Day off, damn it!

Well, that's what I keep telling myself anyway. Not a day off like yesterday -- which was more of a weaselling out of editing work than anything else -- but a proper, full to the gunwales lounging around in my jammies and throwing things at the pigeons. Dirty little buggers that they are. Or at least that's the plan.

And a very good plan it is too.

Except that I can feel the manuscript for Book Number The Fourth staring at me, wondering when it's going to get a good seeing to with a red pen (oo-er, missus). I can't remember if I had this big an aversion to editing BROKEN SKIN or not. Probably. There's something wonderful about editing: it's a chance to fix all the crap I wrote the first time round. But it also means opening up the book -- this thing that I've slaved over, ten or eleven hours a day, seven days a week, for four and a half months -- and discovering that I hate nearly every single sentence...

OK, so maybe I'm being a bit too critical, but seriously: it's as if someone's wiped their bum on 624 sheets of A4 paper. Which doesn't exactly encourage one to get cracking on it. Not without a breathing mask and some thick rubber gloves. And maybe washing the whole thing in bleach first.

I wonder how the thing would fare in the dishwasher?

In other news, there's an interview with me up on the music website, HeavenOrLasVagas, at the moment. Here you can read all about my rabid dislike of all things reggae, and love of musical stoats. And stuff.

Right, suppose I've got some work to avoid.

To the washing machine!

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