Peace let itself reign in the household for a couple of days. Graham was preoccupied with making arrangements for his “trip”, and since he’d given Miranda the impression he was working on improving his job prospects, she was happy, and left him to it. Finally, Graham was ready.
“Baby, you know how you want me to improve my job prospects?” he opened with on the next Monday evening.
“Yes, Gray-ray?” she replied. Horrible nicknames, another thing he wouldn’t miss.
“Well, it just so happens the company’s having a training and aptitude weekend down in London this weekend. It’s a bit short notice, but…”
“When, where, how long?” came the slightly panicked sounding reply.
“They’ve booked some rooms in a hotel in London, thankfully somebody cancelled…”
“No, I mean what hotel specifically.” He’d not quite prepared for this level of interrogation, but he’d forgotten about her specific foibles in planning his retreat of her general foibles.
“If I’m not mistaken, it’s the… Arlington Row Hotel. Yes, it’s on Arlington Row, so that’d be right.”
“Ok then. Can I have a number to call you at if I need you?”
“Well, you’ve got my mobile number,” he retorted, feigning a slight amount of hurt, but amused in that as soon as he set off, his old SIM card was being chucked in the bin, “but I’ll look up the number soon as you’ve said yes.”
“And can I ask your man in charge about this? I know you’re trying hard, but I’m still worried that…”
Realising that decisive action was needed, Graham took Miranda in his arms, and looked her in the eyes.
“Miranda, my love, I am trying. And I love you. We’ve been together for years now, and I know its time I need to get my life in order. Please, trust me, I’m not out to hurt you, I’m going to make things better for both of us. Now I’ll get you that number, but you need to let me do this. Okay, beautiful?”
Technically, all true as well.
Miranda had a tear forming in her eye, but there was a smile on her face as well.
“Of course. You take all the time you need. Just get me that number when you can, honey.”
Graham smiled in turn, partly to portray the happy boyfriend, partly because it had worked. Now he just had to tell the people at work what he was doing.

Thankfully, Graham had already made some arrangements, having informed his manager that at some time in the near future, he might need some time off at short notice to take some training in London. Admittedly, this was arranged with actually going to get some training in mind, but things with Miranda had complicated things, and the issue had drifted somewhat. Thankfully, his manager had a good memory for things that weren’t names.
“Taking some training at long last, Burricombe?” he chuckled. He was a heavyset man, given to chuckling at everything from an employee seeking to better himself, to the water cooler making an unusual gurgling sound. “I thought you’d shelved that because of your girl, Miriam isn’t it?”
“Miranda, sir, and it’s about time I did something.”
“Good man, good man”, came the chuckle again, “how long do you think you’ll need?”
“I’m not sure, perhaps a couple of months?”
Another chuckle, but this time not a good natured one.
“A couple of months? What are you training to do, go into space?”
“It’s a very long story, sir.”
“I’ll bet it is, and I’d be interested…” Thankfully, the phone rang before he could complete this thought. He murmured a few things into the phone, and placed it down again.
“Well, I’m not too happy about it, but I did say I’d let you take the time off when you needed it, so take as long as you need. We can always get in a temp or three to cover while you’re gone.”
A last round of chuckling saw Graham to the door, rather disheartened that three destitute students could do what he had been doing for ten years, but still pleased that his plan was coming to fruition.

With all the big problems out of the way, it only remained for Graham to pack. This was complicated by the fact that Miranda thought he was only going away for a weekend, and would more than likely notice him packing two big suitcases alongside his briefcase. In a fit of inspiration, he packed all the non-essentials into a suitcase his grandfather had left him, which consequently had been left in the attic and not seen since. He trusted that Miranda, in amongst all her new and shiny possessions, had simply forgotten it had existed. He then took this to the local train station, and booked it into the cloakroom for a couple of days. Problem sorted, since the things he was supposed to be taking for a weekend away all fitted into a significantly newer suitcase Miranda had bought him one year, not really noticing he didn’t actually go anywhere that required a suitcase.

