Very sad to hear of the death of Helen Cresswell, creator of the Lizzie Dripping books (which I foolishly never read because they were clearly girl's books) and the Bagthorpe Saga, which went some way towards making me want to write by showing that everyday life can be far funnier, moving and more exciting than anything with goblins in it. I still grapple with this realization on a daily basis to be honest.
Trivia fact: look in the dedications page of one of the Bagthorpe books (can't remember which one), and you'll find the name of a certain Oriane Messina, which I didn't find out until I'd known her for a couple of years, and which immediately made me look at her with the awe and respect with which I should have looked at her anyway.
Up until I got the paper I was wallowing in the sort of hangover that can only be brought on by trying to divide three bottles of wine between two people*. I awoke with a severe headache, nausea and an Unexplained Injury (an interesting bruise on my upper right arm), that was sadly not brought about by some kind of frolicking-based activity with another person, as my fellow drinker was my closest friend who I've known since I was about fourteen, and who because she's a girl, I conscientiously walked home the five hundred yards round the corner, that being the full extent of my chivalry when hopelessly pissed.
The route back however, does take my past the corner of Kimberley Park populated by the Bushes In Which Things Happen, so the only explanation is that something jumped out and punched me, without me noticing.
Anyway, I've sobered up now, on every level, so I'm going to have some posh coffee courtesy of Agent Sarah, and get on with work. Sad news though.
*The true level of my pissedness can perhaps be ascertained by the fact that I was watching Sahara and at one point clearly remember shouting 'This is the best film I've ever seen in my life!'.