I’ve settled into a fantastic flat in London’s Pimlico district. The new novel takes place at the end of the 19th century, so I’m renting a place that was built in 1880. It’s got lots of the original décor, including lovely tall French windows from which one can watch gloomy clouds and perennial rain, and a high ceiling in the parlor. A much better ambiance to write a Gothic novel than sunny L. A.
My first night out on the town was intended to be a distinctly un-Victorian experience. My great friend Alex, reigning prince of jazz-fusion guitar in England, invited me to go with him to judge a music contest at a club in Balham. After hearing some fantastic music and a indulging in bit of extremely restrained (ahem) drinking, Alex put me into a taxi.