Considering I’d planned to have a couple of months off after finishing the Elvis book, things are really ridiculously busy. Most of it’s self-inflicted, but on more than one occasion last week I saw the sun rise over the top of the laptop. Now that the Elvis book has come back from its first edit, things won’t get much slacker either, which, for a committed lazybones like me, can only spell trouble. Suffice to say my editor Sarah has yet again done a brilliant job of turning my formless, meandering, whimsical, tangential nonsense into something that’s now on its way to being vaguely publishable.
It’s not all been work, work, work though, no siree. On Wednesday I saw a couple of Edinburgh previews, including a great show by a Welsh comic of whom I was hitherto unaware called Rhod Gilbert, and the more established Ed Byrne, a man whose dress sense appears to be worse than mine. That takes some doing, I can tell you.
Thursday was spent with the editor of the rugby magazine for whom I inexplicably write a column. I’ve been thinking about packing it in on the grounds that a) I don’t know anything about rugby and b) I care about it on an equivalent level. However, thanks to a lunch that began, appropriately, at lunchtime but ended around 10.30pm I have vague memories of agreeing to carry on with it. Uurgh.
That meant a rather fragile start to yesterday, when I had to be up early to get over to my friend Polly’s house. Polly’s a fellow member of the British Guild of Travel Writers, and has nominated the Roald Dahl Museum in Great Missenden, Bucks, for a Guild Tourism Award. Having strongarmed me into accompanying her on the visit, she may have regretted dragging me along when a pale, bleary, bloodshot corpse reeking of yesterday’s booze slumped into her car outside Putney Bridge station. She was very polite about it all, and the museum did have considerably restorative effects. I never knew there was so much in it. In all seriousness, it’s a terrific museum, although I’m still unconvinced Roald Dahl and Alistair Sim were not the same person.
Then last night it was back to the theatre to see The Canterbury Tales at the Gielgud on Shaftesbury Avenue. A Midsummer Night’s Dream had set the bar high for my cultural week, but this came close – it’s really good. It comes in two parts, so I shall certainly be heading to see the other half sometime.
Finally if, like me, you missed my mate Mick on the Today programme plugging his rather splendid new book, you can repent by buying the thing here. A cracking review in the Telegraph too.