Pink Ice Creams by Jo Woolaston - Book Tour
Pink Ice Creams
Intent on fixing her broken marriage and the
alcohol-fuelled catastrophe that is her life, Kay Harris arrives at her grim
and grey holiday let, ready to lay to rest the tragedy that has governed her
entire adulthood – the disappearance of her little brother, Adam.
But the road to recovery is pitted with the
pot-holes of her own poor choices, and it isn’t long before Kay is forced to
accept that maybe she doesn’t deserve the retribution she seeks. Will the
intervention of strangers help her find the answers she needs to move on from
her past, or will she always be stuck on the hard shoulder with no clear view
ahead and a glove box full of empties?
Pink Ice Creams is a tale of loss,
self-destruction, and clinging on to the scraps of the long-lost when everyone
else has given up hope.
Purchase links:
Paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1984168231
Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B07RYX3YWP
Amazon.com:
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1984168231
Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/jowoolaston
Excerpt
Kay’s ‘holiday’ and hopes to
re-build her life are not going exactly to plan. Having discovered that she may
be responsible for putting a man in hospital, she retreats into hiding, the
only straws left for her to clutch at being the standard ‘bottle of something’
and the tin pot advice from her well-meaning but naive best friend ringing in
her ears...
What
should I do, Jen?
Take
mental snapshots of moments at rock bottom and every step on the way up. Make a
scrapbook, a visual aid, each picture a step higher to chart all progress,
however small. Keep the images stored ready to bring out like a slide-show, no
matter how painful, no matter how hard. In difficult times it will show just
how far you’ve progressed and spur you on not to give in. It will help you to
keep going, knowing you are taking a baby step higher each time.
Mental Snapshot No. 5
Click. Rock bottom. This must be how
a fish feels on ice; wide-eyed, open-mouthed, motionless, helpless, waiting for
the mallet to fall. My ice is an acrid puke-stained carpet a foot above the
cold concrete of a hard-standing plot. I have been here before, only a few days
ago, transfixed by a bloody plaster under the cabinet, my cheek stuck to the
floor with vomit, my arms losing their ability to feel, my throat stretched and
sore after purging the contents of my stomach through it. I am equally sickened
and relieved to get back to familiar territory. I am rock bottom. I am a
scumbag, a skank. I am the lowest of the low.
I hit the kerb. Didn’t I?
I hit the kerb on the other side of the junction before I knew a junction had
approached. It can’t be a hit and run. Run implies I was aware of a hit,
running away, fleeing the scene. But I didn’t see him. I didn’t know I had hit
him, I didn’t know I had hit anyone. I had no idea I had knocked someone over
and left them to die in a ditch. And I didn’t know this because I was blind
drunk and have no clear recollection of the incident whatsoever. I remember
taking the car out, I remember hitting the kerb. If it was a kerb.
Should I leave? Or stay
here? Hit and hide. I am a hit and hide driver, a coward, a waste of space, a
low-life. There is still an hour to go before day-break, but the site is
already starting to wake up. There are some people outside, I can hear them, so
if I decide to go then I really have to go right now. But of course I can’t go,
then I really am what they will call me. Why is there so much noise outside, I
can’t think straight. Sshh! Breathe. What should I do Jen? Tell me. Begin the
slide-show.
1.
This is me in the kitchen. I have only just arrived. I am
drinking a donated cup of tea from a mug with a kingfisher motif.
2.
I have stubbed my toe, all my fillings are on view and I look
beautiful.
3.
Suited and booted face down on the bed, with a vinegar soaked
chip wrapper up my jumper. The curtains are open and the car lights are on.
The
car lights are on. I left the car lights on, all night. The battery is dead and
I still haven’t found the car keys. I am going nowhere.
4.
I have a new friend, he has a bandana.
5.
Rock bottom. A fish on ice.
This is not progress, Jen. This is
not bloody progress! It is the opposite, a cup of tea from a stranger to the
lowest of the low in only five steps.
Author
Bio
Jo Woolaston lives in Leicestershire,
England with her extreme noise-making husband and two lovely sons. She tries to
avoid housework and getting a ‘proper job’ by just writing stuff instead -
silly verse, screenplays, shopping lists...
This sometimes works in her favour
(she did well in her MA in TV Scriptwriting, gaining a Best Student award in
Media and Journalism – and has had a few plays produced - that kind of thing)
but mostly it just results in chronic insomnia and desperate tears of
frustration. Pink Ice Creams is her first novel, she hopes you liked it.
Social
Media Links –
Website: https://www.jowoolaston.com
Twitter: @JoWoolaston
0 Comments
Please try not to spam posts with the same comments over and over again. Authors like seeing thoughtful comments about their books, not the same old, "I like the cover" or "sounds good" comments. While that is nice, putting some real thought and effort in is appreciated. Thank you.