My Books Have Arrived!

BooksThanks FedEx! My 100 paperback books arrived five days earlier than expected, so I can get on with sending copies off to those who need them this very afternoon!

“Seebee,” said Jeremiah, above the clamorous leprechauns, “as long as we keep calm and carry on, nothing can go wrong.


If you are a book reviewer, please contact me to discuss getting a copy.

Happy, happy, happy!


Book Availability!

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000039_00002]It’s a magical moment when your novel comes into the world…

Here is the current list of distributors of Tarquin Jenkins and the Book of Dreams;

Barnes & Noble






Amazon is showing a pre-order Kindle status for April 20. My mistake; so not available there yet.

The book will be available as a paperback. I am vetting the various proofs now, and will let you know when and where they will be sold. If you can’t wait, message me and I can send you a first edition, signed copy in about three weeks printed in Canada by First Choice Books Sadly, this is only available to USA, Canadian and British citizens due to postage levies.

Review copies (both ebook and paperback) are available to UK, Canadian and US bloggers. Message me.


The Print Book Cover

Here it is, the cover for my print edition!

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000039_00002]

Initially, I will be having 100 printed for friends, family, bloggers and 30 children between the ages of 13 to 17 from various schools in Montreal for review. Also, several children in England will be receiving a copy and asked to provide their views.

Book two is underway, and here is a sneak peek of the opening chapter…

The Steeple Snoring Post Office door flew open and Mrs Roundtree bustled in.

“They’ve found that Jenkins boy in the woods! He’s been eaten!” The Post Office fell silent. A dozen ordinarily gray faces turned white; a baby cried.

“How, why?” asked the Post Master. “It’s been three weeks since he went missing.” All eyes turned to Mrs Roundtree who, having run, or more likely waddled down the High Street, was now being comforted by her husband Kenneth from his mobility scooter. She gripped the edge of a counter tightly, her face the colour of rhubarb. She wheezed, inhaled deeply and took hold of her husband’s outstretched hand.

“Sergeant Sloth says…” she sniffed and looked skyward, before continuing, “he says…A sounder of wild boars ate him!” With that, she burst into a flood of tears and sat on her husband who emitted a mournful cry.

“She means a pack,” said Mrs Hoploosely nodding shrewdly, before marching over to comfort them.

“Are we safe?” asked a very small man in a trilby hat reaching up to look out of the casement window. When several customers joined him, he made for the door.

“Excuse me, but you look strangely familiar.” Standing in the doorway looking at the little man was Mrs Hoploosley.

“Oi don’t tink so, oim jist passin’ through ta village,” said the little man pulling his trilby down across his face and ducking under Mrs Hoploosley’s closed umbrella. Exiting the Post Office, the little man walked briskly down the High Street…

Exciting Times….

Editing completed and proof reading completed. Waiting for completed artwork, but that hasn’t stopped me choosing to use Woven Red Authoring Services, a Canadian based company to format my novel for ebook publishing and print publishing.

It’s been a long journey, but now the end of the tunnel is in plain sight. Or, is this the beginning? Having a book is one thing, but getting people to find it on Amazon, Kindle and iBooks, and then read it, is another ball game altogether!

If there are any bloggers out their who would be interested in a print copy to review (UK, USA or Canada) or an ebook (Rest of the World, UK, Canada, USA) just message me.


Book Excerpts Cont…

“You’ve broken my translator!” cried Tarquin. Catching sight of her smouldering hair in the polished cooker hood, Aunt Mira shrieked,

“Never mind the blooming toaster, what about my hair!” she said, waving her hands angrily in the air and doing a laudable impression of the Bride of Frankenstein. “I’ve only just had it rinsed and set!”

Harold fawned wetly over his wife, before turning on Tarquin with the ferocity of a disgruntled sheep,

“Why on earth did you bring such a dangerous appliance into our home? Have you lost all your senses? You stole it, didn’t you!” Tarquin wasn’t listening as he was overcome by a horrible, sinking feeling.

“Where are the books!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Panic stricken he began searching the kitchen.

“In your bedroom of course,” said his aunt, pulling clumps of singed blue, silvery hair from her head. “Why on earth you put books…” Before Mira could finish her sentence, Tarquin leapt up and cried,

“Oh, thank, you!” before planting a kiss on Harold’s bemused, bald and sooty dome and smacking another on his aunt’s blackened cheek. “Thank you!” Tarquin shouted over his shoulder as he hurried from the kitchen and charged up the stairs to his bedroom to find the books. He found the journal and exercise book on his bedside cabinet. He opened the exercise book hoping to find answers to the many questions rushing through his head. The first twenty pages of the book were filled with writing, diagrams and drawings, with the remaining pages disappointingly blank. Tarquin looked despairingly at the journal and realised, much to his dismay, that nothing had been translated, just copied.

Book Excerpts….

“Okay, no problem,” said Tommy, opening the door.

“You sure Doc?” Tommy nodded, and walked him back to Tarquin’s room. Seeing the paper bag and flowers on Tarquin’s bed, Tommy picked them up.

“You left these,” he said, handing them to Jeremiah.

“They’re for Seebee. We take grapes and flowers when visiting people in hospitals back in the twenty first century.”

“Oh,” said Tommy, looking at the peculiar mix of daffodils, rhubarb, dahlias, barley wheat and wild roses held together with a frayed shoelace. He opened the brown paper bag to find it full of pips and grape stalks.

“I thought you said there were grapes?” He looked up, but Jeremiah had gone.


The room shook to the sound of thunder. Painters standing on wooden platforms high above the floor, fell to their knees grabbing anything to keep them from falling. Below the painters, an ornate, Chinese sedan chair materialized, spinning violently. Held within a vortex of steam it collapsed the wooden platform like twigs in a breeze, sending the painters crashing to the floor, before tearing a four-foot section of plaster from the wall. Buried beneath plaster, rubble and wooden planks, the chair spun slowly to a stop. Half a dozen painters lay groaning amongst the debris. From within the chair came a scrabbling noise, then movement, and a hand poked through the pile of debris. Emerging, blinking from the chair door was a naked, hairy man. His wide, beady eyes scanned the bewildered faces looking at him. Recognising one, he let out a tortuous wail and forced open the sedan chair door before scrambling over the mess, and running, open armed toward him.
“Leonardo, Leonardo! I need to speak with you!” he shouted, in faltering Latin. Two men barred his way and he fell to the floor, babbling. Surprised he could understand the stranger, the master painter replied,

“I am Leonardo, who are you?”
The man grasped the ankles of the nearest man and gawped at Leonardo through his legs, like a prisoner through cell bars.

“Your humble servant, Michel de Nostredame,” he replied, falling back and spread-eagling himself in supplication. Leonardo looked down on the prostrated, pitiful caveman and signalled to a student painter to get some clothes.