Well, it isn’t really – it’s just me speaking into a half drunk mug of tea, so it sounds all deep and spooky. And smells of tea. Anyway, today we’re having Nephew Logan, his dad (Scott) and mum (Catherine)* up to visit. Which is nice. Stops me getting cracking with Book Number The Three though. Sigh. I’m at that pivotal point on the old writing rollercoaster where the rickety car has finally click-clanked its way to the top of the first rise and teeters on the brink. From here you can see the gasworks, the council flats, the sewage works and a splatter of vomit on the tracks. And all of a sudden: WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOSH! It’s all screaming and yet more vomit.
I’ve performed the usual benedictions of someone about to do something stupid and dangerous: updated my life insurance, made out my will, put on a clean pair of pants**... or the write-ist’s equivalent (which includes clean pants in case you’re wondering), but I need that final wee gust of wind before the downward plunge begins.
Mind you – having worked out just how many pages I’ve got to do each and every day to make my deadline, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not ‘The World’s Stupidest Man!’ Still too late to worry about that now. Just have to hold on tight and hope for the best.
* They have to appear in brackets, because they do smell all of potatoes.
** No, not American ‘pants’ good old BRITISH PANTS! The kind you wear under your trousers. They come from Marks & Spencer in a variety of fetching colours. Now stop asking questions about my underwear!