INTO THE BLACK
Might be English, the words all familiar, but can you translate this sentence so it makes sense?
"It nearly knocked me off my plates—he was wearing a syrup! So I ran up the apples, got straight on the dog to my trouble and said I couldn't believe me mincers."
No clue as to what in the hell that means? You would not be alone. It’s London Cockney Rhyming Slang. Colourful but damn near impenetrable, because rhyme and foreshortening get in on the act. Here’s how it translates:
“It nearly knocked me off my feet—he was wearing a wig! So I ran up the stairs, got straight on the phone to my wife and said I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
Plates = plates of meat = feet
Syrup = syrup of figs = wig
Apples = apple and pears = stairs
Dog = dog and bone = phone
Trouble = trouble and strife = wife
Mincers = mince pies = eyes
So, to help out those travelling to London and wishing to avoid a ‘barney’ (Barney Rubble = trouble, as in fight), I’ve provided a short list of some common rhyming slang phrases to help you out. Enjoy…
Brahms and Liszt = pissed (drunk)
Brown bread = dead
Adam and Eve = believe
Boat = Boat Race = face
Bottle and glass = arse
Bubble Bath = laugh (as in, ‘having a bubble’)
Butcher’s hook = look ( as in, ‘having a butcher’s)
Half inch = to pinch (to steal)
Gypsy’s kiss = to piss
Vera Lynn = gin
Tommy tit = shit (as in, I don’t give a Tommy tit)
Actually, these guys say it better: (Note the credits at the end please). There, now you can travel with some confidence.
Have a favourite phrase you want to share? Add to comments....
My five kids are the stuff of nightmares, their favorite game: Who would you save? It’s not pleasant. I have to decide which of them gets to live or die if, say, they were all drowning simultaneously or, thanks to The Walking Dead, which one of them I’d rescue during the zombie apocalypse.
My stock answer ‘All of you’ (damn their sibling rivalry), breaks the rules, but I don’t care, it’s a horrible game. Though it did seed the idea for my third book Hard to Protect, releasing March 13th via Entangled Publishing, the research leading me an anxious dance through the subject of hysterical/superhuman strength, berserkers and the phrase ‘going postal’.
Anxious dance, because here are just three of the weird and wonderful facts I uncovered:
In 2006, Lydia Angiyou, a slight woman saved several children, including her young son, by wrestling an eight-foot, 700lb polar bear. A mother’s love, or adrenalin? Who knows, who cares—it ended well for Lydia and the children, but not so well for the bear (about which I am sorry—tranquillizer guns before rifles might be the way forward in this gun toting world of ours).
Oh, the trilogy draws to a close with A Different Life, but in Wendy Lou Jones' case, as one door closes another bursts open... I'm going to let Wendy herself provide context and introduction because this is her journey, and its only right that her words are used.
Back cover enticement to A Different Life - A rural romance perfect for fans of Joanna Trollope
Exiled to the country for bad behaviour, what did he expect? Certainly not her. Tristan’s mother is planning one last ditch attempt to reform her son. He is removed to the country where he meets Michelle, or he tries not to. The woman is not worth the shoes on his feet, or so he believes at first, but Michelle has a great deal she can teach him and she doesn’t wait long to start.
‘You mustn’t fall for his charms,’ they said. ‘You will never fit into his life.’
Can she change him enough to have a shot at the dream? Thrust together, these two spark-up a tenuous friendship and so the journey begins.
Buy Links: https://books.pronoun.com/a-different-life/
Wendy Lou Jones was born and raised in West Sussex, in the south of England. At 18, she moved to Birmingham to study Medicine at University, where she was lucky enough to meet her husband. She worked in hospitals, general practice and palliative care before starting a family, at which point she took a step back from medical life to concentrate on being a mum.
She now lives in a little village in Herefordshire with her husband and two grubby boys and discovered a love of writing not long after their youngest son started school. And if you were to ask her what it was that made her make the switch, she would tell you quite simply, that it started with a dream.
