Neglect and negligees

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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