You know, or perhaps you didn't know, that there are no clocks in Las Vegas. You couldn't expect all those punters to blow their hard earned cash whilst trying to ignore the fact that it's time to pay the rent, or pick up the kids from school. Thus there are no clocks.
Getting away from the point slightly. Don't have a clock or watch whilst writing. Last week I was just finding my second wind. The old muse and I were just getting it on, when my wife popped her rather dishevelled head around the door and enquired if I was ever considering coming to bed for the rest of my life. In a minute, I breezily told her. "Don't bother, she retorted angrily, it's seven am."
So, no clocks. Whisky or beer isn't the best idea, either. In the last five years I've been through seven keyboards. They just don't build them like they used to. Just half a glass of whisky and coke and they give up the ghost. Where has all the pride and quality gone? I once tried to repair a keyboard that went "phut!" All I'd done was drop a glass of beer on it. Inside were three plastic membranes. Nothing very complicated. Alas I didn't put it back together very well after drying it off. Note to one's self. Dont use a hair dryer at full blast at three thirty in the morning when the wife has had a hard day at work.
Anyway, the keyboard went together but when I used it something was awry. I pressed one key and the wrong letter came out. Naturally I didn't realise this until I'd typed a whole page and what was on the screen was complete gibberish. You always write gobberish you might say, but this would have confused the brightest code breakers the CIA could produce. Now I buy them in packs of five for about £10.
Oh, and this is positively the most important 'don't'.
If you've been up half the night writing, the creative mill grinding away like fury; make sure that the cat isn't dozing peacefully on the floor. Give me a couple of beers, added to five thousand meaningless words, a broken keyboard and absolutely no idea of the time and I'm a little clumsy. That scream of indignation. The poor cat shot up, bounced off the door, which only incensed her even more, gave me a swipe of her particularly sharp claws, then careered from my writing room howling like a supersonic dervish before stampeding down the stairs only marginally ahead of a hysterical wife bearing a carving knife and daughter brandishing something suspiciously like a claw hammer and searching for the maniac who had mortally wounded her loving pet, which by now had completely forgotten the incident as was peacefully nibbling at her food.
Maybe stamp collecting would ensure me a longer life.