I love Spring. I love the emergence of new life, and all that guff. What I truly can't bear is my front lawn, satisfyingly dormant for the entire winter, suddenly springing to life one Tuesday afternoon, and by the next day almost waist deep. It also provides the local foxes and cats somewhere to procreate with all the blood curdling screams the act apparently requires.
I'd love to cut it, except that this is England and it never stops bl***y raining. I tried to other day, but one wheel fell off the mower half way through and now my neighbour, with whom I share the lawn, is upset because I managed to tear all the grass out of the ground in one foot wide strip on his side all the way down to the road, and he doesn't believe that I didn't do it on purpose.
Alright. It's not as bad as that, but I just felt like whining.
Something I knocked up when the cruddy weather was annoying me.
Finally I've stopped plotting and begun my new novel now that I've finally come up with a suitably rubbish name for my character. The only thing is, it's a real name so I might leave a dedication at the front of the book and a grovelling apology if I can't modify it, since according to the laws of chance, an old friend of mine (with just that name) might read it. How I'll convince him that it's just a coincidence and my stupid bungling idiot of a character with the IQ of a carrot, but an earnest belief he's God's gift to the entire world isn't him, I'll never know. As a result I'm going to call it (perhaps) Sod's Law, which to any American is the same as Murphy's Law.
Can't wait to get started. The only thing is that as my android tablet has finally croaked and I'm saving for a new motorbike, and I spend the majority of my time at work these days, I'm going back to the basics by writing it with an actual pen. I wrote my first three novels this way and began to look like some kind of mutant until the heavily muscled fingers which were the result, shrank back down to normal size.