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Dead medium by Peter John

May Elizabeth Trump disliked the company of others and death did little to warm her spirit. With a dead cat her only companion, she roamed the living world trying to come to terms with her new condition. Her path crossed that of another of the newly departed. Penny Saunders needed May's help and May was in a unique position to offer it. For she was a Dead Medium; a ghost with the power to speak with the living and her services were to become in great demand.

Spirits with long awaiting messages were not the only ones to take an interest in May's activities. Something dark was lurking in the shadows, stalking her. Even the dead are not left to rest in peace.

A humorous, character driven story and a unique vision of life after death.

Website & Home to The Trump Diary http://deadmediumpeterjohn.webs.com/

Available on Amazon Kindle http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dead-Medium-ebook/dp/B00AZ0Y7BI http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Medium-ebook/dp/B00AZ0Y7BI
Amazon Paperback http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Medium-Peter-John/dp/1481879103 http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dead-Medium-Peter-John/dp/1481879103
Barnes & Noble Paperback http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dead-medium-peter-john/1114188423?ean=9781481879101

The Diary Of May Elizabeth Trump

The Trump Diary

The Trump Diary was discovered in the house of the late Miss May Elizabeth Trump by a serving police officer, whose identity shall remain secret. The officer claims to have found the diary in the master bedroom, tucked under the dressing table shortly after Miss Trump's death. We have managed to secure exclusive access to the contents of this diary and will be posting extracts here periodically.

Tuesday May 1st:

Margaret has only just left. She stayed longer that usual which has now put me behind on my chores. She ate all my bakewells and I'm down to my last half pint of milk. The silly mare kept asking me how I am feeling as if there was something wrong with me. Quiet she called me; of course I was quiet. I could barely get a word in even if I wanted to, which I didn't. It's not like I had the remotest interest in the conversation any way. What do I care about the spring fair and what Mr Wilkins got up to behind the coconut shire, though I must agree that it filled me with disgust to hear it. All the same, I wouldn't advise him to try the same during the winter festival, not with the way the wind howls across the heath at that time of year.

Wednesday May 2nd:

I've just got back from Gracie's; there was only a slither of milk left in the bottle this morning and Mr Kibbles had run out of cat food. The number 46 bus was crowded and I saw that Mrs Wiggins again, odd woman that she is, she waved and I did my best to ignore her. When I was walking up the bread aisle I saw that strange red haired lady that Margaret's always talking about. She was talking to Mr Poise the shop owner, who was vigorously waving a hair net at her. She didn't look too pleased and I was glad that I didn't need to buy cheese on this occasion.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I almost cried this evening; the stupid old mare that I am. Why did I buy cat food? Mr Kibbles has been dead for years.

Thursday May 3rd:

I took the cat food back to Gracie's this morning. It was the boy working the tills as Mr Poise was unavailable; I guess he was too busy dealing with the local paper and that story they printed about his hairy coleslaw. I was a little embarrassed still, not that I made an announcement of it, which was why I didn't argue when he refused to give me my money back. The store credit was good enough as I needed teabags anyway.
The tea is always in the same aisle as the coffee and I discovered something rather odd while I was there. Mocha? Now what's that all about? It would seem they have decided to mix coffee with hot chocolate for some strange reason. I can't make sense of it; why would they do such a thing? Coffee is predominantly a morning drink and hot chocolate is designed to be consumed last thing at night, so what time in the frickin day are you supposed to drink mocha?

Friday May 4th:

Mostly housework today, in-between the usual soap operas and the Colin Farley Show. Margaret called and started to tell me about how they seemed to have made a connection to the spirit world last night. I told her to stop talking stupid and that I was disappointed that she would even consider that I would be interested to such rubbish. I told her that dead was dead and it seemed to upset her some what. She didn't much like it when I told her that she was gullible and easily lead either. Connection to the spirit world indeed! The only spirits they connected with last night came in a bottle.

Saturday May 5th:

Juvenile delinquents! I'm not going let this go lightly. I'm not as steady on my feet as I used to be and they nearly had me over. These kids need a firm hand and plenty of it. Constable Davis wasn't much use either; all he could offer me were apologies and excuses.
"I'm sorry Miss Trump but by the time I reached the scene they were long gone and without any evidence, we can't do very much I'm afraid".
"No evidence!" I had replied in my least friendly voice. "I nearly had a tyre print tattoo embossed across me; should I stand my ground next time just to give you your precious evidence?" I'm not letting it lie with just that, I can tell you. I am going to pen a letter to the police commissioner about this. Bicycles shouldn't be allowed in the shopping precinct. It's a pedestrian area only and it states it quite clearly for all to see. There are no excuses I want the full force of the law brought down on these cretins. They are a danger to society and people are getting hurt; my toe still aches from where I caught it on his training wheel.

Sunday May 6th:

Stayed indoors all day writing letters of complaint. One to the police commissioner, my toe still aches, and one to the manufacturer of my favourite confectionery. It has come to my attention that they have started to produce 'Lemon Bakewell Slices' and Mr Poise has seen fit to stock them at Gracie's. Lemon? Why mess with the classic cherry flavour. It's a slippery slope you mark my words and there's no telling where it end. Before you know it there will be broccoli flavoured Swiss rolls and doughnuts filled with bacon fat. Some things are just fine the way they are; Bakewells are cherry flavoured and that's just the way it is. I've been eating them all my adult life and they've never done me any harm.

Monday May 7th:

The number 46 was late yet again. I do hate having to travel by bus but it's my only way of getting around these days. I'm too old to ride a bicycle, not that I would ever consider riding it through a pedestrian area. I have yet to receive a reply from the police commissioner and the letter should have arrived by today, I sent it via first class after all.
The bus driver pulled away before I could find a seat and I stumbled into a man dressed in grubby overalls. The man apologised, as he should have, but mere words won't pay the dry cleaning bill for my coat now will it! The bus driver said nothing, he had a face like thunder and it was obvious that his feet were made of concrete; even once I was seated I had to hold on tight just to preserve my dignity. I have a good mind to complain to the bus company and not only about the driver either.
There were a group of noisy teenagers monopolizing the rear seats. They were sat right at the back and had their feet up on the seats facing them.
"People have to sit there," I shouted at them. With the noise of the engine and whatever racket they were listening to through their headphones, I don't reckon they heard me.
They were pushing each other around and one even fell into the aisle at one point. Then I saw one of them pull out a black marker pen and start writing on the window. I was shocked I can tell you! A blatant criminal offence was being committed right before my eyes and nobody seemed willing to do a thing about it. I would have marched down the bus myself had it not been swaying back and forth, like a tall ship on rough seas, every time we hit a bend in the road. I had to just sit there and stomach it, as the young cretinous beast scrawled obscenities on the side of the bus. I t was disgusting behaviour; he didn't even spell 'Frickin' right either.
 

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Peter -----------------------

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I'll add it to my to read list!
 
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