Things what are on my whiteboard...

Before I wiped it clean, I thought it might be an idea to copy down all the stuff that's collected on my whiteboard over the last couple of months. I need the space to plot out Book Number The Fifth (which already has a title that Sarah -- Editing Ninja -- likes, and is trying to inveigle into the Marketing Department's subconscious. You never know, it might work...), and all those scribbles are taking up valuable real estate. But why throw out perfectly good words? Surely I should be embracing Greener Britain and recycling them as some sort of half-arsed blog post?

And here is said half-arsed blog post:

22lbs of Chocolate = fatal

Nigel Slater: real food

Mummys have Volvos and Daddy's have penguins, and what happens is that Daddy puts his penguin in Mummy's Volvo and they go for a drive. Then Daddy's penguin gets car sick and all these tadpoles are sicked up, and Mummy swaps them with God for a baby. And that's where brothers and sisters come from.

DI Steel's Bad Hair Day

FISH MURDER!

Heating Oil

Goatscape

William Davidson -- 1860s 1874(ish)

Deadtime Stories

The Shrubbery -- a gang who all dress up in George Bush masks to rob convenience stores.

'Perhaps we should pray for guidance?'
'Perhaps you should shut the fuck up?'

Ezekiel -- Amish porn star

'And that film, Seven.'
'It's pronounced Se7en, you idiot.'

Someone who works as God's debt collector, for those who promise to do X or Y if God saves them, but then back out on the deal.

He stands in the doorway, just like you're supposed to do when there's an earthquake. Watching them. Outside the sun shines like an x-ray, behind him it's dark as ancient blood, and he stands there in the space in-between. Neither one thing or the other.
A woman with a pushchair stops, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth -- ash falling on the head of a fat ugly toddler -- and tells him to shift his fucking arse.
He pauses for a moment.
She tells him it's not fucking funny. Shift it. Can't he see she's fucking busy? Fuck's sake.
The light or the darkness?
He smiles and takes one step back, out of her way, into the dark.
He tried. He really tried.
He feels the garrotte in his jacket pocket, then turns and follows her.
Light and darkness.
From now on everything that happens is her fault.

DATE FOR INTERVIEW

(and a picture of a naughty penguin with a pitchfork)

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