Finally, the big day came around. Graham had packed everything he needed for a “weekend” away.
“OK baby, I’ll be back on Sunday evening.”
“I know, now do you need a hand getting your bags in the car?”
“In the car?” Graham asked. He had planned on walking up to the station.
“Of course, I’ve got to see you up to the station, haven’t I!”
“Erm… well…”
An eyebrow went straight up. “Why don’t you want me coming with you to the station.”
And true to form, Graham panicked. He needed to keep her calm up until the second the train pulled away, and having the jealous routine wasn’t calm.
“OK then, I’ve got them, don’t worry.”
Hefting them into the back of the car, Graham rationalised that he could simply tell her that whatever train was there was his train, and he was going to miss it. Simple solution there.

The car ride was surprisingly cheery for one that was supposed to be a mildly unhappy parting. Miranda talked about all the things she thought he’d be good at, suggesting all sorts of sales positions and how about that editorial stuff he’d wanted to do when he was younger, and a patter of a girlfriend seeing things only getting better. He happily, yet blankly, responded in kind to any suggestions she made, and all was still smiles as they pulled up to the station.
He took his bags out of the boot.
“Well, thanks for the lift, beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t want to do anything else now.”
“It looks like my train is here, I’d better get going…”
“That can’t be your train, hon.”
This rather unusual interjection caught him by surprise.
“How do you reckon that?”
“That’s the train to Milton Keynes there. You’re heading to London, aren’t you?”
Just his luck, she’d memorised which trains went where for some reason.
“Well, we’re not headed straight for London!”
“Why not?”
“Well, we’re… erm… meeting up outside Milton Keynes, then taking a train down to London from there, and…”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“Why not?”
By the time everything was sorted out to Miranda’s satisfaction, the train had pulled away, and the next one was half an hour away.
“Well, why don’t I wait with you then?” suggested Miranda. Essentially, there wasn’t anything wrong with that idea, as long as you ignored the bag left in the cloakroom that needed collecting, that contained everything Graham needed apart from money, a change or two of clothes, the tickets, and the watch.

It didn’t get much better throughout the day.
“You’re telling me you’re selling double glazing?” said the elderly gentlemen on the other line, sounding as if he had been offered a pink zeppelin.
“That’s right sir, we offer high quality glazing at an affordable price, and…”
“It’d have to be extremely high quality, this is a church.”
Oh bollocks, Graham thought, not again.
“I’m terribly sorry sir, our dialling system doesn’t recognise the location of the numbers…”
“I’ve been told this five times in the last month or two, can’t you just take me off your list?”
“I’ll take you off it right away, sir”, he said, knowing full well that no request to take someone off their list of numbers had ever gone ahead, and he might as well throw his phone out.
“I should bloody well hope so!” the vicar shouted, and slammed the phone down.

