatic lord of the manor and his equally intriguing staff, a missing teenage boy, and of course the very distinctive and unorthodox DCI Alice Candy, not forgetting her sharp and pragmatic sidekick, DS Will Brady.

One cold January morning, the day begins with a brutal hit and run at Breton Manor, but Alice quickly discovers there is much more to this case than meets the eye.  And so we embark on a tale of complicity and deception, of red herrings and strange twists, only to find ourselves at the end of another cul de sac. 

Tantalising and  complex, Hit and Run is the kind of novel that will keep you guessing until the end.  A full-blooded crime-mystery for readers who love characters they can believe in and a plot that seeks to outfox them.

Available as an ebook for the moment.  Paperback version to follow.

 Click to view on Amazon

Locked Away

When you have to outwit your captor to survive...

Readers' comments: 

'A page turner.'
'A quick, tense read.'
'Character, conflict, and a unique new sleuth.'

The first Alice Candy novel, Locked Away, is very different in tone, having been originally conceived as a New Adult novel.  It has been re-worked and revised, but remains much more dramatic and at times hysterical, as the main protagonist is a girl in her early twenties, Ellie Braintree, who has been kidnapped on her birthday and finds herself in the cellar of a house, terrified in the darkness that surrounds her.  She is, however, no pushover and soon begins to put her quick mind to use to work out who her captor is and how to get the better of him or her and escape.

Things take an extraordinary turn when a second victim arrives, cold and terrified, crouched in the shadows, too scared to say a word.

Ellie needs all her strength and intelligence to cope with this new challenge.  Now, there are two lives at stake.

Alice Candy needs all her skills to find the cellar room before it’s too late. 

Available as an ebook or in paperback.

Monday, 2 July 2018


24-hour offer - 2nd July only
Get all three of the Bev and Carol adventures for £1.99 (usual price £6.47)!

Click here to view book on Amazon

Read an excerpt from Book one: One Summer in France (two girls in a tent):

Polka-dot Pants and Gallic Gall

It was late afternoon when we arrived in France. 
There was a train to Paris that we could catch if we hurried and, this time, there was nothing to stop us.  The carriage we chose was almost empty so we settled down and snoozed our way through the French countryside.
We changed at Paris and boarded another train bound for a place called Narbonne.  I can’t remember why we took this route, but it was probably because the train to Perpignan was not due at a convenient time.  We had plenty of scope for detours, anyway.  And we didn’t realise how big France actually was.
For a while, it was fun to gaze out at passing vineyards, miraculous fields of sunflowers and impressive chateaux.  This was definitely a foreign land.  But there were reminders of England – wooded hillsides and open meadows, a solitary oak.  This was a place that was different enough without being too intimidating.   What struck me most was the scale of everything.  The distances between towns and cities huge, the fields were enormous.  No wonder French cows were so happy.
‘Let’s get off here and find a campsite!’ said Carol, long before we reached our destination and after far too many hours travelling without a proper night’s sleep.  I didn’t need persuading.
The sign on the platform announced that we had arrived in a place called Carcassonne.  It sounded pretty.  We stepped down, and I was grateful for the solidity of the ground beneath my feet.  I was not yet fully recovered from my ordeal on the ferry and was as keen as Carol to set up somewhere for the evening.  Anywhere, in fact, that wasn’t moving.
‘Excusez-moi?  Nous cherchons un camping près d’ici,’ I said, to a woman who had started scowling even before I had started speaking, and who obviously did not realise that I was a master of her mother tongue.
‘Perhaps she’s not French,’ said Carol, peering at a large brown patch on the woman’s neck.
‘Let me try another one.  There!  He looks normal.’
Carol approached a man dressed in white tennis shorts and a purple floral shirt.
‘Excusez-moi, monsieur?  Le campsite, ici?’ I winced at Carol’s appalling grammar.
The man looked even more confused than the woman.
‘Sorry, I don’t speak French,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and wobbling his chins.
Soon, Carol and Mr. Plunket had become bosom buddies and it wasn’t long before he was loading our bags into the back of his hired BMW.
It was a short drive to Carcasonne centre and what we saw as we looked out of the windows were flowers.  They were everywhere.  Along the verges, in pots along the road, at roundabouts.  Everywhere.  We had arrived in a land of colour and fragrance.  I wound the window down and a French wasp flew in.  Several screams and swipes later, Carol wound down her window and, to everyone’s relief, it flew back out again.  Pulses returned to normal and, after consulting one of the many maps our patient escort had thought to bring along, we arrived at our destination.
Jethro Plunket dropped us off at the municipal campsite and pressed a five-hundred-franc note into Carol’s hand, saying that he had a daughter of his own who was about our age and that he believed in karma.
‘Thanks, Mr. Plunket.’
‘Call me Jethro.’
‘Thanks, Jethro.’
‘What kind of a name is Jethro?’ I asked, as he drove away. ‘Do you think it’s his real name?’
‘No, probably working under cover, doing good deeds for vulnerable girls travelling through France,’ said Carol.
Carol said that she didn’t know how I would survive without her and, picking up her bag, marched off to reception, leaving me to feast my eyes on the view of her red polka-dot knickers, which were exposed to the world due to the fact that she had caught her skirt on her bag.
‘Welcome in Camping Municipal of Carcassonne!’ said the sign in the window.
We peered inside and, just as we were about to venture in, a dumpy girl, eating a doughnut, loomed into view and locked the door from the inside.

