As some of you may know, over the past year or so I have “consciously de-coupled” from parts of my erstwhile working life. This is not to say that the dreaded ‘R’ word can be used willy-nilly, because it can’t be, as I still grind-out articles for the Bulletin and one or two other publications in the UK for a mere pittance, but such is life. However, because my work is portable i.e. I can do it anywhere - this state of affairs has enabled me to free-up my time, because as long as I meet my deadlines and occasionally pay homage to my editor - no-one cares what I do, or in fact where I do it. So far, so good; or you would think so, wouldn’t you? The trouble is, after a number of years having to be in radio studios, newsrooms, offices, and other places and then going home at a certain time, most of my days are free, save for sudden outbursts of typing and lots of staring out of the window. On non writing mornings or afternoons, I pop down to Andratx town and buy a Bulletin and some other British newspapers - that is, apart from the Daily Express, because I’m not that old - and by noon I’ve drunk four cups of coffee and am twitching like a gerbil on speed.
A man's got to do, what a man's got to do!
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