to trawl the banks looking for the cat donor, I’ve been in the tunnel trying to clear fifty thousand words. You have to carve the hours out of the day to write, the sand in the glass is always falling. I try to avoid the lure of current affairs, it’s too fleeting and worthless. The old machines don’t work in the new age, nobody is up to the job, none of the players are clean. But it’s hard to look away, even harder to turn the router off. Soon there’ll be no off-switch and the devices will be conversing. But I have my escape plan. I have an Eden in mind, just me, the family and the cat – if he wants to come along. He might prefer the urban scene, he’s a Barton bruiser by birth. But it’s only when you reach your Eden that you understand the depths of your folly. I’ll have some years left to reflect, listening to the sea from a hammock in the orchard.
