We went into Manchester yesterday to stroll around in some rare sunshine. As always, we passed the Manchester Wheel. "Shall we go on that?" I asked. Nick looked at me in that way he has and said, "You know what you're like..."
Yes, I know what I'm like.
As
a child, I begged my dad to take me on a ferris wheel. As soon as we
were on the thing and it started moving, terror struck and I was
hysterical.
A few years ago, Nick and I went to
Bulgaria and I decided it would be great fun to go on a chair lift that
had been built by Russians in the 1940s and didn't look as if anyone had
bothered to check a nut or bolt since. "It'll be brilliant," I told
Nick.
Oh. My. God.
For the twenty
long (very long) minutes that chair lift took, I was terrified. There
was a stunning view of the mountains apparently. I wouldn't know because
my eyes were shut. Fortunately, when you finally get to the end, a
burly Bulgarian hauls you out of the chair. Lucky for me because my
hands had gripped the flimsy rail that kept you in your seat so tightly
that my arms were immobile. I still feel sick when I think about it.
I'm
slowly beginning to learn that if I think something will be great fun,
it probably won't. So we didn't go on the Manchester Wheel. I had a huge
ice cream instead.
Today, I'm disappearing into the
edit cave. Yes, I have the edits for Silent Witness, the third Dylan
Scott mystery, which is due to be published in March 2012. I'd better
get my brain into gear.