My brother will be here in approximately one hour. He’s bringing his van in order to collect my things which will then be whisked to Paris. I will let him sleep first, it’s a bit of a drive from Cornwall and we’re not due to pass through the tunnel until tomorrow afternoon.
How we take that tunnel for granted already. Until fairly recently England and France hadn’t been joined for some 18,000 years, and even then it was by a hefty block of ice. For many millennia it’s been a total bugger getting to France unless you were some implacable twat like David Walliams, whereas now you can swan over by ferry, car, bus, train or armbands and voila! you’re there in no time. There are few major cities you can get to quicker from London, and none of those will have a shop selling warm bread you actually want to eat. I think what I’m trying to say is, it’s not actually anywhere near as much bother as some people think. Like, if you didn’t drink so fucking much, then you could pop over whenever you fancied… that sort of thing.
I went to Wales this weekend and had a smashing time catching up with some dear friends. We went to the Laugharne Weekend and watched some journalists and singers do readings and get interviewed. At one point we were in a house with about half of Britain’s best known journalists, and as jovial as it all was and as much as I enjoyed the hospitality, it was impossible to smuggle in even the tiniest word amongst the avalanche of amazing anecdotes. I sat and I listened and I laughed and I felt impotent and mute and uncharacteristically slow, and I thought to myself there and then that I should get on and write that thing, if only to get a fucking word in edgeways.