I’m working on an idea that revolves around a city at night. I’ve always been fascinated by the night. As a periodic insomniac, I spend more time than most with my eyes open.

It’s not a recent thing. I’ve always had a strange relationship with the night-time.

At the moment, I’m in the process of writing a serial. The idea has intrigued me for a while.

I keep hearing people say that serials are an ideal form for the modern reader. Their thinking seems to be based on the idea that reading on phones, tablets and e-readers encourages two things:

Pressure is increasing on writers to be more marketing savvy than ever. So where’s the line between creativity and business? Is there one any longer?

I thought I’d take a light-hearted look at the difference between being an artist and being a brand. No harm is intended to artists, brands, or anything in-between.

I’ve been following the Lance Armstrong story for a while now. It’s mainly a professional interest - research for one of my mysteries, set in the world of professional cycling. But I thought I’d share what I think is the most illuminating aspect of the drama – that our reactions to the story say as much about us as they do about Lance Armstrong.

I’ve noticed that people who comment on the issue, their attitudes and their opinions, fit into commonly recurring categories. So here they are. Which one are you?

My favourite place to read is in the bath. It always has been. I remember, as a child, reclining in the tub,  picking up my book (usually a Sherlock Holmes mystery back then) and reading for ages, until the water temperature chilled my wrinkled toes. Even now, nothing beats it.

But I have a problem.

I think it was a deeply-held dread of weddings that led me to the idea for my latest novel ‘Vows to Kill’. It’s the only way I can explain it.

I realised I had a problem when I attended one of my best friend’s weddings last year. It was ridiculously, magnificently, irredeemably perfect. I sat there very moved. But I was also, at the same time, strangely detached from events.

‘Help me,’ she said.

I hadn't noticed her sit down next to me in the cafe, that cold, dark and wet November afternoon. I was lost in the maze of my thoughts. At first, I wasn’t sure that she was speaking to me.

‘Help me,’ she said again. She was calm, measured, but insistent. When I turned to her, she wore a smile. It somewhat softened the demanding tone of her statement.

‘Excuse me?’ I replied.

‘Help me.’