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I can't blame a fake nomadic life for having not written anything in weeks, both digitally and hard copy. In fact, it's completely the opposite. Truthfully, I am now settled, withe employment, and haven't done anything remotely self-destructive in weeks. This is an achievement. An old friend from home visited nearly a month ago who sympathised with my situation, which is now to say past situation, which is, really nice to say. But I could see myself reflected in her that I had become a slight nutter. I wasn't nearly morally bankrupt but had become a bit of a social deviant. I'm now feeling myself shift back. Or I guess forward.

The only kink is now I don't know how to end my novel. I am far to smug right now to pull from real life and inject into art.

Here are our sweaty, rainy mugs from a day at a music festival 10 minutes up the canal from us.