All I am at the moment is a big bag of vouloir. So there’s not much to say. Plus I’m trying to be discreet. And discretion is the better part of vouloir. Ooh, I made a funny. Or did I? I’m actually not sure.
I’m in crisis, you know. I got a letter from the government the other day. I opened it and read it, it confirmed I was in crisis. So I’m trying to do a number of things to get out of crisis, but I really don’t want to talk about them.
I don’t want to talk about the people I’m attempting to persuade to pay me for writing things. I don’t want to talk about the novel I’m attempting to write, nor the fact that I’m determined to keep writing novels till one of them sells hundreds of thousands of copies. Then stop. I don’t want to talk about my attempts to claw my way out of debt without getting a job. It’s not just discretion actually. It’s more like a delicious cocktail of discretion, embarrassment and … actually, that is it – just those two things. Or maybe shame is a better word. Discretion and shame. Delicious.
The France date has been set at June 1st. My brother-in-law will take me out there, stay for two days as we attempt to establish phone, running water, front door security and – if the gods be smiling – internet, then I will be left on my own, with only dormice, deer, maybugs and wild cats for company.
I can’t wait.
When I’ve been away in the past, I’ve been accused of running away. I wasn’t running away. I was just looking for something more interesting.
This time I’m running away.