I am now, officially, the late Stuart MacBride. Deadline for book three is today and it's not finished. So as soon as Jane and Sarah get their hands on me I'm dead. I sent them a grovelling email apology this morning, so that might commute my sentence to a stiff spanking, but it's still not good. Bad Stuart!

This week I'll have to write like a ninja! Only without the black clothes, sneaking about in the shadows and killing people. Which won't be quite as easy as it sounds, seeing as I'm going to be in Greenwich on Wednesday for the event (spending the morning on the plane waiting for Heathrow to let us take off, lunchtime at One World Radio, and the afternoon signing stock in a few select bookshops), and I hope there will be a cry of 'TO THE PUB!' afterwards, or better yet, 'TO SOME SWANKY RESTAURANT WHERE EVERYONE WILL HAVE THE TOWER OF FISH!' Mmm, tower of fish...

Yeah, anyway, the gist is: not much writing time. Then on Thursday I think I've got the morning free, so that'll be for a hangover and/or writing, then drinkies and lunch with the lovelies at HarperCollins in Hammersmith. They'll pour me into a cab, or back onto the tube, and I'll snore all the way home on the plane.

So, as a prelude to tomorrows 'What I Did Learn On My First Year As A Write-ist' post, I'll share this nugget of beardy wisdom with you:

Never have elective surgery a month before your deadline. Not even if the guy wielding the knife promises on his mother's left testicle that nothing ever goes wrong.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do some thinking. Unusual for me, but it can't be helped.