Monday morning, and a trip down to Dudley for a meeting where it seems I am going to be taking on more responsibility for the sales order processing system (in my copious free time). Lots of other bits and bobs to do and then back in the car for the journey home.
Said car had been sat in the full glare of the sun all day and the internal temperature gauge was showing 39 degrees, with the steering wheel being hot enough to burn my hands. Thank goodness for climate control, which I duly set at 16 degrees and by the time I got to the motorway things were bearable.
Bearable that is, apart from the pile up that had reduced the M1 to a single lane at junction 28 for most of the day. I was listening to the final book of the Dark Tower and the turn of events had left me with a deep melancholy. Someone once defined great fiction as making you care about things that never happened to people who never existed, and this book certainly achieves that particular benchmark. It is also a work of surpassing imagination and audacity, and I can’t think of any author other than Stephen King who has attempted anything even remotely similar.
Home now, and sat out in the garden as the heat of the day slowly dissipates. The fountain is trickling gently and there is a suggestion of a cooling breeze. There’s a bottle of beer in the fridge with my name on it …
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