We managed to avoid being too troubled by the trick or treat mob. Mainly due to parents in this aspirational East Riding town not letting their offspring partake in what is still, in this country, just an annual legitimised exercise in begging. We did make the mistake of ordering takeaway, though. So, ten minutes after the call, there's a knock at the door. Luckily, I saw the light flickering through a pumpkin that was swinging at our front entrance and surmised that, in all likelihood, it wasn't some bloke with my Chicken Jalfrezi. So we hid for five, having no spare loose change with which to fend off the witches and warlocks. Fuck 'em, anyway, the little beggars. I have to work 40 hours a week to be this overdrawn and debt ridden. They're not having any of it. Unless they're prepared to make a minimum repayment to Nat West for me.
Phoned Norwich Union to let them know that some details on some forms they've sent us were incorrect. "You've misspelt my partner's forename," I said. "Forename? Is that the same as the first name?" came the addled reply. I was asked if there was any chance that I'd get sent to a war zone. Not unless we really broaden our arts and property coverage, I shouldn't think.
Bob phones me and asks me what this play I'm writing's all about. I tell him I can't post it on the blog because it's all strictly hush hush at the moment. Then I tell him. I'm wondering when I'll move beyond the mounds of research and actually start writing something. The contract I signed would suggest sometime soon.
Still listening: The Paddingtons - First Comes First
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