I want to fuck all the computer breaking gods in bins.

So I’ve come to Mallorca to write a book, a hare-brained fuckfaced scheme if ever there was one. And there was one, last year in fact, when I came to Mallorca and failed to write a book after failing to write three books in Paris. Prior to that I spent a decade not writing books in lots of places. There may be something wrong with me – something terrible. Wonderful, yet terrible.

So I’ve come to Mallorca to write a book. Naturally, I’m not writing a book. You probably knew that, knew it before I did. This non book writing isn’t down to laziness, a lack of moral fibre or shrinking inspiration. Not really. The gods must have been smiling at me because they beat up my computer the minute I arrived.

“The hard drive has gone,” explained the man in the computer shop.

“Oof,” I said, playing along. “Tricky.”

“Yep.”

“Does that mean it can’t be fixed?” I said, hopefully.

“No, no, I can fix the hard drive,” he said, as I started to go for his throat, “but the fan has gone. And this bit here” – I looked at that bit there – “and this. You need a new machine, really. It’s not worth fixing this.”

“But I can’t buy a new machine,” I beamed. “I mean computer. A computer machine. I can’t afford it – I HAVEN’T GOT THE MONEY.” And off I danced, like a maniac.

So I’ve come to Mallorca to write a book and have ended up building flowerbeds and spreading clay on tennis courts. I have no idea how this has happened, but am delighted by the turn of events. Who the hell wants to go around writing books? Not me. Not yet. I want to be building flowerbeds and spreading clay on tennis courts.

Where does this leave us? I mean, it’s been a while. (In case you’re wondering, the air conditioning unit is still there, still whirring away.) Well, I write things now and again and have managed to drudge up a weekly column every week for the last six months. That’s something. And if I somehow manage to summon up a computer from somewhere then I suppose I’ll have to write that book. That’s something, too. And once I get tired of building flowerbeds and spreading clay on tennis courts – tomorrow, probably, or Monday – then I’ll no doubt have the appetite for writing for a living again.

Good this, isn’t it?