The Pixies are taking a break this week owing to my having spent much of the past few days hanging around doctors' waiting rooms (and no, not for the purpose of indulging my penchant for ancient magazines!). They will return soon, but in the meantime...
I bumped into an old friend last week, and over a cup of tea happened to mention my writing.
'Oh, you've become a writer now?' she asked dismissively, 'When did that happen?'
I know I hadn't seen her for a while, but she made it sound as though I'd been in for major surgery, or had grown an extra head or something. I don't know what annoyed her more, that I'd started writing, or that I hadn't told her; she never had the courage to try, you see.
'Well don't expect much from it,' she continued. 'There are thousands of people out there who think they're God's gift to literature, most of them starving in garrets, or wherever writers, err...'
'Write?' I ventured.
'You'll never make any money at it,' she called after me as I went to put the kettle on for a second cup.
She stopped criticising after her second cup of tea, which might have something to do with what I slipped into it.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a new chapter of my novel to write, The Life and Times of a Tea-Drinking Serial Killer won't write itself. That's only a working title, if you can think of a better one, I'm open to constructive criticism; you're welcome to pop round, we can discuss it over a nice cup of tea.