A long time ago, when I was feeling broken, I'd go and see a couple of chums in Bath who would make it all seem okay. There would be food, a lot of drink, and even more silly stories, and I'd head home again about three feet taller, knowing that whatever-it-was didn't really matter anyway.
I got to be Best Man to these chums, and also to kill one of them in a story. Bwa ha ha.
Bath has now been replaced by a late-Victorian farmhouse in the Marche (back of upper thigh on the Italian "leg"). I was there only last year being a farmhand, but this weekend we went for a surprise birthday.
I have met several very nice few people (including one who is, by a weird coincidence, a mate of a mate), and discussed all kinds of everything under the sun: the slow food movement; the winter procedure for lemon trees; recycled fuels in racing cars...
I also have some pretty good bruises from (not entirely soberly) helping push a Volkswagen Beetle whose battery had fallen asleep. And my shoes are muddy. BUt the Dr and I are both feeling a lot better about everything.
A ton of work sits quietly on my shoulders, and little of it got done this weekend. Also some exciting announcements very soon. And I still haven't seen K9 yet...
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3 comments:
I find the thought of you being three feet taller rather frightening. I plan to tell Nabil Shaban this if I ever meet him.
Good.
How does it feel to be canon? And does this mean that The Ancestor Cell is now literal truth?
Someone wrote to me and pointed out that apparently I have destroyed all the previous three K-9s in various novels, short stories, or audios. I hadn't really thought about it. But obviously, I now have a good idea for a short story.
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