Today I woke up drenched and it was nothing to do with the leaky roof as that has been fixed. No it was all due to yesterday's purple fugue induced by too much vino tinto consumption the night before. Well, I forgot to take my Black Cohosh and consequently woke up wearing a wet rag. And then I went onto have my daily slap and tickle only to be told to write a book or something if I liked writing because writing took people's mind off things. Well, I am thinking, do you mean me to stop wittering here and write it in a book because other people would enjoy it or just to write somewhere else because it would be therapeutic for me. I guess, if par is for the course as normal, that I will never know and think, Well as I have found a new residency complete with bar, albeit it there is never anyone around to serve me and I ams till trying to find the right switch, then perhaps I should just transfer my daily thoughts here totally. The trouble is a very sweet lady said that she enjoyed reading my thoughts and it has put me in a quandary as well as making me hot under the collar with not knowing.
Well this coming week there is a funeral to attend in London so that means three days away from Baba because he is to heavy to lug about, oh but there is always Money Penny because she is a smart, new and light travelling companion so maybe I can get a network connection at my sister-in-law's and do something there but then again maybe I should just knuckle down and write the second book. It is not much fun writing a book because for one you need to think of something to put on a blank piece of paper, two you need to be consistent all the way through, three you have to punctuate correctly in case your Mum ever goes out and buys a copy and she is such a stickler for grammar. Finally you have to get it proof read, then go to India to get it published. The latter I do not mind because I love India, the people, the weather, the food, the toilets leave a lot to be desired but then there are some ropey ones in England and France too so when you travel a lot you get used to all different standards of plumbing. Oh the hotel in Goa was brilliant because the shower was no damp squib but a blasting octopus with powerful outpourings. That is my yardstick to a good hotel and I hope the one in London, suitably expensive, has a good one. Now I have lost he plot, oh yes being hot and bothered, and writing a book. I think of India at times like this because it is a good place to escape to and I like to be somewhere nice to be within in a dream. Although it is hot there it is constant and you get used to it but here it is hot then cold then damp and heaven only knows what the animals think. At least the rosehips keep the rheumatic and conquered knees in order but this is not getting the book written and what does it matter because million sellers do not grow on trees, no they are plucked out of the ether, formed and put together, then the real cost is counted for production but it is cheaper to do it in India than self-publish in the UK even though they keep sending me these special offers, Get you cover done for free if you publish before the end of August. I think on your pedalling machines, I can have a wonderful holiday to recover from whatever ails me, from hot moments, writers block, conquered knees and inclement climate, as well as getting the business done. So why should I pay through the nose and miss the experience of a life time doing something that I have never done before and have a fulfilled life and it has been good trying to be different and awkward, especially if you find that it depends on what occurs on the way is enlightening and uplifting. Million sellers, my eye I am only paying for 500 and they should be easily given away as presents for Christmas, Birthdays, Christenings, but not Funerals. Anyway, I have given up the will to live in respect of that now, the book that is not the funeral. Well that got the heat from out of the kitchen so now I can get on in a total cool and karmatosed state of being. Ohmmmm
