I do miss being able to shoot well. I have trained myself to shoot with my left hand now and I am competent. But before my torture, I was an excellent marksman. I took part in the Olympic duelling event in 1908, where contestants wearing goggles and thick coveralls fire wax bullets at each other. I could have come first, but the attention upon myself would have been too great, so I had to content myself with second place.

There is something fundamentally pleasing to me to be able to use a gun, a sword, a cane, or any other simple self-defence instrument with efficiency. It is not the maiming or killing the interests me, it is the art, the ability as a tool wielding creature to maximise one’s potency with a swiftness and simplicity of action.

The whole grappling with another or using a cord to eliminate an adversary’s ability to breathe have never held any attraction for me. There are assassins, and I am thinking of one in particular, who revel in the close encounter, the sweat of it, the guttural noises, the vanishing of life from the eyes of the victim and the sheer adrenalin rush of extinguishing another life.

I find that repulsive. In my time I have trained others in the art of killing, but under my tutorage students learn that accelerating the mortality of another should be a last resort, unless one is in fear of one’s own life. Murder, for it is always murder in my opinion, brings with it a slew of difficulties. Not least is removing either the body or the evidence - preferably both. A more professional solution is often to discredit an opponent, so that others will take appropriate action to remove the person of difficulty from the scene. I do not mean one must inspire others to killing, permanent incarceration is often sufficient, or such shame that the targeted enemy will retire from doing whatever it is you no longer wish them to do. Though, often in such cases, the target may not have the moral fortitude to deal with the unjust accusations and will remove themselves from the material plane. In such cases, I stress to my trainees that this is the choice of the enemy they have allowed to live, and that the target has refused their generous offer is not their fault.

I have had occasion to execute more than one man. I have never done so in anger, but in knowledge that necessity demands it. Euphemia has been a witness on more than one occasion. Her reaction on these occasions is what first convinced me that she was suited to our trade. She neither gloried in my triumph, nor did she abhor it. She acknowledged that in each case the execution was necessary. In doing so, she undid her father’s lifetime of work to bring her into his church - thou shalt not kill, and all that. She had become free to look at life through the eyes of necessity, and able to weigh the good of all over the good of one. She had become morally flexible according to our craft’s rules. This was a delight to me, but no doubt her father spun in his grave, poor man.

I cannot convey enough how it annoys me that no matter what I choose to disclose to these pages, Euphemia invariably becomes a part of it. It is difficult to fashion one’s life as a loner, when another person so frequently intrudes upon it. But I am as much to blame.

So, it has happened again. Euphemia has written up one of our missions. As I was more than aware of her doing it, having tried to talk her out of it on numerous occasions, she condescended to let me read it saying, ‘You don’t sound too bad in this one. At one point, I even say nice things about you.’

I could taste the bile in my mouth. ‘I have a reputation to maintain,’ I said coldly. She smiled and handed me the copy. Copy, I say, because I knew full well, she would never entrust me with the only version. It is, after all, getting a little cold at night now.

I read it twice before giving her my opinion. I caught her sitting alone in the library at White Orchards. Closing and locking the doors behind me, putting the key in my pocket and patting it to ensure it was safe, we would have an uninterrupted conversation and I would triumph.

Young Hope may have seen me play at being a bear, but she has never seen me angry. I didn’t want to scare her. Though, that said, when I gave Hope my fiercest bear growl - I think she was around three or four at the time - she promptly slapped me in the face and pulled my moustache. Euphemia laughed so hard I feared she might turn blue.

I hadn’t even opened my mouth before aforementioned lady had put a glass of my favourite malt in my hand. She was ready for me. The wretch. This wasn’t going to be easy. In my calmest voice I said, ‘It is a most interesting tale.’

‘Thank you,’ interrupted my supposed friend and ally. ‘I thought you might enjoy it.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ I responded quickly, but she cut me off again. ‘You will agree that this time others come off far worse than you. In fact, I think it is a most favourable portrayal of you.’

I don’t lie to Euphemia. I may not tell her everything, but she is the only person I never lie to. ‘Yes, I would accept that point, but…’

‘If anything, I think I, myself, come across as decidedly soppy.’

I shook my head. She was trying to distract me. ‘You know that it simply untrue. You may not write about your courage in overcoming extraordinary situations, but no right-minded person reading this, or knowing you, would ever think that.’

‘It’s sweet of you to say that.’

