A sharp rap on the knuckles from the Bassano del’Grappa chapter of my fan club. Too long between blog posts. Quite right, of course. It’s just that my life is narcotically repetitive. Get up, write words, throw 50 percent of them in the trash can, go to bed. But anyway, here I am, just in case you thought some terrible fate had befallen me.
You’re probably all very worried about robots taking over your job some day soon. I’m not. Robots cannot write novels. Although, yes, there are novels that might possibly have been…. but wild horses wouldn’t drag any names out of me. Actually I don’t think a robot will ever do any of the things I’ve done today: written five hundred words, made a batch of clotted cream and ginger ice cream, listened to my granddaughter read, replaced another fecken’ light bulb.
Whatever its drawbacks, my work is robot-proof. I know I often whine about lack of job security but who has that these days, apart from civil servants and I already tried that, thank you all the same. I have no commuting, no meetings, no calls to go on strike. I can do it on the kitchen table, in my pyjamas (or even out of them) and no PC commissar can stop me putting up Christmas decorations. I’m golden.
Ed, will this do?