Fireworks, dancing. People flood the city...

Fireworks, dancing. People flood the city. "What's happening?" he asks - no answer, everyone knows. But he doesn't. He really doesn't.

Today's the end of the world and everyone's having a party.

No-one invited him.

The forest fire flickered on the horizon...

The forest fire flickered on the horizon. Jake went inside and fetched the gasoline. "Trust me," he told me, "this is for the best."

Funnily enough I didn't trust him, but he wouldn't listen. You see Jake thought he'd found a way out. With the credit crunch our house in the country was now worth nothing.

So he came up with an idea. We fake our deaths in a house fire. Two people caught unaware in a forest fire, trapped inside the burning building, burnt to dust. Then our house and, get this, life insurance pays out to our next of kin.

We then transfer the money from Murial's account. Bless her we know all her details and she wouldn't know what had happened. But we'll leave her something behind, to help her out, make things a bit comfier for her.

Then we get fake aliases and throw it all to the wind.

Inspired, I'll give him that, but risky. But then again that's what I've always liked about Jake, his devil may care attitude. I knew he felt the same. And his silhouette in the red light, dancing the gasoline around in the night, made me smile. This was adventure like we'd always dreamed of.

The man in the navy uniform hangs around the village...

The man in the navy uniform hangs around the village. We notice these things. No-one knows who he is. Or where he's staying. But I have a theory.

You see no-one else in the village noticed when more birds appeared behind the forest. I did. I always walk about there, looking for egg shells and old nests. Gathering all the wool the sheep leave on the fences and putting it all at the bottom of the trees to help the birds out. Everyone in the village only cares about the pub and the gossip.

I never really noticed the scarecrow until it was gone. Never really paid it much mind. But now that man's appeared the scarecrow's all I can think about.

I wonder how it happened. Did he see me? Out there where no-one goes.

Making a dress for the princess. The pinnacle of your career...

"Making a dress for the princess. The pinnacle of your career. Oh my dear your mother would be so proud."

"I know she would. But I don't think she'd be happy. You know, I don't really want dress making to be my career."

"Nonsense. With those wonderous hands you'll do no other thing."

"But I like baking. I used to really want to be a baker."

"My dear the decision is completely out of your hands, because as we know those aren't your hands."

"I never wanted this."

"You're lucky the old witch could do what she did you ungrateful child. Happily it turned out the previous owner was quite talented. You think you could have been a baker before? With those hideous...appendages."

"Well, no. But mum used to sometimes let me bake when it was just the two of us. She never minded the flipper--"

"Enough! Don't talk about those horrible things! Do you not think it's already enough of a shame on the family. Your mother, courting that creature."

"He wasn't that bad."

"And what would you know? He scarpered as soon as she was pregnant with you. That knave."

"Mum liked him."

"And a lot of good that did her. No he left, galavanting around the ocean."

"Auntie?"

"...what?"

"Is he still out there somewhere? Do mermen live forever--"

"Enough! Enough! Now you're making this dress for the princess and you should be thankful at least one part of you isn't completely useless. Now I will send for you at six for dinner. Be sure to wear the clothes I picked out for you."

"...yes auntie."

Imprisoned for a crime you didn't commit...

Imprisoned for a crime you didn't commit. Everything's going just as you planned.

After the papers got hold of it I came out one morning to find my dog, Boomer, nailed to the front door. The nails were driven in so deep that in the end, after a failed tearful attempt with a claw hammer, I had to break her neck. Poor old Boomer, raised her from a pup.

I had sacrificed my life. Vicky and the kids moved out on the evening of the trial. All I did that night was sit on the old sofa with my thoughts. Thoughts of him.

The trial had been a media field day. People were sickened by what I hadn't done. All those families. All the work that had gone into framing myself. I didn't deny a thing.

I'm swinging for this crime I didn't do. But that's OK, because that gives me one chance, a five minute window to get Him. I'll be a skeleton in my family's closet for at least two generations. My grandchildren will deny me. But I'll rest easy, swinging freely, having taken my one unstoppable shot at him.

The stories start predicting my future.

The stories start predicting my future. They keep coming true.

If anyone finds this diary I'm done for, a crime novelist has a lot of murders under his belt. I'll be in a padded cell for life, for murder or just being plain crazy. Could make some good headlines.

"The pen mightier than the sword. One man's murderous spree written in blood. See page 3 for full story..." This isn't helping.

It's killing my creativity! My publicist laughed in my face unsurprisingly. He likes my "method writing" - bastard.

But when Officer Shortplank and DI Shiftstick arrived on my doorstep, my stomach sank like a man in the ocean with concrete boots. And I should know, I wrote the murder they were investigating in my last novel, 'The Long Swim'.

John Lilywhite had taken a dive with his new boots courtesy of a local crime cartel. But what could I tell them?!

"Yes officers, it was Barry Lovegood, he lives on 52 Linford Street and his hideout's in warehouse 17 on the Quaynook docks. Oh and he's quite partial to Wine Gums."

Where the hell IS Linford street?!

What do I do diary.....

********

Well diary it's been two weeks since my last entry. Things have definitely picked up,

I won the lottery and moved in with Naomi Campbell. I also got the key to the city for bringing Barry Lovegood to justice. Turns out there actually is a use for that key, but I'm not at liberty to talk about that.

I think next week I'll go sort out all that messy business in Iraq. Penny Crayon hasn't got shit on me.

Anyway, must dash, Naomi wants to eat strawberries off my chest.

You lost track of time...

You lost track of time. The tide's in now, and you're trapped at the lighthouse 'til morning. You look at the sky...there's a storm brewing.

You wish JC was still here. After the crab incident he'd managed to talk his way onto the smuggler's vessel. They had a new shipment of Hello magazine from Cuba or somewhere, contraband in the State. Since the '98 prohibition laws the market in illicit gossip mags had boomed.

But JC had a sharp tongue in his head, keeping on the sweet side of Soap, the captain, wouldn't be hard for him.

You huddle by the lighthouse's huge lamp for warmth until the morning. The wiry old widow would be out at the jetty tomorrow, regular as clockwork. You can trade a lift for an old clipping of OK magazine.

Darla's gonna be pissed though - you promised her dinner again. One day though. One day you'll get that signed Perez Hilton photo and you can finally propose - she'll love it.