‘You bloody well call me sweet in this as well,’ I raised the copy in my right hand and shook it like a fearsome prosecutor. Euphemia, as ever, was unimpressed by my histrionics. Replying practically, ‘Do sit down Fitzroy. You’ll only spill your whisky.’

She had a point, so I sat. ‘If you read the story properly you would have seen I only called you sweet to Bertram to reassure him. Things were looking rather odd between us - I mean you and I.’

I heard myself grumbling and saying, ‘He’s always been a good sport. Decent chap.’

Euphemia smiled at me as if I was a good child that has just correctly recited its lesson.

‘But, overall, I come across as almost -,’ I swallowed bile once more. I really should look into getting some stomach powders. ‘- as almost…’ I stopped, unable to say the word.

‘As what?’

I mumbled something under my breath. I couldn’t bear to give the word air.

‘As what Fitzroy?’ She used the same tone as she does with Hope when the child comes home with her stockings torn to shreds and refuses to explain why, or when all the biscuits cook left on the windowsill to cool have somehow vanished.

‘Oh, damn it, Euphemia. You almost make me sound NICE!’ I shouted the last word.

She stood up and came over to me. I drew back slightly, unsure of what she might do. She did have a glass in her hand. But she stooped suddenly and gave me a brief kiss on the forehead. ‘But you are, dear man, at least to me.’

Before I could collect my wits, she had left the room. The minx had had another set of keys cut for the library! Yet again I had lost an argument with Euphemia. But then, Alice has a distinct advantage over anyone else who might be foolish enough to awaken my ire. She knows I could never harm a hair on her head.

 I swallowed the rest of my whisky and stomped out to find Bertram. The least I would content myself with tonight was giving him a damn good thrashing - at chess.

OUT TODAY: Find out what Fitzroy thinks about it in Fitzroy’s Friday (he doesn’t do spoilers)

My career in the service began with naïveté and death. The naïveté was my own. Fortunately, the death was not. Perhaps it would have been better if it had.

One day, I will share that story with someone, but I have never yet met anyone to whom I could tell the whole truth - regardless of whether or not they signed the Official Secrets Act. Of course, when this all happened, it didn’t even exist. Word of a gentleman and all that. The idea that a woman could ever enter the service would have been despatched with scorn. However, the idea that a woman might be a rebel was quite different.

When I emerged from school, no one quite knew what to do with me. My father certainly didn’t want me at home. My brothers and sisters were all set on breeding with their spouses. In fact, before I even reached the age of fifteen, I believe I was an uncle. Cecilia, or Catherine, or maybe Helen? I never could keep all my sibling’s offspring in mind. After all, the youngest of them was a decade ahead of me. None of them wanted a young man of unknown capability under their roof. They sent me to Oxford. I can’t say I worked for my place, but I have an unusual facility with language. I see it as patterns and codes, both of which I am especially good, if I say so myself, at solving.

So, there I was at Oxford, studying - or meant to be. I despised the attempt to learn about cultures without visiting them, and the linguistic studies didn’t even make me break a sweat. Suffice it to say I was not popular with my fellow students. Although the daughter of one my professors had a fondness for me, I thought it better to be discreet.

By the time the Long Vac had come around, I had planned an expedition worthy of a first-rate explorer. My father did not lack for money, so I felt confident that he would gladly shell out for me to go on my travels. If once there, dangers prevented my return, I did not think he would mind particularly or perhaps even notice.

However, my plans were thwarted when I received a copperplate invitation to visit an old acquaintance of my fathers at this club. By this time, I had everything in readiness and was due to be away within forty-eight hours. I often wonder what kind of life I might have had if I had ignored that summons.

I met with – let’s call him Mr Minister – and he bought me an excellent brandy. I sat back in the wing backed leather chair in the cosy brown and red room and sipped my libation, never dreaming that my world was about to be turned upside down.

‘Your father has been in touch,’ said Minister. ‘He appears to feel you are drifting a bit.’

‘I am afraid I do not follow, sir,’ I said.

‘He makes you a discretionary allowance, does he not?’

I nodded, feeling embarrassed.

‘And you are aware that on your twenty-first birthday next year you will inherit the proceeds of your mother’s dowry?’

I expect at this point I gaped like a fish. I had always assumed my father had married my mother for her money. She was certainly beautiful, but half his age and he already had numerous offspring.

