Smothered in Ralgex. Letting out loud yelps every so often. Cursing computers, bicycles and large breasts, all of which might be the reason my spine is twisted up in knots. Wanting to write, but it's like having a punch in the kidneys every ten minutes.
As is clear, I make a terrible patient. For a compulsive hypochondriac, this is bad news.
I am drumming my fingers on my brain, waiting for word on stories subbed and novels tentatively suggested. Looking at the deep blue sky outside suspiciously, as all Glasgowites tend to do. Sunshine? What, are you trying to make us look stupit or something? The first hot day of the year, everyone heads to the park with a bottle of Buckfast tonic wine under one arm and a bottle of baby oil under the other. Sizzle.