Safkhet Publishing ~ Summer Reads

Wednesday 14 December 2011

Wish I Was Here...

OMGosh! I already am! I’m the gorgeous beach-blonde with the sunhat and the Cosmopolitan cocktail, I wish.  Also Wishing I Was Here with…

George Clooney

*Sighs deeply*  Oh, and a...


...just in case George gets a bit... ahem ...tired.  Ooh, and something to distract me from gazing at gorgeous George's to-die-for dark eyelashes as he blissfully slumbers... and his lips, and his...  *Sighs very deeply and reaches for distracting good book.*

    
'Sorry, George, what did you say?  Oh, not now, darling.  I'm reading.'

Saturday 29 October 2011

Goodreads Review ~ Drowning Rose

Drowning RoseDrowning Rose by Marika Cobbold

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I first read Marika Cobbold a while back when a publisher recommended her to me. I had yet to care for someone with dementia. When I had come through that life experience, ‘Guppies for Tea’ became all the more poignant for me. Simply, Marika Cobbold writes real people, beautifully, and always balanced with just the right amount of humour. People you can identify with and recognise your own strengths and weaknesses through. I always feel as if I’m settling down with a huge box of chocolates when I pick up one of MC’s books. But unlike Forrest Gump’s Momma, I do know what I’m going to get: a hugely satisfying read. I wasn’t disappointed when I read Drowning Rose – in one sitting. I was delighted by the switch of point of view from (present) forty-one year old Eliza, to Eliza at sixteen, the story narrated then by new girl to the school, Sandra/Cassandra, who is desperate to be seen as one of the inner circle of a group of more-privileged peers. A rather unique twist in the telling, then, and not easy to do, but Marika Cobbold pulled it off without a hitch. I’d rather not throw in spoilers – the book has to be read, so I’ll just say that the story looks at the cracks beneath the veneer (Eliza’s job as a ceramic restorer being a perfect metaphor). It examines how a traumatic event can shape one’s future, the tragedy, which is the drowning of Rose, rippling out to touch and transform the lives of all those who loved and lost her. It looks at guilt, at grief, the burdens we carry and the impact on future relationships. It looks at ‘what ifs’ and whys. I loved it, truly. Anyone aspiring to write should read it. Anyone who loves reading – you are in for a real treat!



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Monday 17 October 2011

Goodreads Review ~ Bagpipes and Bullshot

Bagpipes & BullshotBagpipes & Bullshot by Janice Horton

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

If you are so impressed by the important but unobtrusive detail of the story, you find yourself assuming the author has experience of the subject she is writing about, you know you are settling into a good book. Janice Horton has clearly done her research, all kudos to her.

So, to the story: The impressive, but rundown, Buchanan Estate needs a large injection of cash. Laird Innes Buchanan therefore seems duty-bound to marry into the wealthy neighbouring McKenzie family. Indeed, as far as his intended, the beautiful but manipulative Davina McKenzie is concerned, Innes is hers, bar the actual ceremony, which she immediately sets about arranging. Small problem, Innes doesn’t love her. His younger brother does. Deciding not to go through with the marriage, Innes embarks on a mission to save the estate by other means. To this end, he enlists the help of Texan cattle expert, Orley McKenna, to help him breed a hardy new herd of cattle, which might eventually generate enough income to sustain them. Innes, though, admires Orley for more than her brains and sassiness. He’s fallen for her, big time, and Orley’s heart belongs to Innes.

The course of true love never did run smooth though. Not only does Orley have to contend with disapproving Lady Buchannan’s haughty frostiness, local gossip, and the unforgiving climate of the Scottish Highlands, she also has to survive the vengeful plotting of a woman scorned: Davina, who still believes herself to be engaged to Innes, and whom Innes has neglected to mention.

All the elements for a terrific story, then. Throw some humorous escapades into the plot and some beautifully descriptive writing around the geography – and you have a hugely satisfying read. Loved it!



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Sunday 4 September 2011

Goodreads Review ~ The Camera Guy

The Camera GuyThe Camera Guy by Richard Goodship

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I haven't read a thriller with a paranormal twist in a while and wasn't sure what to expect when I picked up The Camera Guy. I wondered whether I might think it was so so. In fact, I loved it. It did bring to mind The Exorcist, The Omen, etc (which have all been done and done). Richard Goodship's book, though, brings a fresh slant to the genre that had me immediately wanting to read more. The Forensic Investigation side (beautifully done, supplying just enough information to convince you that the author knows his stuff) added an extra dimension and an intelligent twist that had me quietly congratulating the author. I have to admit to be being a bit of a Dexter fan, and I could (really) visualise this ranking alongside it. Bill Walters is a fascinating character - flawed and believable - as is his reluctant psychologist/partner Tom. The touches of humour between the two men is spot on. I can see this partnership running. I liked that the religious undertones flowed through the book in such a way as not to weigh it down or detract from the story. I also liked how Bill's daughter was introduced and subtly woven in throughout, eventually becoming a key element.



