My washing’s done. All the decks are cleared and I’m ready for action. I have a twenty page synopsis of ‘dystopian’ ready to go and a couple of days off before starting on the horrific constipation-meets-childbirth-with-both-legs-tied-together I keep putting myself through.

The only thing left to do now is a spot of shopping. Fully clothed shopping as opposed to really naked shopping.

I’ll be like Ewan Macgregor in ‘Trainspotting’, stockpiling tins of soup and plastic buckets for his helltrip to jonestown.

That said, I probably won’t be shitting, pissing and puking all over the house, but I’m certainly not ruling it out – not if the right person was to come along, say.

Now’s a good time to look at the negatives ahead of me. I’m looking at a month spent dredging up elements from various past relationships and folding, spindling and mutilating them to get them to fit what I’m writing.

Hopefully, the experience of squeezing out a story my bullshit detector’s happy with will outweigh the grinding loneliness and sense of my own relationship-autism. my inability to form lasting relationships with anyone not fitted with a screen and a keyboard.

And hopefully, I can keep my need to microwave my own head in check – at least until the novel’s fully out.

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