So, I moved house last week. Broadband is up, my office is slowly coming together out of a pile of boxes, and I didn't quite manage to kill myself in the process. I'd like to have more to say about it but I think I'm due about a week of lying on the sofa gasping for breath first, and then I've got one novel to give a final polish to and another that's due a substantial rewrite.
Once I've recovered from the move I'll try and get back to you with some prognostications on a topic of earth-shattering importance, such as: Why is it that I can find a metric shitload of IEC power cables (that I mostly don't use any more) but none of the useful stuff I need to hook the stereo up in the living room? (No, don't answer that: it's a rhetorical question.) And why is it that the only DVDs I can find are the complete first and second seasons of The Ren and Stimpy Show? Moving is an experience so profoundly surreal that I suspect only the late Douglas Adams could do it justice ... I should have done it years ago, if only for the hallucinogenic focus it applies to your environment.
Meanwhile, here's a short story to be getting on with.