Website/Blog – www.wendyloujones.weebly.com
Twitter - @WendyLouWriter - https://twitter.com/WendyLouWriter
Facebook – www.facebook.com/escapeintolove
Email – firstname.lastname@example.org
Pinterest - https://uk.pinterest.com/wendyjonesy21/
about.me – https://about.me/wendyloujones
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6983363.Wendy_Lou_Jones
Youtube - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7fYFRsJ7JAOQE41UUkDpAg
Yes, each title can be read as a thumping good stand-alone book, but your experience of Blackthorn will be so much more compelling, enriching, awesome, if you start with Book 1: Blood Shadows…
What sets Lindsay J Pryor apart:
Best: The characters—but then they have always rocked the Blackthorn series.
Best: The dark, dark atmosphere—sure, you'll want to travel the world of Blackthorn, but only if you’re armed.
Best: Hot heroes—you want to die for.
Best: Smart heroines—you want to be.
Best: Ms. Pryor does not shy away from rough and brutal...and sizzling
Best: Fluid, engaging prose—reading Blackthorn is kind of a hologram experience, with the action/characters/settings playing out in 3D, right in front of you.
Worst: Bastard cliffhangers…having to wait for the next book in the series.
Now, because this post is keeping me from finishing Blood Bound I’ll leave you to go find your wallet so you can buy—no, invest, in the entire Blackthorn series. But, because I’m a helpful soul (and I empathize with those of you who are nosier (more curious) that cats in a maze, I've provided some key links you can follow to find all you need on Ms Pryor: Buy links, Biography, Q&As (worth reading, Lindsay’s journey as a writer is enthralling), Interviews etc.
Eve Devon's Heart of Steel is a terrific romantic suspense read. When the prose is good (and it is), as a reader you submerge into the heart of the story, and a pretty bloody fine story it is. Enjoy.
Blurb: Heart of Steel, Steel Hawk, Book 2
Colleague, friend, lover…beautiful liar?
Adam Steel is in crisis mode. A recent exposé claims a founder of Steel Hawk was actually The Raven, an infamous jewel thief. Amid the ensuing damage control, all eyes are on his ability to develop a prototype to secure and protect the royal Pasha Star diamond.
He’s further blindsided when he learns his assistant, Honeysuckle Hawk, has a sordid past he never knew about. Proving he never really knew her, never should have trusted her, and definitely shouldn’t start falling for her.
With her dirty laundry flapping in the media storm, Honeysuckle’s first instinct is to run. Two things make her stay: Adam’s insistence it’s better to show the world a united front, and her heart’s insistence by his side is where she belongs.
High stakes and long hours ignite passion…until the diamond is stolen and Adam’s own prototype shows Honeysuckle is a thief. Dare he trust her to help him expose the real criminal—before the mastermind wreaks havoc on the royal family?
Warning: Contains an über-hot, alpha-geek who’s good with his hands, a sassy reformed-rebel determined to prove she’s not a flake, romantic castles, gorgeous jewels, sleek and sexy technology, heart-pounding suspense…oh, and nipple tassels!
Picking up his cup, he took a sip without even glancing at it, expecting the much-needed burst of dark-roasted coffee bean on his tongue and instead got…mush. “Honeysuckle,” he bellowed, holding up a hand to Edward to ask him to wait to speak again.
Honeysuckle cracked open his office door, an innocent expression on her face.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, pointing to the mug as if it were alive.
“It’s a protein shake.”
“A protein shake?”
Edward snorted, and Adam offered up his death glare. To his personal assistant, he demanded, “Do I look like the kind of guy who needs a protein shake to take a meeting?” knowing damn well he didn’t and thinking, if she did leave, he definitely wouldn’t miss the disgusting concoctions she seemed to delight in making especially for him.
“Did you have dinner last night?” she asked.
“Yes, I had dinner, last—” Wait, had he? He’d gotten so involved with working on his prototype, he couldn’t actually remember.
Honeysuckle gave him an extra-patient “uh-huh” and added, “Drink up. Then you get the coffee,” before closing the office door behind her.
Adam stood, picked up the mug, and emptied the entire contents into his ficus plant, muttering, “I’m seriously thinking about firing her.”
