Breathless

The same soothing tones that might be employed to induce calm in the event of nuclear holocaust, issued from the front of the car.

A soft, breathy, female voice with hints of both English and American accents. We call her Betty. She is, in fact, the voice of our TomTom GPS system, who incongruously calls the freeway a “modorway”.

Last night, she guided us up through the hills above the San Francisco Bay area to a high point above the town of Berkeley. We climbed, and climbed, then rounded a corner to have our collective breath immediately removed.

For there, laid out below us in all its early evening glory, was THE bay. The entire city of San Francisco, the Golden Gate bridge. The most stunning panorama I think I have ever seen. I might have stopped to take a photo, but it would never have done it justice. Your imagination will do a better job, though even that will never come close to the reality.

In any event, Betty wasn’t allowing us to linger. “Turn right. Then you have reached your destination.”

Our destination was the home of Janet Rudolph, book reviewer and editor of the magazine, Mystery Readers International. She traditionally holds “at-home” events in her house, with a regular group of attendees, and visiting authors from all over the world.

We made our way through a fairytale garden populated by peacocks, to be greeted by Janet herself, an attractive, energetic lady with a fantastic head of thick, curly hair. Others had already arrived. Some I knew - Bill and Toby - whom I had met at Left Coast Crime in Seattle in 2007. Some were new to me, but greeted me warmly with that wonderful, open, Californian hospitality.

We drank wine, nibbled cheese, then sat in a circle to discuss my books, writing in general, research, publishing, genres. We talked for almost two hours, at the end of which I signed the books which everyone had brought. I had brought some copies of The Firemaker, the first in the China series, a taster for the rest.

An elderly British couple, Stuart and Sheila, originally from Northern Ireland, are neighbours of Janet. Sheila came to me at the end of the evening and gave me a copy of The Firemaker to sign. She leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “You know, I’ve been coming to these events for years now. But this is the first book I’ve ever bought.”

A delightful end to a splendid evening, topped off by the gift of a bottle of wine whose label was the cover of my latest Enzo book, “Freeze Frame” - the work of Janet’s husband, Frank.

We headed out into the dark and turned the car back up the hill, Betty still breathing seductively from the windscreen. The lights of the Bay Area opened out like a firmament below us. But again Betty would not let us linger. “At the end of the road turn right. Then take the modorway.”

• I can finally announce, since we signed the contracts this morning, that the movie rights to “The Killing Room”, one of my China Thrillers, have been bought by a French production company. La Patronne and I have been commissioned to write the screenplay, which we will work on during our stay in Arizona. The story will be re-set in Hong Kong, and Margaret will become French. Vive La France!

A Californian Corollary

Thought this would make an interesting little corollary to our wet Sunday in Sacramento. Susie’s sister, Kathy, and her husband John, had been hoping to celebrate our arrival with a barbecue, and time spent in the garden.

Sadly, the weather precluded that possibility. But poor old John was still sent out into the garden to cook the meat - it’s man’s work, you know! But being a fellow of fine temperament, he took to his task with the relish for which he is renowned - as illustrated below...

Flowers in our Hair

Where to begin?

Well, I can start by telling you that I am writing this on my iPad. Yay! Picked it up on Saturday night at Susie’s in Sacramento, where I had asked Apple to send my pre-order.

I won’t bore you with it except to say that it is AMAZING!

It was cool in Sacramento, and wet, when we flew in from Seattle on Saturday night. But that was nothing compared to the rain that crashed down on us on Sunday. Like a tropical downpour.

We splashed along the freeway to Davis, and lunch with our old friends Sharon and Hibbard, then back to Sacramento for dinner with Susie’s sister, Kathy, and her family. By the time we got back to Susie’s that night, inches had fallen, and thunder and lightning were crashing all around us.

Then, lo and behold, Monday brought painfully clear blue skies and sunshine, and an interview on the Jeffrey Callison show on Sacramento Capital Radio. Jeffrey is an ex-pat Scot with a mid-Atlantic accent, who has been entertaining Sacramento listeners with his daily chat show for years now. It was my third appearance on his show, and you can listen to it here (scroll forward - I was in the final segment of the show).

Then it was into the car and a two-hour drive south to San Francisco. It was my third visit to the city, and the first time I have seen it in sunshine. It is an extraordinary place - white houses built across the steeply pitched slopes of hills that push up out of the bay, clustering around the skyscrapers of downtown. The view of it from the bridge as you approach from the north is stunning. And on Monday, with the sun coruscating away across still, burnished waters to the misted silhouette of the Golden Gate Bridge, it was quite breathtaking.