The day didn’t get much better. He got put through to three office blocks and a man who claimed he was avoiding such modern trappings as double glazing (“Why the bloody hell does he have a phone then?” Graham shouted inside his head), and the sensible leads he got just didn’t go anywhere. Coupled with that, the bus he was supposed to get simply didn’t show up, and the next one rook an hour to get there. The end result was a rather unhappy Graham storming in at about seven, and a somewhat put-out Miranda trying to hide her annoyance with a simple “how was work, dear?”
“Lets not even start,” was the sullen reply, “I’ll only get annoyed. What’ve you been up to today then?”
“Well, after I spoke to Miguel again last night,” she started, and sensing a load of art-talk, Graham decided to zone out, and focus on what bloody use he was selling double glazing to elderly vicars, and caught himself starting to pay attention again as he was told about a pigeon with three legs.
“Last thing we need, more bloody pigeons. The ones the people across the road alone are determined to paint your car white with shit, and that’s only two of them.”
“Well, its turning out to be a very nice sculpture, and Miguel says he might have a buyer interested in it if it turns out alright.”
“Miguel my foot, when was the last time he actually found a buyer who’d pay you something hard decent for your stuff? What happened to that old guy you used to have? Mr Boscombe or something?”
“He died last year, Graham.”
Not quite sure how to get himself out of that one, Graham went straight over to the matter of food.
“I had made dinner, but you didn’t call me to tell me you were coming back late.”
“Well, this bloody phone doesn’t actually charge properly, and Arriva seems to think sending out buses on time is a ridiculous idea.”
“One of these days, you’re going to realise it’d make life much easier if you learnt to drive.”
Graham was inclined to agree, but pride and a lack of money meant he couldn’t actually tell her this.
“One of these days, I’ll actually have the time and the money…”
“Rubbish, I’ve told you I don’t want to do that.”
“Because you don’t love me, I know full well…”
“Don’t start that again, for god’s sake.”
“Well, there’s got to be some reason you won’t let me help you, and if it isn’t because you don’t love me, I don’t know what it is. Let me tell you…”
And it led into another one-sided argument, concluding with Miranda storming off somewhere upstairs, and Graham left fuming in the lounge. Sick to the back teeth of never being right once in his life, he flipped the television on, and once again, the news filled his screen with yet another government blunder, with the Prime Minster personally losing three million peoplesworth of information on the train. Perfect for his mood.

Losing things seemed to be a common theme on the telly that night. Since Miranda evidently didn’t want to come back downstairs and finish what she’d started, and Graham didn’t want to finish what she’d started either, he stayed put and watched. After the Prime Minister losing things on the news, it went over to a program about gigantic people losing weight, and then some drama about a hunt for a missing person. Missing person… now why was that such a familiar idea? Shades of his thoughts from the night before started to creep back into Graham’s mind. Something about running away and seeing the world? That didn’t sound like a bad idea. But how? He had taken a handful of driving lessons, but those were nearly twenty years ago, and he’d probably forgotten half the things he needed to know to not get arrested. So how to get away? He knew he couldn’t go via London, he couldn’t afford the bus fare to the station there, let alone a way out of the country.

And then a few more things clicked into place. Instead of getting onto the continent via France, like everyone else in the county did, he could go across to Holland by boat. It’d been an idea some of the stoned individuals at university had suggested, based on the huge volumes of weed apparently available even then. And since he’d done German for his O Levels, he’d have a lot more luck with Dutch than French, the former of which he understood as being a bastard lovechild of English and German. Right, so that was where he had to go, the question was, how?

He could pretend to book some driving lessons, borrow the money off of Miranda, and use them to pay for a train ticket… but no, even though she pissed him off royally, he couldn’t go basically stealing her money, no matter how much of the stuff she kept splashing on utter crap. How about his savings? He had something like five hundred pounds kept aside for the wedding he didn’t really want to go ahead with anymore, that would be a start. He didn’t have anything particularly valuable to his name, apart from an old pocket watch his granddad had given him, and told him never to get rid of. Well, needs must when the bitch is driving, he thought, finding it in his safe deposit box, along with a twenty pound note he was saving for no particular reason. Might as well use that as well.

And the guidelines for his plan started to fall into place. Get the train… nah, save some money, get the coach up to Hull, get a ferry over to… where was it in Holland? Some research said Rotterdam was the port to be aiming for. He’d buy maps and things like that over there. But how and where was he going? Did it matter? Probably not. Perhaps get a bike in Rotterdam and cycle it somewhere. The important thing was getting away, anywhere away from here, and once he had some distance, start thinking about it then. He booked a coach ticket from Milton Keynes, found some buses, gathered a fairly good idea of what ferries from Hull were like, and by the time Miranda sloped back downstairs, was perfectly content to apologise for having done absolutely nothing, and acquiesce to the things she told him to do. Made sense, seeing as it’d calm her down for now, and by the time he had to do anything about it, he’d be long gone.

