Monk Quixote

I’ve com­pletely gone off the boil, writing-wise. All my ener­gies are going into work and train­ing at the moment. Ok, and rioja. Tom and Frank are less dis­tinct in my head, step­ping back into line of the play­ers in my mind’s the­atre. Or some­thing less p-word. I haven’t read a book for a while either — I think I have about 40 unread nov­els slowly breed­ing in word-piles. A hol­i­day would sort at least ten of them out, but then I’d almost cer­tainly buy new shiny words rather than words that have sat around my home for a while, wait­ing to be cool enough for me to read.

I miss pootling away in here. I miss pootling away on the story, but while I’m less than 100% con­vinced about the plot there seems lit­tle point in bul­ly­ing it onto the screen. I may go to a writ­ers’ thing tonight — there’s an agent from PFD com­ing to tell us hun­gry hip­pos how to wal­low in the glo­ri­ous mud of accep­tance. I nor­mally avoid writ­ers’ like the p-word. I tend to fall in love with their hair and their gig­gles, with­out real­is­ing that by def­i­n­i­tion they are as neu­rotic and para­noid as I am. And occa­sion­ally more tal­ented. Bas­tards. And there’s lit­tle worse than a para­noid neu­rotic bas­tard. Ooh, a despot, maybe. Or Alan Sugar. Or a sug­ary, hairy author who writes under the nom-de-despot Alan Paradroid. (And as I type, Idi Amin has been ref­er­enced on Today’s Thought for the Day. Kudos.)

Any­hoo. A whim­si­cal post. I woke up too early today and I will suf­fer for this shortly. I just wanted to post ‘bewitched, both­ered and bewil­dered’. But instead typed ‘neglect and neg­ligees’. As you do.

I have been exer­cis­ing my para­psy­cho­log­i­cal nose-twitch recently. Will­ing things to hap­pen. The score is cur­rently 3:2 with stan­dard prob­a­bil­ity about to bring on a sub­sti­tute (prob­a­bly one of the highly amus­ing Physics PhDs on the train last night shar­ing in-jokes about recruit­ing peo­ple with basic maths skills. Sein­feld had noth­ing on them. Thank NBC). But lit­tle does prob­a­bil­ity know that I am about to intro­duce the socks of inifi­nite doom to the equa­tion. They’re never wrong. Except when I buy the Inde­pen­dent. Then everything’s wrong.

Hmm. Ram­bling. No, not that kind. The Lemon Jelly kind. Every­thing changes but you kind, by Take That. And Party.

And on that note, I think I shall decamp to the train, ergo work, sum Lon­don. I don’t even have the brain­cells to ask my one reader a ques­tion. I can has chhezburger?

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