We drove, then, through the city’s gay area, The Castro, where men stroll hand in hand, finally arriving at Noe Valley, the home of Susie’s daughter, Shannon, and her husband, Tim - just in time to help Tim demolish the entrance to his home to get a new refrigerator through the front door. Proceedings were directed by Susie’s 2-year-old-granddaughter, Madeleine, whom we then took for a walk up and down the city hills, puffing and gasping for breath while she continued to direct our progress - from her pushchair!

Then on, finally, to the evening event at the San Francisco Mystery Bookstore, before grabbing a bite to eat, and driving back through the dark to Sacramento - barely awake as the lights of downtown San Francisco rose up all around us, before dipping away as we crossed the bridge and into the night.

Tuesday was a day of catching up on shopping for all those essential little things you need on a long trip - computer cables, iPad apps... oh, yes, and some toothpaste and stuff! Before Eric the Viking descended on us with his new Volvo to sweep us south again, past San Francisco, still basking in sunshine, to the smaller Bay Area city of San Mateo, and the incomparable Ed Kaufman’s M is for Murder bookstore. There I met up with long time fans Milene Rawlinson and Dennis Sitcler, delivered my talk on Virtually Dead, The Runner, and Freeze Frame, before signing well over a hundred books and staggering off for a late dinner in a nearby Italian.

The lights of San Francisco seemed like a dream seen through nearly shut eyes as they drifted past once more on the drive home.

Tonight another drive south, not quite so far this time. Stopping at Berkeley for an at-home evening at the house of book critic and editor of Mystery Readers International, Janet Rudolph.

I seem permanently tired, but never able to sleep at the right times. Maybe I’ll get the chance to catch a few winks during the 8-hour drive south on Thursday to Newport Beach - as long as I’m not behind the wheel at the time!

Hello Goodbye

Saturday afternoon. Just over a week since leaving home. Already it feels like a lifetime.

Sitting in Sea-Tac Airport, Seattle, waiting for a flight to Sacramento. We arrived in the rain and we are leaving in the rain. After the dry, clear sunshine of Denver, we flew in yesterday to gale force winds and ice-edged rain driving in off the Pacific.

This town, so like Glasgow - the light, the rain, the seven hills - was alive with fancy-dress kids attending a Japanese anime convention, lending already spaced brains an even more surreal perspective on the world.

Having dropped our bags off at the Renaissance Hotel, we fought against the wind and the rain, mid-afternoon, to the Pike Street fish market where we found my favourite chowder joint - a tiny café squeezed into a corner of the market, where they serve the most wonderful chowders. Sadly they were out of my favourite smoked salmon, and I had to do with southern chicken and corn instead. Large cups of thick, warming, comforting soup.

Neither La Patronne nor I could face another restaurant last night, so while at the market we found a great cheese stall, bought a selection of nice cheeses, some herb crackers, then went in search of a screw-top bottle of wine - can’t carry a corkscrew with us on our flights.

So it was cheese and wine in the room before collapsing amongst the pillows of the king-sized bed for an early, early night.

Of course, I was awake at 5.30am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and with a morning to kill before my signing event at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop. I found a US channel showing the Man U/Chelsea game, which passed a couple of hours before breakfast, then another battle with the elements and the hills to find the bookstore, just off Pioneer Square.

Warmly welcomed as always by Bill and Fran, I signed stock for the shop, and books for customers - one of whom had dropped in looking specifically for a book set in Paris, to get the atmosphere of the city before heading off for a spring holiday. He bought “Extraordinary People” (now renamed “Dry Bones), and I recommended that he make a tour of the catacombs, which he would read about in the book. Before I left I made my own contribution to the bookstore’s blog, which you can read here.

Then we ate in an Italian restaurant, and spent the afternoon feeling sick, and responding to excited e-mails from Susie in Sacramento who was getting orgasmic over an iPad delivery.

The airport has suddenly come alive with people in open sandals and shorts, and winter white skin. God knows where they’ve come from, or where they’re going. It’s the holidays!! Aaaargh!!!

Happy Easter.

Rocky Rugs

It was a dramatic sky. Bruised black over the plains. Almost white over the Rockies where snow and hail swept down across the mountains. A washed-out yellow in the west where the sun was sinking and breaking through, turning the mountain ranges into paper cut-out silhouettes.

In the far distance I saw the Flat Irons - brooding and dark above the university town of Boulder, where I had gone on every one of my previous tours. But the book store where I had given my talks, High Crimes, had been forced to close its doors - a sign of the economic times.

But its owner, Cynthia Nye, ever resourceful, had swapped bricks and mortar for the internet, from where she is now selling direct to her clients. And making it work.

