Holy dingleberries, Batman. After what seemed like twelve years of constant darkness, the sun has clawed its way through the haze and graced us with its warming rays once more. I was beginning to feel like Viggo Mortensen in The Road, haggard and weary, accepting that the world was at an end. The moment the clouds shifted, I balked like Nosferatu, afraid my translucent skin would burst into flames and my flailing body would collapse into ash.
Problem is, my motivation to write has now evaporated, like the murky puddles that graced my balcony for so many months. My glossy-screened laptop means I have to stay indoors, when I'd much rather be skipping down the street and waving merry welcomes to the chavs and their pastie-munching offspring.
The solution? Shagloads of coffee and all-night binge-writing sessions. They kill your head just like all-night vodka sessions, but with none of the self-loathing. Genius!
Right, time to top up the sunburn...
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