“Word around the office,” Edward interjected, “is she’s already resigned. Although I have to say, I’m not totally surprised if you can’t be trusted to remember the basics, like feeding yourself.”
“Funny guy,” Adam muttered and then settled himself back behind his desk. “So what were you going to say before she tried to poison me?”
Edward sobered and glanced at the door. “About the book that’s coming out—most of it is dedicated to Nathaniel Hawk with extra material about many of the Hawks who came after.” Edward’s hand came up to smooth his tie. “Apparently, there’s an entire section dedicated to Honeysuckle. Complete with photographs.”
“Honeysuckle?” Why the hell would Honeysuckle be in anyone’s book? Okay, the Steels and Hawks were known in San Francisco as being from a particular social set. Sometimes a certain lifestyle came with that money, but… Oh. “Look, if there are a couple of photographs of her coming out of a club, maybe a little drunk—”
“Oh, there are definitely photographs of her coming out of a club. She’s not drunk, though. She’s in costume. For her job. As a burlesque dancer.”
Adam blinked, frowned, and possibly did some blinking again. He’d never know, because he was pretty certain he’d just fried something in his brain. “Excuse me?”
“Burlesque. You know, dancing, hardly any clothes, then, even fewer clothes—”
Yeah, that was what he’d thought he’d said. “Give me your coffee.”
“Give me your damn coffee,” Adam said, then reached over, picked up Edward’s cup, and drank the entire contents down in three gulps. Damn it to hell, turned out he had never, he realized, never, actually, known anything about his assistant at all. The burning sensation in his mouth did absolutely nothing to temper the heat coursing through him as the Honeysuckle from his dream walked center stage into his head, winked, and blew him a kiss from behind an ostrich-feather fan.
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Eve Devon writes sexy heroes, sassy heroines, and happily ever afters…
Growing up in locations like Botswana and Venezuela gave Eve a taste for adventure and her love for romances began when her mother shoved one into her hands in a desperate attempt to keep her quiet during TV coverage of the Wimbledon tennis finals!
When she wasn’t consuming books by the bucket-load, she could be found pretending to be a damsel in distress or running around solving mysteries and writing down her adventures. As a teenager, Eve rewrote countless episodes of TV detective dramas so that the hero and heroine would end up together every week. As an adult, still hooked on romance and mysteries, she worked in a library to conveniently continue reading books by the bucket-load, until realising she herself was destined to write contemporary romance and romantic suspense.
She lives in leafy Surrey in the UK, a book-devouring, slightly melodramatic, romance-writing sassy heroine with her very own sexy-hero husband.
Where you can find her:
WEBSITE TWITTER FACEBOOK GOODREADS
Callan Baird used to laugh more than he frowned, but that was before his wife died. Now his life is duty, debts and a general apathy for anything else. And then Victoria Burke burst into his life. She's everything he wants to corrupt.
Victoria has two choices: agree to a grouchy, sexy Scotsman's extortion or call her boss to explain why she can't do her job. Since she's spent the last three years rebuilding her career as antique appraiser, and this one commission could make or break it, the decision is a no-brainer. Except everything about Callan is complicated.
He sees no problem turning their work relationship into a sexual one. She refuses to break her boss' no-fraternization rule. He's the one thing she wants and the one thing she can't have. He's had his one great love, and doesn't want a replacement. His heart doesn't agree, because she's everything he desires.
Callan will have to let go of his past if he wants Victoria to be in his future.
“Someone told me recently there are always strings attached when dealing with a Baird.”
He wished he could like her less for throwing his words back at him. Callan inhaled and let his attention wander away from her intense stare. The sky had darkened and that promised a harder rain than a drizzle. Normally, he'd have welcomed it, but not when the soft sunlight almost turned her eyes amber.
This entire situation would be better if he could just not like her. “I'd break your heart before I'd ask you to give your everything to me. Your work is your everything. That much is obvious. The truth is, I don't want to want you.”
Surprised lifted her brows for a second. She jerked her hands from her pockets and motioned between them. “I've noticed you keep getting closer despite that.”
