I wrote two sections of dreich noir this morning. about 1700 words. and, just as when I’m working on a novel, once I hit 1667 words, another quid clinks into the jar.

I’m finding dreich noir quite hard to write just now. not the situations ‘n’ substances, but the sex itself.

I’m finding it hard to dredge up enough usable memories of something I’ve done so little of in so long. and how many euphemisms are there, anyway for penis/vagina/penetration/cunnilingus/fellatio?

Over the last few days, I’ve been listening to a couple of albums by the cinematic orchestra (“motion” and “remi”, fact-enthusiasts.)

I’ll normally write to instrumental music. like a lot of people, I find it hard to arrange words when someone else is spitting theirs into my ears.

Miles Davis is a perennial favourite, as are Shostakovich’s symphonies. but this last week, those two cinematics’ lps have been on heavy rotation here at fruitcake heights.

I’d slept in until almost seven this morning. another night of bizarre dreams that unfortunately I can’t remember. I remember waking in the dark, checking the time and going back to sleep. that was about half-two. so, no wonder I had a long lie!

I had a doctor’s appointment this morning (i always try to arrange these for just before opening time) so a day on licensed premises (and, more importantly, their wireless connection) was on the cards.

I try to do this once a week, but I manage more like once a fortnight.

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