Tag: extract

Blog Blitz: A Prescription for Madness by Linda Fawke

Today as a part of the blog blitz, I am sharing an extract from A Prescription for Madness by Linda Fawke. This one looks intriguing with many things to leave you thinking and I hope to one day read it!

Book Description:

When successful business-owner Kate Shaw realises she is pregnant, after a fling with a previous lover, she has life-changing decisions to make. She needs to be in control of her life. Pregnancy in her fifties was never part of the plan. It becomes her secret.

The risks of having a baby at her age are clear but she struggles with the idea of an abortion. No-one understands her increasingly erratic behaviour as the preoccupation takes over her life.

Her marriage is precarious; the relationship with her former lover uncertain.

Is this the way to madness?

This is a gripping story about dark choices, gnawing discontent and the uncertainties of love.

Purchase Links:
Amazon US
Amazon UK


Info on the Extract from Chapter Three:

Kate, having discovered she is unexpectedly pregnant at the age of 51, wants someone to confide in and seeks help from her mother. Their relationship has never been close but Kate needs someone to talk to. Maybe not the best idea…

~~~

‘You’re a bit quiet today, Kate. Are you feeling alright?’

‘I’m not totally myself. In fact, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.’

Her mother sat upright as if someone had a gun to her back. She opened her eyes wide and put her hands to her cheeks.

‘You haven’t got some dreadful disease, have you? It’s not… you know … is it? Is it treatable? If it’s a matter of money, I’ll try to help. Don’t have much but you can have what there is. Private treatment is quicker. You shouldn’t wait around for some appointment months away. But you know all about these things. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Or have you only just found out? Oh, my poor darling!’

The questions came ever faster and she stopped when she ran out of breath. She looked at Kate in horror. A piece of pickle dropped out of the sandwich she was holding and landed on her lap.

‘Calm down, Mum. I’m not ill. It isn’t cancer. Stop panicking. Just listen for a moment or two and I’ll tell you.’

‘Well, what a relief that is! But you’ve come specially to tell me something so it’s got to be important. Is there a problem with your businesses? Are you in debt? You’re not in trouble because of a wrongly dispensed prescription, are you? There was something on the radio recently about a case like that. Is there a lawsuit? My God, what will the neighbours say?’

Kate’s silence eventually got through to her mother.

‘Sorry, Kate. You asked me to listen. And all I’ve done is talk. I will listen now.’

Kate waited. She needed the silence; she needed her mother to feel the silence, too.

‘I’m pregnant.’

There was a long pause. Kate could see her mother struggling to take in the information, to find the right words.

‘I came to talk to you about it and try to get my head straight concerning what I’m going to do. It’s called seeking parental advice.’

‘I didn’t think you and Neil wanted children. Isn’t it a bit late now?’

‘Mum, I think you’ve missed the point. I didn’t intend to become pregnant.’

‘You, Kate? You’re always so organised, you don’t have accidents. I bet you were on the pill and it failed. Always thought it was risky. A bad idea.’

Kate recalled a conversation they had years ago, prompted by a television programme about the pill. Her mother didn’t believe it worked and was uncomfortable discussing it. Kate tried to explain its mode of action but her mother would not listen and was adamant in her views. Instead she turned to finding negative, unscientific comments in newspapers or magazines, cutting them out and posting them to Kate. It was the closest she got to advice on contraception.

‘No, Mum, I wasn’t on the pill. I stopped it a while ago. And it does work. If I’d been on it, I wouldn’t now have this problem.’

This was proving harder than she expected. Her mother was either naïve or being deliberately difficult. Surely it could not still be embarrassment?

‘So what does Neil think?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘Shouldn’t you tell him?’

‘Okay, Mum. Let me give you the whole story. It’ll surprise you, probably shock you, but hear me out.’

A stunned face looked back. ‘I need a cup of tea. Just let me put the kettle on and make a pot.’

Tea was the answer. Her mother would make it whatever she said. Kate was standing looking out at the garden, manicured and neat, all character having been removed with the weeds, when her mother returned. With a shaking hand, she poured out two cups, trying not to look her daughter in the eye. Twice she started to say something and stopped herself. Kate broke the silence.

‘Do you remember a boyfriend I had in the last year at university? A guy called Jonathan.’

 Her mother’s face brightened. ‘Lovely lad. I do remember him. He had lunch with us on one of our visits and was a delight. Chatted away to your dad and me as if he’d known us for years. And he brought you here when I had to go into hospital to have that gallstone operation. Me and your dad, we hoped it would last. Fancied having him as a son-in-law. Would have been an asset to the family. Not that I have a problem with Neil, of course. But suddenly he wasn’t around anymore. You never did tell us why and I didn’t like to ask.’

‘Well, I met him again at the reunion a few months ago.’

Her mother looked blank.

‘You remember – I told you about it. We went back to the pharmacy department to celebrate thirty years since we all graduated. Without giving you unnecessary details, Jonathan and I ended up in bed and I think the baby is his.’

Her mother let out a cry worthy of a third-rate, sensational film.

‘Oh, Kate, how could you? What a sluttish thing to do! And with your upbringing! I can’t believe a daughter of mine would behave like that!’

‘Which century are you living in, Mum? It’s 2006, people hop in and out of bed with each other all the time. Anyway, there was a reason for it, a serious reason which I don’t intend to go into. It wasn’t just lust or trying to turn the clock back. And I don’t sleep around; I object to being called a slut.’

Her mother gave her an unbelieving stare and made a guttural grunt.


