Apparently all it takes these days to get a book published is to have sex every night with your husband for a year. Or if you want to be on television, have octuplets and try and trademark the name OctoMom. I don’t want to be on television but I would like to write a book. And since the fiction has slowed down to a painful trickle these days I have decided to go along the lines of Charla Muller (the sex every night woman) but without the sex every night. So instead, how about I
a) Don’t wash my hair for a year. And write a book about it.
b) Wear the same outfit for a year. And write a book about it.
c) Try to live on a tenner a week for a year. And write a book about it. Oh wait. I tried and failed. Shortest book ever.
d) Eat baby food for a year. And write a book about it.
Suggestions are welcome. I’m curious to know how the sex a day for a year book reads. ‘April 19th 2007. We had sex tonight.’ ‘April 20th 2007. We had sex tonight.’ ‘April 21st 2007. I had a headache. But we had sex tonight.’ I’m confident my no hair washing for a year book will be far more interesting.
Also, I want to stand on a plinth at Trafalgar Square for Anthony Gormley and am sending in an application.
The hope is to present a portrait of the UK in the 21st century. Gormley said: “This is about, in some way, challenging the idea that only some people, people who are heroes or have served for their country, have the right to occupy plinths.
And in other news, it is official. Babies are fast but stupid. Their brains don’t move as fast as their limbs do. My son did his best to try and swat and chase a bee in our garden yesterday. Where was I? Cowering behind the garden chairs of course.