He blanked his expression. “I don't want you to wonder about size.”
She glanced down and scoffed. “About four inches between us. After all your big talk, I expected to find out why Scottish men wear kilts. Can't fit it all in pants, can they?”
Amazed that she could make him blush, all he could do was shake his head. “You are a Scot at heart. You dirty-mouthed lass.”
“Bollocks.” Her dimple deepened.
Instinct propelled his movements, just bypassed his brain and signaled his body. He grabbed her and dragged her up against him, to his mouth. Claim her. Even before he'd known the true taste of grief—bitter and unyielding, unending—he'd never wanted to make a woman his, but Victoria...
Callan wanted to taste what made her different, let it sink into his bones and make a home. He wanted to lay claim to that part of her and do with it what he willed. He teetered on the edge of taking her on his uncle's porch. Kissing her was giving in to the need that rushed through his veins.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and sank into his embrace with a moan. At her submission, Callan lost what was left of his common sense. He turned, pushed her against the door and let the need take over. He cupped one full cheek of her arse and pressed her against his cock. There. She could feel every inch.
Melissa Blue’s writing career started on a typewriter one month after her son was born. This would have been an idyllic situation for a writer if it had been 1985, not 2004. Eventually she upgraded to a computer. She’s still typing away on the same computer, making imaginary people fall in love.
Where to find me online:
Barnes and Noble
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I'm delighted to be hosting the delicious Tracey Rogers and her scrumptious new release Dating in the Dark. So with little point in me waffling on I'm going to hand straight over to her:
Can you find what you need hidden within the dark?
Hiding out in his sister's bakery to recover from a recent injury isn't an ideal solution for newly unemployed meteorologist Damian Trent. Especially since he doesn't like cake. But hiding anywhere is preferable to facing the media frenzy revolving around his life. He has no intention of being seen by anyone. That is, until he hears a honey-toned voice over the phone.
Public relations agent Sophie Rose has a boss who makes her working week a hellish one. He drives her to her need for sugar, so the recently opened Sweet Delights Bakery is perfect for her much needed Friday treat. But one day when she calls to place an order, she gets an unexpected surprise.
Sophie's keen to dump her V-plates, though only the right man will do. Damian, with his sexy, yet familiar sounding voice, seems the ideal person for her to gain some much needed experience with. But why do they need to date in the dark?
Content Warning: contains sensual sex
Buy links: Amazon | AmazonUK | B&N
Damian rested his arm across his forehead and sighed, trying to blot out the ringing sound and failing. Sleep wasn't happening. He ached from his walk after pushing it to a run. With each step he'd remembered Sophie's voice. He had very little else to occupy his mind, so she was an easy focus. Every stride had gathered pace, and before he knew it a walk had become a jog; a jog becoming a run.
And her voice was still inside his head.
Stretching out on the creaky sofa bed, he winced at the movement. Irritated, he tugged the sheet down from his bare chest to lean over and grab the phone. He placed it to his ear and muttered something unintelligible.
"Hi, sorry—did I wake you?"
"Sophie?" Or was he asleep and dreaming?
"Oh, crap. I did, didn't I? I'm so sorry. I couldn't sleep, so I thought… Anyway, my apologies. Pretend it never happened, and goodnight," she said, speeding over her words.
"Sophie, wait!" he called out, wanting to stop her before she hung up, needing to listen to her voice for a little while longer. "I couldn't sleep either," he reassured her as he heard her soft breaths. He shuffled higher against his pillow and propped one hand behind his head. Why couldn't she sleep? Because of him? And how had she gotten his number?
"Really?" Her relieved sigh made him smile. If he wasn't careful, smiling could become a habit of his. "When you left your number in the box, I thought…"
Left his number? He had no idea what his number was.
"What did you think?"
"I thought you might want me to call?" she asked hesitantly, as if she was worried about his response. She wouldn't be worried if she could see the stirring going on beneath the sheet. Or maybe she would be? Though she seemed confident, he still detected a shyness behind her words.
"And did you want to call?"