About the Author:

Linda Fawke is an arts person who studied science but always wanted to write. Now retired, she indulges this passion, writing fiction and non-fiction, even occasional poetry, preferably late at night. She has now written two novels, ‘A Taste of His Own Medicine’ and its sequel, ‘A Prescription for Madness’ using her background in pharmacy as the setting of both. These are easy books to read, suitable for book club discussions. ‘A Prescription for Madness‘ is more serious than the first book, dealing with such issues as pregnancy in later life and Down’s Syndrome.

She has been a winner of the Daily Telegraph ‘Just Back’ travel-writing competition and has published in various magazines including ‘Mslexia’, ‘Litro’ online, ‘Scribble’, ‘The Oldie’, ‘Berkshire Life’ and ‘Living France’. She was a finalist in the ‘Hysteria’ short story competition.

Linda blogs at www.linimeant.wordpress.com where her ‘Random Writings’ include a range of topics from travel to ‘Things that pop into my head’.

Contact Linda:
Blog
Twitter: @LindaFawke
Facebook: Linda Fawke

Blog Blitz: Extract: Mistletoe and the Mouse by Elsa Simonetti

Today as a part of the blog blitz, I am sharing an extract from Mistletoe and the Mouse by Elsa Simonetti. If you love anything and everything abut Mickey Mouse, then this is the novel for you!

Book Description:

Can a magical Christmas melt a frozen heart?

Join Belle and James as they visit Mickey Mouse for a sparkling holiday season at Disneyland Paris.

Belle has been numb since her mother died, and she can’t face Christmas at home without her. Instead she books a surprise holiday to her “happy place” – the Magic Kingdom. But her boyfriend James has problems of his own. He doesn’t “do Disney” and what will his mother think of him missing their family Christmas to go to Disneyland with Belle?

A festive romance with a sprinkling of Pixie Dust.

Purchase Links:
Amazon
Theme Park Press: Theme Park Press is the world’s leading independent publisher of books about the Disney company, its history, its films and animation, and its theme parks.


Intro on the Extract:

Belle and James are on a Christmas holiday at Disneyland Paris, where Belle is struggling to overcome the grief she feels following the sudden and unexpected death of her mother earlier in the year. While she sits on the edge of a fountain, drinking mulled wine and waiting for James, Belle meets a young American, “a tall, slender woman of about her own age. The woman was wearing a knee-length deep red velvet dress over a pale golden skirt, with her long dark hair swept up with red roses. She was so elegant it took Belle’s breath away.” Belle falls naturally into conversation with her, and their meeting becomes something of a turning point for Belle, who is wondering if James’s obvious lack of enthusiasm for all things Disney might drive a wedge between them.

Extract:

‘Shut up! Were you actually named after Beauty and the Beast?’ asked the woman.

‘Yes!’ Belle said. ‘Yes, my mum went into labour in the cinema watching the film. It was her favourite. She refused to leave until it was over; I very nearly popped out into the world in row H of the Cannon Cinema! That’s why she called me Belle.’

She had never told James that; she knew Beauty and the Beast didn’t mean anything to him. It would be pointless.

‘That is so awesome! Your mom must be a cool mother; I wish mine loved Disney as much as that.’

‘She is! She’s the best!’ Belle said eagerly, before remembering. ‘I mean, she was the best. She died earlier this year,’ she said, her face falling.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ the woman said, looking concerned. ‘It’s so hard, isn’t it, first Christmas without your mom. I remember when my grandma died, I found Mom sitting and crying over the Thanksgiving Dinner, the first one she’d had to cook without grandma. Tears all over the turkey!’

‘Yes, that’s why we came here. I couldn’t face doing all the normal Christmas stuff without her. Mince pies and stockings and decorating the tree; it didn’t feel right.’

‘I can totally get that. Are you here with your Dad then?’

‘I haven’t seen my dad since I was four; he’s in America somewhere. No, I’m here with my boyfriend. James.’

‘The one who doesn’t do Disney?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Then perhaps he is a keeper after all!’ the woman said. ‘Disney at Christmas is quite a thing for someone who doesn’t do Disney.’

‘I don’t know. He’s been so great this year, but it’s like he doesn’t understand me, sometimes. He doesn’t get it. I’m not sure if he’s The One – you know? He doesn’t seem to get Disney at all, and it’s always been such a big part of my life. Bringing him here, it makes me realise how different we are. He likes rugby, and I like Disney. There’s not much overlap there.’

It was the first time she had ever voiced her fears aloud. She had no-one she trusted enough to voice them to, without her mum. But somehow, this woman felt safe, like a friend.

‘Uh huh, I get that – but would he fight off vicious wolves for you, and carry you back safely to his castle? You don’t have to be exactly the same to be in love, you just have to be on the same side!’

She thought about James, and how he had lain awake with her all those nights, holding her in the darkness while she sobbed. She thought about how he had held her up at the funeral when she didn’t think she could stand on her own. She thought about how he had been prepared to abandon his own family at Christmas to come here with her, even though she could see quite clearly now he didn’t want to. He was on her side, firmly and steadfastly.

‘I think he would,’ she said softly. ‘Yes, I honestly think he would.’

‘Then, Belle, perhaps he is your Beast after all!’ she said, with a wave of her hand as if she was carrying a magic wand and sprinkling pixie dust. But her gesture turned into a wave as she saw her companion, dressed in ice-blue like Cinderella, coming out of the ladies’ toilets at the other side of the square. ‘Oh, there’s Gabrielle. Gotta go. Great to meet you, Belle.’

‘I didn’t get your name?’ Belle called after her. She stopped and turned back.

‘I’m Aliyah. But you can call me Fairy Godmother!’ she said with a laugh. ‘Happy holidays, Belle!’

‘Happy holidays, Fairy Godmother!’ she called after her.

