I must apologise for the fact that I haven't complained about New York recently. I really, really should. (Fave-sie, choicest morsels will be served up at a later date. Hush thy squawking, Grimalkin. Soon. Soon.) Perhaps it reflects the fact that the peristaltic digestion process is, more or less, complete. That does not mean, by any means, accommodation or acquiescence. I am not Sting sipping Lapsang Suchong, nor shall be. (I am an Irishman drinking bad decaff.) Lack of ranting simply means that I have lived here now for three and a half years, and one cannot rant forever. Though I may have been digested, I have not yet been broken down. (Never! We shall always fight the Beast!) In the meanwhile, here is a link to an interview I did recently with literary journal Prick of the Spindle. (Great name.) There are few things more fun than talking about yourself with, of course, the smoke screen of literary matters to clothe the naked, diseased ego. And, here too the review of Waiting for Saint Brendan in the same issue.
(Random pic depicting subway witch post fit of F Train rush hour rage.)
Cover of Joseph Delaney's I Am Grimalkin (Wardstone Chronicles
/ The Last Apprentice Book 9), published by the Bodley Head.