"I'm not sure that anything has happened this week. I got out to London for an evening to have dinner with an old writer friend. I stared into space for a couple of days because An Idea was happening to me, and also because the temperature drop out here on the Delta has gotten into my gammy leg and I was mostly a beached manatee until everything in the knee stopped bending and changing shape. This is, of course, why it's just as well that the few friends I have live thousands of miles away: I can totally lose a couple of days to gazing into the middle distance and meditating on the most ridiculous of things. Naturally, this is also why I'm poor. "What did you do Monday and Tuesday?" "Replied to an interview, wrote some script, and spent seven thousand hours doing a psychological autopsy on Hercule Poirot."