fingertips – they might be giants

My first day back after my holiday and it’s going to prevent me getting home all week. Three sleepovers in a row – which is fine. Survivable even. But it means I’m off work – in a small Scottish former mining town – from nine-to-five every day.
So, today: I hammered the gym, then had a swim, before hitting a cafe and thrashing out a couple of thousand words.
Later, in a boozer, writing this, trying to surf the afternoon teevee and old men conversations, trying to shoehorn details into the text.
And I’m drinking fucking pepsi. Diet pepsi, at that. I don’t really have time to burn off even a couple of units of alcohol before I have to act all responsible again.
And here I am, hours later, at work. All responsible and that.

now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.


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