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What lies between you and a morning boaking?

Diet Coke, probably.

My legs hurt. I have done nothing – nothing – to incur the wrath of any leg gods. I came here on the bus, I’d like to add. Hardly taxing. Yet they feel as if I’d scaled a mountain, straddled a cannon, done a brief line dance up the Royal Mile.

My head has coalesced. Or rather, the thumping within it, but for a while it was sufficiently strong to constitute the entirety of it, or any part worth mentioning.

I’m editing.That’s why I’m here. Editing to a tight deadline that this week has eaten up. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t know anything. Which is fine, and nice, but the problem with knowing so little is that the bits you do know, the brain flattens into factual millponds, when they are supposed to be little sluice-waters of potentiality, all spilling into each other with gay abandon.

 

There is no gay abandon here folks. Just regular abandon. The brain as an empty, burnt-out chateaux. Essentially, the ruined house in Jane Eyre.

 

Somewhere, a blind bigamist is wandering around in my head, being comforted by a woman who ought to know better.

If he could come and get this stuff down to 5000 words, and remove the thigh pain (ooh, Mr Rochester), and soothe the North Sea that is my stomach, then I’d be grateful.

Bertha Mason, if we’re stretching this analogy tighter than a launderer’s washing-line, is the sloe-gin in all this. The delicious, then suddenly deadly, sloe-gin. [Unexpected, volatile?]