Tuesday, November 30, 2004

I do love scraping ice off my car in the dark. It's a great way to start the morning. And then discovering that your windscreen water jet squirty things (what are they called?) have iced up, thus forcing you to drive through a dirty, frost-laden haze, is just soooo cool. Then, once through the traffic grind, getting to your desk and realising that all your workmates are in a more miserable mood than you are (and, jeez, I'm at my lowest ebb ever). The radio play I wrote won't be read tonight and neither will the new scenes I wrote for the other play. It was the one event I was quite looking forward to this week and was holding me together but the reading's been delayed for a week. Ah well. Instead, M is taking me for something to eat, which is rather nice. It's my birthday in just under two weeks. I will be 39. Ouch. A rough glimpse into the future would suggest that I have lived half my life, although I repeatedly kid myself that I will live well past 100. I have wasted quite a lot of my time thus far; drinking, generally loafing about and scraping the ice off cars. I don't want to waste any more time. But here I am, sitting in a crappy office, blogging, and sinking further and further into depression. It is worrying me to think that I might never leave any kind of mark on the world in which I live and am almost certain that I will never make a difference. Maybe nothing will come of being a playwright. It seems to be taking an age to get stuff off the ground. Christ, I'm a whinging bastard. See what a frosty morning does to me? I've turned into Natalie Appleton. Well, Natalie Appleton if she were 14st heavier. And recently absconded from I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of the Arctic I Need To Clear My Windscreen.

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