So hello and thanks for coming this far. It's always a bit strange going on a new journey so thanks for chosing me or at least giving me a few minutes of your time.

I wrote Made of the night over a six month period whilst I was a stay at home dad; a sort of house husband. I think I wrote the entire book in about six months between our youngest duaghterd naps or way past the midnight hour when I should have been asleep. It was great fun and a wonderful espcape from the raging storm of Covid-19.

I was humilaited pretty early on in my life by an English teacher that set me back years and probably altered my mindset on what I could or couldn't do. I wrote an essay, a very Bernard Cornwall inspired battle ladened story. I was 13. He held it up in front of the classroom and pointed at me and laughed. Such an inspiration! Writing suddenly, bizarrely, lost it's appeal.

When I was aboy, as far back as I can recall, I wanted to be either Michael Jackon or Jimi Hendrix. Lucky me! My ambitions were so realistic I spent the next thirty years trying to achieve those goals. Yikes! Hey I' m not saying I didn't had fun pursuing the strataspheric success of Jackson and Jimi it was just a bit meh...When it comes down to it those guys came from a different planet, I came from Chiddingfold, Surrey.

So when music sort of melted away I took up reading or at least falling massively in love with it. I was 27 when I first really got stuck into it. I was in a truly God awful job, the kind of job you can feel your mind actually leave you, switch off and go grey. I was awaiting a train to take me to said job and whilst standing in the train station I spide a charity book shelf. I saw a copy of a book that look pretty highbrow, the kind I thought I should probably stay away from because those types of books were for people like Stephen Fry and Bono. I read the first few sentances and I was immediately hypnotised. It was The Grapes of Wrath by the one and only John Steinbeck. in the depths of winter, in a freezing train station I sank into the pages and for five minutes my life almost certainly changed quite immeasurably.

After Steinbeck came, Evelyn Waugh, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Richard yates, Denis Johnson, Hunter S. Thompson and so many more. I sank quite quickly into a wonderful haze that allowed for total escape. I felt like I'd found my crowd. Waugh's A handful of dust was tragic and utterly British. The Great Gatsby just blew my mind. Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates really spoke to me in a way that only Catcher in the Rye had when I read it aged 15 at boarding school hating every fucking minute! The way Yates describes and builds the walls around the Wheeler's in a way that is so devastatingly normal that I thought that perhaps I could give it a go. There was rich wealth in the normality of life there was madness in it. Hunter S. Thompson just took everything to another level. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas I read in almost total disbelief. It was like writing with the handbreak off for a generation not ready for it but also utterly in need of it. There have been so many authors after those it's impossible to list them all but perhaps the most important one would be Patricia Highsmith.

I was gardening one day and the film suddenly came to me. You see I've nearly always been a gardener and since the age of audiobooks and podcasts that's what keeps me sane. Hours and hours of emptiness means I HAVE to listen to something. I wondered if the film had been a book first. Low and behold YES it was a book. I drank that book down in about two days utterly compelled and inspired. I read the entire 'Ripliad' in about two weeks. That a great deal of murder. Soon I was making this sort of connection between my working enviroment and my love for Pat. This is where work and play began to mix.

For many years I had been gardening for a client on Woodlands Road, Barnes. I had always been fascinated by his house, what lay inside and the wealth one would have to gather to afford such a place. I suppose what really got my interest the most was the state of the house. It was in quite a state of disrepare compared to the palaces on the road in which this one stood. It seemed to tell a story of its own. Over many many months I romantised about writing about the client, the house or something dark that would capture my imagination.

It wasn't until during the second lockdown in late summer 2021 that I needed an escape; well didn't we all! I would sit in my clients garden and on my phone write and write. It was bad, I should have been writing. Naughty boy. I wrote the first chapter in his garden whilst sat by a small bonfire. Once I had started that was it. Between that moment and an entire move from London to Norfolk I wrote the book. It seemed to come out of me very quickly. I'm more of a George R.R. Martin guy when it comes to writing. Not only am I gardener by trade {well also a record shop owner} but I'm definately a gardening type of writer. I can't plan aor structure thins as it just ties me down. I wrote this book in my head as much as in front of this laptop. I would go on long walks and talk to myself about ideas and where the book was heading. Why not!? I love that because frankly it probably pisses a great deal of traditionalists off.

Anyway there is plenty more to it all and frankly a great deal more to learn. Thanks for coming this far and if you've bought the book in whatever format I thank you with all my head and heart!