Lyn’s sick, I’m sick, Aiden’s sick, Connor’s sick and he’s got conjunctivitis….. Erin’s fine.

So it’s a laid up at home, let’s just do whatever the hell we feel like kind of day. I wandered out to the computer this morning with half an idea of how to tackle The Metawhore’s Love Story, the tale I’ve promised Dirk Flinthart for his upcoming Canterbury 2100 anthology.

In the half hour it took Lyn and Aiden to watch Eastenders (told you they were sick) I found 919 words, and I’ve got enough of a run up I’m quietly confident I’ll have a good first draft done by the end of the weekend. By the time Cat and Alfie were having their confrontation over Alfie’s did-he-didn’t-he? sorta emotional infidelity with Cat’s sister Little Mo (I don’t watch, honest…) I’d finished one of the 3 sections of the story, had delved into the second, and had found the spine structure of the central bit.

Weird: words are like buses for me at the moment. Nothing for ages, and then 1800 of them turn up all at once…


One of the good things about climbing the generational ladder is that your music gets progressively cheaper.

David Bowie: The Platinum Collection. 3CD set, 57 songs from between 1969 and 1987.

22 bucks.

Thank you very much!

Song of the moment: Sorrow David Bowie
Current Reading: Mirrorshades edited by Bruce Sterling