All I do now is write; write when I get home from work, and write all weekend (once I've managed to snap out of the Youtube reverie of watching anything rather than eek out a painful story that'll never get published.) I'm now 35 chapters in, with about 5 more left to write, my original NaNoWriMo 50,000 word draft now upped to a current 95k. I hope to have this damn fucking albatross of a novel finished later this month, upon which I intend to go on an ether, opiates and crack binge for the next 25 years or until my heart packs in - whichever's sooner (my money's on the latter, after about an hour).
In other (non) news, it took me about two or three days to snap out of my Lovely American Ex-Girlfriend delusion. I've spent the better part of two years dropping hints (i.e. asking outright) to go back and see a frankly indifferent and slightly bitter ex who only seemed eager to 'forgive' me a couple of months ago, re-establishing contact as we bombarded each other with emails, photos (two) and phonecalls (one apiece), only for her to casually drop the new relationship bomb in passing as I tried to negotiate a trip to her home town.
If anyone can get hold of an original folio of 'The Mourning Bride' by William Congreve (1697), please do let me know, because next to the line; "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned", you should find an etching of her prodding me in the arse with a pike.
She's now been downgraded to ex-girlfriend (American).
As for my recent road accident, my bike vs. some cunt in a car, I've still yet to hear from the Metropolitan Police. It would appear that they don't help the public anymore, burdened as they are by said whinging bastards and their fucking paperwork. I've phoned them a couple of times only to be told it's 'in hand', and furthermore, the number plate the PCSO took down might be wrong.