Yes, that's my writering commitments done for just now. I'll hear back in a couple of weeks if Book 3 is a sack of festering weasels or not; the shorty for Holland is away and now all I've got to do is blurb a couple of books, give feedback on a manuscript and redesign the website. Piece of cake.
So how come I just want to go down to the shops and run round the freezer department hitting people over the head with bags of frozen peas?
Of course, what I should probably be doing is preparing for Thursday at 19:00, Aberdeen Central Library where the unwitting masses (well, anyone who turns up anyway) will be subjected to 40 minutes of unmitigated, uncensored, unadulterated, undulating me! According to the BBC I'll be 'letting people in on the tricks of the trade...' I will? Have to think some up then. Possibly involving conjugating the verb 'beard'?
But if I can get my sweaty -- yet manageably soft -- hands on a whiteboard I think we'll plot out a novel. Hopefully not one starring a hairdresser who solves crimes this time. Suppose it'll all depend on whether or not there are any performance poets in the audience.
And the worst bit, the very, very, very worst bit, is that I'll be on the antibiotic bastard pills from hell until Friday morning. So I can't even go for a pint afterwards. And yes, I know penicillin is a wonder of the modern-ish world and I shouldn't complain, after all would I rather be dead? Or have people running about with that fancy big-city syphilis? No.
So thank you Mr Flemming et all, but could you have maybe made it a bit less side-effecty? Sans headaches, nausea and dizziness? Not being able to drink is bad enough without being subjected to a full-time, dear Jesus, thump and lump hangover!
So let that be a lesson to you.
Phew, a whole post and not a single mention of the Eurovision Song Contest. Well, until that one.