When Saturday Doesn't Come

With the football season now concluded, the worry for me is that the subsequent weeks are all going to blur into one. What's to look forward to when there's no game at the weekend? Something, perhaps. I'm examining options to try and actually do something this summer, instead of just sitting in my flat with the curtains closed, cursing anyone enjoying themselves.

What I should do is focus on writing something and sending it away. A tremendous fear of rejection has always hung over me, stopping me from even trying. Not that I would even know how to go about such things. But there's a growing feeling in me that I need to know whether I can actually do this whole writing gig. Is not knowing better than the possibility that I can't, and the last 20 years of hope have actually been for zilch?

Back when I played in a band, I used to try and find musicians who were older than me when they 'made' it. Easy enough when you're 23 or so, slightly harder as you approach 30. I guess the advantage of being a novelist, poet or whatever is that your age generally isn't held against you.

For no reason, two sections of the population that incredibly irritate me at the moment:

1) People who fuck about at cashpoints, staring at the options like they're written in ancient Greek. Then they choose to have a statement printed, which they proceed to dispose of without even looking at it. Arseholes!

2) People who get on a bus and then ratch around their pockets or bags for change/a ticket. You've seen the bus coming - why didn't you get ready beforehand? Pricks!