That is my space

Shopping centre car parks are a great place to go and write. They used to be better when you were truly severed from the internet out there in the middle of an acre or ten of tarmac. But since the advent of the smartphone and the ability to tether the old laptop to it and its 4Gness, it takes real commitment to not just “check one fact out quickly” and end up watching F1 crashes from the 1960s for two hours.

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The Anachronistic Antagonist

Anachronisms. I cheese people off with these (and when I say people, I am referring to my family) when we’re watching a show or movie set in, for example, the eighties, and I see a poster for a movie on a bedroom wall, or hear a song playing on a radio in the background before the movie actually came out (case in point: Bumblebee). They pop up in novels too from time to time, and I have an annoying habit of rushing straight to Google when I see pop culture references. I know – it’s tedious. Thing is, you can unknowingly create anachronisms at the other end of the time-space continuum.

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Lights Out

Saturday morning. Sunday morning. Whatever. No different to any of the other mornings falling on days that end with y. It might be a circadian rhythm thing or purely the fact that I am north of 40 now, but my bladder wakes me up like an alarm clock at around a quarter to seven, and refuses to take no for an answer. If I try to fight it, then said bladder gives the bowels a shout and gets them in on the act, forcing me to get up out of bed lest a very bad childhood accident befalls me. I sidestep the creaking floorboard halfway between the bed and where my housecoat (or dressing gown as it’s known by everyone except by me apparently) hangs, then leave the room in the belief I am moving as stealthily as a ninja.

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