13 February 2013


It serves me right. I was getting cocky. Oh, sure, I knocked on wood when I mentioned it, and rolled my eyes in the I-hope-I'm-not-jinxing-this kind of way. But I thought I got away with it. I believed this winter would leave me alone. But no. I'm on the lemsip and sudafed. My chest feels of sandpaper and sinuses are gripped by a vice. I've not spoken yet today, but feel I'll be all Louis Armstrong when the words come out. 

I'm still going to work. There's wine to taste. Just hoping I can taste it. 

12 February 2013

snow puddles

So last week I read from my book at The Arts Club on Dover Street. I've seen my fair share of grandiose establishments, some even by invitation, but this place pushed the boat out a fair bit, I won't fib. Unsurprisingly, the crew of Unbounders were sent down to the bar in the basement to peddle our wares. I'm better at reading Shakespeare than my own stuff. There's a character to be when reading something else. I've not worked out how to do that with my own words. It's just me reading me to people who don't know me and that's a lot of me out there. Still, they clapped, seemingly of their own free will. Afterwards we went to a far less posh club and drank and ate and folks fell into the last tube/cab home debate. Most took cabs, but I wandered from Soho to Green Park to grab the N9 night bus, which could be described as the Piccadilly Line for the damned. 

Work is busy in the way that things get busy when you think things are sorted and they aren't.

As a sort of follow-on to my 'writing in the mornings' post, I'm running in the evenings. I carry a flashlight. Last night it was pointless, as the puddles of melted snow were too large to dodge, so I just ran through them. I got home caked in mud to my shins and fearing frostbite. It took 15 minutes in the warmth of the house to feel my feet again. It still felt good.

Tonight I'm getting a massage because I need one. 


Buy My Book. Please.