His jaw clenched at her immediate response, a muscle flickering in his cheek. Interesting. Her honesty was evoking things inside that he was starting to like. A lot.
"I like hearing your voice."
Christ, what was she doing to him?
"What do you look like?" he asked, without thinking about the repercussions of his question.
"Does that matter?" she said quietly, the warmth in her tone dropping a degree or two.
"No, no it doesn't." He frowned, the admission taking him by surprise. "Tell me what you're wearing instead."
"Because if you don't tell me you're wearing something hideous, I won't be sleeping for the rest of the night either."
She laughed then, the sound not helping his libido whatsoever. "Damian."
"I'm not wearing anything hideous." He groaned then, obviously out loud because Sophie was laughing again. "I'm not wearing anything."
Oh, hell. A sudden spike of desire sliced through his veins, making him regret his impulsive words. "Then I'm now very grateful I don't know what you look like."
"You could. Know what I look like I mean."
"You want to tell me now?"
"No. I want to show you. On a…date?"
Damian lifted a hand to his face, massaging his fingers above his brow, then lower to scrub over his jaw. His breath felt restricted by his tightening lungs. As much as he wanted to see her, to touch her, to have someone touch him in a way that wasn't clinical or trying to fix him—he couldn't do it. How could he see her, without her seeing him?
Ah ha, my turn to insert a bit. Before I pass forward to her official author bio, here are a few things you should know about Tracey:
Usually found with a pen in my hand, or my head in a book, I’m a contemporary romance author who also thinks fangs and wings are a very attractive accessory.
A devourer of books from an early age, imagination was my best discovery. I spent much of my childhood stepping into wardrobes, searching for that magical snowy world where conversing with animals would be expected. When I wasn’t searching for those worlds, I wrote about them instead. My first step into the world of romance was when I stole sneak peeks into my nana’s books. I’m still in that world and I refuse to leave.
I live in Staffordshire, UK, with my husband and three wonderful children. An avid reader and writer of romance, I strongly believe that words make the world go around. I like nothing more than to be swept away by the words on a page. I hope I can sweep you away too.
I love to hear from readers! You can find me here:
Blog - http://traceyrogers.com/
Twitter - https://twitter.com/TraceRbookworm
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Tracey-Rogers-Author/197643867052117?ref=hl
Email – email@example.com
Well, that's a bit dramatic but it's still a fact. Facebook suspended my Incy Black account and insisted I provide my 'legal' name with a demand for evidence (passport ID etc), with which I duly complied to unlock my account. Hence, I'm now forced to comment as Lindsey Hughes, something I view as a gross violation of the right to be who I want to be.
My friends know me as Incy Black. That is who I am. On-LIne.
Off-line, I am known as Mum/Mummy/Ma by my children, and Lindsey Hughes by employers. Neither party necessarily wishes to be associated with Incy Black or the books I write, anymore than they would wish to know my cup size or colour of my knickers. I did not adopt a pen name for want of secrecy but more out of respect... A little distance can be healthy, not for me, but for them. I write about sick-freak killers, hot heroes (with questionable morals) who bed feisty heroines, I write about damaged people... Who the hell would want that as an association or endorsement? My kids certainly don't.
Respect, Facebook, show a little! Monitor content not names, because it is abusive content that hurts and offends and should be guarded against, not the use of pseudonyms. You employ sufficient brain-power to track those who offend back to their 'legal' identity, so write an algorithm for that and sanction accordingly, rather than stooping to bullying under the guise of 'integrity'. Incidentally, I see little integrity in making your complaint procedure so damn difficult to access. Provide a email which it doesn't take 20 minutes to find...and respond. Please, please respond!
I don't have any objection to you leveraging ad revenue, Facebook, we all have to make a living, but let's not kid ourselves as to who is the bigger pretender here. You or me.
A good number of writers/authors could be caught in this identity net but don't panic yet. Think of the fun we shall have when we hold a Facebook party to celebrate our outing.
Final score in the integrity stakes.... FACEBOOK: 0 INDIVIDUALS: (Sorry, no one can count that high)
Hard Men the Hard Way