Tonight we were heading north of Boulder to the town of Longmont, and a rug store where Cynthia now holds her author visits. She had told me that some authors turned their noses up at this event these days, since she no longer had four walls and shelves lined with books. Which made me all the more determined to do my talk for her.

And what a venue she has chosen for her author encounters. An amazing emporium of oriental and navajo rugs - not unsurprisingly called The Oriental and Navajo Rug Company. Most of the rugs are hand made. The walls hang with them. The floors are soft with them. They lie in piles feet deep. There is artwork, crafted jewellery, and a small water fountain that brings the restful tinkle of flowing water and keeps the chi moving in a good way.

It is a wonderful, open, and colourful space for these events, and I took great pleasure in talking to the good folk of Longmont and Boulder who had braved the ever-changing elements to come and meet me and buy my books.

After the talk I got into conversation with one lady whose son lives in Olympia, Washington. I had noticed on the internet that my books were frequently among the top ten bestsellers in that town’s mystery bookstore, Whodunnit. This lady’s son had gone into the store and asked for a recommendation for a book to buy for his mother. The book they recommended turned out to be “The Firemaker”, the first of the China series.

As it happened, this was not a genre which had interested her in the past. She read mainly historical novels. However, something about “The Firemaker” had caught her, and she arrived at my talk with all six of the series for me to sign.

I signed Cynthia’s stock for her, sipping on a glass of soft red wine, and then a copy of “Virtually Dead” for the owner of the rug gallery, Patrick, who had been seduced by my tales of sleuthing in Second Life.

A word to those authors who have declined appearances at the gallery. Shame on you! Everyone who sells our work deserves our support. And I have to tell you that this is one of the best and most unique venues on any author tour.

So, then, it was back on the road. Through the dark to Denver, a glass of wine, a nibble of cheese, and bed. And today? Another airport, another airplane, another town. This time, Seattle. The forecast is for rain. Why does that make me think of Glasgow?

Sick of Heights

Where was I? Oh... yeah. Denver. Colorado. An hour forward, an hour back? Dunno. Who cares.

To the jetlag I can now add altitude sickness. Been spaced out all morning, breathless after my breakfast walk to Starbucks in this mile-high city, and the first caramel machiato of the tour.

Strange. I’ve been here a few times, but never been this affected before. I picked up, though, when we went with our Denver hosts and good friends, Charles and Marilyn, to the city's downtown spice store. Wow! Never seen so many spices under one roof. The smell as you walk through the door would knock you over (in a nice way), or in this case, pick you up, as it did to me.

I felt even better after a buffalo burger on a bed of mixed greens, smothered in caramelised onions, with a side helping of sweet potato fries. A bottle of dark lager helped, too.

And now to the writing of the blog. Then (hopefully) an afternoon nap, before heading north - an hour-and-a-half’s drive - to a speaking event at a place called Longmont, north-east of Boulder.

So... last night? Well, having flown into Denver from Minneapolis just a few hours earlier, we headed off to yesterday’s event at a bookstore called Murder by the Book. A good turnout of readers in an intimate atmosphere. And, as always, a wonderful cake. It’s a tradition that the bookstore has a cake made with the author’s latest book cover reproduced in icing. I wondered what they would do, since I had three books out this time.

Well... see for yourselves! Three covers on one cake. And it tasted great, too!!

Charles then whisked us back to his condo, where he had whipped up an amazing Indian meal, complete with authentic Thali plates

After the meal, sated, knackered, and all wined out, I lay back in a leather recliner and... fell asleep. Well, it was waaaay past my bedtime!

Lost in Space

I am floating somewhere lost in space. Jetlag plus.

Monday morning, Paris, 6am, struggling through the cold and dark to drag our cases aboard a tram that would take us to the RER rail line that would, in turn, take us to Charles de Gaulle Airport. I can remember thinking... oh, the glamour of it all!

A nine-hour flight on a cramped little Delta plane dumped us in an unseasonally warm and sunny Minneapolis at 1pm local time (it’s the first March since records began, that there has been zero snowfall here), and it was straight on to a rental car, and a battle with the sat-nav, to find our way to Uncle Edgar’s Mystery bookstore where mystery connoisseur, Jeff Hatfield, was waiting with a pile of some eighty books for me to sign.

As I began the first tendonitis-torturing signing session of the tour, an unexpected visitor dropped by the shop - Ina, the cousin of my Dutch neighbour in France. The world just keeps on shrinking. She and La Patronne went for a coffee while I signed and asked Jeff for some reading recommendations.

These were his tips - hot off the press: “Frag Box”, by Richard A. Thompson; “The Bricklayer”, by Noah Boyd; and “The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Apple”, by Alan Bradley.

It was then on to the home of Elizabeth and Tom Carr with whom we were staying overnight. Elizabeth is the daughter of our old neighbours from France, and our frequent host in this Minnesotan city.