~~~
Aliyah is only a minor character in the novel, but she’s an important one, as Belle otherwise has only James to talk to, and I realised that she needed someone to talk to ABOUT James at this point. Although Aliyah is very clearly a real person, the way in which she appears at this significant moment to help Belle and defines herself as Belle’s Fairy Godmother has a deliberate hint of magic about it. It’s one of my favourite scenes in the whole novel!


About the Author:

Elsa Simonetti was born in the same year as Walt Disney World, but many miles away in the north of England. Her earliest Disney memory is crying during Bambi at the Saturday morning cinema club! It wasn’t until her own children were small that her husband introduced her to the magic of Disneyland Paris, and since then she has become obsessed, proving Walt Disney’s own belief that “Laughter is timeless, imagination has no age and dreams are forever”. That was the seed of this story – that Disneyland is not just for children, but for anyone who is young at heart.

Elsa also writes romantic women’s fiction under the name of Liz Taylorson.

Contact Elsa:
Twitter:
@Elsasimonetti
@taylorson_liz

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Cover Reveal AND Extract: Rabette Run

Today I am helping in the cover reveal for Rabette Run by Nick Rippington. This one will be released on February 21, 2020. As a bonus the author is also sharing the Prologue from the novel!

Book Description:

“Alice in Wonderland…With tanks and guns’- Nick Rippington

EMERSON RABETTE has a phobia about travelling on the underground, so when he is involved in a car accident his worst nightmare is about to come true.

