The war is over. Both lost. But the world is not coming to an end. Too many corporates around. So I'm out, out and out. You see I was in the hedge taking a leak when the war broke out. When I finished my cigarette, it was all over.
I've been good. Back from the hills. Spent six quick days in perfect lonliness. Watched the angry clouds, broken rain, smoked eight smokes with a tight budget of a few matches and damp matchboxes.
You'd be surprised, I was, I read a paperback after a hectic decade (last was the The Godfather, I suppose). A Prisoner of Birth by Sir Jeffrey Archer, and I just thought I'll tell you that he writes like a movie. A decent read and I'd suggest you have a try if you're not too political. Apart from that JD Salinger's nine stories -- which are quirky, but then when I was the best judge for short stories.
Which reminds me. I need to get the book in place. A few evenings back, and I was at Amitav Ghosh's launch of Sea of Poppies. I was a bit lousy. But I head my way there. Vaz, Idiot, Mad-hur were there, besides them there was the old lit-lot, old faces, and besides that the rest of the world we see but don't meet.
I played safe, drank beer, quite amazing though as I got some fantastic help from Duck. Duck was probably bored, but he sorted some issues out. And then offered some literary advice. Ink Man was there. And things like always, on other people's alcohol of course, things get blorred, so they closed the bar and we were out to hit the Beer Bar.
Things are well. I miss you. You look away. So I'm going to hide.