I’m Not There, I’m Here
It’s been a long winter so far; a combination of workload, never-ending flu and not enough down time left me feeling wiped out, so I’ve gone away for one week. I’m in Hispaniola for a few days of whale-watching, rum drinking and tropical doodadery, back Saturday, unforch.
As someone who saw Barbados transform itself from a quiet old-world Caribbean island into a guffawing, ghastly Cotswolds-On-Sea, I prefer my tropical hideaways less developed, and have sloped off into one of the emptier corners. To this end I should really be reading Grahame Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Malcolm Lowry, Norman Collins and William Boyd. Have many female UK authors written about the tropics apart from Jean Rhys?
I’m not totally vegging out. On the flight I binge-watched the three seasons of ‘Detectorists’; if E Nesbitt ever needs a reboot Mackenzie Crook will be the writer/director to do it. I have also been thinking about writing a sequel to my as-yet-unpublished psychological thriller, and what needs to be in the 20th Bryant & May volume. This doesn’t count as work; it’s thinking.
Please note that I am still posting while on holiday. This is above and beyond the call of duty, and I hope you appreciate the effort it takes to sit upright, remove my sunglasses and type right now. Enough; I shall be separated from my Pina Colada no longer.
One week, and it’s already half over. Gad. The worst thing about this job is that you don’t retire, you get carried out. Waiter, more rum over here! And leave the bottle!