Ding Dong Bluebell


There’s nothing like a walk through the woods to stoke imagination’s engines. I went in hope of bluebells because I live in hope of bluebells even in October, so I’m hell come mid-April. I should have it as my epitaph (makes note in will):
“She lived in hope of bluebells.”
Bluebells were denied me, but a new and fabulously exciting idea shuffled across the brain lane instead, somewhere between “Where are the bloody bluebells?” and “That’s an astonishing fact about magnolias, I must remember it and tweet it soonest”, and the idea is THIS.
… …
Ah. Mustn’t blog it yet because there’s nothing more annoying for readers than to have an author say WOW I’ve just had the best idea EVER and it involves animals and spies and feisty girls and mysterious men in black and dogs of indeterminate breed and it’s all roiling around in my head like a marvellous Scotch broth of incomprehensible pasta and ill-thought-out root vegetables and makes no sense to anyone but me. So I shall hold off on the details and merely offer you this little crouton of loveliness: my working title is the most ace acronym ever conceived while walking past a grey lag goose.
If you want the magnolia fact you’ll have to follow my Twitter account. Here’s a good bluebell one to tide you over.
Bluebell bulbs were once used to make book glue, as the toxins killed silverfish and other book-eating insects.
If it weren’t for the native British bluebell (don’t get me started on the unscented Spanish ones), I wouldn’t be writing today, because the whole concept of books and libraries would have been killed stone dead halfway through the Middle Ages and all we’d have to show for the work of those ink-stained monks of yore would be pestilential swarms of VERY FAT BUGS.

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