At last the jetlag seems to have worn off. While I am still nodding off in the late afternoon, I now have to admit that’s a sign of being in my mid-thirties rather than the fallout from a glamorous, jet-setting lifestyle.
At the moment I pretty much have my head down writing the book. I also nipped up to the north of Scotland at the weekend, which was fun, but man alive what a drive that was. Took around eleven hours to get there and twelve to get back. You’d think it would be quicker on the way back seeing as it’s downhill. Still, one nearly overheated radiator aside, the old jalopy got there and back without a hitch.
Heading off to Brighton tomorrow, where my sister is opening an art gallery. It’ll be all that new fangled modern art stuff that I don’t understand. So think of me swanking around with a glass of chardonnay in my hand, tilting my head, putting my finger to my lips and examining in a cerebral way what someone will quietly point out to me is actually the room thermostat.