Two new discoveries...

1. It's great to see publishers showing the love for the short story and my new favourite is Harper Perennial whose site, www.fiftytwostories.com, delivers one short a week, free.

2. You know something's in trouble when it's deemed worthy of its own charity. The short story, by some people's reckoning, is endangered but thankfully through www.one-story.com - a nonprofit 501 (3)(c) - you can have a short story posted to you by snail mail every three weeks. Great for junkies like me who need a constant supply and don't much like reading shorts online.

The best thing about both these publishers, is they take submissions from just about anybody...

Subscribe to both these sites folks (see links) and get your regular diet of shorts started.

A Tense Moment

As a writer, one of the creative choices I've found hardest to make is which tense to use.

I'm trying to finish a story I began sometime ago that has been sitting around for too long. The Perfect Lodger began as a first person past but following the first overhaul, this changed to third person past. Now I'm trying to decide if it would, in fact, be better told using third person present...

If anyone's reading this, I'd be grateful if you could read the following openers and tell me which works best. Is one more engaging than the other? Or, do you think the story might be better off as first person?! VOTE NOW - it's over to you.

Option A:

“The seaside,” Lola said. “I want to go to the seaside.”

Having mistaken Saturday for a school day, Lola was dressed too early and she sat at the kitchen table, scowling into her pastel-coloured cereal with a ferocity that could have boiled the milk. Her ears, which poked through her lank black hair, were bright red.

Her mother squealed, clapped her hands together and sang, “We’re off to the seaside!” over and over. Kerry, her thick hair tied back in a bunch of curly brown twigs still frayed with sleep, was still in her pink-hearted pyjamas and fluffy grey slippers, like two chinchillas squashed by the soles of her feet.

On the other side of the kitchen Carla was sawing through a fat log of fresh bread. She had been fooled into her suit by Lola who had knocked on her door at 8am needing help putting her school uniform on the right side out. Carla had been wardrobe mistress since Monday when, in the aftermath of a cataclysmic fall-out, Kerry lay buried beneath her duvet while Lola sheltered under an occasional table. It had been left to Carla to coax the child out, dry her eyes, get her dressed, pack her lunch and walk her to school.

Unable to endure the punishment any longer, a day out of Lola’s choosing was Kerry’s latest peace offering. The month before, it had been a pair of rabbits. They were never allowed in the garden but given the run of the hallway, showing their boredom by stripping off the first half-foot of wallpaper, nibbling the skirting boards and scattering little brown balls across the lino. Carla had kept a dustpan by her door and a stoic silence, but ranted about the situation to her colleagues who agreed with her: Lola was one spoiled brat.

Option B:

“The seaside,” Lola says. “I want to go to the seaside.”

Having mistaken Saturday for a school day, Lola is dressed too early and sits at the kitchen table, scowling into her pastel-coloured cereal with a ferocity that could boil the milk. Her ears, which poke through her lank black hair, are bright red.

Her mother, sitting opposite, is delighted and begins to sing, “We’re off to the seaside!” over and over. Kerry’s thick hair is tied back into a bunch of curly brown twigs and she’s still in her pink-hearted pyjamas and fluffy grey slippers, like two chinchillas squashed by the soles of her feet.

On the other side of the kitchen Carla saws through a fat log of fresh bread. She is also dressed, fooled into her suit by Lola who had needed her help putting on her school uniform on the right side out. Carla had been wardrobe mistress since Monday when, in the aftermath of a cataclysmic fall-out, Kerry lay buried beneath her duvet while Lola sheltered under an occasional table. It was left to Carla to coax the child out, dry her eyes, get her dressed, pack her lunch and walk her to school.

Unable to endure the punishment any longer, a day out of Lola’s choosing is Kerry’s latest peace offering. The month before, it had been a pair of rabbits. They aren’t allowed in the garden but are given the run of the hallway and show their boredom by stripping off the first half-foot of wallpaper, nibbling the skirting boards and scattering little brown balls across the lino. Carla keeps a dustpan by her door and a stoic silence, but often rants about the situation to her colleagues who agree with her: Lola is one spoiled brat.

