Getting over myself

I realised that I spent most of last week in a big sulk because I had to do some work for a change. Maybe I've got accustomed to sitting bleary-eyed at my desk, blankly staring at nothingness. Or perhaps the meaninglessness of my existence is getting to me.

I tried to get a taxi home that night, but for some reason the ones on Ice House Street refused me. Perhaps my beard was so large they were concerned for road safety. Or perhaps it was against the law to allow me to embark. Although that seems unlikely. Hong Kong drivers seem blissfully unaware of driving laws, unless it's something that benefits them. I gave up, took the MTR home, and spent ten minutes sat on the sofa with my eyes closed, trying to think of nothing at all.

Luckily this got me into the right state of mind for comedy: I was hosting, to an audience of no more than ten people. But they were ten friendly, laughing people, versus the grumpy and unreactive lumps the previous week. Or perhaps they'd just heard of my genius. By the end of it, my spirits were bouyed up again and I went home happy. If I'm convinced of myself, I might post some video. Truly I'm living the dream.

If the dream is to perform in a basement to ten people, in front of an orange curtain.

I've been very slack at working on my new novel, and I'm worried that I won't spend much time on it in February either. I've written a bit set in the deserts of Iraq, but it came out unconvincing; I couldn't even get the cliches right. Perhaps when I go to England, I'll buy half a dozen Andy McNab books and try and rehash his style. But with special other things too...