Finally, having found the last mistakes and given my approval to Hong Kong, the printing press is clicking over, and my pages are being printed.
It's been exhausting, being not only a writer but now a publisher (like so many writers, I'm now going it alone because our publishers can't make it work commercially any more, unless we produce cook books or rugby memoirs).
I flee the city for reprieve, but even the bach is scorching, temperatures nearly up to 30 degrees Celsius (that's 83 Fahrenheit)
I am parched. My wells of creativity have run dry. I haven't even written a blog post for a while.
When I reach inside for something green to offer you, or something blue and bubbling like a waterfall, or sparkly like the surf, I find only a dry tangle.
But a few days at the bach, and something stirs once more. But first I crave the juiciest fruit I can find: fresh pineapple and summer blueberries, cool from the fridge. Aah . . .