Several hours, a dozen lagers, and two thirds of a film later, and Graham’s opinion of himself, his world, and circumstances in general hadn’t improved much. He hadn’t quite realised that lager, once the fuel of a variety of good times at university, now only produced a somewhat maudlin introspection. If he’d been given to experiment, he’d have found that vodka was as much a party drink as it is for most people, whiskey would still leave him introspective, albeit happily introspective, and vodka would make him black out, possibly before being violently sick. Mind you, this tends to happen to most people drinking tequila.

His rationale was this. Most people he knew had achieved something by the time they were thirty three. His old roommate, Giles, had gone on the same graduate placement scheme as him, and done quite a bit better out of it. Possibly because he’d done a Business Studies degree, which, while being horrifyingly boring, meant he actually had a qualification that might be useful once in a blue moon. The last time they had met up, he was doing something in marketing for one of those big companies lurking in London. Many of his former drinking buddies had been able to do something similar. Even Greasy Mike, the perpetually stoned guy who lived on the landing downstairs and never went to his lectures, had set up his own business and was doing very well for himself. Admittedly, it was a web business selling customised bongs, but that was still more than he was doing, a thought he used to refocus his self pity on himself.

The big problem, he mused, was Miranda. He had met Miranda near the end of his time at university, and had fallen in love in a matter of minutes. She had started off being a lot less blatant, but by all appearances had eventually succumbed to his charms. It had been a wonderful first few years, they had moved in with each other, and then things started going bad.

“Jealous” and “controlling” weren’t exactly the right words. Unfortunately, “damn crazy” wasn’t the right word either. Something in the middle was defiantly needed. She had made some excuses about being hurt by previous boyfriends, but these stories ended up changing slightly with each telling, and by the time it was obvious she was talking where the sun didn’t shine, she was using the story in the same not-particularly-passive-aggressive way. Passive aggressive suggested something passive, something working calmly to be decidedly antisocial. Miranda didn’t believe in passive. Any arguments were to be solved by being the loudest, jumping in with telling Graham things that whatever he was doing was cheating on her, had cheated on her by doing things that sane people wouldn’t call unfaithful in any round of madness. And since Graham was already the easily dominated sort, he bent over backwards to keep her happy.

Thankfully, money was one of the few things that didn’t present a problem in their relationship. Somehow or other, Miranda had acquired a small fortune, possibly from a dead relative, and might as well have had an unlimited bank account. Quite why she still stayed with Graham when she could easily have afforded to keep some petty, subservient younger lad he didn’t understand: she claimed she couldn’t live without him, but she said lots of things.

Opening his last can, Graham turned this idea over in his mind. There had to be some reason Miranda stayed with him, but gave him all this abuse. He hadn’t tried breaking up with her for years, since that was when the passive aggressiveness went into overdrive. Maybe the best solution would be to just run away. Go where he couldn’t be found. He hadn’t taken a gap year after university – the idea simply hadn’t really existed when he was a student – and he hadn’t seen any of the world outside of England. Get a ferry over to France… no, everyone went to France. Maybe Holland? Maybe Norway….

The next thing he knew, he was still in his chair, but the lights were out. It was 3:14 in the morning. He must have fallen asleep. He shambled upstairs into bed, somehow managing to get upstairs without waking Miranda up. She didn’t even stir as he flopped into bed.

* * *

Miranda woke up at about nine in the morning, having been stirred half awake by Graham waking up, banging around, and setting off for work. Poor man, she thought. She had offered to support him, she had enough money sequestered away to keep them for many years, but he’d said something about not wanting to be dependant or something. But didn’t he realised how closely related dependence was to trust? How refusing her offers of support showed how little he trusted her? But it was alright. She loved him, and he loved her, and that was all that mattered.

