Haverhill, Massachusetts

It‚Äôs a lovely autumnal New England morning, and I‚Äôm lounging in a big purple business class seat on a train from Boston to Portland, Maine. Outside my window all I can see is trees ‚Äď a lot of trees ‚Äď punctuated by the occasional house. The house we just passed is already decorated for Halloween, with fake cardboard gravestones scattered about the front yard: ‚ÄúOsama Bin Laden‚ÄĚ, ‚ÄúSaddam Hussein‚ÄĚ ‚Äď that kind of thing.

My final destination is Camden, Maine and ‚ÄėPoptech‚Äô, which I gather is a conference to do with culture and technology. Robert, my agent, is landing from Dulles in a couple of hours and we‚Äôre going to drive up ‚Äď down? ‚Äď together.

Anyway.

Yesterday I reached 365 days of not drinking. I don’t really have much to say about that, save for what I’ve already said a thousand times before. It’s still easy some days, difficult others. Yesterday was an easy one, tomorrow might be horrible.

Still… a year.