Chickens to Milk
Hello, it's me again -the Sporadic Blogger.
I'm well and truly bleedin' bored now. My little old novel has left home is
walking the streets, trying to meet prospective partners in the publishing
world; so now I'm in limbo - until the rejection letters flood in. Luckily
my years of hope and disaster in the music world give me a certain teflon
coating, and it must be said - a pint of Guinness goes down very well with
abject failure. Futility and a roll up make fine partners too. Should the
unthinkable happen, and somebody actually agree to print my scribblings, I
will be in a highly dangerous state emotionally, and probably in
considerable physical danger as well.
Still, enough of the advertisement for doomed genius, I must try to do
something useful. Finding a new dwelling should be top priority now, as I
will shortly be in possession of the proceeds from the sale of my old place.
Of course sinking it all into bricks and mortar is not a particularly
exciting prospect. Having watched so much of the Men and Motors channel of
late, it has crossed my mind that I could become a car designer, and build a
prototype in my mother's garage. Purchasing several acres of woodland also
appeals - I've a very nice tent. The stock market? now there's a golden
opportunity for a bored man to come seriously unstuck. Shares in renewable
energy sources perhaps. Investment in a wind farm? Seems to me that I've
done too much of that already.
I shall be putting my feet on the streets of London tomorrow evening, so
perhaps I'll find some mischief to combat my ennui. I've had a very nice
time living in semi rural seclusion - if you can apply that term to a
housing estate near a field, but I am perhaps, not as finished with the
metropolis as I thought. You don't get many whales in Burghfield for
starters. Try buying food in the countryside - almost impossible. There are
pubs, but they require driving to, which rules out getting slaughtered to
pass the time.
I went to the White Horse at Uffington today for a stroll round the hills.
It was rubbish - and freezing...although I did detect signs of a little
dogging scene in the car park. Probably other poor sods who've sent their
manuscripts off and have nothing else to do. Called in at Upper Lambourn,
where I can confirm that Ivy was indeed climbing the ash trees - if that was
really her name.
Well I must go now; Chickens to milk, sheep to plough, Men and Motors to
If you see me in London, take me by my fat old hand and give me half a