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A couple of years back I wrote a short story about a Scottish family who, for reasons they don't understand themselves, failed to keep still after death. It was written for a Halowe'en storytelling café at the Gladstone Museum in Stoke on Trent. It's an event that's become a bit of a tradition each October, so last year I found myself needing to come up with another ten-minute diversion with a dusting of family-friendly spookiness. The Glasgow ghosts had served me well in 2015, so I dusted them off with a new story for 2016. And once again, they didn't let me down.
The embarrassing thing is that it's taken me nearly another year to realise that I might have hit gold dust. Like most writers, I find comedy by far the hardest to write, but these guys don't need any help from me. I just drop them in a situation and wait and see what they do. It's more a case of taking notes than actual authorship. So I've just done another one, in which the family has finally acquired a name. They're the Rossmuirs, four of whom can be seen above, in their delightful family crypt. From left to right they're Paw, Granpaw, Wee Tam (who plays the moothie like Lary Adler) and Uncle Wullie.
When Discollection finally hits the bookshelves (it's coming, promise!), the Rossmuirs will feature in at least four stories, but they're so active that it's quite possible they'll end up with their own book.