Monday 13 August 2018

Changed the picture again.


I'm bored with it now, painting that is. Time to find something else to do.

    I'm sitting in my writing room, cringing at the noise from above. Two men (although it sounds like fifty) are replacing my roof. 

    I bought my house from a man, who first bought it from the council. And following all councils' historical meanness when it comes comes to housing their tax payers, it has a flat roof. Just because my fifteen year warranty ran out last year the insurance company has levied a £5000 excess on any payment they (hopefully) won't have to pay for should I make a claim.

    Even getting an insurance company to insure me is difficult. I'd have more luck if I lived in an area prone to...no, perhaps I shouldn't tempt fate. I don't believe in fate but there'e's no point in pushing my luck, which I don't believe in either. Maybe I'm just getting old and frightened. I was sixty one a few days ago.

    What really bugs me about becoming ancient, is that I still feel like an eighteen year old in my head. Somebody once told me this would happen but I laughed them away, just like all immortal teenagers do.

    Time for another book I think. I know I've been saying that for weeks but I had an especially good idea last night while all my ancient insides were all grumbling in harmony. And since I sold a novel the other day, and am now rejoining the best sellers I'll keep at it.

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