I kind of can’t stop writing. Everything’s all smooshie. It’s all daze and blurry soft-focus. Not drunk soft-focus, but kind of happy internal trashy soft-focus. Like a bad novel’s cover. I’ve got all these little pictures in my head – sunsets, Pimms, cartwheeling friends, Cossacks, kebabs, candy floss, boating irishmen, big bearded men with scrambled egg, handfulls of goat-feed. And when I think about them everything just feels really kind of warm and wonderful. And I know it’s a feeling that’s not going to last, because I can feel some edges already. But god I had a wonderful time.