I entered my forty-second year today. I feel less anxious than last Saturday, when I had a half marathon and a critique of the new series of Doctor Who's debut to deliver the following day. Both went well, in one hour forty-nine minutes and one thousand words respectively. On the left you can see me coming in to the finish past the Royal Yacht Brittania at Leith, streaking past Max Clifford, it would appear.
I've just read Iain Bank's latest novel and, although it's a return to a well-established winning formula, did remind me why I love his work so much. I have an impossible pile of reading to choose from and am glad I no longer review books regularly. It's great to dabble and sample.
It's a bright sunny easter weekend here in Edinburgh. I'm attached to a weekend-long project at one of our clients so I keep being summoned to interventions and course-corrections meetings. I've already put in a week's worth commuting in the course of two days, but I'm inspired by the professionalism of my fellow contributors.
I'm so busy! I haven't even listenened to the new Marillion album yet. That's a telling pair of statements.