By now it was around midnight, Paris time, and I was beginning to wilt. Much coffee was required to keep me on my feet till it was time to head to Once Upon a Crime, the bookstore where I was to give my talk. The store is owned by Pat and Gary, an amazing couple whose tiny, chaotic, book-filled shop is a must on the itinerary of any self-respecting crime writer on a US tour.

It was the first stop on my first US tour five years ago, when only a handful of people turned up. After all, who the hell had ever heard of Peter May? Five years on, and the place was packed Standing room only, and I delivered the first of more than twenty talks that I will give on this tour - setting the shape and form of the others to come.

By the time I was finished my talk, and the signing, it was 3am, Paris time, and a bunch of us set off in the dark to find a little restaurant called The Corner Table. Among the group was my old friend, Carl Brookins - a stalwart of the Minnesota Crime Wave group of writers who tour the country promoting their work. He and his wife Jean are veteran sailors, and have done battle with oceans, seas, and lakes in most parts of the world. Carl writes a highly successful and entertaining series of sailing mysteries, the latest of which is “Devils Island”.

Some food, some wine, and finally I felt myself tipping over the precipice. It really was time for bed.

I slipped wearily between the sheets almost exactly 24 hours after struggling on to that tram in wet and windy Paris, and tumbled into the clutches of a deeply embracing sleep. But only for six dream-filled hours, before waking at 5am (local) to dig out my laptop and write this blog.

An hour from now we will set off for the airport, and an early flight to Denver, Colorado, where it will all begin again.

Will someone please stop this train?

We Have Lift-off

It’s over. Three crazy, interesting, hard grafting, wine-drinking, face-stuffing days in Paris. A Salon du Livre hit by the financial crisis. Numbers down. People spending less on books.

But still the invitations keep coming - to more salons. I turned one down - Paris in June - because it clashes with one I am going to at Le Havre. Yet another, in July, is sorely tempting - an invitation to Corsica. A three day weekend salon which begins as the ferry leaves Marseilles on the Thursday night.

A Chinese bookseller from Brest - who is really from Shanghai - in France on a ten year visa, begged for my help to get her a holiday visa to Scotland. A dental surgeon, who is an underwater photographer in his spare time, wanted me to contribute to a high-gloss international publication on the environment. I asked if he would be interested in giving me a root treatment.

Sunday was lunch on a houseboat on the Seine, the home of the English editor of a series of books being published in English by a French publisher (does this make any sense?). La Patronne and I each wrote a book (well, actually long short stories) for the series, which comes out in June. The series is called Paper Planes, and the stories - all between 12,000 and 15,000 words in length - use a Latin-rooted vocabulary to allow French learners of English to read comfortably.

I chose to write a story using the characters from my China series, Li and Margaret. It is called “The Ghost Marriage”. And La Patronne wrote one called “Distant Echo”, about a psychotherapist and a life-changing accident.

For the launch, the publisher, Editions Didier (part of Hachette), wanted to film interviews with us to put up on the website. So after lunch with editor, Rupert Morgan, and his wife Karine (I hope I spelled that right), on board their incredible houseboat, we took turns to sit in the salon and record our interviews. A faintly surreal diversion in another otherwise constant flow of non book-buying salon-goers.

Then to dinner that night, just spitting distance from the Senat, with friends Ariane and Gilbert, Jean-Pierre and Jacqueline, and Jean-Pierre (a different one) and Janine (neighbours from St. Michel), followed by a long hike back across the city in the small hours of the morning.

Later that same morning, Monday, after an early rise, we raced across Paris to the giant FNAC computer store to buy me a new laptop bag - the one I had packed to take with me fell apart on the train. And then back to the Salon for lunch and a drowsy afternoon induced by a glass or three of rose.

And before a farewell dinner with my French publisher, a fun hour spent with Fred Bellaiche, who is going to produce a movie of one of my China Thrillers - The Killing Room (but more of that later). He loaded us with movies to watch on the plane and during the tour, while we storyline and write the screenplay - French movies, Hong Kong movies, Italian movies, Korean movies.

But in the end, all creative talk gave way to a much more serious topic - football!

Life is interesting. For the moment, But I am not so sure I will feel the same as I drag myself out of bed at 6am tomorrow for the trauchle out to the airport and the first flight of the great transatlantic adventure.

Next stop, Minneapolis. See you there!

On the Road Again

Paris, on a cold morning in late March. The first day on a two month journey that will take me all over the United States before returning me to this city at the end of May, older (certainly), wiser (maybe), and warmer (hopefully).

