Oh, the pain of editing. So many words that don’t survive the final cut.

Just a few examples of the dozens, make that hundreds, of passages that don’t survive the cull of editing. A decent enough piece of observational description, but as it doesn’t add anything to the story – out it goes. Lost for ever. So many are ‘weather’ images, the sort of thing I made a note of in an idle moment – back when I used to have idle moments – Here’s one I threw out yesterday, then decided I may have an opportunity to use it elsewhere. Possibly.

‘A patch of shade that was scarcely more than an un-substantiated rumour’

Three more discarded passages that received a last-minute reprieve. Descriptive passages are what I most enjoy reading, and writing, but in crime thrillers they slow the pace and lead to accusations of overwriting. One day, I’ll find the courage to write something and call it ‘literary fiction’ where I can indulge myself. Courage? Cojones? Whatever.

1. ‘A band of cloud lay across the horizon like a dirty purple scarf. Donna looked out to sea and shivered. The ominous spreading clouds, turning blue into battleship grey, were a reflection of her sombre mood. As she leaned on the railings, a faint drizzle began to fall.

Donna sighed. The rain was no more than an apologetic trickle, but she knew she’d be soaked to the skin if she didn’t seek shelter soon. Despite the worsening weather, Donna remained rooted to the spot, still staring morosely out at the waves.

A single fat raindrop landed on the top of her head and she looked up at the sky in sudden alarm. The drizzle was no more and within seconds rain was teeming down, soaking her clothes within seconds. Swearing profusely, she ran for the safety of her car, splashing through puddles with every step. As she reached the car and flung herself inside like a wet sack, the rain stopped. Instantly. It didn’t even make the effort to gradually peter away; it just stopped.

Like turning off a tap.

Donna sought inspiration in swearing. Within a minute she’d managed to get wetter than she’d have been if she’d stood fully clothed under a shower for the same amount of time and the moment she’d reached shelter the bastard rain had stopped. Even the weather was conspiring against her. She scowled ferociously at a herring gull as it settled on the bonnet of her car, its feathers impervious to the elements. All right for some, she thought.

She glared resentfully at the cosy domesticity all around her. In the house beyond the pavement the lights were on, children were running around, laughing. Warm, dry, happy children.

The house was in the centre of a Victorian terrace with a view of the sea from the upstairs rooms. A decent enough house, but in need of a bit of refurbishment to judge by the exterior. The path was sprouting weeds but a pair of large terracotta urns, each containing an immaculately tended shrub, flanked the entrance door. An incongruous touch as they were such a contrast to what was otherwise a bit of a scruffy house. The shrubs resembled miniature trees and were identical in every respect.

Donna admired the end result without having the faintest idea of the species she found so pleasing. She mentally added horticulture to the already daunting list of subjects about which she knew nothing at all.

2. The sun dipped below the distant mountains leaving pale rows of lavender and pink across the broad expanse of sky. A soft bruising as glorious in its own quiet way as any of its vibrant flame-red predecessors.

3. Clumps of vivid pink oleander provided a vibrant contrast with the gleaming low houses that dotted the hillside like grains of rice thrown at a wedding. Bright splashes of colour amidst the dull green of olive trees and wrinkled outcrops of rock on vine-clad slopes. As the engine note died away, the silence was immense. Like entering a sound proof booth as a quiz show contestant. Below their vantage point the land fell steeply away to the valley bottom far below. Behind, and on either side, were mountains, ranged in great sprawling clusters, each peak thrusting defiantly skywards until, softened by distance, they merged together as a dusky smudge below a cerulean sky.