It’s 6am and I’m sitting at a black oak desk and I’m working, because 6am is what one does when one has decided to take oneself seriously. It’s not actually oak, it’s whatever compound constitutes IKEA’s two-rungs-from-the-bottom standard. It’s as sturdy as it needs to be. It is black though, that much is true.
I met Kevin Barry on Saturday, at a signing. The net result is that I can never hang out with him ever again. I talked over him while he was asking my name, and then he was like “Hmm?” and I was like “Oh! Colm!” and before I could recover from that some photographer swooped in and made us stand there like goms for ages, him pretending to sign the book over and over till your man could get the shot and me with this thousand-watt gormless stare and no idea where to point it, and now everything’s just awkward forever and I’m going to live in Sweden, in a hut, in the dark. Never meet your heroes, or people who might one day become your heroes, or just basically anyone.