Part-time teacher, Hugh Bradley has a lot on his plate: his mother has throat cancer, his 40th birthday is approaching at speed and his innocent liaison with the attractive but increasingly forward Alex just might wreck his marriage in the most unexpected of ways. His fledgling writing career isn't going too well either. He needs to publish six magazine articles before he turns forty or his hard-working and increasingly jealous wife, Beth will run out of patience, send him back to the chalk face full-time and very possibly remove his genitalia into the bargain. Hugh's job-share partner, the handsome Luke Johnstone, isn't exactly helping either. His philandering ways could come back to haunt them when the pair are forced to re-apply for their jobs at the deceptively idyllic Pebble Bay Primary School. Of course it's possible that none of this will matter if Hugh can just convince famous author Thomas Chandler to grant him a lucrative interview at his secret Dorset hideaway. As his mother's health deteriorates Hugh must confront some unpleasant truths about himself and those he loves. But nothing is quite what it seems. Einstein called reality 'a persistent illusion'. Perhaps he was right. You decide. But be careful. Nothing - including your five senses - can be trusted. SO IT GOES is a novel that mixes comedy and tragedy (not always appropriately) and poses the big questions: who, what, why, where, how and most importantly when WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT SO IT GOES: 'I've read worse.' The author's wife. 'For the love of God, buy it!' The author's bank manager. MEET HUGH BRADLEY: He's really looking forward to his fortieth birthday: The prospect of turning forty really doesn't bother me. I couldn't care less. I really don't give a shit. What's the big deal, for Christ's sake? Can we change the subject? He really needs to watch his step when out with the attractive Alex: Verbally, Alex gives the impression of having taken my point. Physically I'm not so sure. The polite rules of etiquette generally observed by a married man and his companion while drinking coffee together are still not being followed. Alex is leaning way too far across the table. Eye contact is a tad too intense. That smudge of crema on my upper lip? Could have taken care of that myself thank you very much. He's worried about his mother: I'm not the only one beginning to wonder if the medical team responsible for the co-ordination of my mother's care is now merely going through the motions. Co-ordination is probably the wrong word. Team, likewise. Too many doctors have come and gone, each new specialist spending the first fifteen minutes of a consultation trying to hide the fact that he only picked up my mother's notes five minutes before meeting her. At the playhouse you expect the actors to be familiar with the script, to have spent some time in rehearsal. The drama unfolding at the hospital appears increasingly unscripted. Improvised even. Less drama, more pantomime. He meets some interesting people: I hear Brian Granger, Head Lighthouse Keeper, before I see him. When visual contact is established I note that Granger is a large, powerfully built man who seems to think crushing the bejesus out of my right hand is an acceptable form of greeting. He speaks with a local accent, his voice deep as the perilous waters without. The man is larger than life. Thus far in our acquaintance he's done everything bar beat his chest. I console myself that a man posturing at the top of a 143ft red and white striped erection is unlikely to be genitally well endowed. Our discussion is necessarily brief. I ask Brian if I can interview him about the lighthouse's forthcoming centenary. He tells me he'd love to help but at the moment he's busy. Next Monday though he'll clear his schedule, give me a guided tour, answer my questions and arm wrestle me for my wife. I decline the offer of a parting handshake.