She rolled out of bed, and went downstairs to the kitchen. There was plenty she had to do today, her meeting with her art dealer, Miguel, had gone pleasantly, but had requested some pieces in a more… he’d hovered around the word “modern”, but it was defiantly the one he was looking for. It was very hard, however, to define what exactly he meant by “modern” without being “abstract”. Abstract sculpture was a horrible term to Miranda. It suggested bizarre angles and unfathomable constructs that didn’t bear any resemblance to real things. And Miranda favoured real things in her work. Either something was, or something wasn’t, and if it was, it could be reproduced. And if it wasn’t, you couldn’t do much with it. So she’d have to disappoint him – not something she liked to do, because while she had enough money to keep her happy, Miguel made sure she didn’t have to spend more of it than she had to. So keeping him happy was usually better for her, for him, and perhaps for Graham as well.

Her thoughts then turned, with a twinge of sadness, to her fiancé. He obviously didn’t like the job he was in, but he didn’t seem to want to do anything about getting a proper job. Cold calling people all day trying to sell tat to people who didn’t want it simply wasn’t a job for a man. But she wouldn’t make him do anything, because she loved him.

She put some oranges in her juicing machine, poured out a bowl of muesli, then squeezed out the juice into a glass. She took her breakfast out onto the veranda, and once again admired the view. When she had been doing some painting, she had done a selection of scenes depicting this view. There was plenty to be said for the life of the artist. Thankfully, she didn’t have to suffer the terrible poverty the old masters of art had to, the money her three aunts had willed to her meant that she wouldn’t need to worry for money for many years to come. Content with this knowledge, if not with her circumstances, she put her breakfast things in the dishwasher, and went up to her sculpture room. Perhaps a large cast of a pigeon could take some modern influences somehow.

* * *

Graham was not happy again. He’d woken up early with an unpleasant hangover, managed to stumble through his morning routine without thinking about it too hard, and had managed to get to work with a head that only felt like it had been hit with a hammer. And coupled with that were the people he had to deal with.

“Good morning, Graham!” came the booming voice from the desk next to his. Wilbur was a gentlemen in his early seventies, who gave no impression of being anywhere near seventy. He had been something important in the city some years ago, before retiring a couple of years ago, quite possibly because he hadn’t been a particularly quiet old man, or indeed a quiet anything. Generally, Graham tolerated him, because he was quite amusing when loud noises weren’t a gift from the Devil himself.
“Morning, Wilbur”, he grimaced, hoping to be spared much more than that for now. Sadly, he wasn’t to be that lucky.
“Was it not a splendid evening for you too last night, my young friend?” he continued, in a splendid baritone that would have done wonders on the stage.
“Not too bad, stayed in, in front of the telly.”
“Ah yes, I forgot that you are bereft of your wonderful wife on the evening of a Tuesday!”
“She’s not my wife, Wilbur, we just…”
“So I imagine you suffer from a head brought on by the beverages of kings?”
“Yes, it’s a little tender.”
“Well, I daresay you’ll need a modicum of quietness. Mores the pity you’re stuck with this! Ha ha ha!” he concluded with a laugh that could only be compared to thunder.
“Ha, yeah, mores the pity for me”, laughed Graham, with absolutely no trace of real humour in his voice. Having Wilbur bellowing in his ear was the last thing he needed.

It was always starting things that had got Graham stumped. He liked to think he was an assertive, willful individual, who knew what he wanted and always went for it when he knew it, but it was always starting things that got him caught. So not an awful lot happened at first, when he decided to run away.

Perhaps some elaboration might be more helpful. Graham Burricombe was thirty three, and, on reflection, not particularly happy about it. He lived somewhere in the middle of England, so managed to avoid the “Southern Fairys vs Northern Monkeys” arguements that had inevitably cropped up in his time at the University of Manchester. He hadn’t moved very far away from home, taken up a graduate placement scheme that had taken him absolutly nowhere, and eventually resigned himself to a telesales role. Unfortunatly, he had turned out to be sufficiently good enough at the job to stay put, but a 2:2 in Sociology and no other useful skills had meant he couldn’t go anywhere else.

Depressingly enough, these weren’t the worst of his problems.

