I’m trying to make the best use of what little time I have available to me during a normal working week. Today I decided that I would like to show non-Arvon folks something from last week, to explain my enthusiasm. So I am sweeping my way back through God’s Cobbler, trying not to re-write, but to tidy dialogue and remove my beloved conditionals from everywhere. And also trying to make all actions post speech from the point of view of the main narrator. No sudden drifts off into someone else’s interior monologue.
Big decisions have been made. And I am not referring to the colour of Paulito’s hair. (Black and curly, obviously). But I still need to engage in a series of curious chinese whispers before the decision moves out of the exploratory and into the actual. Perhaps this is the equivalent of business tenses.
I will need to run tonight. I may start running home from work. But I believe I have finally succumbed to a ‘normal’ injury. I think I have runner’s knee. A conveniently vague malaise that covers a multitude of sins, orthotics and expensive running shoes. I realise now that for most of my adult life I have also suffered from Thinker’s Doldrums, and Grumpy Old Farts. But such wisdom can only be gained from performing a simple equation — 460 miles on 105–112 kg @ 6:40–11:00 minute miles = runner’s knee. It’s probably some form of miracle that I have any cartilage left at all.
And so, I face the day. I may read the latest issue of Granta on the tube. I just thought I’d warn the District line. Delays caused to prevarication, obfuscation and polysyllabic glee. Funny how embarrassment levels drop after you’ve spent a week discussing Brendan Beehan. Not that I’ve read Mr Beeham. But I believe he is fashionable in literary circles. And not at all like Mr Beecham. Or indeed Janes Asher or Austen. I digress.
Happy, happy days.