A middle-aged graphic designer and father of one, Emerson’s entire future depends on him reaching an important business meeting. Without an alternative method of transport, he has to confront his biggest fear.

Things immediately go wrong when Emerson’s Obsessive Compulsive Disorder kicks in and his fellow passengers become angry at the way he is acting. Thankfully a young woman called Winter comes to his rescue and agrees to help him reach his destination.

Once on the train, she thinks her job is done. What she isn’t prepared for is Emerson taking flight after reading a message scrawled on the train’s interior.

It simply reads: ‘Run Rabette Run’.

Rabette Run is Nick Rippington’s fourth book, a standalone psychological thriller. The author’s Boxer Boys trilogy is highly acclaimed and is now available in a digital boxset.

 

 

 

What does the cover look like?????? Keep scrolling to find out!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Almost there!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before I share the cover… See what the critics say about Nick Rippington:

‘Addictive, funny, touching, brilliant stories’
‘’Characters that truly come alive on the page’
‘’Evocative, original, unfailingly precise and often humorous’

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, here is the cover:

Nick’s covers are designed by the hugely talented Jane Dixon-Smith of JD Smith designs. His second book Spark Out received the cover of the year award from the reviewer website Chill With A Book.

Pre-order Links:
Amazon US
Amazon UK


PROLOGUE

HE was sneaking a glance at his daughter in the rear-view mirror, listening to her talk about college and friends, when their blue family estate was broadsided by the Jeep.

Time suspended before a tsunami of shattered glass crashed in and he lost control of the steering wheel. The airbag deployed and the seat belt cut painfully into his shoulder as it absorbed the strain of his 15-stone bulk before boomeranging him back into place. What was left of the windscreen retreated as his body reacted like the lash of a whip and, in his confusion, he experienced that eureka moment… ‘Ahhh, whiplash!’

As the car skidded across the road he was dazzled by a kaleidoscope of bright lights – neon advertising boards, shop windows and street lamps. When his eyes adjusted it was as if he was watching everything in slow motion: A couple he had noticed walking hand in hand moments earlier ran in different directions, while a newspaper seller deserted his pitch, money pouch flapping against his pounding legs. Further along, a dapper-looking bloke in tweeds seemed in two minds which way to flee before settling on the safety of the Underground steps.

The visions tumbled from his mind as the car completed its 360-degree spin and he finally locked eyes on his assailant. Marooned in the stationary Jeep, the dark-haired woman stared through the windscreen vacantly, a thick stream of blood meandering down her face from a garish wound above her eyebrow. Devoid of expression, it seemed the shock had vacuumed all thought from her brain.

As soon as she appeared, she was gone, the car continuing to spin. Facing the pavement again, the driver’s attention was captured by what he thought was a bundle of blankets and rags in a shop doorway. With alarm he noticed startled eyes staring out from a face swamped in facial hair. ‘Get out of the fucking way!’ the driver mouthed as he realised one of London’s street dwellers was totally oblivious to the approaching danger.

The car made jarring contact with the kerb and suddenly it was the driver who was spinning, like a sock in a washing machine. His head bumped against the ceiling, his left arm smashed against the twisted metal of the door and his right leg sent jolts of electrifying pain through his nervous system.

Finally, the fairground ride from hell came to an abrupt halt, the car thudding against something hard. The heap of tangled metal that was once a solid and protective shell settled slowly back in an upright position, bouncing like one of those gangster rides with hydraulic suspension that featured in American movies. This wasn’t America, though, this was twenty-first century Britain and he wasn’t a teen gangster, just an ordinary Joe going about his boring, routine business.

New sounds invaded the void left by the disintegrated windows: horns blowing, tyres screeching, glass crunching, people screaming. His ears slowly acclimatising to the noise, he then detected an unfamiliar ticking and saw steam pouring from the bent and buckled bonnet. Performing calculations in his head, he tried to work out how much this entire calamity might cost him. What would the insurance company say? Was there any possibility the vehicle wasn’t a write-off and did his policy contain the use of a courtesy car? How the hell was he going to get to work? What the hell was he going to tell his wife?

Shit, his daughter!

‘You OK back there, honey?’

There was a pause during which his heart skipped a beat.

Then…

‘Yeah, I think so. I’ve a… pain in my tummy.’

