Paul McDonald

I have discovered a new favourite author: Paul McDonald.  He has succeeded where I have – thus far – failed, by having novels published which are set in the Black Country.  Walsall, in his case.

I am currently thoroughly enjoying his Surviving Sting, which is set in that town in 1979 and features characters who glory in such names as Brainy Kev, Chucker Pritchard, Joolz, Donk and Nozza Cartwright.  Only two chapters in, I just know it’s my kind of novel.

Such effortless-looking writing makes me want to weep with envy!  Why can I not get my Black Country sagas in print?  Why do the agents and so-called ‘literary’ critics to whom I dispatch them seem to have such difficulty understanding the region’s rich dialect and humour?

Now I have to say I am not in the best of moods today.  This is due to the fact I was kept awake until 7:00 – yes, 7:00 – this morning by our rowdy new neighbours.  These individuals decided to have an all-night flat-warming party.  Literally all night. 

With cotton wool jammed in my ears, I finally dropped off for an hour and a half in broad daylight, then admitted defeat and decided I may as well get up.  I consequently this morning have that awful emotional, ‘jangly’ feeling that a severe lack of sleep engenders.

I guess the saving grace is that I should sleep soundly tonight.  Well that is unless these delightful people decide to have a hair of the dog Sunday party.

Frankly, I’m too old for this sort of thing. It’s like living in halls of residence.  I can’t wait to move out.  Our flat has been on the market since Easter, but in the midst of the credit crunch things are simply not moving.  I just hope last night was a one-off.

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