Just over 24 hours ago I sat in a train station in south-west France, watching the rain sweep down across the tracks, the first grey light of dawn breaking in a leaden sky. My first stop on an uncertain adventure.

I hate leaving home. And this time was no different. Depressed, cold, butterflies in conflict in my tummy, I saw the lights of the approaching train and thought: It begins. And I knew that once on the road nothing else would matter. The tour would be my life. Home could wait.

The words of an old Paul Simon song from the sixties popped up unexpectedly in my head:

I'm sitting in the railway station.
Got a ticket to my destination.
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and (a book) in hand.
And ev'ry stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound.

But four hours on the train revising the manuscript of the fifth Enzo book, and a reunion with old friends at the Salon du Livre in Paris soon banished the blues.

I’m on the road again.

New Blog

It's been a while since I blogged - been too busy writing.  However, from tomorrow (Friday, March 5th), I join the writing team of the award-winning Type M for Murder blog, which has different contributors for each day of the week.  The subject of the blog is writing in all its multifarious forms, and the contributors are all published authors, six in total with a guest author each Sunday.  So from tomorrow I will be "Man Friday", and you can read me at this address: http://typem4murder.blogspot.com/

In other news, I leave at the end of the month for a two-month book tour of the US, and will be writing daily blog entries on the adventures of a writer on the road.  So watch this space.

Win a Free Copy of Snakehead

S.Dionne Moore interviewed me for her "Novel Journey" blog, and there is a copy of Snakehead available for the person who makes the best comment!

Find the interview here: http://noveljourney.blogspot.com/2009/06/author-interview-peter-may.html

New Interview and Another Live Broadcast Coming Up

Mystery author and reviewer, Carl Brookins just interviewed me, you can read it here...

Also, I'm doing another live broadcast on the internet so join me if you can for stories and videos from my research, excerpts from the latest China Thriller to be published in the USA (SNAKEHEAD) and a live Q&A chat session. You can find it here:

http://www.mogulus.com/petermaylive

on
SUNDAY 26TH APRIL 2009

there will be two shows, at the following times around the world...

USA:
EST: 10am & 1pm
CST: 9am & Noon
MST: 8am & 11am
PST: 7am & 10am
---

UK: 3pm & 6pm
---

Central Europe: 4pm & 7pm
---

Bangkok, Thailand: 10pm & 1am
---

Beijing, China: 11pm & 2am
---

Perth, Australia: midnight & 3am

Sydney, Australia: 2am & 5am

http://www.mogulus.com/petermaylive
If you click on the above link at the moment you'll find some video clips of the last broadcast. And if you miss next Sunday's broadcast, you'll be able to catch repeat viewings afterwards - you'll just miss the live Q & A.

Decided to do a live broadcast to launch Blacklight Blue, which was... well, for the full story behind the adventure, why not take a look at La Patronne's blog.

Something New...

Interesting development - a channel I can use for live webcasts, worldwide. Watch this space for news. You can visit it at http://www.mogulus.com/petermaylive.

DAY FORTY-SIX

St. Paddy's Day!

Anyone else fed up with the colour green?

I certainly am, and I've only been in New York a matter of hours. To be honest I find a bunch of pseudo-Irish eejits in daft green hats wandering drunkenly around the city streets less than cute.

Especially when I have just spent two-and-a-half hours stuck in a "super" (I use the word advisedly) shuttle, driven by a French-speaking African cruising endlessly around Manhattan in search of streets that always seemed to elude him.

The shuttle from Laguardia to our hotel took more than twice as long as the flight from Rochester to NYC. A flight, I hasten to add, that was already delayed by well over an hour. Oh, and did I mention that our hotel, the Milford Plaza, which is supposed to have wi-fi in its rooms, doesn't? The hotel is undergoing a renovation they told us when I complained. Internet access is hard-wired into rooms on floors 12 to 17. We, of course, are on the 18th floor.

If I sound jaded, it's because I am. And I can't really blame New York. We always seem to arrive here at the end of a tour, and the end of our tethers, with only one thought in mind - to go home. So this is a treading water couple of days, traversing the island on the subway to sign stock in mystery stores, and meet with my agent. To sleep and eat, and while away the hours until our flight to Paris on Wednesday.

This is the longest, most arduous tour we've ever undertaken, and it has taken its toll. Seven weeks on the road, away from home, is far too long. The flu was the straw that broke the camel's back.

After three days in the bosom of La Patronne's family upstate, we will celebrate her birthday tomorrow (Tuesday). Our last night in New York. Our last night in America. And the next bed we sleep in will be our own!

Whoever said writers lead a glamorous life?

Whoever it was...

... LIED!

DAY FORTY-ONE

It's all over! Bar the shouting.