End of excerpt. 

Thursday, 7 June 2018

Free Detective Fiction (ends 9th June)

'Another cracking read from B A Spicer. You definitely won't spot the murderer from the outset, and you won't expect the outcome. Very well written.' Amazon reviewer

Hanson's Hunch 

British Detective Inspector Hanson is on the track of a serial killer.

Monday, 21 May 2018

Bunny on a Bike by Bev Spicer is just 99p this week.

When I left university with my friend, Carol, I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do.  The career officer's spiel dulled my senses with suggestions that made the future into a nine to five nightmare.  I panicked.  Did I really have to choose?  Couldn't I put it off for a while?

Then I saw the advert for Playboy croupiers.  Never in a million years had I ever wanted to be a croupier and especially not for Playboy.  I imagined boobs, wild orgies and middle aged men pinching my cotton-tailed bum.  Somehow, reverse logic kicked in and I saw it as a challenge.

So, because it was a totally random thing to do and because it would undoubtedly shock a lot of people, I told Carol and we applied.

Bunny on a Bike tells the story of our adventure in 80s London, training in Victor Lownes' mansion and dealing blackjack in Playboy's London casino.  It's not a kiss and tell story.  It's a story of friendship, stolen teabags and comically lustful landlords.  And what it was really like to work for Playboy.

I'm so glad I did it.  And I'm so glad I did it with my lovely friend, Carol.

It's just 99p this week, if you want some fun between literary masterpieces.  Just click on the link below.  Hope you like it. 

Friday, 9 March 2018

My French Life

Pinks (oeillet d'Inde)  

Did you know they’re called pinks because they’re frilly, not because they’re pink?  I didn't.

The garden is still a mess but I see there is life poking out here and there.  I’m digging up weeds today when I should be editing my latest detective novel.  It’s as though there are two of me, and the one who likes to be outside wearing gardening gloves and standing in mud is generally the winner.

I do keep popping back to the laptop, not to check a spelling or deliberate over a comma, but to follow the progress of my youngest son who is sitting on a plane waiting to be taken to Singapore.  He was supposed to be travelling with a friend, but there’s been some mix up over passports and so he’s on his own for the time being. 

Still waiting on the runway.

Back in the garden, I inspect the new plants I purchased in Saintes – the most beautiful French town, and on my doorstep – on Monday.  A man pitched up with his wares, a real French raconteur.  His prices were irresistible and so I loaded my bags, eventually managed to pay, laughed at his 'I love you' routine and promised to marry him when I left my husband - all in the name of getting a bargain and being pleasant, you understand.  Anyway, I’d put my purchases out in the fresh air and watched from my back door as rain bucketed down, suddenly turning to hail, thrashing anything that moved, including next door’s cat who’d been bird watching with his evil twitching tail.  I was glad he got his comeuppance.  Now, there’s bright sunshine and my plants seem fine.  I think I’ll dig in three pinks under my kitchen window, some primroses by the back door and leave the others where I can view them as I stand at the sink (daydreaming and scheming, not washing up). 

I wander round the garden eyeing up last year’s successes and failures.  I’m a serial mover of plants.  They don’t get much peace in my garden.  But most of them survive and some flourish.  Like my Mexican Orange bush, which is taking over a little too raucously.  I’ve cut it back and moved a rose that was being stifled, but big is big – nothing can make it downsize really.  What I need is a larger garden.  Must tell my husband.  He wants to treble the size of his garage for his motorbikes – the ones he has and the ones he wants to have.

