Come in, come in, don't mind the dog, that's just his way of showing he likes you. Oh, he seems to have got overexcited, sorry about that, I'll get a cloth. Or would you like to take those trousers off and I'll sponge them down? All right, please yourself. Right, gather round the fire, pull up a comfortable view on your device. Firstly, I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has pledged for Dead Writers in Rehab or supported it in any way at all in these vital first few days. And I also want to ask everyone who hasn't pledged but is thinking about it to stop thinking, unless you're thinking of pledging for an even higher level than you were originally thinking of. In that case, keep thinking, but not for too long.
Let's be frank, this whole process is slightly weird, and, to be honest, rather scary for me. But I'm not going to admit that. (NB: whoever edits this, please take that bit out. What's that? We should leave it in because it makes me seem human and vulnerable? Oh, right, good point. Leave it in. But take this bit out.) Other than that, I have little to say excpet that I'll have more to say the next time you drop by. Particularly about Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He's one of the deceased literary substance abusers who features in the book. I've been fascinated by Coleridge for a very long time, and among other things I've written two radio plays that feature him in one way or another. One of them is based on something that actually happened to him and Wordsworth, when they were mistaken for French spies, and is so bizarre that you would be very hard pushed to invent it. More soon.
Oh look, is that the time? I never knew it was so linear, as Stephen Hawking says when he wants to leave a dull party. You'd better go. Does anyone want a dog? No, he doesn't understand what I said, and know that I want to get rid of him. He often gives me a playful nip like that. Oh hell. Ignore the blood. Just leave.
See you soon. PBD. X.
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