Cold weather, loads of other shit to do and general lethargy.
"You've always got excuses, Ronald."
"They're called reasons, Dolores."
"Keep telling yourself that."
Those were my - highly valid reasons - for not having got on with this. Not totally sure what that is "this". "Some writing crap." Dolores would call it. Followed by "Are they paying you?"
She's much more together than me. Then again, a jigsaw puzzle dropped from the 39th floor is more together than me.
"Sheena is a punk rocker." The Ramones are telling me. But is she still? What's Sheena doing now? Probably a thrice-married mother of three, living in a former local authority house in Grantham*.
There's some stuff I should be writing. But there's Ramones to listen to. Arms to wave crazily. And a whole load of bollocks I can forget while crazily waving my arms about.
* The centre of evil in the universe.
Stratford-upon-Avon, 1946: a Summer’s Night Dream - I am standing today at a gravestone in Trinity church. Sixteen feet below me lies the greatest writing man that ever lived. If this story is better than us...
12 hours ago