Truth is funnier than fiction

The following hilarious excerpt from a genuine debate in the UK's House of Lords shows why fiction is so damn difficult. No writer could make up either this dialogue or these names...

The Chairman of Committees (Lord Brabazon of Tara): My Lords, the administration is fully aware of the problem with mice in the Palace of Westminster and is taking all appropriate measures to minimise their numbers. We retain the services of an independent pest control consultant and a full-time pest controller. The current focus is on poisoning and trapping, blocking of mouse access points, and more frequent cleaning of bars and restaurants to remove food debris. This programme was intensified over the February Recess and fewer sightings of mice have been reported since.

Baroness Finlay of Llandaff: I thank the noble Lord for his reply. How many calls have there been to the mouse helpline? Has the accuracy of that information been checked, given that the staff report seeing mice on a daily basis at the moment in the eating areas? Has consideration been given to having hypoallergenic cats on the estate, given the history? Miss Wilson, when she was a resident superintendent in this Palace, had a cat that apparently caught up to 60 mice a night. The corpses were then swept up in the morning. Finally, does the noble Lord recognise the fire hazard that mice pose, because they eat through insulating cables? It would be a tragedy for this beautiful Palace to burn down for lack of a cat.

The Chairman: My Lords, there are a number of questions there. I cannot give an answer to the number of calls made to the mouse helpline-if that is its title. I suspect that it would not be a good use of resources to count them up. But I am well aware of the problem of mice, as I said in my Answer. It is something that we take seriously.

As for getting a cat, I answered a Question from the noble Lord, Lord Elton, last week on this matter. I was not aware that such a thing as a hypoallergenic cat existed-I do not know whether our cat at home is one of those. There are a number of reasons why it is not a good idea to have cats. First, they would ingest mouse poison when eating poisoned mice, which would not be very nice for them, and there would be nothing to keep them where they are needed or stop them walking around the House on desks in offices or on tables in restaurants and bars-and maybe even in the Chamber itself. Therefore, we have ruled out at this stage the possibility of acquiring a cat, or cats.

Lord Bradshaw: I have spoken continually to the staff in the eating places in the House and I acknowledge that there has been some diminution in the number of mice around. But could I press the noble Lord, because further action needs to be taken? I know that this is an old building, but mice are still here and we are talking about places where food is served. I have no magic solution, but perhaps the consultant who is being employed might have some answers.

The Chairman: My Lords, I am well aware that there are still mice around. I saw one in the Bishops' Bar only yesterday evening. I do not know whether it was the same one that I saw the day before or a different one; it is always difficult to tell the difference between the various mice that one sees. We believe that the problem is getting better. Cleaning is one of the measures we are taking, as I outlined in my original Answer. As I speak here this afternoon, the Bishops' Bar and the Guest Room are being hoovered, so we can get rid of the food scraps from lunch. If you were a mouse, you would rather eat the crumbs of a smoked salmon sandwich than the bait. Therefore, we want to remove the crumbs as quickly as possible.

Lord Pilkington of Oxenford: Why should I and noble Lords trust the Executive to deal with mice when they cannot deal with the economy?

The Chairman: My Lords, I do not actually deal with the economy. I am glad to say that that would be above my pay grade, whereas trying to deal with the mice is probably just about right for me.

Baroness Symons of Vernham Dean: My Lords, I was in total ignorance that there was anything of the nature of a mouse helpline until this Question Time. Can the Chairman of Committees tell us what helplines there are for Members of the House on other issues that we do not know about?

The Chairman: I rather hope that we do not have too many other ones. I was not going to advertise the existence of the mouse helpline, although it was advertised some time ago. Indeed, I invited Members of the House to telephone when they saw mice. The trouble is that when the person at the other end of the helpline goes to check this out, very often the mouse has gone elsewhere...