Witness: I’m waiting for a call from G the builder so he can say he’s sorry, I’m waiting for a call from at least one of the architects I’ve contacted. I’m also waiting for a call from the building society to confirm they will remove M’s name from the mortgage deeds now thatI’ve paid her off.I wait. Hohum.I listen to my fingernails tapping like syncopated woodpeckers on the melamine of the1960s breakfast table in the kitchen. (
Now that should be worth thirty quid to anybody witha bit of retro romance. Stick it on e-Bay
).I tend to spend a lot of time alone, you know. Sometimes I can go for 12 hours withoutspeaking to another soul. The lot of the long-distance writer, I suppose.Hohum …1.30pm: Eureka! Somebody phoned! And it wasn’t some poxy South Venezuelan callcentre trying to sell me essence of Vanilla Viagra or a double-glazed Dog Kennel. No itwas my Book Man, H.(
H is actually the exceptionally gay son of our local hard-man, D. H and D are a real disappointment to each other
).H has opened his own cyber bookshop linked to Abebooks.co.uk and he is desperate for stock. That’s fine by me as I have almost 4,000 books to get rid of. If I average only £2 a book after I’ve paid H his 30pc and Abebooks their 5pc, that’s another £8,000 towards our adventure.You see, everything comes down to money at the moment. Money really is the cost of living … the true price of life.And we need to raise a fortune. And the sale of ToS is the key to that.
God, I wish I could sleep. Three joints and a bottle-and-a-half of red wine haven’t workedtheir usual alchemy.The rain is hissing outside the window like some drunken old tramp taking a piss. Forty-four tons of supplies for Waitrose thunder through the village on sixteen gigantic wheels.The top floor of ToS trembles like a dying dog’s back.Tonight is about as comforting as a witch’s tit.