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2002-06-28 - 7:16 p.m.

Today work hit rock bottom � it was a day I�d been expecting, and it had been hanging on the horizon like an ill-expected dose of chronic malodorous windypops. I had to write 300 words on houseboats. I�d done everything to avoid it, trawling the other sections of the paper to adorn the front page � ironing boards, light fittings, mobile phone ringtones, but resistance was futile, and as I shakily began to write the words (�Don�t be left high and dry when choosing a houseboat��), I knew in my heart of hearts that I�d reached a perhaps all-time creative nadir. They�re making noises about my staying longer, which is great for my bank balance which I hope, like Lazarus with an overdraft facility, will rise again, but what next? The categories left hold even greater crimes against prose within them�number plates�snooker and pool equipment�SAXOPHONES!!! How can I write 300 words on second-hand saxophones for Gwyneth�s sake?! (although immediately I can see innuendo potential via the means of the word �horn�). I don�t know. I�m stretched. I�m defeated. I�m sick of banging my bad metaphors against the brick wall of indifference. And it sadly means that my journal entries suffer as I shy away from the keyboard on my return home, imagination bludgeoned into submission with a big, second-hand word hammer.

Also, the comedy magazine (that I�d been chosen to contribute stuff for) proofs came out. It�s excremental. I want to withdraw my feature, but this time next week, over 150,000 Londoners will be exposed to the pages like a hefty dose of unfunny mustard gas. I�m not saying my feature�s great, but fuck me, the rest is a wretched stinker, and they�ve defiled our beloved obituaries with some cheap cartoon, and it�s just very depressing and all in all, I�m just about ready to go into writing retirement. I know it�s over. And it never really began.

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