‘She insisted it was invested for you. I believe it is now a tidy sum. The family solicitor will be in contact with you, doubtless on your birthday. But it is too vulgar to speak of money, suffice it to say, you will be a man of means, able to live your life more or less as you wish.’ He paused and lowered his chin to give a stare I could only assume he meant to be meaningful. Back then, I was as about as respectful to the average older authoritarian as I am now.

‘I presume you are trying to impress upon me that I will no longer be dependent on the allowance my father gives me?’

He gave a grumbling, phlegmy cough. ‘One side effect, I suppose. No, what I meant was that you are free to make something of your life in a way others are not.’

‘In what way?’

‘Good heavens, man! By serving King and Country of course.’

In those days it was really as simply as that to get recruited into the service. The fact I didn’t need money, and therefore to be paid, along with coming from the right stables, and not being so inbred I couldn’t count my own toes, wrapped it all up in a bow for them. Whether or not I had aptitude for the profession was neither here nor there. I would learn or I would die. As a younger, and unwanted son, dying would do my father the ultimate favour of some aged gentleman discreetly coming up to him at his club and letting him know I had done ‘rather well’, dying for King and Country. My father, in all likelihood, should this have occurred, would have been the most pleased with me that he had ever been. I was rich, well-bred and dispensable – the perfect fit for a junior spy in those days. So, instead of my long imagined and wanted trip, I was sent off to a discreet house in the country where I learnt the rudiments of self-defence and brushed up on my sword play and shooting. At the latter I was something of genius. When they started trying to teach me codes, I ended up showing them how to improve theirs.

Imperceptibly, I moved from dispensable to mildly useful. At this point my training diverted firmly into observation and information extraction by subtler means.  

I remember telling my instructor I didn’t care who asked me, but I wasn’t turning into some ‘damn gigolo’. I always remember his reply. ‘I don’t know, old chap. If I had the choice between threatening a man and ultimately taking his life, or bedding his wife, to learn his secrets during pillow talk, I know which I’d chose.’

He was correct, of course. I have come to know that in so many ways the company of women is more pleasant than that of my own sex. Intelligent women, who are overlooked by both their husbands and society, make the most enchanting of companions.

But, back to my first assignment.  I was sent off to observe what was feared to be machinations of the Black Hand. Being rather green and caught up in emotional tides that run high during a revolution, I rather fell in love with someone, but it was not to be. Many people died.

Upon surviving, which was, I admit only to these pages, more by chance than skill, I realised three things. Firstly, that despite the ending of my first mission, I loved this work. Secondly, that being a spy needs to preclude close associations for the safety of others. Thirdly, I needed to devote myself to spycraft training if I intended to survive my next encounter.

I walked out of Oxford University with barely a backward glance. My family assumed, en masse, that access to my mother’s money had turned me into a wastrel and I began my new life. Naturally a loner and an observer, I felt I had found my calling. When my father cast me off, it only increased my general happiness in life as all my familial obligations dissolved overnight.

A most disturbing day.  Walking down Bond Street, minding my own business. Not on duty, for once, out and about on my own personal time, I was assaulted by a high pitched, well-bred voice. Her vowels were sharply enunciated, like shards of glass in my back, calling ‘Mr Fitzroy. I say, Mr Fitzroy.’ I kept walking, racking my brains to recognise the voice. It definitely sounded older than any of my paramours, past or present. My instinct was to get off the street and identify the speaker from a nearby vantage point that also offered me the opportunity of retaliation if necessary. I wouldn’t strike a woman, but it’s not unknown for assassins to work in pairs. Besides, one can always restrain a female assassin without hurting her. I’ve done it before.

Only, the bloody woman repeated her call, even louder. If I didn’t shush her, the whole damn city would be looking out for Mr Fitzroy. I turned on the balls of my feet, ready to duck if a missile should come my way, only to see Euphemia’s mother, the former Mrs Martins, also known to the brave as Philomena, parting the crowds with some frenzied umbrella waving, making her way toward me along the crowded pavement. I hurried to meet her, doubtless saving at least one gentleman the loss of an eye. ‘My dear lady,’ I said, ‘are you in some kind of trouble?’

She gave me a thin sort of smile and shook her head. ‘I thought it was you. You have a distinctive back and a peculiar gait.’

I accepted this description with the contempt it deserved, raising my chin slightly higher and saying, ‘How can I be of assistance?’

Whereupon the wretched woman linked her arm through mine and demanded to be taken to tea! ‘I am not as conversant with the metropolis as I was in my youth. So very much has changed, but I am certain a gentleman such as yourself knows where to find a decent cup. I am meeting the Bishop at Claridge’s at 3 o’clock.’

