Le gasp, le pant

Gosh it’s a hot day. Hot and muggy, which makes it feel worse than the recorded 27 degrees. The heat is thick, suffocating. It has a presence, sprawling over the tin roof like an obese, smug cat.

Progress on hob is slow and steady. I wrote the scene I didn’t want to write. I swear I’d rather write about torture than sex, and I’d really rather tackle neither. So yeah, I just treat the sex scene like a torture scene – there’s pain enough in both – albeit different types. Anyway, it’s done, in all its awkwardness and malfunctioning emotional extremes.

I feel like going to the pub, really I do. But I want a pub that plays decent music and has a chilled clientèle. Nottingham spoiled me for choice, it did. Sadly, all I have is Brian’s Bar which plays host to the freaks and geeks of Primrose – lecherous old men, women past a certain prime, pregnant bar wenches and the eighties channel so soft I can barely hear it.

The last time I was there I ended up having a conversation with a guy who used to be a jockey when he was but a lad. This is a diiirty business, guys. The stuff this man was telling me – how much money changes hands to lose a race and so on. Ew.

There was also the time when some ancient Indian guy came up to me and Bee and began to serenade us with Stagger Lee. I would say good times but I’d be lying.


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