I am currently working on my third novel (working title The Virgin of the Hen House) whose main character, Ruth, is unmarried and pregnant, and staying with her identical twin uncles who are into (respectively) taxidermy and disproving the veracity of the story of Noah's Ark. Things are complicated by the unwelcome appearance of a miraculous manifestation on the wall of the hen house, and by Ruth's desperate search for Amos, the father of her baby. Meanwhile, the marriage of Ruth's parents gets into difficulties, and this compounds the complications of what is turning out to be a very difficult nine months.

PROLOGUE

My Uncle Eric is telephoning the zoo to ask how many Thompson's gazelles a lion can eat in a fortnight.

Uncle Silas is stuffing a weasel on the kitchen table by candlelight (we have a power cut).

A respectful knock at the front door heralds the arrival of yet another minibus full of pilgrims hoping for a miracle.

Outside it is raining - a typical, nasty, dank November drizzle - and a piglet is trying to get in through the cat flap.

In the midst of all this, I am trying to cobble together something for our supper (the weasel is being prepared for posterity rather than for consumption).

I pause to take stock.

Six months ago, I had a regular job, a monthly salary and a comfortable flat to go home to.

How on earth have I got into all this?

Want to know more? Then watch this space!