I’m inside again, reading about pinks.  They need coarse sand, it says.  I don’t have any about the place and can’t think of an alternative, apart from skimming the impasse for some chalky pebbles.  I have a bucket and a rake, but do I dare?  My neighbour, who owns the land to the front of my house, has a big white van and thinks very little of running over my hollyhocks if provoked.  Perhaps I’d better go to the garden centre and buy an inadequate and overpriced bag of grit and be done with it.

Update: Alfie is eating his way around Singapore, and I’ve visited two garden centres whose staff knows nothing of coarse sand for planting (‘...pas en France, Madame!’).

Not sure I'd like an Indian pancake for breakfast...

Happy Days 

Sunday, 25 February 2018

Sunday Walking in France II

I must be wired this way – I’d rather be outside.

With the sky blazing blue and the sun yellow as an egg I wrapped up warmly and set off from Royan along the beach towards St Georges de Didonne.  The chill wind had me pulling up my cagoul hood leaving only my sunglasses and nose for a face.  I like to be warm more than I like to be pretty.

No more than a handful of people on the beach, as is normal before lunch here in south west France.  A calm sea and soft sand flicking up inside my trainers, I began to ask questions like ‘I wonder how many people have walked along this beach in the past thousand years?’ or ‘How long does it take to make a grain of sand?’.  At the same time I thought about the poem I’d promised to write and deliver on my daughter’s wedding day.  It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  She doesn’t want Shakespeare.  No sonnets.  She showed me an Ogden Nash which we both liked.  But Ogden Nash doesn’t know her, and I do.

Lines came to me: ‘impish smiles’ and ‘vagabond wishes’, ‘arms around you, arms around you’, flitting through my brain – if only I’d had a dictaphone with me. There are others I can’t remember and they won’t come back, if past experience is any guide.

Preoccupied with one immovable fact, I walked on. My mother is suffering.  She has heart failure – it’s actually a condition you can live with, according to the NHS site, and can be graded from 1 to 4.  It doesn’t matter how you grade it, the fact is that it’s serious and means that mum has limited time to be with the ones she loves and do the things she still wants to do.  Pictures float in and out of my mind.  I see her young and strong on the hockey field (she was a county player), or rushing out to the ‘pumps’ to administer petrol to a lunchtime motorist (my dad managed a Shell petrol station for some years), or on a bike as we all sped round the lanes in Broseley where she made her home after the divorce.  More recently, she and I have driven to St Palais and eaten Camembert on french bread, adorned with ripe tomatoes and accompanied by a beaker of Bordeaux.  We sat on benches by the sea and felt like kings.  I hope we can again.

Incoming thoughts led me back to wedding days and rhyming couplets.  Maybe Ogden Nash would be better.  At least he’s a poet.  But I will rise to the challenge – what is anything worth if it’s too easy?

On I went, to the centre of St Georges de Didonne, where I found a café serving good coffee and homemade biscuits.  I read a magazine and lingered over an article on plants and how they can cure almost anything.  Funny what we can believe in moments of crisis.

Back round the coast along a different path, towards the lighthouse.  Few people still.  A woman sat alone reading, perfectly at ease.  There were boules pitches to the side of the path with the sea yards away.  I dug out my phone and discovered, as usual, that there was no power to take a picture.  The setting was blissful.  The sea surged gently and waves rose up against the rocks, echoing along the coast.  The only sound.

I re-joined the walkway along the road to Royan and wandered amongst ever increasing crowds.  Hats, scarves, gloves.  Still cold, but the sun had climbed higher and I was toasty.  I found my car and drove home, listening to Ed Sheeran, Indochine, Imagine Dragons, enjoying the sense of calm that still travelled with me, induced almost drug-like.

Arriving home, Al was in the garage welding.  I told him I loved him.  He said my sisters had rung and that mum has liquid in her lungs, which is why she’s finding it hard to breathe.  A common symptom of heart failure, apparently.  At last, something that makes sense.  There is medication to fix this.  My heart swelled with love as I walked around the garden and saw the pinks and primroses and buds upon the rose bush mum bought. 

I think of weddings and of beating the odds and having mum to stay again.

Happy Days

Sunday, 21 January 2018

Sunday walking in France

Love this house in Pontaillac

Due to lack of interest on behalf of my husband and son, who were involved in DIY and planning a trip to Thailand, respectively, I set off to Royan for a walk along the coast on my own.  I like walking on my own, especially by the sea, but I don’t do it often enough. 

