I have a to-do list. The final point, number twelve, says “Win Booker Prize.” So far this morning I’ve managed to work my way through to numbers three, four and five, all of which are in agreement: “Put some pants on.”
“Small steps, my boy, small steps,” my father had advised me as a lad, shortly before missing his footing on Margate Pier and toppling into the sea. He had never been a strong swimmer, and as soon as I’d finished my ice cream I resolved to follow his mediocre advice to the letter.
Right, time for a nap.