Margaret Bowker's Jack's Errand and Getting Back into Writing

So where is this book? I'm working on the proof copy, accidents, fractures have taken precedence; and those of you who are avid writers but have experienced similar headwinds, will understand. It's been hard exploring the writing world again!
HARROW, U.K. - July 3, 2019 - PRLog -- Here's an excerpt from the book. A more up to date effort than Pembury Publishing's Modern Classics Series.The protagonist is Jack Westwood, he's twenty-eight, six foot, fair hair, dark blue eyes, clothes are smart casual and he has a responsibly laid back attitude. Oh, and he very hard-up, intelligent and has a twenty three year old cousin called Tony whose father is an unsuccessful artist called Alex.

I finally packed the case on the Wednesday after I had done my laundry, luckily, I was fairly competent about the house. As I was putting half a dozen assorted handkerchiefs in, the phone rang. It was Stephen Maddon, my tutor. He had news. My MA was looking promising; he didn't foresee anything going wrong. He would write to me when it was all settled. Had to go, he was frantically busy.

Time stood still for a moment and I found myself looking at the phone as if I didn't know what it was, but at least my MA seemed promising. I finished the call  and sat down. Let someone ring, I thought, let someone speak to me and I can tell them and they can say congratulations, and I can advise them not to depend on it, and by offering that advice, bring myself into a more realistic frame of mind. Things could go wrong. I knew that only too well.

But the phone didn't ring, no-one needed to speak to me, not even one of my fellow students and I had several friends amongst the second degree people. In other circumstances, I would have spoken to my mother or aunt, but they were gone in that tragic auto-route accident in France. Tony wasn't allowed to have private calls at work and my father only called under great distress , such as accidently shredding some vital research.

The phone suddenly rang. I rushed to it, my chance to calm down. But before I could deliver my news, I was stopped by Tony shouting - 'Alex has been beaten up! You should see him. His eye's a mess, I think his nose is broken and possibly a rib, blood down his shirt and he won't go to hospital. Can you come, please? The key to the car is in the usual place.'


Margaret Bowker
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