A Sore Head and a Right Bollocking from Boobs

My head is still a little sore. HarryPotter and I went out to the pub after work, just a quiet drink. Then a mate of his turned up, and they started talking about football, or maybe it was rugby. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. I’d never met the guy before, and I can’t remember his name. I’ll call him Roger. He looked like a Roger (kind of a young Roger Moore), but I’m fairly sure that’s not his name. Although, I wasn’t really listening when I was introduced to him. And that’s the problem, I stopped listening, and started thinking about Goatee. I hate him, I really and truly do. But, he was kind, and he’s so great with kids. He was so wonderful that day we had to take Marathon to the hospital, and he was always a trooper when there was man trouble in the flat — like when TheBoy turned up and started ranting like a mad man. Goatee was always giving (not just in bed), and he looked out for me. It’s so upsetting that he didn’t live-up to be the person I thought it was.

I got depressed and started drinking more. A lot more.  I switched to spirits (never a good idea), and before I knew it I could barely stand-up. HarryPotter and Roger had to carry me home. I barely remember the tube ride. Yes. Quiet sad. Not even a fun night out of drunkenness, but at least I didn’t go all crying drunk — a phenomenon that has been known to occur when I get depressed and hit the drink. So, at least that’s a good thing.

Since HarryPotter left his car at the car park last night, we had to take the underground into work. My god. A hangover on the Clockwork Orange is a nightmare. Everything is kind of puke coloured anyway.

Although, one good thing I’ve noticed is that NFEditor has steered clear of me for the last few days. She’s come in late, left early, and kept the door to her office closed. This has made my life so much easier.

I also had a meeting with Boobs today about two things: my notes on MyAuthor’s book and the missing petty cash. The London office sent an email to her saying that due to missing funds, they were going to take tighter controls on our budget. No more letting us slip into the red willy nilly.

Boobs asked me where the extra £100 was, and I said that of course I didn’t know. She said that there would no longer be any petty cash. And that she rang a local café, and asked if they could invoice us when we get coffees or any other catering. She said she arranged the whole thing in less than ten minutes, and that I ‘should have done that from day one.’ She then adds, ‘What have you been doing all these months? Don’t make me regret switching you to fiction.’ Not a good start to my day.

Then we had the MyAuthor chat, which didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. She said, ‘It looks like you’re making changes, just to make changes. Why would you do that?’

Wow. She had me dead on. But she told me to write a brief on what I would change, and I didn’t want to say, ‘Don’t change a thing. Brilliant’, because then it would look like I wasn’t doing my job.

She said that my suggestions were completely off (I’m not going to even tell you what I suggested, as it’s too embarrassing now), and a good editor will know when not to make changes. But, then she added, that she’d suggest cutting one of the characters because he was extraneous.

Now, problematically, I really like this character, but I didn’t know if this was a test. Do I say, ‘Hold on a minute lady. I love that character. Don’t cut him.’ Or, is she just doing her job, and I should keep my mouth shut?

I chose, as I often wrongly do, to not keep my mouth shut. Instead, I told her (in a more low and squeaky voice, as opposed to using any tone of authority) that I liked that character. To which she said, ‘I don’t care if you like the character. It’s inconsequential to the story and a distraction.’

We’ve got a meeting scheduled with MyAuthor, and I’m really curious as to how she’s going to take having one of her characters slashed.

With such a rubbish morning I was looking forward to lunch. HarryPotter and I were at our usal cafe, and he had a cheeky smile on his face. He asked if I had any plans this weekend. He knew damn well I didn’t. His parents own a caravan in St Andrews, and he said that we should go over for the weekend. It’ll be dead cold, but it might be nice to get away. ‘Clear your head’ he said.

I’ve never been to St Andrews, so I’m quite excited. We’ll pack bags after work, fill the car with food and booze, and drive over. I am really looking forward to this weekend now.