To celebrate my blog reaching 250 posts, I'm giving away a signed copy of the first book in the Invisible Fiends series, Mr Mumbles. To enter, all you have to do is go along to my blog post at the link below and leave a comment.

I'm also giving away an exclusive, never before seen ebook in the same post for free, so why not grab that when you're there, too?

http://www.barryhutchison.com/2010/0...

Thanks to all the nominations it got - including loads from all you lovely people on Bebo - my website, BarryHutchison.com has made the final shortlist of the first ever Author Blog Awards.

The final round of voting is now going on, and I'm hoping some of you will show your support again by going along to the website below and casting your vote for BarryHutchison.com

Everyone who votes stands a chance of winning one of hundreds of prizes, so what more of a reason do you need? Get voting!

http://www.completelynovel.com/compe...

Dear Fat Bloke Down the Road,

I'm the first to admit that it would be easier to come and speak to you in person than to draft this letter, but there is a very good reason why I have elected to contact you in writing.

Put simply, you terrify me.

Actually, perhaps 'terrify' is the wrong word. 'Alarm' might be more appropriate. 'Disturb', maybe. Whatever the precise definition, the thought of coming within a few feet of you and holding a direct, one to one conversation chills me to the bone.

That's not to say I can't speak to you. You've heard me say 'hello' to you several times. In fact, I've probably said 'hello' more times to you than I have to anyone else alive, and it is for this precise reason I have chosen to write this letter.

I'm going to come right out and ask: Why are you following me? It was funny the first few occasions I bumped into you in unexpected places, but now - if I'm honest - it's kind of creeping me out.

Remember that first time - two, maybe three years ago, I forget - when I was out running along a dirt track several miles from where either one of us lives? I'd covered a fair distance that day, but was still a good twenty miles from the nearest signs of civilisation.

Imagine my surprise, then, to meet you walking at a leisurely pace in the opposite direction. We greeted each other with a polite nod and a mumbled 'alright?' and continued on our way, and though I wondered where you could possibly be walking from, I quickly put it down to one of life's funny little coincidences, and didn't give the incident another thought.

Until two weeks later, when I met you in the gents' toilets of a Pizza Hut. The gents' toilets of a Pizza Hut located one hundred and nine miles from our home town. You were leaving as I was entering, and though I smiled at our second coincidental meeting in as many weeks, you remained largely impassive, simply giving me another nod as I stood aside to let you by.

By the time I emerged from the toilets - just two minutes later - you were gone.

In the weeks which followed I became more and more suspicious. It seemed that wherever I went, there you were.

When I went to the petrol station you were there filling your car up. In the supermarket you were at the next checkout, your trolley groaning under the weight of cakes and chocolate. On my way home from nights out with friends I'd pass your house and find you standing on the front step, smoking. At 3am! Why were you standing outside smoking at 3am?

On every occasion the salutation was the same: A single nod of your oversized head and - if you were feeling generous - a curt 'alright?'. On the night of your late night smoking session, you broke with tradition as I passed and commented on how cold it was. It was three o'clock in the morning. In January. Of course it was cold. If you were cold why weren't you inside your house?!

Why? Because you were waiting for me, that's why. That's what I decided at the time, anyway, and you've done little to convince me otherwise in the weeks and months since then.

I travel 65 miles to the nearest cinema and you're sitting in the row in front, scoffing popcorn by the fistful. I go swimming and you're standing in the changing room, vigorously drying your crotch like your life depends on it. I pass you on my way into town and then meet you in the first shop I go into. How is that even possible? Do you double back? Is there more than one of you? It just doesn't make sense any more. Had it not been for the fact that other people have seen you I'd be convinced you existed solely in my head.

I'm sure you haven't forgotten that time I went to visit my Dad in hospital, only to find you lying in the bed I expected him to be in. For a brief moment I felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief. I thought I had finally reached the end of some twisted, elaborate game, and you were going to be revealed as nothing more than my Dad in a fat suit. But no. My Dad had simply been mo