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If there was no web, I’d be publishing pamphlets of short stories and secreting them in cafes and on the shelves of bookshops and libraries.*

But there is a web and so I get to sit at my old wooden table listening to random musical acts from YouTube and write stories that get read by people as far away as the Phillipines and Mountain View, California. I’ve got two pieces ready to complete, plus a short story that just needs posting here and a request for a bespoke one-off short story, which I’m thinking over right now.

Waiting for my techie to deal with the problem with my Word programme though, which has stalled my productivity. That and the throat infection (‘cillin) and the back muscle that has gove into some sort of heinous spasm which the codeine is barely touching. And Starlight is still missing, though the lady at the newsagent said she might have seen her on Tuesday night.

Thing is, might as well endure all the negativity at once. Get it all over and done by next week and then plough on with the stuff that needs completing.

I love it. This life.

* went to the V&A last week to see The Ark, a spiral bookcase they’ve installed. Love the concept, but was disappointed at the reality – “designed and constructed by architects” it says in a Guardian article, but for me it looked like it was designed from memory by someone who once shopped at Ikea, and built by someone who didn’t serve their time as a joiner.

Of course, I speak with the jaundiced eye of someone who grew up in a block of flats ‘designed and constructed’ from reinforced concrete that, I’m sure, looked great on the original architect’s drawings too.

But, before I start again on my rant about the flaccid, smug, expensive irrelevence that is state-sponsored culture…

…I’ll stop.

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