Ystabub’s birthday
Ystabub is thirty five. It hardly seems possible that it is five years since his party at the theatre, where we all disappeared behind the stage and got in trouble for throwing the greasy, gnawed-clean chicken bones at each other.
I had a lasy morning, doing some work in bed, and then reading a whole chapter of The Two Towers before getting up. I’m finding it hard going, but I want to get it finished before the film comes out. I still have about 250 pages to go, so it’s a race to beat the censors. The longer they spend deliberating the cuts, the happier I am.
Showered, dressed, ate melon for breakfast then flopped around watching James Bond until lunchtime, when Paul and I had made plans to meet Trevor and Jon on a bridge in town in the sun.
It was a fantastic day. Sunny and warm without being too hot. The boats were cruising up and down the river, doing tours of the concrete walls that rise up from the surface of the water, reminding the passengers to duck as they motored beneath the low bridges.
We ended up in a Weatherspoons where they were tempting in young families with howling kids with two-for-
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