‘I would be happy to escort you there,’ I said, lying through my teeth.

‘Oh no,’ she replied, ‘It is an hour and half away. I wish to see a little more of London.’

‘You could hire a guide, madam,’ I said, in my coldest voice. She didn’t even flinch. Under any other circumstances I might admire her sangfroid, but I was trying very hard to have one pleasant afternoon to myself without having to deal with anyone.

‘You have such a sense of humour,’ she said. ‘How is Euphemia? You seem to see her more often than I. And, of course, dear Bertram, her husband.’

I’ve never been one to pursue a lost cause, so before she could communicate anything else to any more passers-by, I set off at a quick pace to a nearby teashop that offered a degree of privacy. I felt her quiver slightly on my arm and I glanced askance to see if the pace I set was distressing to her fragility. Damn woman was laughing at me! She’s suppressed it, but she knew exactly how I felt.

My family have the decency to either be dead or keep their distance. Euphemia’s family, conversely, seem to feel they have some kind of ownership over me. Her younger brother, Joe, greets me like a long-lost uncle whenever I see him and has, on more than one occasion, managed to leave me lighter of shillings - buying him sweets seems to be the only way to be rid of him. But being accosted by her mother in public is beyond the pale.

Once in the teashop, having ordered, I reminded her tersely that my work requires I keep a low profile, as she well knows. ‘I wanted to know if you answered to Fitzroy in public,’ she said. Only the arrival of our order stops my outburst of rage. ‘I have heard you have quite another name.’

‘Milton,’ I said. ‘It’s another of my pseudonyms. You will understand, in my line of business, I have several. You may also understand why I do not appreciate having my aliases bawled after me along a busy London Street.’

She raised an eyebrow at my rudeness. ‘You were not forced to respond,’ she countered.

‘It seemed, madam, that if I did not, you would continue to call after me until your voice reached the level of a town crier. Indeed, when I turned and acknowledged you, you were close to such a volume. I cannot believe your Bishop would approve of you shouting like a hoyden in the street of our revered Capital. Not the done thing, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘Perhaps you would have preferred that I called you by your actual name,’ said the dreadful woman, and then named it.

I confess, I faltered. I may even have paled. ‘No-one has called me by that name in a very long time,’ I said. ‘And for the last person who did,’ I paused dramatically, ‘let me simply say it did not go well for them.’

‘Does Euphemia know?’

‘She does not.’

‘And you want to keep it that way? Why?’

‘I have my reasons,’ I said. At this point I was wondering how close Euphemia felt to her mother, and whether she would miss her dreadfully. The thought of what would have to be done with Joe stopped me. If he went to live with Euphemia, he would remark on my continued presence in her life and that would cause complications. Not to mention relieving me of yet more of my coin. I reigned in my desire to poison her tea.

‘Don’t look so aghast. I believe we can come to a certain agreement.’

‘Indeed,’ I said, grinding my teeth. ‘What would an Earl’s daughter want from me?’

‘My son, Joseph, could do with some guidance from a man younger and more worldly than my dear Bishop. For whatever reason, my son has taken to you.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘I know nothing of children.’

‘I am thinking more of when he becomes a young man. I had him late in life, and the Bishop is older than me. I fear there may be no guiding presence for him when he needs it the most.’

‘You have brothers,’ I said.

‘Older.’

‘Then their sons, Joseph’s cousins.’

She shook her head. ‘And not dear Bertram, before you suggest him. We both know the chances of him surviving to middle age are slim. Since you have interested yourself in my family, I wish to charge you to watch over them.’

‘You know what I am, and you ask this of me?’

‘I cannot think of a better person to look out for someone than a spy - perhaps a master spy.’

‘Flattery will not aid you, madam.’

‘Yes, but neither have you poisoned my tea…yet. I did consider that a risk. It depended on whether or not you were actually fond of my daughter…’

‘Enough,’ I said curtly. ‘I will watch over your children, from afar, when you are gone.’

‘I think from when Joe turns eighteen would be most amenable. Perhaps a word to your old college too?’

‘My word would not help. I dropped out of Oxford,’ I said.

‘You underestimate your reach, but this is my price for keeping your secret,’ and then she said my full name again.

‘Will you stop that,’ I said. ‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do as you ask.’

‘Your word?’

