Oh, for Pete’s sake. Sometimes you just can’t get anything done.

I mean, how do high-flying types ever get off the ground? There’s always a complete tool box of nuts and bolts to sift through before you can seem to find even two things that fit together. And anyone who ever visited their dad’s garage and tried lifting that old tool box of stray nuts and bolts will know what a dead weight that is. Think I’ve pulled something just sitting here thinking about it.

And so there’s the truth of it – I have nothing interesting to report.

I am mainly just watching the Tour de France and daydreaming about driving one of the team cars – or better still, flying the TV chopper – while responding to all manner of vaguely paid, vaguely creative work. That’s about it.

None of it onerous, really. Some copywriting, some event branding, a couple of regular magaziney things, the odd emaily thing, a few advertisementy things. Plus, there are a couple of new telly-tunery things on the horizon too.

And all to a backdrop of largely very sunny stuff outside the window – and certainly where last weekend was concerned, some four days straight of driving between very jolly social engagements, seeing all manner of new and long-standing nice people.

..But oh dear. Still feels like a bit of a limbo.

Except, why do they call it a limbo? Being ‘in Limbo’ is surely nothing like doing a rum-induced stunt of freakish flexibility to the sound of rampant Cajun beats and a backdrop of excessively groovy people clapping and grinning rhythmically.

Languishing in the nether world is meant to be dull, isn’t it?

Unless I’ve gotten completely the wrong end of this particular sentence of Limbo.

Jeepers, while I’m dozing into a torpor waiting around for all these stray nuts and bolts to magically screw themselves together into something brilliant, perhaps I’m actually expected to be trying to liven the place up. Mix up some cocktails, turn up some beats, chop up some coconuts, I dunno.

Well, if I had the energy and clear head to piddle about with all that, I wouldn’t be DOING that, would I? I’d have my chuffing album out already and glittery showbiz launch gig in the diaries of the rich and famous. Woudn’t I. Dippy.

Mind you. All this while I’ve been telling people that 2010 is just about Momo setting out its little musical stall in a largely empty church hall on a rickety trestle table at a poorly-advertised village jumble sale, I could have been telling people it was more like a Caribbean beach party.

Yeah, I could have done that.

Similarly low-tech metaphor. Apart from the sound system.

Way sexier.

Right. So something else to put on the interminable To Do list.

Hate the nuts and bolts of all this. I just want a nap.

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