For now, however, the worst of his problems could damn well wait. It was Tuesday afternoon, a decidedly quiet time for the week, for no discernably good reason, and this evening was the one evening a week he had anything approaching a modicum of freedom, and he was damn certain he was going to enjoy it.

“To hell with it, I’m buggering off early today!” he declared, to absolutley nobody in particular, and promptly spent two hours telling himself how there was absolutly no point hanging around with no work to do, since he had somehow met his sales targets for the day, and he’d enjoy the extra afternoon off, and how he deserved it, quite frankly. By the time he’d finally steeled himself to set off, however, it was long gone half five, and everyone else had gotten round to actually going.

Mildly embaressed, he grabbed his coat and briefcase, and set off. He didn’t need a briefcase, since all he really needed for his job were his computer and the automated dialling system, but he rationalised that the one day he didn’t bring it would cause a flurry of paperwork to wing his way. In the interests of keeping his desk clear, therefore, he kept his briefcase close to hand and contented himself with carrying around newspapers.

He didn’t actually have a car. To be short, he didn’t have his own car. Miranda had one, god alone knows what for, but since he couldn’t drive, it wasn’t much help. Therefore, he was forced to take the 185 route bus every single day, trying to console himself with the fact that he wasn’t damnaging the environment, but still more than faintly embarassed by being stuck with the last of the old ladies exploiting their free bus passes by travelling exactly nowhere, the usual gaggle of young boys coming back late from school, and even the odd temp from his office, not quite sure whether to talk to him or not. Much as he would like to think he was better than them, they would do his job for a couple of weeks, do it passably, and then go on to something much more interesting. He however was stuck. With a sigh, he hopped on the bus as its doors opened, and flashed his bus pass at the driver. As ever, the driver asked to see it, despite the fact that he’d been riding the same bus every day for nearly ten years now.

After half an hour enduring a group of young lads discussing who they’d beaten up the night before, he got back to his house on Wilburn Road, fought with the lock that, despite having been fixed five times since they’d moved in, never actually unlocked without bodily kicking the door, and stumbled in as the door finally decided to let him in. Without Miranda’s overbearing presence filling the house, it seemed decidedly empty, despite being four bedrooms and three storeys. Graham hadn’t quite worked out why they needed such a large house when it was just him and her, but once again, she’d commanded, he’d objected, she’d started mkaing accusations about his fidelity, and he’d folded like a poker player holding, not two cards, but a jack and a small picked halibut.

So they had a large house, at the moment an empty house, and Miranda filled the rooms with… well, he wasn’t quite sure what. He knew some rooms had ornamental things in them, and some had books, but he had lost track over the years, and as long as she didn’t spend all his money, he could live with it. His domain on Tuesday evenings was the lounge, in front of the telly, with a twelve pack of beer. Not exactly what made life worth living, but certainly better than being whipped the entire week.

He cracked open his first beer, and flipped on the box, to find the news on. Graham grunted in annoyance, before flipping over. It wasn’t that he didn’t care what was going on in the wider world, but it was his night in, and he didn’t need to hear the same news story night after night: Government not doing very well, American foreign policy leaving much to be desired, war, famine, strife. It would be a lot easier to feel for the suffering of the world, if he could hear about something that wasn’t suffering for five minutes. Much as he maligned the American media, he had to admit, there was something to be said for the “waterskiing squirrel” stories they ran at the end of every news broadcast.

Instead, he flipped over to Channel 4, where some mindless teen drama was playing itself out. It didn’t require much thinking, leaving him free to focus on more important things, like where he was going with his life. At the last count, the answer seemed to be “absolutly nowhere”. He was stuck in a job he didn’t like, with a girl who’d crowbarred herself into an engagement, and only spared him the horrors of being technically married because they just couldn’t afford it, the only advantage of his job whatsoever, and he was too much of a coward to do anything about it all.

Nanowrimo starts tomorrow, and naturally, I’ve timetabled myself up with work for the whole first week. Brilliant timing. Ah well, most updates for now are going to be story entries. Also, check the widget and site on the sidebar.

