Taking a break

My apologies. I really should have posted this sooner. There’s nothing more frustrating than checking a blog, only to find the writer hasn’t updated. So sorry if I put you through that.

I’m going to be taking a short break from writing for a bit. I’ve got a load of freelance staff on my plate at the moment, plus some heavy stuff at National Charity. I’ve got a few niggly things going on in the private life too. Don’t worry – they’re pretty dull (far too dull to write about, I’m afraid).

I’ll be back soon. By the end of October certainly. Possibly with a new blog. Possibly with a new idea. But I’ll definitely be back.

GW

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[

I’ve just come back from dinner with two of the hottest reality television stars going.

Tomorrow I’ll be posting a full write-up of the evening.

Until then, I’ll keep you guessing who it was.

See you tomorrow.

‘

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I walk to work every day.

It’s brisk, it’s healthy and it leads me through some of the nicest (read richest) parts of Norwich.

In fact, it’d be pretty bloody idyllic if it weren’t for one thing.

And that’s the faces of the other commuters.

You should see them: it’s like a tapestry of human misery.

Grey, drowsy eyes, pencil-thin lips and noses that could have sniffed vinegar.

So four weeks ago I decided enough was enough.

I was tired and desperate – and I had to do something about it.

I would evoke Gandhi. I would be the changed I wished for in the world.

So the next day I set out on my morning trek, determined to try it.

Sure enough, I was two minutes from my apartment when I spotted one of them.

Bloodshot eyes, sapped cheeks, a downbeat shuffle – he looked like he’d been rejected from a zombie convention.

Still, I wasn’t going to be deterred.

I stared straight into his deathly face and flashed him a full set of gnashers.

Fake and strained, it’s the smile that sees you through the toughest situations – like job interviews and awkward night-out group shots.

The sort of smile you wouldn’t dream of using around anyone you actually liked.

And to my surprise it worked.

Our undead friend glanced up from the pavement and beamed back like an acid house raver.

Sure, it was probably fake – and he probably dropped it as soon the grinning maniac opposite had passed.

But still at least it kept me happy.

And – sorry Gandhi – selfish fulfilment is as good as it gets on a Monday morning.

k

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On Saturday 19th September, Goy Wonder and Sophie MK met for a nerve-racking blind date.

In a revolutionary social experiment, they both agreed to write about their experiences.

To read what happened, head here.

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It’s 11AM on Saturday morning.

I’m clutching an over-priced bottle of water and a pop-economics book.

It can only mean one thing – I’m about to catch the train to London.

In seven hours’ time, I’ll be meeting Sophie – a hip young writer from London – for a blind date.

We’ve exchanged e-mail, spoken on the phone, and read each other’s writing.

But neither of us has any idea what the other looks like.

If that wasn’t nerve-racking enough, we’ll each be writing about our experience of the date.

Like all good social experiments, neither of us will know what the other has written.

I’ll be posting the full results to Goy Wonder at 1PM tomorrow.

[

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For what it’s worth, I think Giles is spot on here.

And for those with more time on their hands than me (my train leaves in twenty minutes – argh), he’s just as spiffing here and here.

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Man I love The Birdroom by Chris Killen.

I love it so much I’m prepared to put aside my envy – and overlook the fact that the writer is only five years older than me.

Tomorrow I’m off to the capital for Rosh Hoshanah. I’m going to finish The Bird Room on the train, then give it to Sophie Monks Kaufman when I get there.

Until then, here’s a chunk of the first chapter:

‘

We get home and Will is all she can talk about. How long have I known him? Where has he exhibited? How much do his paintings cost? I turn on the telly and she drifts out of the room.

An hour passes.

I want somehow, very quietly, to destroy myself.

I want to become invisible.

Then she calls me to the bedroom. She has the curtains closed and the lights out. It’s only six o’clock.

‘Lie down on the bed,’ she says. Her voice is quiet. It’s just the outline of a voice.

I can hear the slipping off of clothes. I can see her silhouette, over by the blue rectangle of window. This will be the first time we’ve had sex in a week. I lie down on the bed and shuffle out of my jeans. Outside a car drives past.

She climbs on top of me and lowers herself roughly onto me, the breath catching in her throat.

I start to think of that white beach again with the bird frozen above the sea. The cars going past are quiet waves.

She smells like a cocktail with a little umbrella in it.

‘Will,’ she pants all of a sudden. It escapes her lips under the cover of breath.

What? I only just make it out.

‘Will,’ she says again. This time it’s louder. It’s almost a shout.
The beach has dissolved. The beach is a slug and she has poured salt all over it.

‘Will,’ she says.
‘Will.’
‘Will.’
‘Will.’
‘Will.’

Once it’s over, we both lie there in the dark, static, breathing heavily, and there is nothing I can say. I can’t confront her about it, though that must seem the most obvious thing to do.

I can’t say a word without sounding crazy because my name is also Will.

[

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p

It’s that time of year again.

Norwich is full of fresh-faced oiks, getting ready to start their university courses.

The restaurants and bars are heaving, as they splash the first chunk of their student loan.

And I – for one – am utterly jealous.

Four years ago I’d just arrived in Norwich – and was doing exactly the same thing.

Armed with my bank card and the key to my new room, I felt so brilliantly free.

Now I’m shackled with a full time job, bills to pay and a host of other commitments.

Just when I thought I’d got to grips with it, along comes the class of 2009 to taunt me.

Urgh. You know what – I hope they do get into debt.

That way they can be as miserable as the rest of us.

k

No 4. The Brickmakers