Writing crime fiction in airport waiting lounges isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. OK, so it was the BMI business lounge at Heathrow (thanks to the old silver card) and there’s free Gin and cheese, but I still only managed 694 words. Which is kinda poor. I had hoped to get a bit more done on the plane back to Aberdeen, but it was packed. And even though I had that coveted right hand window seat, the one next to me was occupied. Can’t do it if someone’s watching (and yes, I know that makes me sound like someone who can’t pee in public). So a meagre 694 words it is. Meagre, but fairly unpleasant. Which is nice.
And to make matters worse I forgot to take a book with me. So the journey home was spent sitting next to a nice, but nervous woman, reading a big thick murder mystery by someone I didn’t recognise, while I was stuck with a free newspaper. Urrrgh… I hate it when there’s nothing else to read but a newspaper – I always feel compelled to read the whole thing, cover to cover in order to fill in the time. From adverts for stair lifts to articles on some monkey-faced eejit who’s done something stupid to himself with a lawnmower, but isn’t it terribly sad and shouldn’t the government do something about it! Honestly, if you enter into an intimate physical relationship with petrol-powered gardening equipment, you deserve all you get.
Labels: Dying Light