Purveyor of Tall Tales.

Days like these…

Bed is good. It’s warm, soft and it doesn’t rain unless the water tank is leaking.

Why I ever left that happy sanctuary today I have no idea.

First off I appear to have gone nocturnal during my break so I awoke in a zombie like state having been completely wired all night and only sleeping for four hours.

On the train: I cram my small but rotund frame into a plastic fold-down seat next to Ghengis Khan’s mother-in- law who proceeds to elbow me the entire journey as I struggle through Martin Amis classic “Money” trying to hide the 80’s soft core cover.

At lunch my pleasant stroll in a gentle shower that had seemed harmless when I left the office turned into a swim as I was treated to a the joy of a June downpour. I arrived back at the office smelling of damp Corduroy and looking like I’d done two laps of the Thames.

Not a good look.

The afternoon drags when you’re sitting in damp clothes watching the walls move (sleep deprivation is a wonderful thing – who needs acid?); I doubt I made much sense to my poor new starter and I fear I was a hard arse with the poor sods sent over to give me more bad news.

Now I have temper. People who know me really well know this and act accordingly (crucifixes , garlic and the like), it isn’t pretty and it isn’t clever. It is however occasionally funny.

I can recall quite clearly after one Incident (I was in my teens at the time) my dear old dad bringing me back a copy of Faulty Towers. You know the one where he gives his Mini a damn good thrashing. Yeah, my dad is all about subtle.

Which is a tenuous link at best into the day’s disaster: it involves my car.

I arrive back home at 6.45, pretty good for me even if I am still damp from lunch. As I unlock the door I can smell something funny, something other than me: It’s A Bad Smell.

It’s petrol.

I shuffle away from the door to the car and discover a streak of petrol running down the rear of the car from the petrol cap where petrol has drained back from the engine into the already full tank pushing it over the cut off, over and out of the cap.

Ford are in for a treat tomorrow, I may even take a tree branch with me…

Yet for one Neil – not me admittedly – it’s been a rather better day.

“Fragile Things” and “How to Talk to Girls at Parties” (the rather brilliant short story from the same collection) picked up two gongs from the Locus awards. I mention it only because you can read Neil’s story online here:


Now my bed is calling, I should be safe there, shouldnt I…?

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