Le mojo c’est tombe en panne. I think that means it’s French. Does that mean it’s covered in bread? French bread? Like a Pret-A-Ris morsel? An idea sandwich that has gone slightly stale and sits limply alongside the novelty flavoured pasties on the shelf of the third fridge from the door in the motorway service station outside Llandudno (is there a motorway there? I’ve no idea. I’m fairly sure there is a Llandudno — even though I’ve never been there — I’m not going to fall for that whole tree falling in a forest malarkey AGAIN. It exists. Otherwise there wouldn’t be a service station on a motorway outside it. Assuming there is a motorway. GAH! Foiled! Curses! I shall have to change my secret pasty-drop-spot shelf. (S)pies are everywhere. (Sorry, sorry, sorry, that was dreadful)).
Anyhoo. Idea sandwiches. Must send that off to Steve Coogan vis a vis the third series. Although why Alan Partridge would appear in ‘Bread idol — the contintenal version’, I’m not sure. Although I do like the idea of the judges throwing granary rolls at each other.
Ok. Forget the sandwiches. I’ve had a slow few days, writing wise. I’ve been adjusting some key plot points, plus the obligatory jotting them down on paper, then in Storylines, then in my plotline document, and finally in my pseudo-first draft. At no stage has anyone leant over and said ‘my God, that’s genius’. No matter how much I waft my notebook about. Philistines. Philistines with their own lives and ringtones and cups of coffee.
I’ll show them. But maybe not just yet. I’ve got some more editing to do. You know how it is. Wouldn’t want them tutting. NO TUTTING! Or tsking. Tsking is very bad. Although now I’m forced to think about it, it’s probably better that there is no reaction at all. Or perhaps no reaction until I offer them a sandwich.
And (obviously) at no stage have I bothered to, you know, actually commit any sentences to paper / screen that were not full of dates and angst-ridden notes to myself. I’m fairly sure that Joyce didn’t have a notebook full of entries saying ‘why does Stephen do this?’. Although it would have made for a better film.…(ducks, then crawls under the carpet for good measure).
Which is a very long winded way of saying it’s Wednesday. Should they make bread that tuts and tsks when it’s toasted? Musical bread? ‘Toast is burning, toast is burning, come save me, come save me…’ etc
Bread’s complimacated. Ideas more so. Give me back my mojo.
My God, that’s genius. I expect I’d like it even more if I were reading it. Most novels written in the third person annoy me. Humans are arrogant enough without pretending to be mind-readers. David Nobbs is an exception.