Wednesday

Gabby and Monica arrived home late last night having spent the day in Birmingham. I thought my seclusion had come to an end but early this morning, may the saints of thongdom be praised, they announced that their singing career will be advanced if they could spend the next couple of days hounding the music press in London. They want them to take more notice of their new single, 'Cheekytime', due out next week.

You might have noticed that I don’t help promote the poor girls’ careers on this blog and you might have wondered why. Or perhaps you know why. The matter is very clear and most obvious: I’m a humanitarian. Let me not be he who casts the first stone. Or, in this case, a CD single with a booklet of printed lyrics that include the lines:

Love is the fire
Love is desire
Love is the sun
And love is the oven.
I wanna, I wanna, I wanna…
Warm you crumpets.

This little masterpiece Gabby penned herself during her poetry period. She claims to have been inspired by Plath but I say she was inspired by the bottle. There are twelve other verses along the same theme. I don’t suggest you rush out and buy it.

The upshot of all this, however, is that I have yet another quiet day to get on with the novel. It’s roaring along, thanks for asking, and I’ve taken on board all your suggestions. Unfortunately, Steve’s suggestion that I should end the novel like a bad episode of Dallas didn’t inspire me half as much as Andrew’s idea of my ending things with a huge explosion. For one thing, I look nothing like Patrick Duffy and, for a second, the idea of putting TNT under the orphanage was something I'd never considered. I suppose it will make readers shed a tear if I manage it right. All the other suggestions will appear in one guise or another but in a context involving high-explosive and burning carcasses of soft toys.

The other news I have to tell you is that I’ve decided to go for a new look, here at Chipster Central. I had an email from a company offering to do me a new Blogger theme for a reasonable price. So, if it all works out, I’ll be revealing a new look at some point, less derivative than the current one, and more fitting for a man moving away from thongs and into a world where he can keep his clothes on. I’ll be nipping out later this afternoon to have my picture taken in a black roll necked jumper and a corduroy jacket.

The Chipster is changing and black is the new pink.