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Like John Cage in his 1949 ‘Lecture‘,

I have nothing to say

and I am saying it

Now, I do not propose to do a full-scale Anatomy of Nothing, as Burton did for Melancholy, replete with quotes and extracts from writers ranging from the Ancients to our present times. At least, not today.

In fact, all I want to say is that I have nothing to say this week.

I’ve finished ‘padding out’ the first draft of The Travelling Lady’s Cookbook (Grieve-Nots passim). I realised there were some very short chapters and very little travelling going on; though I liked this (as the book is supposed to be impressionistic), it seemed worth while having some impressions of travel. And I’ve brought my painting home (Bringing in the Sheaves, posted April 3), since no bugger could be arsed to buy it — thanks for all the praise, guys, but I find the Co-Op don’t accept praise in return for groceries — only kidding, it’s nice to get some appreciation).

This means I’m somewhat demob happy. The novella is printed off ready for the next read through: close, critical and, no doubt, depressing, in order to decide if it’s worth editing or indeed good enough or even suitable to share with its dedicatee and commissioner in Far Cathay. I fear the explicit naughty bits will not be to her taste, especially if she was hoping to share the work with chums or even publish a translation (it may be too strong for her country’s censors to start with, given what I’m told they prune out of Game of Thrones, much to the disgust of fans on Weibo).

Oh well, another tooth is due to leave the mouth, so I should go book ‘dennis’, get a coffee in a caffee and start a readthrough of the ‘masturpiece’ and stop wasting time saying nothing about nothing.

Have a week, peeps.

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