Happy Christmas.

Boxing Day. First draft to edit. Who said writing wasn't a proper job? Working the holidays and everything. And yet still tasting Heston Blumenthal's crystallised orange. Like the centre of the earth inside a Christmas pud. That was one very fine present from my very fine friend. You see, there I go again distracting myself. Go back to work. Go on.

reach for the sky

I can reach for the sky now, almost, anyway. Nothing to do with Anthem coming out (Kindle Christmas Day, book January 3 in case you're wondering). My ceiling fell down! It certainly did. Right around my desk. All that rain has done for our very old house. Poor thing. I had to shake out the rubble from my printer (they're surprisingly light, printers, especially after being shaken. Hm mm.) And sweep round my desk, move my towers of books, my turrets of papers. It had to be done anyway. New Year  resolution and all, but the big job, the sorting and chucking will have to wait. Pressies to wrap, stuff to buy, carols to sing,  hair to tear out. My own, if you're worrying. Isn't that what Christmas is all about? The busyness? Have to have this and have to have that and ggrrrr! I wrote a song about that, by the way, and now my singing group performs it every Christmas which usually wakes up a few of our audiences. Drives them mad. The singers that is. So many words in every line, all frantic and busy, just as we are, with our bags and baggages and ceilings falling down, and then the message, riding over the top, in one simple voice and still a baby lies forgotten in a cattle stall. I like it. It's not a great piece of music not compared to every other new carol being written, but one day, when I've saved up  I'll record it.  Anyway, happy everything to everyone. Keep safe.