Birthday boy

Yes, today marks one whole calendar year since I came out of the dark and secret cupboard as a write-ist. I’m here, I write about nasty criminal stuff, get used to it.

I was going to do one of them ‘what I have learned in my year’ posts, but it’s my birthday and I really can’t be arsed ;}# Plus I‘ve got a chunk of catching up to do: this weekend was spent in the depths of Darkest Fife, visiting She Who Must Stop Driving Up And Down The Country The Whole Time, Or She’s Going To End Up In A Ditch’s dad in Dunfermline Hospital. Yes, it’s ‘Dundee no mo-arrrrr’* for Father In Law Gordon, and instead of being stuck with the smell of disinfectant and old people wee for another ten weeks, he’s probably going to be out in two. Hurrah. Looking a lot more like his old self he is. Eating many kettle chips and making jokes about the size of the nurses.

All this travel, and sleeping on a sofa bed designed by the Marquis de Sade, has put a dent in my wordcount that’s going to take some hefty walloping with a hammer to smooth out.

And that’s what I’m off to do now. Thumpity, thump, thump, thump.

* Don’t worry, it’s a Proclaimers reference. She Who Must went to school with them – it’s my only claim to fame... other than the fact I’ve met Jimmy Shand’s Daughter In Law (though Fiona's sung with the great man himself, so once again I'm beaten by her damn Fifeishness!).