Despite a job that’s probably going to do me in, and a daughter who wants to since I won’t let her have a new donkey, horse, Mini turbo or perfume extracted from the soft bits of an animal on the absolute verge of extinction, I’ve managed to finish the penultimate edits of my three new novels. As expected they won’t be ready in time for Christmas, well not this Christmas at any rate.
I’m about to begin the single thing about writing that I hate. There may be another method but so far I haven’t found it, so if anyone knows a better way of checking a novel for errors than reading it backwards I pledge the soul of my first born as recompense.
After all the things I’ve denied her for Christmas she’ll probably spring at the chance.
And just to compound my belief that the world’s out to get me, my wife’s car went into the garage for it’s annual service today and several hours later I received a call from the garage.
“Brakes,” said the man on the other end with the exasperated tone I remembered so well from the time he used to perform said task for my daughter before she finally began using a new garage after that unpleasant incident with him foaming at the mouth after her request for a… well better leave that part unsaid.
“What about brakes?” I enquired as politely as possible to the phone which seemed to be heating up.
“Your missus’ car hasn’t got any. Would you like some?” Not wanting to tell him that the answer was self evident I nodded and put down the phone. Then as quickly as possible picked it up again and after waiting for about ten minutes, politely confirmed that I would and blamed a localised earthquake for cutting the line, which he probably didn’t believe as the garage is only two hundred yards from my house.
Now I’ve just got to wait for him to call up and give me the price.
I happened across the number for the French foreign legion’s recruitment hotline on the Net. I’m keeping it handy.