The reasons for buying this volume are, if you don’t mind me saying, myriad. The most important however, is that it is a much cheaper volume than the 2003 edition, weighing in at $19.99 as opposed to $27.95. This new edition also corrects the mistakes that so beleaguered the initial version as well as incorporating additional extras by myself and new pieces by the very talented Lee Smith and, of course, Mister Watts himself.

For me personally, one of the most important additions to the text are the brief notes I wrote for my website at the time of publication.

At this point, I genuinely felt A Nation of Shadows was the abortive end of my attempt at carving out a niche for myself as a semi-professional writer.

I had lost my agent to very important real life matters, we were living in a tiny flat in an area I disliked and I was working uncomfortable shifts for a company that I had little respect for. From start to finish, the book was like passing blood with the final editing period seeing myself and my wonderful wife holed up and struggling – and, sadly failing – to proof read the text ourselves in an attempt to eradicate errors. Many of the corrections did not make it into the first edition of the book and many more went unseen.

The book became the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The release of this version corrects much, if not all, of what was at fault with the original, making this, without a doubt the ‘author’s preferred text’ edition of the title.

Hopefully, second time around, this book will find more of a home than it did with iUniverse.

"The skies filled with karura."

Recently, the first draft/promo copy of lecteur de tarot arrived for final editing.

This isn’t the actual book as you will see it as, more than likely, it will still be Mister Watts’ Particle Surge Productions that handle the final product but what you see here is the earliest edition of the book ~ think of it as the ‘pilot episode’ for the book proper.

I don’t think it would look half as impressive as it actually does without Mister Rasbury of razterized’s avian filled imagery and the interior picture of our friend the zebra-magpie, illustrated by my long-suffering wife and as seen on the sampler cover.

Both images have a history longer than their association with this title. My wife’s illustration comes from the well-worn sketchbook she used to carry about in her over-sized Paul’s Boutique leopard flower padlock bag, whilst Mister Rasbury’s cover was originally one of several designs for the new Love Amongst Strangers reissue.

More on that later.

"FUSSELWAG...

FUSSELWAG landed with a flutter of feathers upon the cobbled stone, his one maimed foot offsetting his landing slightly and causing him to stumble forward. It was a far from perfect return to the ground, an act that would cause amusement amongst his peers, he was sure.

Fusselwag however no longer cared for such things. The cruel jibes of the others who gathered in the stone artifice beneath the blue skies of their home no longer mattered to him.

He was, as in so many other things, above such matters.

Unlike the others, Fusselwag – poor, lame-legged Fusselwag – had not forgotten that the endless blue skies and the breaking clouds were the home from which they had been exiled but also to which they rightfully belonged. The stone artifice was but a prison, a gaol, and, like any other gaol, with all its wardens and cruelty, it was unable to truly hold one of such noble spirit as he.

For even though his body was wounded, his right foot severed, the flesh poorly healed, leaving only a raw stump as reminder, his spirit was indomitable; received from a far greater power than that which had conceived of his poorly designed body.

"poorly healed...

For all the beauty of his wings, his keen dark eyes and his varied shaded feathers, Fusselwag knew his body was as much a prison as the stone artifice around him.

Abruptly, he felt his daydreaming interrupted by the presence of another – swift-footed and silent, given away only by the nervous cooing as his large, black eyes blinked quickly, scanning the cobbled stones for signs of food and predators.

“Still dreaming, Fusselwag?” he asked nervously between the noises Fusselwag suspected were made to reassure himself rather than locate others.

“As much as you are, Cindersoot,” the older bird replied, “the difference being that we dream of very different matters.”

Cindersoot did not look up at the other bird, keeping his eyes fixed solely on the stones before him,

“You should concern yourself with more important matters, you know – like eating or mating or, I don’t know, just being warm or something.

“This city is our home, you know. I don’t know why you don’t make the most of it. Honestly, the Parliament are beginning to talk of you, you know – and not favourable talk either, Fusselwag; cruel talk, nasty talk.”

“Let them talk,” Fusselwag said angrily, “there are more important things than the concerns of the Parliament of Fowls’ gossip.”

Cindersoot blinked more nervously than Fusselwag would have thought possible had he not known the other bird since he was a nestling.

In the short years that dragged them down like centuries in the stone artifice, Fuselwag had seen Cindersoot raised from sickly newborn to subordinate adult, an anxious and weary member of their circle, forever on the outside, pecking at leftovers abandoned by bigger birds as he dreamed of nothing but being accepted as one of their number.

“L-Like what?” the younger bird questioned, paused and, for the fist time, as he lifted his head, slowly turned his dark eyes towards Fusselwag.

"lifted his head...

“Don’t tell me you’re still going on about that sky business, that old heaven nonsense, are you?”

Fusselwag’s feathers ruffled in annoyance, a sea of greys, whites and blacks rising along the curve of his spine.

“It’s not nonsense, Cindersoot,” he joined.

Cindersoot affected a look of disinterest, the kind of look he hoped would win him favour with others of their kind.

“If I’ve heard you say that once, I’ve heard you say it a million times,” the younger bird said sharply – far sharper than he would have been with any of the others, Fusselwag noted.

“You have to give these things up, you know. They’re not healthy – they’re not real.”