‘As a spy or as a gentleman?’

She gave me another thin smile, ‘Oh, as a spy. I don’t believe the other is any longer within your capabilities.’

Bloody woman! I felt like tipping the table over her.

Oh Alice, if only you knew the things I do for you.

Dear God, I hope she has the sense not to tell her mother. She fell out of the bloody tree four times. How was I to know she wouldn’t take after Euphemia, who could climb a tree like a bear in pursuit of honey? But then Euphemia has always been impulsive, passionate, driven and one to act. Her daughter is quieter, more thoughtful and, it appears, more hesitant when it comes to grabbing branches. I caught her every time. She laughed. I didn’t have to encourage her to try again. I’m beginning to suspect I may have already taught her a measure of my own stubbornness.

But then, without that stubborn streak, I would never have been able to control her mother. Hope is very different. She is the image of her mother, but whereas Euphemia projects her beauty without thought, Hope hides hers. She retreats in a roomful of people. When her parents hold one of their infamous parties, at which I always feel obliged to appear, Hope will escape to the library or, if Bertram has remembered to lock it, she will find a space in the room to observe, but not be observed. Euphemia despairs that she allows her child to mix with so many brilliant minds yet Hope chooses to obscure herself.

Euphemia may regret her decision to let me train Hope, but there’s no undoing the skills I’ve already taught her. I fear her parents, who revel in their arguments, miss Hope’s quiet wit and sensitivity. I know her better in some ways, and I appreciate her thoughtfulness. Her parents see a shy child. I see a reserved young woman who has a core of steel. Hope can be whatever she wants. I will always support her, and I will suggest as soon as she is old enough, she removes herself from the turbulent and restrictive life of White Orchards. Once an adult, free of parental supervision, she will flourish. She has spent a life caught between her parents, their arguments and the secrets they have had to keep from one another. Freed from this environment she will become a formidable woman.

I fear Euphemia will never forgive me. Her relationship with Hope has never been what she wanted. Bertram indulged Hope and her love of books. Sitting on his knee knee while he read to her has been a highlight of her childhood. Her long walks with me and the various games we have played have, I believe, have been another of her joys. She has never understood that all this time I have been teaching her the art of spycraft. I am her confidante and her playmate, and I would have no reservation in killing anyone who contemplated harming a hair on her head.

But it has been left to Euphemia to be the disciplinarian. I sweep in and out of the household. Bertram is frequently too ill to move from his seat in the library, or even his bed. Euphemia is left to raise and school Hope. She is the one who scolds, who hands out punishments, and who challenges Hope. She is a fair and clever mother doing her very best, but Hope is a child. She loves Bertram and I and she is quick to shower us both with hugs and affection. Not so her mother. Euphemia has become her adversary and Hope is as stubborn as a pig, or a Fitzroy. I hope, as she grows to adulthood, she will come to understand her how very much her mother loves her and how she would give her life for her daughter. In some ways you might argue she has.

 As always, when it comes to Euphemia’s troubles, I fear the root cause is myself.

 My poor Alice.

Euphemia and I have been talking. After trying to persuade her, yet again, to give up rewriting her notebooks, and failing, she raised the question of Hope. My Goddaughter is tiny.

I remember when Euphemia passed her to me at her christening, my first thought, somewhat unworthy, was that she weighed less than a box of ammo. I looked down and she gurgled. Her eyes opened wide – they are the very image of her mother’s – and she smiled up at me. I confess I felt something strange in my chest, in the place where other men have their hearts. I must have smiled, as Bertram leaned over to me and whispered, ‘It’s only wind.’ When I passed her back to the vicar, she urinated all over him. At that moment I knew I was in over my head. I had already begun to love her as the daughter I would never have.

We have enemies Euphemia and I. Bertram was never in as deep as Euphemia. If he knew half the things his wife and I had done for King and Country, the heart attack that Euphemia fears would long ago have set him free of this mortal coil.

All of us have no wish to see Hope follow her mother into the service. Why should she? But Euphemia fears, despite the quiet, hidden, life we constructed for her family, one day someone will link Hope to her, or me. Therefore, she has asked me to train my own goddaughter.

I do not want to drag this innocent down into my world, but I see her point. We argued back and forth for a while. At first all we could agree on was that Bertram should never be told. In the end I acquiesced to train her solely in observation and evasion with an understanding that should she ever feel in danger, she would come to either her mother or I. It is the best I am prepared to offer. I want Hope to have a happy life, and a normal one. I don’t want her to enter our world of shadows, where Euphemia and I must spend our lives forever looking over our shoulders.