Superficial damage. Nothing serious. Thank God. Relief flooded through him.

‘You?’ she asked.

‘My leg’s killing me but otherwise…’

His thoughts were interrupted by another sound. Looking to his left, he was surprised to see the passenger window still intact. Outside, a man in a navy-blue uniform and cap gesticulated wildly, but it was hard to make out what he was saying. The driver felt as if his head was submerged in that slime kids found all the rage.

Still, at least he was conscious enough to interpret the police officer’s manic, hand-waving gestures and detect the urgency in them. Shaking his head to free himself from the gloop, he felt needles of pain attack his nervous system as he shifted sideways, utilising every muscle necessary to reach out and press the button which released the window.

The car’s electrics made an uncomfortable, whirring sound as the glass slid down a few centimetres then stopped. Jammed. He continued pushing the button, but the internal workings were badly damaged. He watched as a gloved hand slipped through the gap at the top of the door and exerted pressure. There was another crunching noise and the window dropped to around halfway, the brute force almost certainly rendering the mechanism irreparable. Not thinking straight, his first reaction was one of anger and his mind made calculations about how much compensation he should claim once he was back on his feet.

The police constable battled gamely to get his point across amid a deafening ensemble of alarm bells and sirens. ‘We need to get you out of there, sir. No need to panic, but we have to make you safe before we can get the paramedics to check you over.’

‘Sounds serious, Dad,’ said his girl.

‘Thanks, Sherlock, always the optimist.’

‘What was that?’ The officer’s face seemed blurred as the driver tried to focus.

‘Sorry, it’s my ears…’ he shouted, the frenzied effort to make himself heard betraying his underlying fear. ‘I can’t… Is the car going to explode?’

‘Umm, I sincerely hope not, sir, but there is a lot of fuel around, the engine’s smoking… It’s best to err on the side of caution. We need to get you a safe distance away in the unlikely event that things escalate. The fire brigade will be here in two ticks and they’ll bring it under control in no time. Until then…’

‘Not sure I can move to be honest, son. I think my leg’s trapped.’

‘Ahhh.’ The policeman nodded. ‘Can you have a look around – see what the problem is? You might be able to free it. On second thoughts, hold on, I’ll come around to your side and see what I can do.’

Appearing at the driver’s window, he then brushed aside fragments of glass and leaned through, peering into the gloom of the footwell. ‘O… K,’ he said slowly. He wasn’t very good at disguising his feelings. It was serious. ‘We have a bit of a problem. A lump of metal appears to have wedged itself in your leg. I’m guessing it will take special tools to get you out of there.’

Shit! The Jaws of Life. Only the other day he had been watching a TV programme about the fire service and the equipment they used to cut people free from road traffic accident wrecks. The jaws had saved many lives, but the name alone was enough to send a shudder rippling through his damaged body. The sirens in the distance were getting louder as they announced their urgency to the world. Blue spinning lights roamed the darkness of the car’s interior, before a more permanent red glow encroached on the shadows. Was it getting hot?

‘Ahhh…’ said the officer.

There were snapping sounds followed by a crackle. Random memories of an old advert for cereal entered the driver’s head: snap, crackle, pop. Twisting as best he could, the driver realised the noise was being created by flames eating into the car’s paintwork. ‘No!’ he muttered through clenched teeth. Damn, he’d just forked out a small fortune on a touch-up job after some local punk had dug a thick groove right along the passenger’s side with a coin or a key.

‘Uh oh!’ said his daughter, looking over her shoulder. ‘They’re going to get us out of here, aren’t they, Dad? I’m scared.’

‘Stay calm,’ he replied, wishing he could practice what he was preaching. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. The fire brigade is on their way and will be here shortly.’

‘Ahh, they’re here,’ the policeman announced on cue, relief evident in his tone.

Moments later the driver heard a new voice, the accent pure Cockney. ‘Stay calm, sir, and we’ll have you out in no time.’

The driver twisted in the direction of the person speaking and another wave of pain rolled through him. On the periphery of his vision he could make out a tall man with a pointed jaw in a fire brigade uniform.

‘What seems to be the trouble, eh? Let the dog see the rabbit.’ The fireman leaned inside. ‘Rrrr…igh…t,’ he said before shouting some instructions to the rest of his crew.