Fusselwag lifted his head, staring up at the breaking down, the endless horizon occluded by the minarets and towers of the stone artifice, those perches the wardens of the artifice had raised up in order that they too might be elevated to the blue skies beyond.

His body was old, he reflected, riddled with the parasites that bred in the gutters of the artifice, the parasites that had never existed in their first home.

Yet he was not defeated.

As a means to tie up loose ends and to inspire new ideas, I’ve recently begun to email a few very old friends about some of these ideas. My first email, on the 26th June went something like this:

"doomed to repeat the same cycle..."

The result was even better than I could have imagined.

ROLAND (For Jac)

There is just no way to argue with the stance and posture of the man.

Having been realised, Roland, of course, soon started to talk.

The following is a brief excerpt from notes made this morning on yet another National Express coach:

“There’s not much to recommend Stratford. If you’re not from here, you probably think Stratford’s that place where Shakespeare lived and all that but you’re wrong, that’s Stratford-upon-Avon, that ain’t even in London.

“Why you even looking at me like that? Do I look like tourist information?

“Anyway, Stratford. It’s all right. It’s nothing special. Better than Hackney, certainly better than where you’re from.

“It’s not bad, you know. You’re not far from Bow and you can get into Leytonstone or Romford or Walthamstow – that’s where I come from properly, you know – if that’s what you need. From there you can go into Chingford maybe, or Edmonton or something but you probably don’t need to.

“Like I said, Stratford’s got connexions to all of East London so you’re all right, if you know what I mean; Bow, Mile End, Aldgate and the city proper.

“Me, I work in the city for real, you know. Weird shit happens in there, the stuff they don’t tell you about on Wikipedia. You get past Stepney Green and Whitechapel and into Cheapside in the shadow of St. Paul’s and it’s like there’s something really old watching over you. Something serious, man.

“That’s my job, yeah. Dealing with all the serious stuff that comes in and out of the ghost gate on Ludgate Circus.

“You might want to call me a private detective or a ghostbuster or whatever but you’re wrong. I’m not no black Harry Potter… but I am wise to this shit.

“And that’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m telling you this story and not the other way around.

“Now shut up and listen to me and shit, yeah?”

Expect to hear more about this at a later date.

It’s impossible for me to do justice to the beauty of this quirky little book shop located off Hills Road. I think that everyone who has a love of books has this idea of their ‘perfect study’, the one place where they would be able to write and read and generally nuture the creative process. Walking into Plurabelle was, for me, like seeing that idea made real.

The entire shop is piled high with books, some on shelves, other on old arm chairs and others still on coffee tables. Stacked high upon the floor where issues of Punch magazine, antiquated Victorian maps and old His Master Voice 78″ records whilst on the tables and amidst the shelves where volumes of 20th century fiction in Hebrew and Greek, leatherbound Arabic volumes and 19th century collections of Goethe. It’s a place that you can fall in love with.

On a whim, I sent over a copy of Sophisty and a little message to the owners in the hope that, in someway I will be able to contribute to the atmosphere of this wonderful little shop.

Later on this year, I intend to resume work on heronaut.

This means of course, dear reader, that there is nothing at all I can say of interest about the project. What I can do however is post a scene that takes place following last September’s episode:

The king did not rise from his throne as the rude and humble goblet was slammed down upon the table before him.
  
“This is it, my king,” Bors proclaimed loudly, his voice trembling and his face still smeared with blood and dirt. “This is that for which Galahad died.”
  
Upon his throne, Arthur remained impassive, his expression indifferent and his eyes staring ahead, beyond those who gathered in his presence, beyond even the tarnished and stained metal of the sole goblet on the wooden table before him.
  
Bors stood waiting, his beard unkempt and his armour decimated. At his side, Perceval remained, holding the older knight up and waiting in silence, tears in his blue eyes.
  
“My king,” Bors said again, “this is the san gréal, that for which you sent us out to all corners of Christendom in search of…”
  
Slowly, Arthur lifted his head, his dark eyes looking upon Bors as if for the first time.
  
“The… Grail?” he asked softly.
  
The older man nodded with uncommon enthusiasm.
  
“Yes, my liege, the Grail!”
  
There was silence for a long moment and then slowly Arthur nodded and turned away.
  
“Of course… the Grail…” he murmured, lapsing again into his own private reflection.
  
“Yes, Arthur, damn you!” Bors roared with fury. “The Grail! The Grail you sent us out to reclaim! The Grail that cost us the loss of the best of our number! Don’t you care for what happened? Galahad is gone, Arthur, he’s gone!”
  
Tears sprung unbidden from his eyes as his knees gave way beneath him and Perceval stooped to catch him, pulling him away from the throne.
  
“Galahad is dead!” he roared through his tears. “Taken from us! What king sends but a boy on a quest such as this, I ask you? What God exacts such a high price for a worthless trinket? Who is it that can fix the world, Arthur? Who can give us back what we have lost?”
  
The king did not respond, instead he remained in silence, his eyes staring at the empty table before him.
  
Screaming wildly, Bors struggled and eventually collapsed, his voice falling at last quiet as Perceval dragged him from the throne room and away into the darkness.
  
“The Grail,” Arthur whispered once more and yet still he did not cast his gaze upon it.