No longer were the panic inducing worries of being Bridget Jones-style late to work with a mild case of dry heaves unanswered for and peculiar to me. No, now I was sharing them with a packed Jubilee Line full of Canary Wharf bound suits in polished leather-soled brogues, cuff link requiring starched shirts, and poppy decorated lapels. Not exactly kindred spirits, but atomised souls united briefly by a shared tube driver's acknowledgement.
All of which got me thinking about the blurb in today's Metro highlighting the international writing community phenomenon, NaNoWriMo, or National November Writing Month: "a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30."
A novel in thirty days? Now that is worth true acknowledgement. But could it happen to a semi-chronically (not a word but it should be) discontented professional (is a word but it shouldn't be) with an acute blogging addiction and a vague story idea about a homicidal plot on the part of the Google Earth people to provide a roadmap to Al Qaeda so that they find Cheney, Rumsfeld and Bush (and maybe even Mrs. Rumsfeld) and murder them? Oh wait, does it say anywhere NaNoWriMo entries can't be non-fiction?
Oh, and for those who prefer the sideline to the frontline, tomorrow is the start of the Chelsea Book Fair.