OK, so I'll admit that I smell a bit dead, and I have taken to shambling round the house of late, but that's all just coincidental. While some people are out there showing off how alive they are, I've been sharpening the hell out of my nose on editing Book Number The Fourth.
But while I'm off being one of the nearly dead, I shall point you to a recent interview thing I did do with the slightly bizarre chaps at Gumshoe Review. They also have a review of the American version of BROKEN SKIN - BLOODSHOT up.
Other than that, I went down to sunny Dundee yesterday to be interviewed with that well known intellectual and pigeon-fancier, Allan Guthrie. Which, given that we're both labouring under the cloud of editing fun, turned into a little bit of a whinge. I suppose it's the same when anyone who do the same job get together:
"Bloody hell," says John, chief nipple-polisher to the stars, "I've had a crap week. It's been nothing but boobs the whole time. Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs."
"Don't talk to me about bloody boobs," says his colleague Fred, "what ever happened to the good old days when we used to polish other parts of the superstars' anatomy. Like elbows?"
"Elbows... Ah, those were the days. Not like now. Bloody boobs."
"Yeah, bloody boobs."
And so on.
I know when I used to work in IT every day was an opportunity to whinge about something. So maybe it's not so surprising. Next time though, I'm going to take some happy pills before hand. And a large pint of gin. That should imbue proceedings with a touch of bonhomie!
Labels: Flesh House, Whinge