Snug and Smug
Time is a circle. Or a flat lozenge. Or is that the earth? Hard to keep up with the onslaught of daily irrationality. Billy Pilgrim was unstuck in time. Plus ça change and all that rot. Have I ticked all the cliches yet? Another: the more things change etc etc.
Why, it was only a year ago that I was blathering on about Christmas. To quote myself, we have grown our very own mutant strain of coronavirus. This year it's Omicron's turn for fifteen minutes in the spotlight, or will that be fifteen weeks? Nobody quite seems to know yet.
Staying true to newly minted Christmas tradition, our daughter is home from uni, Alan is in the kitchen, a classic has been watched, the tree is up and the decision to stay home again this year appears to have been wise (at time of typing).
Not only do we live on a rain-lashed plague island, but two thirds of the household sag weakly on a plague sofa. Despite being boosted, there have been barking coughs, explosive sneezes, mucusy sniffles, gooey eyes and much whimpering. Frequent testing has shown that neither Phil nor our daughter, though teetering on the edge of being drowned by their own runny noses, has produced the double red lines of Covid. It must be the humble cold, or our old friend the seasonal flu, that has cut a swathe through the active members of the family.
Various trips and social events have been cancelled to the disappointment of my pair of social butterflies. Cruelly, I who have no social life whatsoever, would have had to cancel nothing because I have not succumbed to this virulent strain of home brewed lurgy (at time of typing). I am frequently asked how I am feeling and my reply is a casual shrug. Fine, I say. This news is not met with the look of relief I expect, but with a suspicious narrowing of eyes. How come I haven't been brought low by this bug, is the unspoken accusation. Misery loves company on plague sofa. I put it down to my ultra-vigilant immune system or the fact that, as the resident enfeebled middle-aged asthmatic, I was offered a flu jab slightly earlier. I remain snug and smug and have earned the deserved resentment of my family.
Twelve months ago I was rejoicing over the news that the publishing Scrooges had placed the advance for my next book, Punycorn, in my account. So I skipped into the start of this year full of nut roast and swathed in the chains of a fresh deadline. And, keeping strictly to the theme, I will stagger into next year in the same state.
Progress has been made. Disruption came in the shape of the sort of corporate cannibalism that is the norm in publishing these days. Fortunately my book and editors remain and line art on the first book is due in the spring of 2022.
The rusty gears of publishing grind on into another year. So it goes.
May you and yours keep snug and smug.
Happy Holidays to you all!
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I have books out in the world, Kerry and the Knight of the Forest & the awards nominated The Book Tour. Support my efforts through my store – digital comics – patreon or by leaving a positive review online.
