I could literally see the light bulbs coming on last night. These writing workshops are a good thing, methinks, and people appear to be warming to my wicked ways. Spent the five minutes before my sessions started getting changed into leisure wear in the toilets of a well-known supermarket. Okay, it was Asda. There are signs all down the corridors leading to the toilets warning off drug users and other people who indulge in anti-social behaviour. I felt wrong getting changed in there, although I'm not sure how people could object to a man slipping into cleaner, fresher smelling clothes. But this is a strange, strange world. I noticed that not many people in the shop appeared as clean as me, many of them wearing very dirty tracksuits. So perhaps getting changed is an evil, very addictive habit that I should get out of before there's no turning back. Whatever next? A morning suit and a pair of patent leather slip ons? Got changed double quick, before I was thrown out, and tried to buy myself a Weight Watchers chicken wrap. Trouble was, I picked on a member of staff who had started just seconds before I arrived at the till. "I'm new," she said, as if that explained her inability to work a bar code scanner and coming up £4 short on my change. "I don't know how to get back in the till to get your money," she muttered, with an expression that added that it would be easier for her if I just skulked off a little bit poorer than I should be. Other members of staff were summoned, who all neglected my needs, preferring to laugh at Mandy, the new girl who, I gathered from her attitude and general demeanour, must be a student currently adding the finishing touches to a 20,000 word long study on being a right fucking idiot. The most traumatic part of the night is always the journey home. The largest council estate in Europe is a tricky blighter to navigate your way out of. I repeatedly and literally head down some right cul-de-sacs before I weave, slowly, back onto the right road. Got home mid-way through the evening to find that M's health had declined somewhat. Fulfilling my duties by nipping over the road for a bottle of Lucozade and a packet of Nurofen, I settled down in the darkened recovery room to watch what remained of the football. Which wasn't bloody much, Mr Rooney having departed in a teenage strop while I was over at the garage.
Curious thing, this publishing game. Lots of people patting each other on the back congratulating each other on a programme that's been produced for a Children in Need concert that's taking place in a park round the corner. It looks nice, it's well-written. But isn't that what we do here???
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