Dear Diary,
Yes, I know. I've neglected you in the most unforgivable manner. If you were my child, you'd be wandering the streets barefoot, in threadbare clothes, with a hunk of week-old bread in one hand and a carrier bag containing a bottle of Strongbow and 20 Marlborough in the other.
I'm sorry, right?
But it's only today that I have emerged from a four-day-long migraine. A marathon of skull-crunching pain that rendered me all but useless except for going through the motions that pay the mortgage and dishing out some kind of sustainance to feed the family.
The prospect of writing a single syllable that I didn't have to in order to justify my salary just wasn't on the agenda. Sorry.
But today, I woke up with a head as light as a feather and free of the sense that there's something desparate to burst out of my frontal lobe in a way reminiscent of John Hurt's best-remembered scene in Alien. So I promise I'll do better.
Now all I have to worry about is the fact that I'm apologising to a cyber book of mostly empty pages.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment