Box sets...
A blank sheet of paper. No ideas. Just sitting at the dining room table, gone 10.30pm. Half watching a psychological thriller on television when I should really be thinking about going to bed. Box sets. They’re a big problem. I watch one episode and then the next one’s coming up in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,3,2,1 seconds and suddenly it’s on and I’m not even watching it, just glimpsing it while writing this pile of poo. I’ve got a glass of water on the go. Tap water, three quarters finished. On the psychological thriller I’ve been half watching they can’t stop drinking alcohol. They’re preparing food and drinking wine and they’re all dysfunctional in some way or other: one is 60 and divorced and going out with somebody half her age; her son drinks too much and seems to be having relationship issues and the daughter is, well, the daughter, although she might be a lesbian, I haven’t worked that bit out yet. She probably is a carpet muncher, because these days there has to be one, ...