My author just finished reading enter a murderer   by Ngaio Marsh.
He really liked it. He also likes Margery Allingham and Michael Innes. I wonder if the novel he’s writing about me will be a murder mystery too. That would be okay. So long as I wasn’t the one murdered.

This is ridiculous. I was born in 2001, but because I am a work of fiction all my knowledge is based on what my author (who is 35 years older than me!) read. Hence my two pets (Barker the dog and Corbett the cat) are named after The Two Ronnies, a comedy duo from the dawn of time who no self-respecting teenager today has ever heard of. And now I am being forced to imbibe detective fiction from the first half of the Twentieth Century!!!

My author also saw The Real Thing at the New Theatre. It wasn’t a murder mystery, but the characters all worked in the theatre just like the characters in Enter a Murderer. Maybe my character will be in a play.  I’d like to be in a play. I wonder if he knows that?

Tonight my brother and I watched the latest Dr Who, in which Clara died. I don’t think she’s really dead, but Blair does. If it says “…to be continued”, I reckon it means it’s unfinished, and you don’t have a major character die half way through a story unless you’re Alfred Hitchcock.

There I go again! I should never have even have heard of Alfred Hitchcock! What kind of fourteen-year-old am I?

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