All is now well following the Oz debacle. The breadknife and I eventually broke the wall of silence during the evening of her birthday, but not before many tears had been shed on her part and I had resorted to necking Kalms by the handful. She liked her presents, including the wild card cardigan I picked, so some Brownie points were clawed back. She also loved the herb chopping set. It turns out we can still go to Australia, but due to her having exceeded the 35 age mark the only areas we are now eligible for are Victoria and the Northern Territories. Darwin? Don't think so. Melbourne it is. I've been scouting for work and the media situation is on a par with Sydney which is good news. She, on the other hand, is adamant that "It's over, we blew it, I don't want to hear any more about it." To be continued...
I've been reading my Writing, Culture & Society folder that I collected from Rob Middlehurst on Tuesday. I'd forgotton how good Fuck, Tits & Blow My trumpet, You Beauty actually was, and reading over it also sparked a feeling of joy becasue it was indeed such fun to write. So now I have a dilemma: to continue with Anatomy and keep Fuck, Tits on a side burner as a short story or shelve Anatomy and push forward with Fuck, Tits, which I'm not sure how far I can take as a full novel. My heart tells me to continue with Anatomy and have both that and Fuck, Tits ready as a short story. There is also Nails to consider, my novel for young adults. Oh, the torment of having the ideas but not enough mojo to execute them.
It is Saturday morning, and I'm working with both Sam's today, then going to a 30th house party tonight. I'm driving and therefore not drinking. If I have to suffer another Sunday in bed having consumed my own weight in alcohol and Butros - thereby losing a day's writing - I'm likely to drive barefoot ro Dundee on Monday morning armed only with Toblerone.
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