Just after 11.00 am and no one about on the coastal path.  Blue skies, sunshine and stepping out in comfortable shoes and kagoule (apparently there are four different spellings of kagoule) in case it rains.

I am hit immediately by an amazing thought – that the brain is like a musical instrument.  It can be played, plucked, strummed.  As I proceed at an even pace contemplating the metaphor (which I know to be flawed) I am aware of several competing ‘tracks’ vying for space, with the rhythmic backing of the sea rushing like wind through trees. After a minute or two of appalling self indulgence, I return to more practical musings…I can often get above myself.

Practical musings generally mean how to progress with my current work in progress.  I hear you yawn.  

With my current novel near completion, safe and fully absorbed inside my brain, my mind turns to what comes next?  I have two choices: a half-written manuscript, literary in genre, about a woman who travels to Turkey and Greece, recounting tales of her experiences (mostly to her daughter) when she returns out of the blue – she left years ago to run away with her soul mate, Sebastian Love.  I’ve called it Joanna Love’s Stories.

Or, there is the thriller without a title that’s been going round in my head involving a rather stiff solicitor, his promiscuous wife, and a young girl he sees from his office window, who fascinates him in ways he cannot understand.  It’s a story of class, trickery and betrayal. There will be at least one murder and just the right number of red herrings.

I play around with points of view, clever twists, intriguing plots, knowing that this is perhaps the most enjoyable phase of writing – when the creative process is still fluid, before anything is written in stone.

With the sea rushing and the the waves lifting against the rocks, anything seems possible and, all at once, I become conscious that I may be grinning like a maniac.

waves crashing onto rocks - how tame they seem here

After a lunch of warm quiche and less warm coffee in Pontaillac I wander around the backstreets, looking at mostly closed up houses, muttering to myself in an abstract kind of way, and then descend onto the beach, choosing a line of surf debris to follow.  In the past, I've found a two-euro coin and a tiny silver ring.  Today the treasures are buried too deeply.

I stop midway to watch the surfers.  I wish I were one of them and imagine going into the surf school office to enquire about lessons.  Why not? I tell myself.  I may not be in my twenties, but I'm still game.  The sea heaves in slow motion, rising humps fall and crash in white foamy fractals.  Some of the surfers catch the right moment and ride in, others float on their stomachs watching and waiting.

I continue on my way – there’s a man staring out to sea while his small son draws circles in the sand with a stick.  A little way off a couple with a toddler staggering and squealing kiss, the man pushing back a strand of his wife’s hair.  People gather in their bubbles of happiness and reflection and I feel a surge of empathy, just another soul out to feed her eyes and treat her brain to a bit of beauty and peace.

On and up the steps, round the cliffs, past the grassy bunkers and exercise machines where families take turns, for fun.  Round another corner and there’s Royan.  My Smartwatch beeps to tell me I’ve done 10,000 steps, my daily target.  But I’m not finished yet.

An experiment to amuse myself.  How many people will smile back at me if I smile first?  There are crowds now, after lunch strolling.  Couples, parents, children.  A couple younger than me come towards me, their children on skate boards in the road.  I think ‘liberal’ I think ‘joyous’ I think ‘irresponsible’.  The man gives me an enormous grin and the woman, knowing somehow that I am a mother too, smiles with her whole being, shepherding her children to keep them in her sight.  She will watch over them and keep them safe.  Next there is a woman wearing garish lipstick, her skin weather beaten, her eyes narrowed against the sunshine.  She rewards me with a beautifully all encompassing smile – she knows the stage I’m going through – your birds have flown the nest and you’re looking forward whilst still looking back – her expression seems a comfort and also wry with secrets.  Now a family group advances, blocking the pavement, the matriarch in her eighties or nineties, on her daughter’s arm.  Gathered around them, a quiet husband and two bright teenage girls, grandchildren doing their duty.  No smiles for me – they are a closed unit, stopping suddenly en masse for the daughter to wrap a scarf around her mother’s neck.  I wonder what it feels like to be old and to be guided along, having lost the ability or the will, or both, to stride out independently as I do now.  I get an aura of acceptance edged with tedium – but I might be surmising too boldly.  I try to catch the old lady’s eye, but she doesn’t want me to – perhaps, to her, I am insignificant – just another passer by. Of course I am.

