For the last couple of weeks I have been stalking the barren plains where the exegeses roam, trying to lasso myself a plumptious one. Seldom have I been out of my pyjamas and my once-white slipper-boots and I have drunk more cups of tea than there are teenage mothers in the north of England. Yesterday I helped LoH sew a tiny felt mouse, and that is the closest I have come to normality. I feel like a fly buzzing around my own head.
I have been working on my MRes for ten months now, only two more to go. The next fortnight sees a return to fiction, to my sweet little killer, reeking and glowering in her scabby old Parka. She’s hiding somewhere in the dank cellars of my mind, breathing through her mouth and picking her teeth with a carving knife. I stand at the top of the mossy and treacherous stairs, clutching a single, guttering tea light, and take a deep, deep breath.
The best thing at the moment is the music that my beloved Snout is making and trapping inside his new magic box (a ‘digital eight-track recorder’, if you’ll believe that kind of talk). It’s music that sounds like what you see in the sky on smudged and hallowed mornings when you’ve been up all night carousing under the communion-cup moon. It sounds like our love.
But, to quote Captain Spalding, I must be going. There is a killer at large in my cellar and something must be done.