Month: December 2007


"For a cautionary tale, everyone cites Paul Bradley Carr." - THE SUNDAY TIMES


Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker: A quick update

So, 4am and a total write off of a day, all told.

A lot of dicking about on Facebook, some cooking (I made cottage pie for one. It was, as they say, bad ass) and very little else. I did get to read the first half of Ruth’s screenplay though, which is really good. I won’t break a confidence by telling you anything about it, except to say that there’s a killer joke on page three. I’ll read the second half tomorrow.

For now though, I’m writing this and planning to fall asleep watching a video on the TV/video combo thing that Maggie gave me. She was throwing it away. Throwing it away! I have a ton of videos that I haven’t been able to watch for a thousand years. My decision tonight was between The Usual Suspects or Die Hard. So I’m in bed, fastforwarding through the trailers, about to watch Die Hard. I’m definitely in a Die Hard place.

Night night.


A numbers game

This is my 100th post on here. Which means an average of about one post every four days, a number I’m quite happy with. The only slightly annoying this is that I’m too tired to write anything appropriately momentous to mark the occasion.

I got up at six this morning, having gone to bed at four (I fucked up my bodyclock over the weekend and needed to kick it back into early starts if I have a hope in hell of getting the book finished without missing out on upcoming Christmas events). My day today has been spent basically restructuring the whole damn thing; the result of a lot of dithering over the past few weeks on structure and focus. I told myself I couldn’t go to sleep until I’d not only got the narrative back on track, but cut out the fat and crap.

As I sit here in bed at 2:12am, I’m pretty sure I’ve done it. Which makes me happy because at midnight I was pretty fucking far from sure. But for tonight, at least, I think everything’s going to be OK.

Until tomorrow, then.

Night night.


What’s another year?

I just – and I mean just – managed to recover from my horrible man flu in time for my birthday. By just, I mean in the cab at 10pm on my way to a party. I was still sucking a lozenge when I got out of the lift.

I don’t normally get too involved in birthdays. My own, I mean. This is going to sound ridiculous coming from me, but there’s something about everyone feeling like they have to make a fuss of some kind over me, or just somehow behave differently, that makes me uncomfortable. Yeah, really.

Thing is, with Christmas and other shared holidays we’re all in it together; there’s a sense of empathy and shared experience that takes the edge off the discomfort – no one is being fussed over more than anyone else (well, no one aside from Him) which somehow makes the whole thing more honest and heart-felt. Birthday greetings on the other hand, unless the birthday person has survived another year of leukemia or is 109, smack more of affectation than affection.

But this year, I decided to lap up the good wishes. Even from those who were basically prompted to say something by Facebook (which, by the way, is a fucking lifesaver for men like me who have a memory for people’s birthdates like David Irving has for the Holocaust).…

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