The writers club - writer's club? writers' club? - started amicably enough. Geoff (Murder Mysteries and Historical romps) had searched his family tree back to the 1500s. Seranne (interesting name. A story there...) was nervious that we'd fit round the long raised table, with laptops and notepads, etc, and threw the odd curt look at the young couple inhabiting the corner, uninvited, and unaware. Jen set to work, with numerous hand written notes, while Rachel tapped discreetly away on her duck egg blue Huddl; only the second I'd ever seen not forlornly sat on a Tesco back shelf. Non-fiction and fiction mixed over caffeine and vanilla macha tea latte (whatever that is!).

It was the two missing authors that attracted my attention. Why had they not arrived for the meetup(tm)? What plot was brewing? Were they tired out, loving each other on a Sunday morning? Or just two victims of enthusiasm in signing up, then lethargy in coming along? It was the crash, and sounds of splintering safety glass that answered us.