Notes from a small brain
I was at friend’s house the other day and he informed me that some of his friends had recently purchased themselves an oil-less deep fat fryer for Christmas.
For the past three days I have been editing the final chapter of ‘The Penguin Variations’. So I am finishing it as the year ends. It’s been a good year.
Some thoughts about trains including Buffalo Bill, E E Cummings, the Shinkansen, and a moony out of a window of a train.
I had an email from the publisher telling me the proofs for ‘Me and Mickie James’ are bac
Yesterday I was sitting at my desk writing when I turned around and noticed Papa Smurf standing in the centre of the floor behind me.
I was a precocious child. I went straight from Peter and Jane to Lady Windermere’s Fan. Of course I returned later to Enid Blyton but it was with a certain aesthetic detachment.
I’m a big fan of public transport. It’s the people they let on it that bothers me. In the same way I’m a big fan of democracy. It just depends whose hands it’s in.
John Richardson was interviewed on Front Row this week. For the past 30 years he has been writing the biography of Picasso.
This year is the National Year of Reading . (That’s reading as in reading books, not Reading as in the town outside London.
This week I received the cover for ‘Me and Mickie James’. I was surprised. I was expecting a picture. Instead it is covered in writing, front and back. Also it’s black.
Last Saturday, 9th February 2008, I attended the Writing Industries Conference at Loughborough University. I wrote about my part in it in my blog last week but not about the whole shebang.
This week / Last week... (depending on when you read this, because weeks have a funny way of running on, like cabbages down a gangplank)
I got a call from my agent two days ago. She was excited. “Have you seen them?"
I’ll be quick today. I’ve got to be off soon to the daily grind and I’ve got to feed my ex-cat on the way.
I don’t know what’s happened to this week. It’s like a salt and vinegar crisp someone holds under your nose. You turn your head away, you turn back, and it’s gone. Just gone.
This morning I grew concerned that I was suffering from ADHD. Unfortunately I was not able to sit down at the computer long enough to fully research the matter.
(All writers steal. Thanks to Aliya Whiteley and Neil Ayres who wrote similar pieces to the one below. They also stole it from someone else.)
I was thinking about how much I like sci-fi earlier this afternoon when a spaceman came up to my door and put a letter through my letterbox. Actually on second thoughts it may have been a postman.
Just back from the gym. Didn’t do much today, only some rowing. Just enough to keep my oar in.
It’s been a good week all round, which is strange as weeks aren’t normally round (I’ve said this before).
This week I’m just making shapes. I’m the head of a matchstick, I’m a number seven, I’m a box of Cuban cigars on an ageing dictator’s desk.
On Saturday night I’m going to be disembodied. Come along if you want to listen.
So said the barwoman of the hotel terrace bar. We we looking down on the church, at a green laser light playing on the ground. It was nothing really, like something a kid would have.
I am Zola Budd or an aspiring bum. Remember her, when they did get her in spikes you didn’t know if you were watching track and field or a remixed edition of Death Race 2000.
On the Spectrum. It is 1986. Margaret Thatcher is sat firmly on her throne. The Chernobyl Nuclear disaster is just on the horizon. People are...
And in other news. My book, Seven Nights at the Flamingo Hotel , which appeared here on AbcTales between October and December 2019 is to be published...