Suicide is painful

I tried to kill myself at the weekend. Not by accident either - this wasn't some sort of 'leaving the gas on then try juggling flaming squirrels' thing, it was on purpose. I came to the conclusion that 4 years sat on my backside making up lies about imaginary people really hadn't done my health any good. Or my waistline.

Let's face it: I'm out of shape. Unless the shape in question is that of a beanbag with a beard. It doesn't help that Googling Brother has recently lost a shed-load of weight. And so has another friend. Both these chaps have been considerably bigger than me for about the last 15 years, and now, suddenly, I'm the one wearing the biggest trousers. Bastards.

So in order to reclaim the moral and changing-room high ground I decided to do something about my robust levels of podge and take up running. How difficult can it be to run about a bit? I wouldn't even have to call out, "Chase me, chase me!" like some sort of saucy minx. Well, not unless I wanted to.

So a running I did go. And after three minutes, I thought I was going to die. After five I thought I had. After seven I realised that I can't have been as well behaved as I'd thought, because after dying two minutes ago I'd been sent to hell. I gave up after ten miles and lay on my back panting and gasping and making strange wheezy noises.

And then, on Monday I did the same thing again. This afternoon I'm going for the hat trick. It was much easier getting out of shape than getting back into it.

While I'm away killing myself, I point your naughty mice in the direction of Mr James's recent interview at In For Questioning. Where he tells scandalous tales of a when we was young, and his recent shortlisting for the Debut Dagger. And I too am interview-tastic over at the South Lanarkshire Council TV Website thing - once there you have to click on the Highlights tab, then select 'In Focus: The Dagger in the Library' to see me in all my bearded, hand-waving glory. This was filmed when I did an event at the Hamilton Townhouse Library where I got my own random heckler - someone who kept interrupting my rambling anecdotes (usually just at the punchline) to ask a completely unrelated question. Nice to have questions, but after about an hour of this he says, "I've not actually read any of your books..."

This means when I finally do die, I'll be able to keep a seat warm in hell for him.

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