Overall, an excellent read. Highly recommended.





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Wednesday 10 August 2011

Doggy tales ~ Part II

So, keen to try out my new Raclette machine, I decided to throw a dinner party, inviting my neighbours, including he who got a view of my not-so-good side over the garden fence.  Having avoided him since inadvertently mooning him one embarrassing morning, I still don’t know what it was he “wondered whether I fancied”.  As he’s rather fanciable (from the neck up, anyhow. I’ve never seen his actual body.  It might be festooned in a flowery dress below-fence), I quite fancy finding out.  Raclette, btw, is a staple of wintertime in Switzerland.  Ingredients consisting: raclette cheese, small potatoes, gherkins, dried meats (prosciutto, parma ham, etc). You can also add sliced peppers, tomato, onion, mushrooms… pretty much anything really, which suits someone who has the gadget but definitely not the Goddess gene.

The Raclette machine is basically a grill, placed centre-table on which one’s guests cook their own, which also sounds like a plan.  Not wanting any awkward silences, as per my last dinner party (my Mississippi Mud Pie was definitely to die… after), I decided to add a guaranteed ice-breaker to the menu: A murder mystery!  Well, as they’re all to dress their parts, it will get the guests talking ~ and at least if they’re DIYing foodwise, they won’t actually die.

Splendid. I’m good to go.  Ingredients shopped for in record time and hair trimmed and restyled (bobbed, but not too short at the back), I skip upstairs to try on my own murder mystery ensemble, my tri-legged dog, Sadie, bounding enthusiastically up after me.  Humming happily, I squeeze into my figure-skimming bandeau dress with boned bodice and fan-tail detail.  I’m playing Farra Fullup, a beautiful and temperamental movie queen, who is used to getting her way. She has had several affairs and is also often troubled by mental lapses.  The dress was a snip from the charity shop and is more rib-crushing than figure-skimming, but, still, I feel glam. Pleased, if a little flushed of face and sweaty of armpit, I trot to the mirror, give myself a self-assured little Cameron Diaz hair-flick, and then freeze.  “OhMiGod!”  The dog freezes.  Cringing, I turn around and crane my neck to get a rear-view of my new hairdo.  That’s not a trim!  It’s a badly shorn coconut. 

“Oh, no, no, nooo!” I grab up the hand mirror and blink forlornly at the microdot on top of my neck, which is my head.  I told Gavin I didn’t want to lose the length.  Long layers, I said.  Grrrr.  I blame his love life. Gavin’s partner plays away from home, so top-stylist Gavin (whose bank balance is now considerably enhanced by mine) takes his frustration out on my poor, unsuspecting bonce.  No wonder he flashed the mirror behind me at an impossible-to-see angle.  God!

Fuming, I swish past Sadie, who’s dithering on the landing in a should I go or should I stay kind of way.  Once in the bathroom, I apply a liberal dollop of putty, with which my son arranges his locks into sexily messy, and muss madly, which might be my only hope. 

Wrong.  Is hopeless.  I look like an upturned toilet brush.  My shoulders slump.  The doorbell rings.  Perfect.  I ignore it.  Determined not to answer, I stay discreetly hidden in the bathroom as it rings for a second time, and then… “Ooh, heck.” …my eyes ping wide.  A distinct thumpity, thump followed by a clunk on the stairs signals Sadie has decided to go.

Hell!”  Clutching up my fan-tail, I dash from my hidey-hole, to see Sadie balancing precariously mid-stairs.  Her bottom is perched on one step, her one front paw on the stair below, and she is most definitely wobbly.  “Stay, Sade,” I instruct, trying to keep my tone less demented than I look.  “Mummy’s coming, sweetie.”

Quelling my panic, I tuck my fan-tail in my knickers and barefoot hurriedly down, squeezing carefully past the doe-eyed, trusting dog.  One arm under her chest, one under her hindquarters, I heave her up, pause for a pant, then dog-in-arms, pad heavily on down.

