It's just a snailtrail after 4:30am here in the UK. I should be tucked up in bye-bye land with my plasticine face squodged into a pillow mould, but I've been matchstick-eyed awake for the past 2 hours. Too many imaginary characters inside my head are keeping me awake. Loud-mouthed conversations, arguments about killing them off in chapter 6, counter-arguments by their mates suggesting they should have been killed off sooner - who needs enemies? The worst of it is, at this time in the morning with synapses clicking away like the old telegraph system or the points on Casey Jones's railway lines, people from different books are starting up shouting matches like neighbours across a fence. Help!
If I get some of these conversations down on paper, instead of writing this blog, perhaps I'll crawl back to bed before the pigeons start crooning their half-finished melodies down our Georgian chimneys or the seagulls, which come up-river only because there are so many (lovely) tourists here they think it's the seaside, begin their first-light squawk concert.
Just don't expect too much of me tomorrow - I mean, later today.
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