It’s been a hectic old weekend. It feels like I’ve more or less been constantly on the move. First a series of train journeys before arriving in Essex, then a particularly long car journey to the midlands and a brief tangle with some slightly dodgy service station eggs. Then six hours or so of restless pacing around a living room, simply because sitting in one place for too long irks me in a seriously irrational manner. You’d think my knees would hate me for this, but they moan about everything and anything so it hardly makes a difference really. Another car journey followed, during which I manfully tried not to vomit, whether due to an encroaching case of motion sickness or the revenge of the aforementioned dodgy eggs I’m not sure. Then began an odyssey of rail replacement bus services and closed tubes lines before I finally, against all odds, found myself back home in Berkshire. And naturally at that point Banks’ Use of Weapons sank its claws into my arm like a particularly angry cat and demanded that I finish it. (Which I did, it is the third best book I’ve ever read, only narrowly loosing out on second place to The Lies of Locke Lamora) Needless to say not a lot of new writing has been done.