I’ve just received the text from #2 son, informing me that my desk, chair and filing cabinet were delivered. I’m trying not to ‘freak the straights’ (baby), by lapsing into a brief-yet-spirited happy-dance, but it’s hard not giving in to the urge.
So tonight’s primary task will be rebooting my bedroom from a fornicatorium fallen into disuse to a bustling office, where violence, starting behind where the eyes used to be, pours out the fingers, through an abused keyboard and finishing up on a hard-drive, overflowing with avant-filth.
And after that, I’m going to start work on revising ‘1919’ sitting upright for the first time since july or so.
It’s weird, revising something I wrote so long ago (five years, to be precise). In that time, my writing’s changed so much as has my romantic focus, I suppose.
At that time, the ideal was the 24/7 M/s relationship and the hip fashions were, on the one hand, Honorifics and the other Female Supremacy.
However, times have changed – and so have I – where a dream is proven to be impossible, I’ve been able to let go of it and move on. Kicking and fucking screaming, I admit, but yeah. I did eventually let go.

Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

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If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.

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