After nearly twenty events, the US tour of 2008 is over. Sure, I have some stock signings in New York city, but tonight, in Minneapolis, was the final speaking event.

Feeling like hell, and making sure I didn't share the pleasures of my particular virus, sheer adrenaline carried me through what was the best attended event I've had to date at Once Upon a Crime.

It's odd. This was the bookstore where I made my first US appearance back in 2005. Now it was the final venue of 2008. So it had a sense of coming full circle.

The Minneapolis Alliance Francaise, who were supposed to be participating in the event, were conspicuous by their absence. The local organiser also failed to show, pleading illness. The same tactical illness, perhaps, which had led her to be so conspicuously absent throughout the whole process of organisation.

However, store owner, Pat Frovarp, had done her usual sterling job of whipping up interest, and also had huge piles of books for me to sign. She really is a pro, and a lovely lady to boot.

Carl Brookins, whom we had bumped into at LCC in Denver, showed up to introduce me to the assembled (I think La Patronne must have bunged him a huge amount to say all those nice things about me).

Interesting footnote to the event. Two readers, Sherrie and Anita, had been persuaded to come to the event by Pat, because she knew they were visiting France in the summer.

To everyone's amazement, it turns out that they are staying in a town in south-west France, about 20 minutes away from Gaillac. So they bought "Extraordinary People" and "The Critic", and promised to visit Domaine Sarrabelle when they make the trip at the end of June.

So, Francoise, Fabien, and Laurent (whom I know are following the blog), make sure you look after Sherrie and Anita when they come to taste your wines in June!!

Earlier in the day we visited Uncle Edgar's mystery bookstore to sign some stock. The guys had obviously been reading my blog and knew that I was Typhoid Pete - and so kept a respectful distance.

I'm still streaming. Still feeling crap. But maybe tomorrow will bring an improvement. I have a whole day to rest, with nothing else to do, before a crazy two-part flight to Rochester, New York, via Atlanta,Georgia (whoever invented the hub sytem should be shot!).

Then it's a few days' relaxation at Le Beau Frere's, before the stock signing in NYC, and then home.

Honest to God, I really can't wait. It's been waaaay too long!

DAY FORTY

Okay, it's the flu.

Aching muscles from head to toe, fever, sweating, waves of debilitating weakness. It's about fifteen years since I last experienced anything like this.

I was dreading today's travel. A flight from Denver to Minneapolis, and a 24-mile drive in a rental car to the hotel La Patronne had found for us.

And the day did not start well.

We were up at 5am to pack. An hour and a quarter later we went down to the car park at the rear of Charles and Marilyn's condo to put our luggage into the back of Charles' SUV. Which is when we encountered our first problem.

The handle on one of our suitcases broke clean off - the handle to which airlines attach the luggage tag. If that wasn't bad enough, after we had got all the luggage into the vehicle, we had only driven about ten metres when Charles declared, "I've got a flat tyre."

You could feel the irregular vibration of it on the frozen tarmac.

We then rewound time - forty years back to the ninetreen sixties, when for some reason people tried to cram as many bodies as possible into a Mini. Only this time it was three bodies, two huge suitcases, two large items of hand luggage, and two handbags. There was no way Charles was going to fit into Marilyn's Mini Cooper as well, so he got left behind. And as I squeezed into the back, feeling like death warmed up, a suitcase and carry-on to one side, and another carry-on sitting on my knee, Marilyn revealed that it was the first time she'd ever had anyone travel in the back seat of her car.

As we headed east on the freeway, into a golden dawn, I reflected on the news item we had caught as we packed the bags just an hour earlier.

A new scientific report had revealed that in various states around America, traces of anti-biotic and prescription medicines had been found in the drinking water - and that no amount of personal filtering would remove them.

Colorado was one of those states. If one is just passing through, so to speak, then it probably doesn't matter much. But daily exposure to even trace amounts can accumulate over time. Worrying.

But what made me laugh was the revelation that one of the affected states was California, where traces of anti-anxiety medication had been found in the water.

Oh, well. If I had all that money and sunshine, I might be anxious too.

As it is, I'm cooried down in this hotel room on the edge of Minneapolis, trying to get myself over this bug before the event at Once Upon a Crime tomorrow night. Gallons of water, and coffee, and plenty of sleep, and I'll be fit for it. One way or another.

The show must go on!

DAY THIRTY-EIGHT

Yay! A taxi driver who knew the route without a GPS, and who took us straight home after the convention banquet - even if he could barely speak English!

That was the good news. The bad news is that the crap feeling I had this morning has developed into something definitely nasty! My throat is sore, my muscles ache, I've developed a chesty cough.

