The Remains of The Cookie

Some blips seem to scream 'Emergency! Emergency!'.

But life isn't that simple.

This in fact is the draft of my new novel, about a cookie in service in a Rich Tea country house during the second world war whose stiff English reserve prevents him from confessing, or indeed even acknowledging, his love for a digestive in service in the same household. Tragic.

Almost as tragic is the intrusive loudness of some individuals while one is trying to enjoy a quiet read of the Sunday Review while enjoying a coffee and biscuit. There are the ladies of a certain age loudly confiding (how does that work?) their personal issues; social workers loudly patronising their charges; and of course the loud over-confident, yet somehow insecure Edinburgh middle-class vaguely academic bores.

I feel better now, hope nobody is offended. particularly if you were in Nero's Morningside late this morning. You know who you are.

Apologies to Kazuo Ishiguro by the way.