Euphemia has also talked about coming back to full duty when Hope is older. I have agreed in principle, but I have no intention of putting Euphemia back into the field while Hope is still a child. I know what it is like to lose a mother when you are young. Hope is different to me in that she has a father who adores her, but it would still cut a scar through her life that would never heal. I will not allow it to happen to her.

I will use Euphemia’s knowledge. I may even take her with me on occasion. But until Hope is grown, I will never allow Euphemia to put herself in danger. I fear she will hate me for this, but if she does, I must bear it. I am immovable on this.

Thunderingly idiotic, compassionless, gibbon farts. The Treaty of Versailles is one of the most punitive pieces of diplomatic vindictiveness I have ever had the displeasure to see. I mentioned my reservations to those above me and it earned me nothing but rebuke. One colleague went as far as to suggest I might be unpatriotic. I believe they managed to get his jaw back in place at the hospital, but he will be on a liquid diet only for the foreseeable future. After that there was no more comments. My misgivings were but a whistle in the wind. (I was going to write something else there, but I have to respect that others might read my musings one day – in particular I’m thinking of Hope. She admires me. Mainly because she doesn’t know me that well. I hope she never does).

I came back from Germany yesterday. The people are starving in the streets. Children wearing rags, little more than skeletons. Women, no more than twenty, aged and wrinkled like crones. Girls offering their bodies on the streets for bread - literally bread - for their family. I’m no fan of the Kaiser. I could write a long, diatribe (even without the cuss words) on the way he treated his people. My thoughts on his generals are as pithy. But this bloody treaty calls for recompense for the war. Nothing will bring back the dead, but the vengeance of the allies is verging on evil. We have demanded so much, these people cannot even feed themselves. Everything must go to the allies. Everything.

I am an Englishman through to my backbone, but I do not blame the widows of fallen German soldiers for the actions of the Kaiser. I do not blame the orphan children scrambling in the dust, or worse, for the loss of my comrades during the Great War.

In human terms, we all lost. I lost two of my brothers - something I have yet to tell Euphemia. Do I want to see German civilians punished for their demise? Of course not. Admittedly, I wasn’t that close to my older brothers, so maybe I am further down the line than the grieving fathers who helped craft this treaty. I can stand further back and see the inhumanity of what we have done.

But it goes beyond that. The Allies wanted to break Germany, and they have. Revenge and spite have ruled the day and Germany and its people lie beneath our boots. They are brought to dust. They suffer as much as the allies could ever have wished. But ask yourself, what does this vicious revenge beget?

It begets hatred. The war may be over, but that hatred of the allies will lie in their hearts for this generation and generations to come. I do not blame them. I would feel the same.

What does it matter - ask the braying gibbons sitting in pews in their cathedral of self-congratulation?

When you break a man, when he reaches the bottom - and I know this better than most - there are only two options: to die or to rise.

If one day Germany should rise again - well, I fear this will not have been the war to end all wars. Worse yet, it will have been our inability to be merciful in victory that may well set the world alight once more.

Damn it all, Euphemia has only gone and dug out another of her notebooks. What part of secret agent doesn’t she understand? When I challenge her, she mutters about someday Hope needing to read it, and the British people deserving to know what we do in their name. Which, of course, sets me off shouting about why the British people can’t know what we do for the Crown and the preservation of the State. This gives her the opportunity to remind me that I promised never to swear at her. (I always swear when I’m shouting. It’s a great stress reliever, and far more comfortable than punching walls – or people for that matter. Not that I would ever hit a woman.)

She plays me like a bloody piano, damn her. That’s what comes of working too closely with people – they grow to understand you. I’m not comfortable with that. I prefer to be an enigma, or at the very least, greatly misunderstood.

Anyway, she’s off writing up her notes somewhere. I dare say I will come off in a terrible light. I often do. When I ask her about it, she says she is only writing up what she remembers, and has she hurt my vanity? A less vain person than I you could not hope to meet.

Apparently, this one is her recollections of how she came to join the service. I could weep.

I’ve never been able to stop Euphemia from doing what she wants. This despite her still being technically under my command. Ha! Might as well try to command the Earth to stop spinning. I don’t want Hope to read it. Dear God, I hope Bertram never finds it.

