WHEN YOU’VE JUST FINISHED DOING 365 NIGHT’S WORK IN 24 HOURS…

There’s no doubt about it…being Santa can be murder.

Murder on the legs, the back, the arms, the brain, and everywhere in between.

Lord knows, you can’t keep everyone happy all of the time.

Hell…it’s hard enough keeping some of the people happy even some of the time.

But you try your best and you do what you can and you try not to worry about doing what you can’t.

But somehow…somehow…every year you find another gear and you put in a shift that makes 365 nights feel like they last just 24 hours.

And when it’s over, every bone in your body feels like it’s been dragged through a mangle backwards.

Then sideways.

But you did it…and at least part of the world is eternally grateful you made the effort.

So, you slump down in your favourite armchair…light up a fat one… chug on a cool one…rest every one of your 206 bones, and speculate on just what it means being Santa for a mere 24 hours a year.

Even though those 24 hours lasts every minute of 365 days.

Then you reach down to your side, pick up and unwrap your own special gift. A brand spanking new debut crime novel by a relatively unknown author called Bryce Main.

You look at the title on the cover. It says:

A Time for Dying.

You smile, turn to the prologue on page one…and start reading, feeling the tiredness drain away as your eyes settle on the first words. They are:

“Time is a patient killer”…