Lashings of Sauce is out in e-book with the print to follow on July 31st. And guess what's even better? It's at a 20% discount for a limited time!
From marriages to reunions, via practical jokes and football matches, to weresloths and possibly the oddest Tarts and Vicars party in the world, join us as we celebrate the 2012 UK Meet in the best way we know: telling the story.

Contributors include: Tam Ames, Becky Black, Anne Brooke, Charlie Cochrane, Rebecca Cohen, Lillian Francis, Elin Gregory, Clare London, Sandra Lindsey, JL Merrow, Emily Moreton, Josephine Myles, Zahra Owens, Jordan Castillo Price, Elyan Smith and Robbie Whyte.
This anthology is a souvenir of the 2012 UK Meet, an occasion for GLBTQ supporters to get together in a relaxed setting to celebrate and chat about the fiction community they love. Funds from the sale of this anthology will go towards future UK Meets, to which all are welcome.

Excerpt from my story:

I’m not yet worried enough to go looking in the lonely hearts ads. Okay, I do read them, but that’s like looking in the baker’s window. You’re not necessarily going to go in and scoff all the cakes, are you? Anyway, every twenty-something bloke in the newspaper seems to be looking for sixty-something guys so I’m too young by...by plenty.
I haven’t got a face like a mandrill’s arse, I’m house trained, I’ve got a good job and I definitely come in the “Good sense of humour” category. So why haven’t I got some guy hanging off my arm?
It’s the hair. And the teeth. Not that I’m bald, or have a bad nineteen eighties’ perm. Not even dentures. It’s just that I’m a shapeshifter.
The bloody cinema has a lot to answer for, in terms of getting our image skewed; you might think it’s really glamorous, turning into a wild animal, but the truth’s a lot more prosaic. Think about it—how can it be any fun when you’ve met this really cute bloke and you’re just at the “standing outside the bar, dangling your umbrella and wondering if he’s going to say, ‘Your place or mine?’ stage,” and you realise you’re about to start sprouting hair from unlikely places. The only thing you can do is make your excuses and leave.
Now, it mightn’t be so bad if I was a lycanthrope, because there’s something dead sexy about a wolf, but I’m not. They’re ten a penny, frankly, while there are apparently only two of us known of in the whole of Europe and barely a dozen worldwide. Somebody explained it to me once; it’s about genetics. As I said, Lycanthropes are sexy and they have no problem reproducing themselves—especially the night of the full moon when they’re at it like dogs in heat. Which they would be.
It’s not as simple for us. You need to carry both recessive genes and the correct markers on other chromosomes to become a were-sloth. See, I told you my problems are worse than yours, and when you stop laughing you might understand.