And then I think: how do I look to others?  I’d like to know.  Dressed as I am for winter on a sunny January day in south west France, removing layers as the afternoon warms up.  I carry my gloves and scarf inside my bobble hat, using it like a bag.  Inside my bulging grey windproof jacket, I have my purse, my phone, half a salmon and leek quiche, a pack of tissues, car keys and a Murray mint.  I wear the black trousers I use for gardening and the blue and white trainers I bought for running last year.  I have on odd socks, but no one can see them.  My face is scrubbed clean, my hair, too long for my age (so says my mother), flies out in the breeze.  And I’m smiling outwardly as well as inwardly, greeting all who pass with empathy and optimism.  What do they see?

In kindly mood I arrive at Royan beach where dogs on leads pull their owners along, and the scene makes me think of a painting, comical and full of fun.  The crowds are dispersed along the endless sand, all out for an afternoon by the sea, thinking, like me perhaps, how wonderful it is to be out in the world on such a day.

I walk still, reluctant to turn back towards the town but eventually making for steps to the promenade where more organised strolling is in evidence.  Couples, some with their sons and daughters, or grandchildren, each belonging to the other in different ways and yet each looking out through eyes that feed an individual mind. 

people on the beach at Royan - I must get a better camera

I arrive back at my car and remove my coat.  Throw my things on the back seat.  Get in and notice what it feels like to be stationary.  I drive home in placid contentment.  I’ve had a perfect day, watching others equally glad to have come to the winding coast and, just for a while, leave their daily lives behind.

Happy days!

Sunday, 14 January 2018

At the Beach with Bev and Carol

Bev and Carol are graduates, spending three months in France as part of their degree course.  They are young and frivolous, unfettered by preconceptions or mortgage payments. Bev is bookish, a bit of a dreamer, and Carol is down-to-earth, unafraid to say what she thinks.  In this (exceptionally frank) excerpt, they experience the challenges of their very first nudist beach.

‘Does ‘Naturiste’ mean what I think it means?’ asked Carol, standing in front of a very large sign with a very large arrow on it.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought so.

‘I don’t mind getting my baps out if you don’t!’  she reasoned.

The beach was coming up fast and we clutched at each other, controlling our giggles as best we could.  We might have made it, had we not heard men’s voices behind us and looked round to see two bronzed gods swinging up fast.

‘Christ on a bike!’ said Carol, stepping aside and staring rudely.

‘Guten Tag!’ 

Please don’t stop and have a conversation with us!  I thought.

They passed in front of us and we watched their perfect asses for a while, breathing in for what seemed to be a very long time and, eventually, remembering to breathe out.

‘Did you see the size of his cock?’ asked my gobsmacked friend.

 ‘Well, yes.  I didn’t have much choice in the matter, did I?’

‘Come on!  There must be loads more on the beach…’

 I wasn’t sure that I fancied the idea of so much nudity all in one place, but I had never sunbathed topless before, so I was keen to give it a go in an environment where one extra set of, admittedly, perfect breasts would not cause too much of a stir.

To my horror, Carol was untying her bikini top before we even got there and soon it was difficult for me to concentrate on what she was saying as I felt a little sea-sick in the face of so much uncontrolled bouncing.

‘God!  Your tits are enormous!’ I said.

‘Pretty good, eh?  Aren’t you getting yours out?’ 

'All in good time, all in good time, my little Devonshire divvy,' I said.

It was a beautiful beach and there were a fair number of people, mostly couples or small groups, generally without a stitch on.  This was a whole new experience for me.  The German gods we had come across on the path had set up camp near the sea and looked over to us, waving.  Carol was all for joining them, but I suggested that we should keep our options open for the time being, not mentioning that I was rather uneasy about diving into a conversation with a couple of blokes with their willies out.

So we put our towels out about thirty feet from the dunes and sat down.  It wasn’t that easy pretending that it was perfectly normal to be sitting with a load of people we’d never met before who seemed very pleased to see us.  I was aware of my breasts in a way that I had never been aware of them before.  I wished they would just shut up (metaphorically speaking) instead of pertly announcing themselves to all and sundry.

‘Shall we whip off our pants, too?’ said Carol, as she was actually whipping off her bikini bottoms.

‘Really?’ I replied, ‘I don’t know whether-’

‘Don’t be such a prude!  No other bugger’s wearing any.’

She was right.  So I did.

Having no clothes on in public was an altogether liberating experience.  I got used to it quickly and was soon stretching out in various poses, sighing nonchalantly and acting as though it was all terribly normal.  I got out my latest find and started to read. I had brought l’Etranger to the beach and made sure that the cover of the book was visible to others as I read. In those days I was deeply proud of my literary pretensions.  I breathed in the ozone and tried to remember what my French tutor had said about Camus, but I kept hearing the Cure singing ‘Killing an Arab’ instead.