I need a whisky. My head is beating like a drum. Maybe it’s not too late to find something to distract her. There must be a mission somewhere that needs our urgent attention. I’ll make the damn thing up if I must…

Recently, Accent Press asked to me to write a blog post as their author of the week. I used that opportunity to give readers an insight into writing about the home front during the world wars, my new upcoming series in 2020 and how certain characters tend to elbow their way into lead roles.

CLICK ON THE TITLE OF THIS POST TO BE TAKEN TO THE BLOG ARTICLE.

Anyone looking to review my (writing under the pseudonym of Jay Mason) new YA/Crossover, and earn my lifelong goodwill, it is now up on NetGalley here. If you're not a member of NetGalley, contact me and I can forward your name to the publisher who will send you a review copy.

Indisputable facts about me:

·       I’m five foot three

·       I have green eyes.

·       I’m clinically depressed.

There’s no causal connection. It’s simply the way things are. And on September 22nd I will be going to the Society of Authors in Scotland's first big conference. I am filled with trepidation to say the least. Let me put this in perspective.

As a teenager at university I suffered, on average, around twenty panic attacks a day. I didn’t so much have an archetypical ‘Black Dog’ following me around as a whole pack of attack Dobermans. But times change. Today, a mixture of therapy and medication mean the panic attacks are no more and my depression is managed – more or less.

If you met me, you’d never know that mental health is an issue in my life. I am – if I say so myself – quite funny, outgoing and friendly. I stand in front of anything from twenty to several hundred people, read my own work, teach workshops and do my best to entertain. (No rotten eggs so far)

You’ll never see me being depressed. That’s because only my partner and GP ever do. On days when the darkness descends I stay away from others if I can – and if I can’t? Well, I’ve become quite the actress over the years. So much so, I even tried it for a bit and have an entry on the film database IMDB as an actor.

I generally don’t talk about my mental health and how it remains a problem for me. But I’m writing about it here because I think my difficulties are not that unusual – especially among other creatives, like writers. I learnt very young that using my imagination rescued me from much of my despair and so my embryonic career as a writer was born.

I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in how I feel. Today, mental illness is spoken about much more openly. There’s a lot of comments on how you shouldn’t be ashamed about having an illness, but the reality is few of us openly admit our conditions. So, I’m adding my bit to the current campaign to bring this particular disease out of the dark and into the light. An issue the Society of Authors is also supporting.

A life where I can escape anxiety and depression by disappearing into imaginary worlds (and get paid for doing so) might sound like the perfect solution. But in some ways being a writer makes depression worse. Spending the majority of your time alone with your keyboard is not conducive to interacting with other people. In fact, if I’m not careful I can disappear down the dark spiral of utter misery because outside of my stories the world feels a bleak place where all too often humanity has turned to intolerance, anger, despair and violence.

But I believe my stories would be utterly stale and without meaning, if I never went out into that challenging world. Going out, meeting people, can be difficult when you’re depressed. But as most of us with the condition know, that’s exactly what you have to do to muzzle those snapping dogs. Irun two evening classes at my local university. I speak at events. I do signings and readings. I’m on the SOAIS committee. I make commitments that force me out of my comfort zone – and generally I will find myself thinking half way through an event, this is fun. Why don’t I do it more often?

So, this is where I urge two things. One, when you meet an author – hell, when you meet anyone, at a social event, be kind. You may never know how much courage it took to get them there. Two, if you are anything like me, set yourself some deadline events – push that comfort zone. Start small and work your way up to a string of events. You never know, your book sales might even go up.

Going alone to ScotsWrite will push me so far beyond my comfort zone it will be but a distant memory on the horizon. I’m even be co-running a workshop - bizarrely I feel totally comfortable about that! So, if you’re thinking about going and worried about how nervous the idea of even booking makes you feel, remember there will at least one writer there who’s even more nervous than you. Come up and say hi. I promise to be nice.

I finally have a new webpage after the hosts of the previous one closed down. It’s been a long time coming but it's already so much better than what I had before.

I currently write so many different genres, for a variety of different publishers and play producers, that I felt I need to put it all together in one place. Here you will find a small insight into my crazy writing world in the form of blogs, news, updates, works in progress and when and where you can hear me read, get books signed or even study with me.

There are links to all my current works in print and ebook, with short descriptions of the stories. There’s also a contact form for comments and feedback. There will also be a monthly newsletter in due course so please use the contact form to register your interest. 

Welcome to my working world. I hope you find something here to entertain you. Cx