Judging by this months site stats for now, it seems the only people searching for my wretched hole of the Internet are people who think I’m some sort of mine of Space Marine information. Such people evidently haven’t realised that said Codex is now very out, and its much easier to go and buy it, or at least hit up a reputable torrent site. When I’ve bought the right arm, we’ll see what my He’stan conversion is.

Until then, here’s some more nonsesne about Nanowrimo.

I’ve scoped out most of the ideas I want to use in my story now, which is always good. The main one being that its going to be done in a similar style to the works of the absolutly legendary Tom Sharpe. If I can pull off a fraction of what he can do with about 50,000 words, I’ll be happy. Nothing this, there’s a number of conventions I have to remember when doing a Sharpe.

• The book must be set in England, or at the absolute bare minumum, have Englishness as a central theme.
• In the fine tradition of British comedy, two of the main characters (usually the first two characters introduced) do not get along, but are stuck in a situation (marriage, working together) where they are forced to coexist.
• One of these characters will set up a cunning plan to make the other one look stupid, and get said other character out of the way of something.
• A combination of circumstances, bad luck, the other character reacting, and the other character setting up his own cunning plan will create a chain of snowballing misadventures.
• By the end of the book, any cunning plans have long since gone out of control, and ended up causing problems on a national scale, so that the government has to get involved in what started as two schoolteachers having a fight.
• There will be a character from the Army, usually a general.
• A character wil hang-ups about his sexuality will be advanced on by a fat, sexually vocarious woman, who will not get the cock she craves.
• A common setup for jokes will be a character saying something, then the book seguing into another characters actions, or another scene entirely, using a play on those words. For example:
• “Micheal dear, I thought you’d stopped smoking!” said his wife, smelling the smoke. He perhaps had stopped smoking, but his hat was smouldering in a corner where he’d thrown it.
• Only its done so its actually funny.
• Usually, by the end of the book, the status quo is completly restored, everything returned to how it was at the start of the book, just with a character or two locked up or blown to pieces.
• It will be a better book than any you’ve ever read.

There we go, how I can fail to do well with a plan like that? Apart from giving up by the end of the first week, of course.

Around In Circles For Eighty Days was my entry in Nanowrimo 2008. It was a wonderfully deritive work, trying to place my recent breakup into some context, while attempting a Tom Sharpe feel of humour. However, my creative flow was absolutly destroyed when, after six months of no work, I actually found a temping job, that slapped itself right across November. Final wordcount was 21,301 words.

The story is arranged, not in chapters, but in parts, as since I made it up as I went along, and uploaded whenever I got a chance, I couldn’t really work out how long a given chapter was going to be.

Part One – November 1st midnight to 5pm
Part Two – 1st 5pm to 2nd 1pm
Part Three – 2nd 1pm to 10pm
Part Four -  2nd 10pm to 3rd 8:30pm
Part Five – 3rd 8:30pm to 4th 11:30pm
Part Six – 4th 11:30pm to 5th 2pm
Part Seven – 5th 2pm to 6th 5pm
Part Eight – 6th 5pm to 8th midnight
Part Nine – 8th midnight to 3pm
Part Ten – 8th 3pm to 10th 10pm
Part Eleven – 10th 10pm to 12th midnight
Part Twelve – 12th midnight to 13th midnight
Part Thirteen – 13th midnight onward

Its that time of year again. The site has been ressurected, crashed, and rebooted, there’s still a month to go, and still thousands of people have found it and signed up again. As have I.

Yes, Nanowrimo 2008 is upon us. And I’m going to see if I can actually do it. I did have a try in 2006, but it basically ended up being a copy of another guys story. Not this year! I have a vague idea that simply rips off a published novel instead!

If you’re desperatly bored, you can find my profile here, and as the time approaches, I’ll add it to the sidebar, then replace it with a special page for exerpts when November starts. There should then be daily updates here, but all will of a novelly bend.

OK, you can all run off and play now.