Just tweeted: Sexual intercourse was invented in Scotland by fish.
The Sunday Times: 19.10.14.
Just think, if one of those Proops fish hadn’t had sex with another Proops fish, I wouldn’t be here. I wonder if the Proops fish were as neurotic as me.
I write books in cafes, and I’m unpublished – thank God I’ve got that confession over with. I’m trying to get my memoir into print. It’s been a long road: it’s hard when your book has been rejected twice. The book is in the hands of one (potential) agent.
I can imagine her poring over it. Will she wake up, and trot along to the office in a great mood? Or will she arrive after a hideous Underground journey?
God I hope she’s happy when she reads it.
I started my memoir almost three years ago. That’s when the Cafe addiction started.
My book was recommended to her by an editorial agency. So I’m going to wait for her to say no, and then I’m going to fire out thirty emails to Agentfolk and pray.
Trouble is, I don’t believe in God. But I’ll pray anyway, just in case I’m wrong and he’s up there. I’ll do anything to ‘get there’.
I’m a bit of nomad when it comes to Cafes. But I’ve been coming to this one for four months. Elena works here, and she is, well, very pretty and sweet. She’s Italian and doesn’t like her eyebrows. I think they are perfect.
They look like Elizabeth Taylor’s in the film Cleopatra. It’s odd, because I wish Elena was my girlfriend, but I’ve never fancied Elizabeth Taylor. I have thoughts of Elena and me lying on a beach somewhere; the sky azure blue, sun on her face, face stud sparkling.
I usually chat with her for a few minutes, and she likes me. I have a crush on her, and she has a boyfriend. She serves me my espressos.
- Do you write in cafes?
- Do you fancy the café owner?
- Do you Tweet while writing prose?