Once Sadie is planted safely on all-threes in the hall, I squint through the opaque glass in the front door, to see a man-shaped silhouette squinting back.  Typical.  Tugging in a breath ~ which, thanks to boned-bodice, stops short of my now rather fulsome breast, I swing the door wide, to find my ex hovering outside.  (Demoted to ex after he took me on a luxury boat-cruise… on a narrow-boat… on a canal… and didn’t notice when I fell in).  He’s bearing flowers.  Hmm?  So, do I let him over the threshold, or…?  

Oh, no.  Staring past him, I see the fanciable one from over the garden fence passing on the opposite side.  He has a body!  And he’s not wearing a dress.  I am.  He notices! His eyes rove interestedly over me, boggling startlingly when they reach my safely-tucked in fan-tail.  Damn, I did it again.

Sadie’s Tip of the Week:
A fine woman shows her charms to most advantage when she seems most to conceal them. The finest bosom in nature is not so fine as what imagination forms.
John Gregory.

Friday 22 July 2011

Starting OverStarting Over by Sue Moorcroft

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Starting Over is truly delicious escapism, yet touches on familiar life and love crises experienced by woman or man alike. Oh, and what a man! A hero, absolutely, but a flawed one, who never pretends to be anything but what he is, you simply cannot help but love Miles Arnott-Rattenbury, affectionately know as “Ratty”. A man who, once he sets his sights on something…or someone, single-mindedly, determinedly; unconventionally, goes for it. And when Ratty gives up his heart, he gives all of it. Sigh… How could a man like that not fall in love with a vulnerable, pretty, feisty, strong, independent woman like his “Princess” Tess? And yes, she is all of those. A gorgeous gamut of emotions that make her human.

The book deals with those thorny parent issues. They struggle to deal with legacies of loves past… It is simply a heart-warming, emotionally rewarding read. Giving nothing away, the ending is perfect! My eyes filled up on one page, I was shouting, No! on the next, Yesss! on the next, a nail-biting, Ooooh God! on another. I finished this novel with a huge lump in my throat. Loved it. Pure Choc Lit. Well done, Sue Moorcroft.



Sheryl - Fan!





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Thursday 16 June 2011

Doggy tales ~ for Sadie.

Most people start the day with a cup of tea. I start the day trying to coax my three-legged dog from her bed. My other two dogs scoot from the utility as soon as I open the back door, desperate to do their ablutions come shine or rain. Sadie looks at me as if I've parted company with my brain. "You want me to go out there?” Her incredulous gaze glides to the door wide-open behind me ~ through which a chill winter wind blows ~ and then, unimpressed, back to me. “In this? Yes, right. Dream on."
Thus, begins the ritual. "Come on, sweetie," I enthuse, "wee-wee."
The dog rests her head on her front paw (one of) and rolls her eyes.
"Sade, come on babe," I coo, jiggling up and down and clapping my hands excitedly. "Out we go."
Sadie yawns.
"Oh, hon," I drop down on all fours and blink worriedly into her eyes, "don't you want to?"
No. She closes her eyes. You go.
"Sweetheart,” I shuffle closer, my scantily-clad posterior now uncomfortably exposed to a blustery North gale, "we have to have a wee wee, don't we, or we might do it on the floor?"
Apparently not. The dog doesn't budge. Assertion, I think, is called for. "Sade!" I command, scrambling to my feet. "Out! Now!"
I point, unflinching.
The dog lies, unflinching.
“Aw, Sade…” I sigh heavily.
Sadie sighs resignedly, grunts out a grumble and… Yesss! She's up. She's hopping. "Good, girl, baby. Well done!"

Relieved, I skirt around her to heave her hindquarters out after her front end, and...
"Morning," says my neighbour, peering apprehensively through the foliage at the back garden fence. “I was hoping I might see you.”
Oh… myGOD! He has seen me! Bits of me that should never, ever, be seen. Not even in the dark under a duvet. I’ve practically mooned him.
He smiles, uncertain, his eyes fixed on my breast-flattening, stain-splotched vest. “I was wondering whether you, er, fancied—"
“Morning,” I trill merrily over him, and slam the door post-haste.
Fancied…? Fancied what? I muse heading fast for the stairs in hopes of making myself more presentable. A head transplant should do it.

Hmm? He's not bad looking, you know, that neighbour.

Sadie’s Tip of the Week:

A man in the hand is worth two in the bushes.

Ahem, no, Sade, not that one.
No? Oh. Sadie knits her brow. Ahhh, right, yes, got it. Here we go…

Don’t live to please other people. In the wise words of Olin Miller, “We probably wouldn't worry about what people think of us if we could know how seldom they do”.