It’s all very well disappearing to the countryside to write a book, but being on your own that long can take its toll. By the beginning of the second week I was clad in animal skins and hunting small woodland creatures with a crudely crafted spear. Fear not though, animal lovers, my spear technique was appalling enough not to reduce the animal population by a single digit – instead I honed my spear technique on Wagon Wheels and microwavable lasagnes in the local branch of Budgens.
I’m realising that as it’s more than two years since I wrote a book I’m a bit ring rusty. Writing this one is a harder slog than anything I’ve done before apart, possibly, from walking the five miles from Colchester railway station to my student house after spending practically all my monthly budget going to watch Charlton Athletic lose a vital midweek game to Tranmere Rovers when we were going for the play-offs in the early nineties and some jolly Colchester fans on the train had thought it would be terrific fun to nick my shoes and chuck them out of the window somewhere near Witham. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a relatively short time to deliver this one, I don’t know, but currently I have the countenance of a man sent to look for a gas leak with a lit match.
Still, hopefully it’ll all turn out right in the end, eh.
Eh?