Shit! Just when the finish line was in sight. This is the first cold/flu (whatever it is) infection I've had for nearly two years. I'm usually pretty good at fighting things off. But lack of sleep, the constant travelling, airports, hotels, bookshops, conventions - I guess I'm just run down.

It's our host Charles's birthday party tomorrow, and I think I might have to give it a body swerve - not because I wouldn't want to go, but because I definitely don't want to pass this on. Perhaps a day in bed and lots of fluids will help me fight it off.

But I worry, too, about Minneapolis. We are supposed to be staying with friends, Michele and Bill. But in all conscience, I couldn't inflict my germs upon them, so La Patronne is busy researching hotels in the city, so I can lock myself away and ride this out.

I only have one more formal event - at Once Upon a Crime on Tuesday night - before spending a few days at the home of Le Beau Frere near Rochester, New York, then a final trip to New York City to sign stock in several bookstores and meet with my agent and publisher.

Earlier today we got a taxi into town for my panel, on the subject of "Romancing the Mystery". The panel was moderated by the irrepressible Tom O'Day, who was so tall he couldn't get on to the platform without banging his head on the ceiling. Oddly, I was the only male on the panel. I suggested to fellow panelists, Margaret Lucke, Kris Neri, and Joan Johnston, that maybe it was because I have been known to wear a skirt from time to time!

I was gratified to have a long line to sign books following the panel, after which La Patronne and I paid a visit to Denver's Hard Rock Cafe to quaff a couple of Margaritas and chomp on barbecued ribs.

But gradually, through the afternoon, I began to feel worse and worse. I went to bed, and could barely rouse myself to go to the banquet where we met up with Carl Brookins, a great writer and character from Minnesota. He was kind enough to give me a fabulous review for "Extraordinary People". And in "The Critic", when Enzo is going through the belongings of the murdered wine critic, Gill Petty, he comes across a book the victim had been reading - a mystery written by... Carl Brookins. It was great to see him again, but I didn't want to pass on whatever I had, and in the end, I couldn't even stay for the awards.

The continual time changes aren't helping. We have been backwards and forwards through the hours from California to Arizona to Texas, then back again to Colorado where, tonight, Daylight Savings kicked in and the time sprang forward one hour.

On Monday we go back through the hours to Minneapolis, then back still further to New York at the end of the week. Then, the week after we get back to France, summertime kicks in and the hour springs forward again.

Time! Who knows where it begins, or ends. Or where it goes.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

I don't know if I'm fighting off some winter bug, or whether it's the altitude and the extreme dryness of the air here, but I'm feeling pretty crap. Sore throat. Bloody nose.

I look in the mirror and see deep lines etched beneath my eyes. Eyes that peer back at me, tired and watery.

Jees, I've been on the go without stopping since last Monday. An event every day, sometimes two. A flight from Houston to Denver. The prospect of flying on Monday into the arctic cold and snow of Minneapolis. It's more than five weeks since I left home. Still nearly two weeks to go.

I figure I'm going to be staggering over the finish line.

So stop grizzling, you moaning git, and get on with it!!

Okay. So actually yesterday was a not bad day. I managed to miss the cocktail party laid on by my New York publisher, St. Martin's Press, at the conference hotel. Evidently, they had cunningly concealed it in a place that made it impossible for me to find. Probably I was the only one who couldn't find it. If I was being paranoid, I might think they had planned it that way!

But the truth is, I was kinda glad. I never know anyone at these things. And you end up standing around like a spare whatsit at a wedding, clutching a drink you don't want, forcing smiles for people you've never seen before.

We had another taxi adventure on the way to the Alliance Francaise. Another taxi driver who had no idea where he was going, plumbed the address into his GPS, then proceeded to ignore its every instruction.

In my day, taxi drivers knew every street in a city. Now it seems all you need is a driving licence and a (very) tenous grasp of English. GPS has saved our bacon on a number of outings this trip, but it has a lot to answer for where taxi drivers are concerned.

It was Open Night at the Alliance Francaise, and we had a full house in our small lecture room - standing room only. I began my talk in French, but a lot of those there didn't speak it, so I switched back to English. Then ended the night doing a TV interview in French for a local Denver station, with an interviewer who whispered his questions in a strong Caribbean accent. When you throw my Scottish accented French into the equation, I wonder if anyone will understand it!!

Then it was a trawl along Santa Fe Drive, where young people thronged the pavements, drifting in and out of the myriad art galleries and restaurants that line the street - an event that takes place on the first Friday of every month.

Two huge Margaritas, a beef burrito and a chicken quesadilla, filled the empty space in our stomachs and we headed home to feed Pierre (Charles and Marilyn's cat - they are away for a couple of days to attend a family funeral)(Charles and Pierre in pic).

