It lives, Baron. Oh, it lives...!

Tonight has been a good night, though it started comparatively poorly with me alternately baked inside my town coat, or drenched to the skin by the unexpectedly heavy rain. In the end I was just hot and soggy which is rarely a useful combination in any context.

Still.

I met up in the West End with a friend I haven't seen for close on four years, and was introduced to his American girlfriend over from Boston for a visit. Sadly, being a bit of an idiot, Simon had managed to trail into Piccadilly Circus a mere 45 minutes late, so I found myself wandering around the Virgin Megastore which seems to have migrated across from the south side of the circus, navigated its way past the statue of Eros and engulfed the erstwhile Tower Records whole. God only knows when that happened; I rarely frequent that end of town these days.

There was a time, in the mid-to-late 80s when I was there all the time, and could spot if a building disappeared or was replaced immediately. That's not as odd as it may sound. For a few of the later Thatcher years, substantial buildings would disappear from the West End one week, to be replaced in their entirety within a month. The builders must have been on acid. Or some Titan somewhere was playing with a vast Lego set. Judging by the buildings we ended up with, I reckon a little from column A, and a little from column B. There are several buildings out there that you can point at with some certainty and say, "architectural award winner".

I confidently expect them to have been replaced in their turn before I retire, which gives them a little less than 20 years.

Anyway, rain not withstanding, we sloped off for a meal at a place called the Thai Pot on (I think) Chandos Street -opposite, as it turns out, as some of my gay readers may be interested to know, a 'pants bar' whatever one of those may be. We didn't have a window seat in the Thai Pot, so I only have descriptions of the clientelle on hearsay, though the bouncer outside was sporting a fine moustache.

The food in the Thai Pot was very palatable, if a little pricey, and perhaps a little slow in coming. I think they might have sent out to Thailand itself for supplies.

So a fine time was had, and day one of my revenant social life is over. Day two is tomorrow, and I am looking forward to it.

I should like to point out at this juncture, that bloated revenant is a description I have given to my social life,because it does nothing for months and then explodes into life for brief periods, like vegetation in the desert after a downpour. So, having throttled that mess of mixed metaphors (or similes, I'm never quite clear on that point), I should,like to assure you all that I refer NOT to the participants therein (having received the arched eyebrow from kt_peasant in this matter).

All my friends are of course, completely spiffing and jolly d to boot.

Well, all except for that one fellow. You all know who I'm talking about. He's a bit odd...

Nyuk, nyuk.

It lives, Baron. Oh, it lives...!

Tonight has been a good night, though it started comparatively poorly with me alternately baked inside my town coat, or drenched to the skin by the unexpectedly heavy rain. In the end I was just hot and soggy which is rarely a useful combination in any context.

Still.

I met up in the West End with a friend I haven't seen for close on four years, and was introduced to his American girlfriend over from Boston for a visit. Sadly, being a bit of an idiot, Simon had managed to trail into Piccadilly Circus a mere 45 minutes late, so I found myself wandering around the Virgin Megastore which seems to have migrated across from the south side of the circus, navigated its way past the statue of Eros and engulfed the erstwhile Tower Records whole. God only knows when that happened; I rarely frequent that end of town these days.

There was a time, in the mid-to-late 80s when I was there all the time, and could spot if a building disappeared or was replaced immediately. That's not as odd as it may sound. For a few of the later Thatcher years, substantial buildings would disappear from the West End one week, to be replaced in their entirety within a month. The builders must have been on acid. Or some Titan somewhere was playing with a vast Lego set. Judging by the buildings we ended up with, I reckon a little from column A, and a little from column B. There are several buildings out there that you can point at with some certainty and say, "architectural award winner".

I confidently expect them to have been replaced in their turn before I retire, which gives them a little less than 20 years.

Anyway, rain not withstanding, we sloped off for a meal at a place called the Thai Pot on (I think) Chandos Street -opposite, as it turns out, as some of my gay readers may be interested to know, a 'pants bar' whatever one of those may be. We didn't have a window seat in the Thai Pot, so I only have descriptions of the clientelle on hearsay, though the bouncer outside was sporting a fine moustache.

The food in the Thai Pot was very palatable, if a little pricey, and perhaps a little slow in coming. I think they might have sent out to Thailand itself for supplies.

So a fine time was had, and day one of my revenant social life is over. Day two is tomorrow, and I am looking forward to it.

I should like to point out at this juncture, that bloated revenant is a description I have given to my social life,because it does nothing for months and then explodes into life for brief periods, like vegetation in the desert after a downpour. So, having throttled that mess of mixed metaphors (or similes, I'm never quite clear on that point), I should,like to assure you all that I refer NOT to the participants therein (having received the arched eyebrow from kt_peasant in this matter).

All my friends are of course, completely spiffing and jolly d to boot.

Well, all except for that one fellow. You all know who I'm talking about. He's a bit odd...

Nyuk, nyuk.

Novel

Although I have yet to commit a word of it to paper, I decided many years ago to follow the advice of a long since forgotten (by me) novelist, and start my story with a sentence that grabs the reader’s attention.

With that in mind, I have spent the bigger part of twenty years polishing and finessing the opening line of the novel I have yet to write or even develop a plot for. Whatever it turns out to be about, the story will start with something I consider different enough to grab the attention of the casual book store browser and make that person stop and read more.

”Uncle Horace wants to know what he should do with the Moose’s head?”

Now, I’ve been happy with this basic introductory line, with minor variations over the years, as fashions change, and have been content in the knowledge that when I finally get my arse into gear and start writing the Great …er… British novel, that I have a sound beginning.

Today I find out that no less a person than James Clavell advises that one should always start a story with a man riding into town. Presumably, this is a hangover from the days of the American West. The point is, that despite twenty years of development, my opening line doesn’t conform to this advise; men riding in to town are conspicuously absent from the sentence, and who am I to gainsay the author of Shogun?

So, as of today, the opening line of my novel reads, Horace rode into town with a moose’s head; leaning down from the horse he said, “Go get my nephew, and ask him what I should do with this…”

The man’s right, you know. Just adding that context has turned my opening line from an interesting hook to a work of genius.

Novel

Although I have yet to commit a word of it to paper, I decided many years ago to follow the advice of a long since forgotten (by me) novelist, and start my story with a sentence that grabs the reader’s attention.

With that in mind, I have spent the bigger part of twenty years polishing and finessing the opening line of the novel I have yet to write or even develop a plot for. Whatever it turns out to be about, the story will start with something I consider different enough to grab the attention of the casual book store browser and make that person stop and read more.

”Uncle Horace wants to know what he should do with the Moose’s head?”

Now, I’ve been happy with this basic introductory line, with minor variations over the years, as fashions change, and have been content in the knowledge that when I finally get my arse into gear and start writing the Great …er… British novel, that I have a sound beginning.

Today I find out that no less a person than James Clavell advises that one should always start a story with a man riding into town. Presumably, this is a hangover from the days of the American West. The point is, that despite twenty years of development, my opening line doesn’t conform to this advise; men riding in to town are conspicuously absent from the sentence, and who am I to gainsay the author of Shogun?

So, as of today, the opening line of my novel reads, Horace rode into town with a moose’s head; leaning down from the horse he said, “Go get my nephew, and ask him what I should do with this…”

The man’s right, you know. Just adding that context has turned my opening line from an interesting hook to a work of genius.