Mind you, I've never actually been paid to get into bed in the first place, so I suppose it all evens out in the end. There's a name for that kind of thing you know. But currently it's sleepless nights for our bearded protagonist as he decides to completely scrap the last three chapters of the book and try again. It's not that they're poop, or... well, no, come on, let's not lie to each other here: I think they're poop. If I thought they were the best thing since God created pickled onions, I wouldn't be rewriting them, would I?
Now I could tweak and tease them: sneak up, pinch their backsides, make saucy suggestions and then run away giggling, but I think a clean break will be better for both of us. Emotionally. Oh sure, there will be recriminations, and guilt and maybe the odd drunken phone call in the wee small hours, wondering where it all went wrong, but other than that... We'll always have Paris... sniff.
I've also got another resolution to slip between the sheets, where it will break wind and titter. 'Parrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!' Tee, hee! And that concludes our book. Please make sure to rewind your DVDs and post them through the slot marked 'Trouser Press'.
After that I'm straight into the plan for Book Number The Four. Going back to work now looms on the horizon like a vast looming thing. LOOOOOOOM! But I'm really looking forward to it. Can't decide yet if I'm going to turn Kernick, Billingham and Barclay into senior police officers (sounds odd, but I need about half a dozen rozzers from all round the country to descend on Aberdeen and Give DI Insch a hard time). It passes the time I suppose.
Right -- to the monkey with you all!
(and in case you're wondering, l'Internet est très mort, but I know someone who can get me some stuff, wink, wink, if I don't tell the peelers where I got it -- so I'm hoping there should be something more like activity round here for a bit)