Ye gods, but I'm actually into the last quarter of The Gifting edit. Sound those ruddy trumpets indeed. And I'm really pleased with the scene I rewrote at the end of Part 3 as well - it somehow makes far more sense now. It gave me that glorious feeling of yes when I finished it - which isn't something that happens often. Dammit. Still a long section to tackle now though, and I fear that the rewrite of Quarter 4 will be deep and painful. Nurse, the screens ...

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I don't know why, but I am feeling decidely low in mood tonight. It has grown with me all day, like some nasty, festering boil. I don't know if it is because of my age. Or because I am so unhappy at work. Or because I just don't feel a hundred per cent. Or maybe even eternal optomists get fed-up from time to time? Does anyone else get days like that? Where it takes every ounce of willpower you possess to get out of bed and then you spend the entire day just getting more an more and more stressed out. It is very out of character for me to feel so sorry for myself but in fact I do feel sorry for myself, which is just pathetic.



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Ye gods, but it’s chilly today. It’s the third time this week I’ve opted for a jumper rather than a jacket in the office. Ah, we’re all downgrading now, you know. Soon I shall be rolling in wearing my pink fluffy dressing gown and bedsocks. That’ll get rid of the campus population for sure ...

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It’s late on a Saturday night in Hore’s on Frith Street and it’s as if something trippy has been mixed into all the alcohol behind the bar. Everyone is wasted but decadently so. At least, that’s how it feels in the moment if you’re part of it.

Sid is shuffling around on the dance floor. He is not a good dancer, and he is not good looking, but something about his awkward posing endears him to the women around him. Not to the point where they find him attractive, but when he grinds up against them they push him away without malice.

The whole floor of the club is ankle deep in booze. Not the cheap strong lager that splashes up onto your jeans in the Camden pubs, but exotic cocktails that girls in white high heels have been unable to keep in their glasses. They slip and slide in their own liquid, paid for and sloshed onto the floor and they land on their backs, laughing, skirts riding up revealing white or pink knickers. Men rush to help them, the grips on their DMs just holding them upright as they haul the girls to their feet and hug them. The girls are not particularly pretty. All the pretty girls are at clubs you’ve heard of.

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The Dream Depository is still open. So if you have any dreams to add, please do. And thanks to everyone who has left dreams so far.

I've had some fascinating correspondence with the American writer and writing professor, Louis Gallo, who has interesting ideas about dreams and writing. He's recommended a method for inducing dreams, which I will reveal soon. All I can say now is that it involves bananas. He's also sent me a couple of his amazing short stories, in which dreams feaature.

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The arrival of The Girl and Boy's Australian citizenship certificates brought a lump to my throat. I know Australia isn't exactly stealing my children but that's how it feels.

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We’ve spent a lot of the day clearing out the office in order to find space for new people to sit. New people, m’dears – what fun! It’s astonishing the rubbish we’ve – well, I’ve – managed to collect over four years. Really, I’m quite ashamed. I’ve also had to move my paper cut-out altar from my cabinets onto the wall – ah, it won’t be the same … Maybe I should colour it in? Might encourage a tad more divine intervention – you never know. Anyway, we all feel cleansed after our big clear-out. And we’re waiting with great anticipation for the recycling man. What fun we have here on campus ...

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Ah the existential pain of getting back to work. It’s taken me at least four hours to get my working head on again. If I even have such a thing. Groan. Added to that, my computer is playing up big-time and I have to have one of the IT technicians come and sort it out for me before I can even get onto the web. Excel’s rather dodgy too. At least I think they’re coming to sort it out – perhaps they’re just going to shoot me and hire someone who understands the computer? It may yet be the cheaper option ...

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This time with top author and lovely lady, Luisa Plaja, whose debut novel, Split by a Kiss (Corgi Children's) will be published on March 6th.

So, who’s it for and what’s it about?

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I can't write today. Nothing. Not a word. I don't think it has anything to do with the unpleasant episode of last week, because thankfully and with exquisite timing it was followed swiftly by the acceptances of four of my flash stories by two different magazines. And when, due to previously mentioned unpleasant episode, I wrote back to make sure I would be able to see the final versions of the stories before being printed or put up on the web, both editors were so understanding (one, the delightful Colin of the Ranfurly Review, making my week by saying that "no, I won't be altering your work. It's too fine to tamper with. :-)") that I immediately realized that what had happened to me was, thankfully, an aberration. That most literary magazines have an ethical code that dictates that a writer will always be asked for approval of edits. ....

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