The Landlady finds things to do at 33,000 feet

Somewhat embarrassingly, I was out of the UK more than I was here during the month of April. Although I find long-haul flights fairly tedious, at least they give me the opportunity to write without too many distractions. On my last trip to West Africa, I finally managed to finish writing my book, which has been in the making since last June. Alas, the gaps between the writing of it have been so vast that I have no idea whether or not it flows or makes any sense at all, although friends who have kindly read it for me assure me that it does.

So now all I have to do is find a publisher and I am preparing myself for a thousand rejections before eventually resigning myself to the fact that I’ll have to publish it myself. To be honest, I’m so euphoric about the fact that I’ve task-mastered myself into writing 100,000 words that I’m currently ambivalent about whether it actually gets published or not.

The other problem I’m finding with writing a book is that once you’ve written one, you want to write another straight away as you miss the writing process, which can be executed just about anywhere, even at 33,000 feet. Frankly, I’m bored and have fond memories of sitting at the kitchen table last year, sun slanting through the window, beavering away in blissful isolation on my laptop.

“While in West Africa, an idea for a second book came to me”

While in West Africa recently, an idea for a new book came to me. The Boyfriend and I went to visit a friend of his who lives in a remote beach-front house near to the land that we are hoping to buy. The Boyfriend, who worked in the area some ten years ago, has known this guy and his wife for years and tells many tales about how he had to drag him, drunk and sodden, from the jaws of a a high-tide Atlantic ocean on many occasions. The man, who I have now met five times or more, has been in West Africa since the ‘80s and is one of the most entertaining and resilient people I’ve ever met. As hard as nails, with a past that beggars belief, he spews forth tales and folklore like a mountain spring in full flow. He’s a grumpy old sod with a twinkle in his eye and a heart of 24-carat gold and, on our recent visit, when he appeared to be pie-eyed at 5pm, he announced that since our last visit, he’d been told by the doctor that he had to give up drinking Jack Daniels. He added that, being as Ronnie Wood from the Stones also had to give up the JD, an international Stock Market Crisis was imminent.
Next time I go, I’m going to ask if he would like me to ghost-write his autobiography…