A write mess

It's fair to say that things have not been going altogether swimmingly of late. You may have surmised from the slightly hysterical limerick below that I managed to get into a car accident (less than a month after passing my test - I assume this is some kind of record), and while I fully accept all the platitudes about how the only important thing is that nobody was hurt, it nevertheless left me feeling pretty disillusioned about how whole driving business. Now, I say that nobody was injured, but my fellow prangee is claiming all sorts of sudden and debilitating illnesses, all of which will, I assume, be miraculously cured by a wad of notes from the insurance companies. All most irritating. As Radiohead would say, Karma police, arrest this man...

Writing hasn't been going well either, largely because I can't do it. Every day I sit eagerly before the PC with the sincere intention of rattling off a few hundred words or editing a chapter or two of Tyrone's novel, but even as Word lumbers to life, my attention begins to wander. Next thing I know I'm lazing around on Facebook fussing an imaginary dog or playing infuriatingly addictive word games, or I'm succumbing to my crippling spider solitaire habit, or buying useless tat off Ebay. Anything, it seems, other than do the one thing I yearn to do when I'm at work or otherwise unable to write. Then, before I know it, the evening has gone, and I'm left feeling thoroughly narked at myself and my lack of application. Sigh.

I have, however, managed to complete one writing-related task: I have booted my gorilla-y kids' novel off to try its luck with another agent, as the last bunch of guttersnipes I tried didn't even bother to reply - which I find intensely irritating, having enclosed the stipulated SAE. Fine, they don't have to like the story, but there's no need to be so goshdarned rude.

OK, I'll put an end to this aimless rant now. I know it's particularly long and self-pitying, but it has been a while.

A peevish limerick

A van driver (I won't say his name)
is playing a quite roguish game.
He ploughed into me,
and then skipped off to see
about filing his false whiplash claim.

GRRRR.

Argy-bargycue

‘That’s the ticket!’ he garbled through his mouthful of burger and spittle. ‘Nice and simple.’
He looked pointedly at her over the top of his shades and wiped his greasy fingers on his greasier apron. Of course, it was one of those specimens depicting the outline of a basque-clad woman – he thought it hilarious.
She stretched her mouth into a submissive smile as she pushed a morsel of burger around her plate with her fork, silently drooling for the aromatic pinkness of rainbow trout or a nicely-seared king prawn, perhaps with just a touch of sweet chilli dipping sauce. But no, it was her birthday and he had insisted on treating her to his speciality – the traditional British barbecue. Her burger fragment beached itself on a slope of thickening grease, and she suppressed a gag.
‘Filling, innit?’ He smirked approvingly, taking her disgust as a sign of satiety. ‘Not like your arty farty nouvelle quizzy stuff. Much nicer than them burgers you made, ain’t they?’
She recalled her steak tartare haché and his pained and prolonged retching as he took his first mouthful, and memories of her other attempts to interest him in real food stung to the surface. The hours she spent making that cassoulet, and the seconds it had taken him to fork it into the bin and then microwave a plateful of Heinz beans. She swallowed.
‘You’re quite right. This is delicious. Do let me get you some more ketchup.’
‘Attagirl!’ he crowed from behind his barbecue as he flipped his third burger.
She padded inside, and extracted the red bottle from the cupboard. She glanced furtively towards the window, and then took a second bottle, decanting most of its contents into the ketchup. He may not care for her French food, but perhaps he might get a kick from her imported Wasabi sauce.