You’ll never guess where I’m writing this. What do you mean you don’t want to guess? And what do you mean the clue is in the title? Well it’s true, I am on a National Express coach, but the title is somewhat misleading: I don’t want to cut my throat open. In fact, I’m hanging out with all the old people and their funny ways and having a ball. In fact, I’m thinking of buying in bulk return tickets from Truro to Aberdeen and conducting all future writing and pitching business on National Express coaches. Perhaps they will sponsor me. Perhaps, like Relentless (the drink that keeps on giving) they will send me nice packages of things in the post. I love National Express. The title of this post is clearly bullshit.
But while the title of this post is clearly bullshit, what clearly isn’t bullshit is that I haven’t written up College Dog. I’ve been busy, you see. Mainly I’ve been busy thinking. God it’s exhausting. But I’ve been busy doing other stuff too. I’ve been busy drinking, busy smoking, busy shaving, busy writing reports and reading reports and busy interviewing people about the economy in Afghanistan. I’ve been busy remembering to pack a banana for this journey (I’m going to London by the way) and busy ironing shirts and busy packing away my duvet and pillows and storing them underneath the sofa bed that hangs out in my Nan’s dining room. I know, I know: my life is thrilling. Busy, but thrilling.
You know what my life is like? It’s like the start of those films in the 80s where the main character (Danny DeVito, if you’re lucky) is making out with some hot chick in a bedroom somewhere in LA and then – fuck! – the husband comes home and so the main character leaps out of the window and scuttles off down a sunny street whilst shaving and eating a piece of toast and then he gets to his car and – fuck! – there’s a parking ticket on it. Perhaps a few of them. But he doesn’t care. Danny DeVito just screws up the parking ticket or tickets and finishes his shave and toast and probably, hopefully, lights a cigarette before getting into his car and screeching off somewhere.
I remember watching films like that in the 80s and thinking ‘THAT is how I want my life to turn out’. And that kind of is how my life has turned out: I feel like I’m always walking down a street shaving and eating toast and hiding from parking tickets.
What the fuck am I going on about? No, don’t tell me. My point is, by the end of the week when I’m less busy I’ll write College Dog. How long does it take to write a short story about a dog going to college? An hour? Two? Two days? A week? A lifetime? I’ll let you know.
Some toast, earlier