I am supposed to be writing some punchy and pithy prose for my employer (on my own time, for reasons I can’t remember but quite possibly because I’m avoiding writing the novel. Again.). I have observed all the textbook preparations – drunk far too much the night before so that I don’t flit about from thought to thought but instead plod mournfully from cliche to cliche. I have drunk tea. I have been to the shop. I have transcribed my notes. I have made a second set of notes from the tape. I have moved those notes between editing applications. I have put some meta themes on index cards.
And now, I’m looking at the pigeons walking around the furniture in a neighbour’s garden and wondering what the squirrel is doing in their big flower pot.
Funny how fascinating a big fat bird doing nothing much in particular can be. I feel like opening the window and shouting ‘wassup bro’ at it, in case it too is avoiding doing some really important crapping on things, and um, preening.
Watching the pigeons. I had a dream last night about some form of school trip or other bus outing where I saw both Elvis Costello and Someone Not Unlike Elvis Costello and wondering what the chances of that happening where.
About as likely as the pigeon (which is now cooing above my head, the bastard) beaking out some copy for me. Ok now – after me ‘children are the future…’