The kids are going away for a bit so I am going to switch off the phones and the broadband and dedicate myself to cracking the novel I'm working on. Last night I had an auspicious dream in which I joined the literary fast set by having an affair with Martin Amis. The circumstances were that I was interviewing him in a house in Suffolk by the sea - possibly for a national newspaper. He looked young and handsome and obviously fancied me very much. We agreed to meet in a 'love hotel'* called The Mansion in Piccadilly Circus the following day. (I don't think this is the usual procedure in interviews and explains why I would have been unsuited to journalism.)
We did meet, although it was rather trying because, for reasons that were connected to a previous dream, I had rescued a dying woman by bringing her home with me on a double decker bus and had to call the emergency services before leaving her outside the house to be collected - rather as you do when you have something to be collected on Freecycle and you aren't going to be in.
Anyway, we met up at The Mansion and as I caught sight of Martin on the CCTV in the lobby, I noticed that he looked rather like Audrey Hepburn and I commented on it. And to complement his look, I wore a tiara for our assignation. And so we went through the lovely Art Deco lobby and up to our room. But before I could dream about the act of love itself, I was interrupted by the words 'Caution: This Pimlico Plumbers vehicle is reversing,' repeated over and over again very loud outside my bedroom window, with the 'is' stressed for some reason.
Since the Giles Coren debacle, of course, one is very interested in who stresses what and when and why. I met him once and he was very nice in real life. But I didn't dare go back to sleep to try to dream about Martin Amis or even Giles Coren - who writes very well, also - because dreams are erratic and I might have dreamt about Britain's oldest marathon runner, Buster Martin, who works for Pimlico Plumbers and is either 101 or 94, depending on which newspaper you read. And although I admire his fitness levels, dreaming about him wouldn't have put me in the mood for my literary endeavours at all.
As erotic dreams go, I'm not sure that it was all that erotic. But as auspicious literary dreams go, it was top notch.
*They have a lot of these in Hong Kong. It's just a place to go and have sex. You pay by the hour. I don't know if there are any in Piccadilly Circus.