Today, my final event in Denver - a panel discussing the subject of "Romancing the Mystery". I'm actually quite looking forward to that one.

The gala dinner tonight. If I feel up to it I might wear my kilt. A day of rest on Sunday, then up sticks and on to Minnesota.

My only worry now is whether my taxi driver will be able to find the conference hotel.!!

DAY THIRTY-FIVE

Wolves, cakes, a long line of fans, and a snail-mail letter that winged its way across the Atlantic to intercept me in Denver.

Oh, and a taxi driver who had no idea where he was going - as well as a GPS sytem which was itching to swear at him (even more loudly than me)!

That was today.

Well, that was part of today. A day in this week that never stops or ends.

I have to tell you, I'm flagging. My eyes sting, my muscles ache, the air is so thin up here in Mile High City that I get breathless walking along the corridor.

But I'm not complaining, even if it sounds like I am. It was a good day that started when I drew the curtains in Charles and Marilyn's Denver condo to reveal the clearest of blue skies, and a city ringed by snow-capped mountains. Early morning sun slanted in through floor to ceiling windows and lifted my spirits.

There followed a brisk walk through sub-zero sunshine to the nearest Starbucks, a 40-minute workout in the fitness room in the basement of the condo. Then lunch with Charles and Marilyn in a cool Vietnamese restaurant called Parallel 17. Best curry I've had for a long time.

Then it was off to register at the Left Coast Crime convention in the Adam's Mark hotel in downtown Denver and get my bearings for my two panels.

This afternoon's panel was entitled: "Mind Games and Manhunts - Psychological Thrillers", and around 60 people turned up to hear myself, Laura Benedict, Christine Jorgensen, and Robert Greer, under the guidance of moderator, Carol Caverly, discuss what makes a psychological thriller.

Now, the form is that when a panel is over, the panelists adjourn to the book room where tables are lined up around the perimeter. Fans buy books and come and get the authors to sign them. I have sat at these events in the past, twiddling my thumbs while some better known author next to me had a long line of readers queuing up across the room.

For once, I was the writer with the long line of readers waiting to get their books signed. One lady said to me, "I've been seeing your name everywhere. I've just got to read your books."

I wonder if that makes me an overnight success at 56?

I was then faced with a hair-raising chase across town to the Murder by the Book bookstore (I know - same name as the one in Houston), for another event.

That was when I encountered the taxi driver who had no idea where he was taking us. I should have known there was trouble ahead when I gave him the address of the bookstore and he said, "Where's that?" Like I would know?

Against my better judgment, La Patronne and I slipped into the back seat and waited patiently while the driver tapped the address into his GPS system. I have to tell you, his girl (whatever she might be called) didn't do nearly as good a job as Betty would. Mind you, it would have helped had he followed her instructions. The plaintive phrase, "recalculating route", became an oft repeated refrain as he missed turn after turn and I watched our ETA get later and later.

Half an hour and 25 dollars later, we finally arrived at the bookstore (just 15 minutes late), where I was doing an informal presentation with two other writers - Louise Ure and Sandi Ault (who arrived complete with cowboy hat and fringed leathers). A small, but lively group squeezed into the store, and we had a fun hour of stories and questions and amusing exchanges.

Bookstore owner, Lauri Ver Schure, had as usual commissioned a cake decorated in sugar with the covers of our three books. And as we drank wine and ate cake, Sandi revealed that she had brought her pet wolf with her. He was out in the truck, and wouldn't come into the shop, but since everyone was curious to see him, she brought him to the door.

I have never seen a wolf in the flesh, and could never have imagined how huge one might be. This one was a sleek silver grey, nearly 200 pounds, and as big as a small pony. Sandi's husband had him on a leash, and he stood patiently on the step in the dark while everyone crowded around to pet him.

A footnote to the Murder by the Book event. As I sat listening to the other writers, I noticed on a clip on the desk in front of me a letter addressed to me care of the store. The address was hand-written, and the stamp and postmark were British. Here was another mystery. Who was writing to me from the UK, c/o of a bookstore in Denver?

It turned out to be from my old boss, former head of drama at Scottish Television, Robert Love. Robert has steadfastly refused to embrace the technology of the computer, and at the time of posting had worked out from my tour schedule just where I might be when his letter arrived. His timing was perfect. The letter turned up in Denver the day before I did!

But it was time to go, to get something to eat, and to get the head on the pillow to prepare for a fresh day tomorrow. Two events: a cocktail party hosted by my New York publisher, St, Martin's Press, followed by an open house at the Alliance Francaise.

To sleep, perchance to dream, and to dare to believe that the finish line of this marathon tour is somewhere just beyond the horizon.