I’m back, straggling behind the Olympic lot, having managed to see not a single tape being breasted, shot being put, though I did manage a game or two of chess and table football and I learned a lot about artesian wells, and now I’m dazed, culture-shocked, by re-entry into the civilisation of deadlines and pay-&-display.
Two of the October CBe books will go to the printer next week. One is being written. But the other two, surprisingly, are done – printed, bound, in boxes. Despite the printer man being side-swiped by a forklift truck, and being told at the hospital he had a collapsed lung and how lucky it wasn’t two inches to the left otherwise that would have been his spine and he wouldn’t have walked again, and being kept in for three days and then discharged with a prescription for heavy painkillers and instructions to take ten days’ bed-rest – the queue at the pharmacy was an hour-and-a-half long so he came home, killed the pain with whisky, went straight back to work. True Brit grit. Give the man a medal.