the king of procrastination meets the naked emperor

So, it transpires that it’s a greasy slope to the Kingdom of the Blog. I have a sitcom to edit, one-third of a novel to write, magazine pitches to concoct and now like a cupboard-love dog, the blog wants feeding.

At least I’m at my desk. Yesterday I found myself scrubbing the bath and thought ‘How did I get in here? I’m actually in my writing room with my skinny Muse, not on a date with Mr Muscle in the bathroom.’

Then I had a bar dropped round. Yes, a bar. It’s a relay race bar and has been at every good party I’ve attended in the last ten years, so most of my memories have been lost at it. It therefore deserves my grateful attention. So I spent the rest of the day sanding and painting that. I couldn’t have lived with it otherwise and it would certainly have distracted from the call of beauty.

Of course once I’d watched it dry, time then had to be devoted to coming up with a name for my drinking establishment. The Orphanage. Then of course I had to baptise it, with booze. Now after a deep and restorative coma sleep, I’m here typing this. What next? I think I’ll peruse cocktail books and roll enough cigarettes to last me the month. Then I’ll get down to proper work…

The Orphanage, where no one can remember your name.

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