Suddenly, the car was plunged into darkness. The driver guessed it was being buried in that foam the fire services used to bring a blaze under control. It felt strangely comforting to know they weren’t going to be burnt alive. Another sound, a screeching, grating noise soon invaded the car’s interior, setting his teeth on edge.

‘Cool!’ muttered his daughter as sparks sprayed through the roof. Moments later the metal was peeled back like the lid on a tin of tuna, bright lights invading the space, making them cry out and shield their eyes.

‘Sorry, mate, it’s got to be done,’ advised the fire officer. ‘Once we’re inside, we can hopefully remove the obstacle that’s holding you in place and get you out of there. Second thoughts, the best thing we can do, looking at it now, would be to remove the door, together with your good self. It should be easier to cut you free elsewhere, rather than in the midst of this, um, chaos. When we get somewhere a bit less volatile the medical people can assess the problem and hopefully free your leg from the door.’

As he said this, for the first time the driver realised that up until now the darkness of the footwell had prevented him taking a closer look at his injury. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he glanced downwards. A thick metal shard was protruding from his leg and a dark, sticky substance soaked his trousers. The limb looked like a theatrical prosthesis in a zombie apocalypse movie, the foot at a right angle to the rest of the limb.

He experienced an unfamiliar dizziness and passed out.

GLOVED hands grasped the limp body and gently carried it to the stretcher. The patient felt a needle entering the soft tissue in his arm and after that remembered little, sliding into unconsciousness as he murmured her name. The paramedic whispered to one of the fireman.

‘What did he say? Sounded like a name? Jane, was it? I think he said something about a daughter. Was there anyone with him?’

‘Nope,’ replied the fireman. ‘He was all on his lonesome.’

A colleague arrived at the paramedic’s shoulder. ‘Right, best get him to intensive care, lickety spit,’ said the new arrival. ‘I hate to be the prophet of doom, but it will be touch and go if he survives the night.’


About the Author:

NICK RIPPINGTON is the award-winning author of the Boxer Boys series of gangland crime thrillers.

Based in London, UK, Nick was the last-ever Welsh Sports Editor of the now defunct News of The World, writing his debut release Crossing The Whitewash after being made redundant with just two days notice after Rupert Murdoch closed down Europe’s biggest-selling tabloid in 2011.

On holiday at the time, Nick was never allowed back in the building, investigators sealing off the area with crime scene tape and seizing his computer as they investigated the phone-hacking scandal, something which took place a decade before Nick joined the paper. His greatest fear, however, was that cops would uncover the secrets to his Fantasy Football selections.
Handed the contents of his desk in a black bin bag in a murky car park, deep throat style, Nick was at a crossroads – married just two years earlier and with a wife and 9-month-old baby to support.

With self-publishing booming, he hit on an idea for a UK gangland thriller taking place against the backdrop of the Rugby World Cup and in 2015 produced Crossing The Whitewash, which received an honourable mention in the genre category of the Writers’ Digest self-published eBook awards. Judges described it as “evocative, unique, unfailingly precise and often humorous”.

Follow-up novel Spark Out, a prequel set at the time of Margaret Thatcher and the Falklands War, received a Chill With A Book reader award and an IndieBRAG medallion from the prestigious website dedicated to Independent publishers and writers throughout the world. The novel was also awarded best cover of 2017 with Chill With A Book.

The third book in the Boxer Boys series Dying Seconds, a sequel to Crossing The Whitewash, was released in December 2018 and went to the top of the Amazon Contemporary Urban Fiction free charts during a giveaway period of five days. A digital box set, the Boxer Boys Collection, came out in September last year.

Now Nick, 60, is switching direction feeling that, for the moment, the Boxer Boys series has run its course. His latest novel, Rabette Run, will be released in the Spring and Nick says, ‘It is a gritty psychological thriller with twists and turns galore. Think Alice in Wonderland with tanks and guns.’

Married to Liz, When Nick isn’t writing he works as a back bench designer of sports pages on the Daily Star. He has two children – Jemma, 37, and Olivia, 9.

Contact Nick:
Website
Twitter: @nickripp
Instagram: @nickrippingtonauthor

 

Where to find Nick’s books…
Amazon US Author Page
Amazon UK Author Page

 

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