The Discovery
By Sir Arthur Linwood Grant

Abigail Jessop stood by the window, the downward curve of her lips betraying her dismay. Not since her earliest ventures into the world of spiritualism had she felt such confusion.

“You were correct, Henry. I would not have believed it, had I not the evidence before me.”

Dodgson smiled. He looked at Abigail in her new dress of watered silk. The olive-green material seemed to shimmer, outlining her figure against the morning sunlight. It fitted perfectly.

“You see, Abigail.” he said, a certain triumph in his voice. “Just as I told you in the shop. You are a medium!”

End

That was Bad Pyschic Joke No. 43. More may follow.

Anyhow, I feel that it would be only polite at this point to interrupt our usual broadcast and say a proper hello to the large number of new listeners who are tuning in to greydogtales. So, er, hello.

It is a genuine pleasure to see you here, nicely scrubbed and turned out, ready for the struggle. As my old Nana used to say, who are all these people and where has my purse gone? But then she had a Sinclair C5 and a dog which constantly relieved itself behind the TV, so she had an excuse.

The author, accompanied by his loyal followers, defending his blog at York Assizes earlier this week

Some of you may have entered your e-mail addresses thinking that you were signing up to insurance, and that you would soon be receiving a free pen and carriage clock. While that might be my next promotional drive, I must spoil the bliss of ignorance by clarifying what we do here:

greydogtales brings you the best in occult detective, ghost and lurcher articles, with its own special twist of inaccuracy, on a regular basis.

You can expect one of these topics to turn up on greydogtales every four or five days. The frequency of posting depends not on my level of inspiration but on the ale stocked at the local supermarkets. Bargain offers of Old Speckled Hen or Marston’s Pedigree, for example, tend to increase the quantity of posts but decrease the quality.

I am, if you still need to know, an ageing Yorkshireman who, as I put it in a recent facebook post somewhere, can’t afford both tact and lurchers. You may find quite a bit of sarcasm going on. And as you’re new here, I want to point out that I do wear my heart on my sleeve sometimes. If I’m in a bad mood, I wear other people’s hearts as well, watching the rivulets of crimson trickle down between my arthritic fingers… nghh! Must find tablets…

This is the well-known author J Linseed Grant, after all, a man who is on his own in the house far too much.

Actually, I did have quite a lot of help when I started this blog, but my imaginary staff walked out on me soon after I changed the dosage. Writing is a solitary, irritating habit, like exploring one of your nostrils but with less chance of financial gain. I plan to expose the whole sordid business (the scribbling, not the nose-orientated stuff) in Writers for Beginners, coming later this month.

To round off this introduction, I would like to add more about lurchers and longdogs, the joys of canine companionship and so on. But I can’t because Django is whining to go walkies, and he’s already dug out one flowerbed today – seriously.

There. You can’t complain that I haven’t warned you.

The carriage clock is in the post.