Not content with getting on with the novel, I've started musing on a story. I can't help it if these images pop into my head and demand attention, an airing at least. Here's how it goes so far:
"I stood with the Sabatier knife held above my head like some latter-day Excalibur. The King lay dead at my feet. The King was dead, long live the King!
He had been due to die today anyway, just on a suitably consecrated altar not the kitchen floor."
Somehow, and I'm not sure how, yet. This takes place today in a world in which a form of volkish tradition rose up in the UK and embraced the Celts as a pure race.
I'm still working it through, and it may be too big for a short story, but I like my background to be sound. Already the parallels between the Red Clydesiders in Glasgow and the events in Munich in 1919 are rather astonishing. Glasgow didn't have a Thule Society and nascent National Socialist group fighting back the Communists, that I've found, yet.
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