2002-10-18 - 6:13 p.m.

Only time for a knee-trembling quickie against the wall of an entry as I'm dashing out to bid farewell to my good friend M, who is leaving for rural climes to write his second novel. He's the only person I know, er, personally who's written one, so I am terminally jealous, though publishing deals elude him yet. I pretend to him that I'm constantly in the midst of producing my own magnum opus.

It reminds me of the famous cartoon. Two people meet at a drinks party. One says to the other, "I'm writing a book." "Neither am I," comes the reply.