I'd forget my thinkbox if it wasn't ... oh, wait. It isn't, and I have

I have students, this lunchtime. Nevertheless, I thought I could get in a decent morning's work. So I came in to the Lit & Phil at a virtuous hour, opened my bag, unpacked the folder of students' work and the coffee and... and... nothing. No laptop. I haz left it.

Which means no work, obviously. Aaargh. What to do? Obviously, I am in a library; I could read a book. But I'd be all twitchy and unhappy with myself. I think I'll go for a mooch about town, and pretend I'm thinking about new projects. You never know, something might actually happen. Where is that bolt of lightning, when you want it? (Literal or metaphorical today, I don't much care. I have often wanted to die by meteorite-strike; I think that's the way to go. I'm holding out for that.)

Perhaps I can blame this morning's stupidity on last night's dreams? Ever since I finished the novel, I have had deeply vivid dreams. Not pleasant ones, at all: last night I dreamed of allowing my friends to believe that I had killed myself, while actually I just ran away into the city. Which was the Oxford of my childhood, as it happens, which is in many ways my abiding cityscape, despite a longer adulthood of Newcastle. Also, of course, this is the plot of half my novels, our hero on the run from those closest to him. I was ... dissatisfied with this, and woke myself up; and slept again, and dreamed that the staircase of my house collapsed and I couldn't get upstairs any more. Cod-psychology would probably say that I'm anxious about losing things I value, or having to give them up. It's either entropy or the world is getting smaller. Either way, not much I can do about it, except keep waking up from the dreams.

Syncopation: an uneven progress from bar to bar

I, um. Appear to have had beer for lunch.

It was the Hand of Fate, honest. I had been dealing with students, one of whom was late [how long does one wait, anyway, for errant students? I gave him fifteen minutes, and on the sixteenth minute was on my way out when he came in], and so made me late leaving uni; and as I headed home a voice hailed me, and it was an old friend I haven't seen for ages, and we were right outside one of the best pubs in Newcastle. So what is a man to do...?

Anyway, there it is. There we were. And he's just reprinting his self-published book, which is something of a triumph, etc; and so, what with one thing and another, I might just as well carry on drinking, because it's always a mistake to stop.

No idea what else I'm going to do with the day, but that is a definite beginning.

If I go and boil rice...

...then I will have boiled rice. In every sense.

Oh noes! Save the tiger!

After a flying start, we are suddenly limping badly in the rear; people, as you love me, vote my book!

Vote here for Jade Man's Skin, with every separate computer that you have; they all count!