Midnight. I was in a forest, digging. Digging further and further down into the blackness. The thing I’d carried with me from the shed was lying next to the hole. It had been wrapped in an old, moth-eaten blanket. Digging. I had to keep digging. The grave needed to be deep. Deep beyond discovery. And, as I drove the spade into the soil once more, I sensed the thing beneath the blanket begin to twitch and come to life . . .

I woke up with a gasp. All further sleep was futile. I picked up The Picture of Dorian Gray to take my mind off things. It made me think of all the secrets we carry around with us and how many of them ever see the light of day.

Other people, that is. Not me. I have no secrets. I’m an open book.

I wear my heart on my sleeve.

Thursday September 20th

The Man with the Enya Tattoo

The rejection letters are still rumbling in; to think of all that hard labour wasted in the pursuit of gainful employment. And people wonder why I rarely roll my sleeves up!

After I didn’t go out to the shed, I checked in to Twitter for the first time in ages. My Twitter following seems to have stabilised at forty-three. I may have reached my social media pinnacle but Toby Salt hasn’t. His numbers continue to rise; he now has more than ten thousand followers, despite not having tweeted for nearly two weeks.

Perhaps, at long last, he has run out of things to say.

Friday September 21st

In Vimto Veritas

I am sorry

but I have no real ale

or genuwine left.

I would offer you

some proper tea

but all proper tea is theft.