If it wasn’t so easy to post I would have given up this week. My mind is exploding in a hissy fit of petulance and self disgust. My pram is soiled and there are toys strewn everywhere. My office looks like Parliament Square or the inside of the Royal Daimler after a day of student protests or a night on the piss. I’ve started writing three books in the last * years (I’m too embarrassed to write the figure) and none of them so much as hint at being workable. Just my own personal version of Lib-Dem promises dissolved into the London smog like farts in a bath.
Then again whilst the world goes on spinning somebody has to be pacing out the fringes, taking the temperature of the viole(n)t vale, recording the conversation of crows, the muffled sound of Lord Lytton’s bell signalling across the frozen lake, the wheel turning behind the wheel. There is life in the dead tree. You just need a thick skin to enjoy it, though tough elytra would help, and six legs.
I’ve just finished the Journal of a Disappointed Man. People often say that they “didn’t want to finish” this or that book. I really, really didn’t want to finish WNP Barbellion’s journal, because he had MS and it was only ever going to end one way. But the end had a sting in the tail – like a good short story – I won’t spoil it for you.