It has been a quiet sort of day.
It has been rather like yesterday except with less excitement.
We have been on the taxi rank for four hours and have made about ten pounds each so far. Neither of us mind this because Mark is trying to work out how to build a generator out of a magnet and I am trying to write a book. There are two other taxi drivers on the taxi rank. One of them is asleep and the other one…
I was going to say ‘the other one is deep in a copy of Motorcycle News’ but then I looked across at him and realised that actually he is also asleep.
I am not asleep. I have spent the evening eating the last of the mince pies and trying to write my book.
I have had several failed attempts at this activity, where I have bored myself into desisting: however I am currently quite optimistic about this one. I started it on Boxing Day, and I have reached Chapter Seven. So far I have written about fifteen thousand words and turned into a very tedious companion. I keep saying things like: “Should you wax sheepskin?” and “How long would it take to walk from London to Yorkshire?” and similar.
Mark is being very patient with this sort of conversation, and is taking all questions seriously and coming up with sensible answers. So far he has designed a water system for my stable block and pointed out that soldiers need to stop walking sometimes in order to empty their bladders.
It is intended to be a story for children, mostly because I like stories that are supposed to be for children better than stories for grown ups. I would rather read Harry Potter than The Incredible Lightness of Being any day. Grown up stories have got an awful lot of whitter about feelings and inner turmoil, and children’s stories have got interesting stuff happening all of the time.
Also whenever you write a grown up book you have probably got to put a bit in about sex, and then everybody who reads it thinks that is really about what you do when you have sex yourself. I don’t understand why this is, because you can write about murder all you like, and nobody imagines that you are really secretly hoping for an opportunity to hack somebody to bits with a Bic Ladyshave.
Therefore I am trying to write a book which hasn’t got any sex in it but has got lots of adventure and interesting things happening.
I am enjoying doing this very much.
I have just got past the point where they put out the fire perfectly well without any help at all from the fire brigade.
In fact it is occupying my whole thinking process to the point where I am having to write bits of it because it is like having a tap in the side of my head which I can turn on to release some of the pressure.
It is a good job that it is winter, because I wouldn’t be able to write nearly as much if I had to keep taking people all over the Lake District. It means that I have got uninterrupted time in which to try and become JK Rowling, at least until springtime.
It is jolly hard work. I mean really hard work. I am having to organise my thoughts far more than I am accustomed to doing, and have been concentrating so hard my tongue is sticking out of the corner of my mouth almost all the time.
I am going to go and get on with it.
Have another picture of the Lake District.
