Watcher’s Child follows Martin, a quiet, curious fourteen-year-old who discovers he can sense strange, invisible beings known as Watchers—mysterious figures that observe human lives but never interfere. When odd visions begin haunting him, Martin confides in his bold and inquisitive best friend, Jennie, who insists they investigate rather than run. Together, they uncover clues suggesting Martin may be a rare “Watcher’s Child,”     

   someone connected to the Watchers in ways even they do not understand. As the pair tries to decode the meaning behind the Watchers’ presence, their adventures swing between tense encounters, especially when Jennie’s courage outpaces her caution. The deeper they dig, the more they realize that Martin’s connection to the Watchers could change not only his future, but the fragile balance between seen and unseen worlds. Their friendship becomes their strongest shield.

    The Weight of Ordinary Days is a witty, quietly heartfelt biography following a man who has lived with dysthymia—a persistent, low-grade depression—from childhood into adulthood. With dry humour and sharp self-awareness, he recounts the small, unglamorous moments colourful people he meets that shaped him: childhood attempts to fake enthusiasm in school activities, teenage years spent perfecting the art of “being fine,” and adult life filled with grocery-store pep talks and calendar reminders to “feel feelings.” Despite the heaviness lingering beneath each day, the story maintains an offbeat charm as he navigates friendships, work, therapy, and the strange expectation that people should always be “okay.” His struggles are real but never sensationalized; instead, he frames them with gentle comedy and honest reflection. Through ordinary routines and quiet victories, the biography reveals how humour, resilience, and small connections give weight—and meaning—to even the dullest days.

   After walking away from modern life, Thomas Wilkinson vanishes into a stretch of British woodland with no electricity, no Wi-Fi, and only the faintest idea of what he’s doing. What begins as an attempt to escape noise, obligation, and expectation quickly becomes something far stranger, funnier, and more instructive than he ever intended.

   How not to die in the woods is a satirical, quietly enchanting account of  one man learning, badly at first, how to live alongside the natural world rather than over it. As the seasons turn, Thomas is humbled by foxes who judge silently, squirrels who steal strategically, badgers who refuse to reroute, and birds who conduct their lives with unapologetic efficiency. Hunger, illness, cold, and solitude test him, but so do unexpected moments of trust, companionship, and laughter.

    Written with dry British humour and gentle insight, this is not a survival manual, nor a manifesto. It is a story about unlearning urgency, relinquishing control, and discovering that purpose does not require productivity. As Thomas adapts to weather instead of deadlines and measures time by light instead of achievement, he finds that the wild is neither hostile nor sentimental, it is simply honest.

    Warm, absurd, and quietly profound, How not to die in the woods is a reminder that stepping away from the world does not mean disappearing from life—and that sometimes the clearest lessons come from those who never speak at all.

   When God loses His powers, He doesn’t fall in fire or thunder, he falls into Earth. Now calling himself John, he navigates GP waiting rooms, broken housing systems, zero-hour contracts, funerals with no heaven, and the quiet humiliations of ordinary life.

   Stripped of omnipotence but armed with uncomfortable honesty, John discovers that suffering is rarely caused by monsters. More often, it’s caused by policies, procedures, and well-meaning systems that forget the people inside them. As John wanders the modern world, he watches His name used for cruelty, kindness, indifference, and hope, often simultaneously.

   He tries to help and learns how easily compassion gets lost in paperwork. He listens more than He speaks. He falls in love. He grieves. He loses his temper in a supermarket aisle and apologises to strangers who never knew they were being judged by God. This is not a story about reclaiming a throne. It’s a story about learning restraint, responsibility, and presence. With sharp wit and unexpected tenderness, the novel asks what faith looks like without certainty, what morality means without reward, and whether love needs eternity to matter.

   Funny, humane, and quietly devastating, this book reimagines God not as a distant ruler, but as a fellow traveller—learning, failing, and choosing to stay. Because perhaps divinity was never about power. Perhaps it was always about showing up.