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I’ve been swimming in a sea of numbers for the last few days – which makes a pleasant change from staring at words and willing them to coalesce into something interesting. The upside is I get to make graphs, and I’m experimenting with new forms of data visualisation (I blame the Grauniad, myself) although for the most part I am sat in my uncomfortable ‘exectutive’ chair, scratching my head Laurel-style and squeaking ‘yes, but what does it all mean?’.

I know I was enjoying myself because I lost track of time (and *polite cough* I started talking to myself, compared myself to a maths-nut-eating squirrel, and took on the voice of Dr Staticon – the infamous serial graphulator of Olde Numbers Towne, Des Moines (Alabama). You haven’t heard of him? You should have – he left a square root sign on all his victims and only ever ate Pi. Ok, that last bit was a little predictable, but what do you expect? Matrices and catalytic converters, I mean quadratic… hydramatic…systematic equations?

In other news, the sun’s been out. No, it hasn’t gone to my head. It’s been covered in numbers. It’s well known that numbers are better than hats. Especially the number three. I also had a dream that I was in a meeting with Boris Johnson, current Mayor of BoTown and quite possibly the only Tory I wouldn’t mind having a chat with, mainly because I’d imagine he’d stand a round. Although on that basis, I should probably focus my drink-with-a-tory musings to 15 pint Hague.

In non-sun, three or Dr Staticon news, I have still to hear from my #1 preference agent. But I have booked a trip to the location of novel number three (sorry, I didn’t realise the numbers would repeat like that), which I’m quite looking forward to. But not as much as I’m looking forward to Friday, when I hope to finally get a new short story down (called ‘Geordie’ for now).

Anyhoo. Wibbled on about nothing, and cleared my head of graphs, bubbles, columns and all thoughts of consultancy, suntan-seas, squirrels, nuts and square roots, square balls and square pegs. It’s like a carriage return for my brain. And apologies if anyone actually reads any of this. But you can make the noise now, if you like – if you remember manual typewriters that is.

And so to bed.

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