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My on-going battle with the synopsis of my latest book continues. To give you an idea of what's involved, pillaging the first three chapters (that's 10,000 words) produces a 152 words of perfectly crafted crap:

"Twelve-year-old Spike Sloman would have given almost anything to liven up his dull, rural life. Asked later, he may have said that having his house destroyed by a ten-foot-tall iron battle suit might have been taking things too far.

As the wreckage of his former home fluttered down around him the only question he could think was why was he the only one who could see the monsterous thing?

Left in the care of his friend Jude's Kong-like au pair, Kir Spike resolves to get to the bottom of mystery with the help of a skeptical Jude and equally disbelieving best friend Singh.

In London, deep within the bowls of the Ministry of Unconventional Affairs, there's someone who knows exactly what's going. When ordered to do something about it she goes out of her way to ensure the brightest and best are somewhere else when choosing the people she wants to investigate."

And I'm somehow supposed to pick an agent to represent this trash? The synopsis bears to resemblance to the original work. For example this passage:

"My backside hurts. Whoever invented horses should be shot." Jude complained.

"I don't think anyone invented horses. They just sort of happened thanks to evolution." Singh said, wincing. He was in just the same amount of pain, but wrote it off as reasonable price to pay for freedom and a chance to go after Spike.

Their escape had been dramatic and fast. The drop out of the window was much shorter than he had expected thanks to wooden shed roof a few feet below. Jude had rolled theatrically on landing and dropped off the side, landing gracefully on her feet.

Singh had just stood there for a moment looking a biy silly and confused before he heard Jude shouting his name. He walked cautiously to the edge of the roof, hung his legs over, turned and performed the kind of tentative hang-drop that would have legion of actions heroes weeping into their white vests.

Jude had grabbed him by the wrists and pretty much dragged him bodily to the stables. Fortunately for the pair of them, the recent school journey had had an action theme that resulted in members of year seven variously hanging grimly on to the sides of cliffs, splashing heroically in leaky canoes and ineffectually waggling the reigns of tattered old nags during a pony trek.

Three ponies stood saddled and tethered in their stalls.

"Rufus must have thought Spike would be with us," Singh said quietly.

Jude nodded. Without saying anything more they chose a pony each and lead them outside.

There were no immediate signs of pursuit, which Singh regarded as a good thing. Jude, however, had her doubts. "I think they're waiting for us," she whispered. She knew all about ambushes, Kir often laid in wait for her rather than going to the effort of tracking her down.

"Why do you think that? Surely it would be easier just to come and get us." replied Singh, his mind racing, trying to work out just how much trouble they were in.

"Coming after us means a chase, then if they catch us they'll have to work out what to do with us afterward. It's much easier if they just lie in wait and pow!" she mimed someone firing a gun.

"They shoot you?"

"No. They you by the wrist, put you in an arm lock and force you to do your homework. Idiot"

"Then I suggest we don't give them the opportunity to catch us," Singh said, grabbing a tattered old horse blanket.

Two miles up the track, a group of heavily armed men camped out in the same bushes from which they had previously ambushed Hobkins and Chadis. It was a nice spot, secluded and peaceful and, as one of them remarked, it was nice and dry, which helped with his rheumatism.

"Lads, what do you make of this?" one of the brutes said midway through sparking up a rollie.

The group grabbed their guns and looked at the trackway, where three small, riderless ponies were sauntering past.

"Shall I put a bullet through 'em," another said eagerly.

Becomes something like: "Aided by Rufus, Jude and Singh make their escape oin horseback." Gripping stuff, eh kids? 

Still, it's a necessary evil. Then again, so are hangovers and I don't particularly enjoy those either.

Bah - things could be worse: We Worship Our Cardboard God

• It's impossible to die from caffeine poisoning just by drinking too much coffee
• G. W. Bush is a dispensationlist - which explains a lot
• As much as I wanted it to be true, wearing your jeans halfway down your arse isn't a U.S. prison sign of wanting to be someone's wife.