Would I?

It's publication day for me today, so I'm exercising my right to hijack the question (What would you never write?) and do the BSP-dance. It's a can-can with jazz hands, by the way.

Would I write a book about a bored upper-class lady in 1922, who goes to a house-party where some diamonds are stolen and decides to find them? Yep.

But would I write a novel set in the village where I was born and starring my Godmother as a six-week-old winning the bonny baby competition? Uh-huh.

So would I write a novel set where my husband was born and populate it with wall-to-wall witches? You betcha.

But there are limits.  Would I write a book set in a circus at Christmas-time, or is that a step too far? Guess.

How about sending a gently-born detective undercover as a lady's maid in a grand house during a general strike? [curtsy]

And if playing at houses was too much like fun and not enough like work, would that stop me playing at shops in the ladies' wear departments of rival family emporia? Why of course not, madam.

But surely you can't get away with channeling your inner Enid Blyton to write a book about a girls' boarding school on a breezy cliff-top? Oh, really.

Did you play at doctors and nurses when you'd played at houses, shops and schools enough? Me too.

And what's the worst thing you could find in a barrel of salted herrings? I agree.

But where better to look for a bit of glamour to take the smell of herrings (etc) away than in a ballroom? Nowhere, that's where.

And where better to go after all that dancing, for rest and reflection, than a convent on a lonely moor-top? Pretty much anywhere, as it turned out. But who knew.

Then there's the book that had to be written. Simon Brett did it. Ngaio Marsh did it. Jo Nesbo did it. Was I going to miss out on all that schlocky fun? Nope.

But after a doomed production of Macbeth in a crumbling castle with relations at war and bitter secrets leaking poison, where is there left to go?

Are you kidding? Relations, secrets, poison and doom:- it's a family wedding. Dandy Gilver Book 13, is out today.

Here endeth the blatant self promotion.