Sunday, 7 January 2018

Goodreads Giveaway now ended. Winner announced. Book in the post!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Stranded in the Seychelles by Bev Spicer

Stranded in the Seychelles

by Bev Spicer

Giveaway ends January 11, 2018.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter Giveaway

Thursday, 4 January 2018

My French Life

Dear Readers,

Happy New Year!

And thank goodness Christmas is over.  Not that I didn’t enjoy it at the time, but sherry trifle and meringues and cream can do a lot of damage!

With storm Carmen lingering, I think this has been one of the worst bits of weather we’ve had here in Charente Maritime for quite a while.  Didn’t stop me getting out there, though.  I’ve cleaned my boots at least three times, dried out numerous coats, hats and scarves most indecorously on radiators and had the tumble dryer going for hours at a time.  Still the rain comes down and the wind whistles.

It’s nice to spend more time writing, as things return to normal.  I’m heavily into a second edit of my Alice Candy novel (Book Two), which is covered with notes and suggestions from my tireless and shrewd editor, who cares about my book more than my sensibilities (thank goodness).  Everything makes more sense when I read her comments.  And, slowly but surely, I see my manuscript turning into something more like a ‘finished’ book.  I still have no title or cover – the most frustrating jobs for me.  Really impossible.  I have a wonderful professional cover designer to produce the artwork, but it’s my job to provide ideas.  A big font, a catchy title and a couple of shiny symbols: a country house, a painting, a speeding car.  How to show the reader what kind of book it is, without ending up with a cliché?

It can wait a while longer.

The interior has me hooked for the time being.

In the meantime, there are distractions: a trip abroad for one son during his gap year, driving lessons for another and a wedding day to help plan for my daughter.  All thrilling in different ways.  And expensive!  Looks as though we’ll be in thrift mode for a while, which I kind of welcome after the excesses of the past weeks.

Happy Days!

Monday, 1 January 2018

Fun with Bev and Carol - Promotion now ENDED!

Just to let you know I'm running a price promotion on all my humorous memoirs beginning on November 28th for three - seven days (depending on the ebook).  At the bottom of this post I've included a short extract from Bunny on a Bike so you can see whether you empathise with a rather easily distracted Bev as she undergoes a particularly challenging test to become a Playboy croupier.

There are four books in the Bev and Carol series (all but one are available in paperback too):




Here's the extract, where Bev and Carol take the second maths test included in the Playboy selection process:

More Maths (this time, ‘mental’)

Keith was right, there was more to come.

‘Please record your answers on the paper provided, clearly numbered and legibly written.  Take care to keep to the correct numbering.  You will hear the questions once and have ten seconds to calculate and note down your answer.’
We had made it through to the final hurdle.  There were twenty-seven of us left, which meant that seven of us would not get a job, according to a girl called Desdemona, who, apparently, hadn’t heard of a ‘geezer’ called Shakespeare.
Suddenly maths seemed more important.  I had scored ninety-five on the written maths test, one more than Carol. Result!  Keith had got eighty-three.

We were spaced out, spatially speaking, so that copying would be impossible this time, and I knew that I was on my own.  In some twisted way, this was invigorating as I felt, unjustifiably, that I was up to the challenge. I flexed my mental muscles and took a deep breath – oxygen to the brain, in lieu of a gin and tonic - memories of my French Oral exam at ‘O’ level came flooding back.  Carol gave me a look that said, ‘You have a bogey on the end of your nose.’  And I stared back with a, ‘Your right boob is more droopy than your left one.’  We were as relaxed as we could be under the circumstances and ready for the first question.

‘Question one.  Seven times nine?’
The numbers fed into my brain and it spoke to me: Easy peasy.  Ten sevens are seventy, less seven, means nine sevens are sixty-three.  It appeared that I had forgotten my nine times table.  Oh well, never mind.
‘Question two.  Eleven times thirteen?’
Bit more tricky. Ten thirteens are one hundred and thirty, plus thirteen, makes one hundred and forty-three.  Thank you brain. And so it went on.  After a few minutes, I heard a soft blubbing noise behind me, and Desdemona was led away by one of the assistants. One down, six to go.   I looked over to where Keith was sitting and he winked at me.  I stuck out my tongue and smiled broadly, waiting for the test to continue.