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On The Beach

Monday 3rd October, a cool breeze through my window, morning sun burning white in a clear sky, but it won't be so hot today as it's been over the weekend

Sunday afternoon, after the banquet and the awards, the former enlivened by very good company at my table; in the latter, I only had one shout (so to speak, I am not a betting woman so my money had stayed in my pocket) and it was Tom Fletcher's The Leaping for the Best Novel. Alas, my boy didn't win, but there you go, I still think he's a very promising writer, had the despair and anomie of the call centre work/life really nailed. I slipped away to change and join Peter, musing on the curious things that worry fantasy ie horror writers...

Zombies can't see

I've visited a morgue, there's no question, they can't possibly see


Mm. Visual cortex also well on its way to becoming soup, I'd have thought. Realistic zombies, you know, I would never have thought about it, but I see it's a tough one.


... and we drove over to Hove, away beyond King Alfred's where crowd thins out and the shingle gets finer & there's even a patch or two of sand, and we went in the sea together, swimming for the first time this year, the endless sea dead calm and silver blue, sailing boats, against the white, declining sun, the water chill and wonderful, I love swimming in the sea.

Look at that, says Peter, noting a handsome red setter charging around, threatening our towels. Dogs on the beach! That's not allowed

Peter, that's in summer. It's 2nd October, the dogs are perfectly within their rights.

Oh.

It's called global warming, you know. You just be thankful you live here, not in Western Australia, or Kenya or somewhere.

& I wonder, while basking in this glorious weather, do other people secretly also have that strange feeling you get, when nothing overtly nasty is going on, but you know your dream is actually nightmare? & we just none of us say it out loud.

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