I’m not actually here.

I am, as mentioned two posts ago, in a youth hostel on Dartmoor. If this is working properly then blogger has cleverly been posting these on my behalf, at the times and dates I asked it to.

Of course if it hasn’t worked then this is all redundant, but, no, I’m going to presume that I’ve mastered the technology. For once.

The drawback is that I’ve only realised this would be possible on Tuesday. Which means I’ve had to write five blogs on the spin.

(Who’s stupid idea was it to make this daily?)

Fine. No problem. I can produce words under pressure. To a deadline. That’s what I do.

Okay.

Usually when I’m stuck I trawl through the weekend papers for a story I can try and work something out of, but I’ve already done that. Badgers, thank-you.

Or I’ll turn to some recent embarrassment that’s befallen me. Nope, been there too.

Or some moment of vaguely comic bickering between Beck and I. Damn.

Or my physical surroundings, perhaps. But, I’m not there yet. Can I imagine what Dartmoor’s like? Open scrubland, plenty of heather, remote, isolated, jaguars and lynx (the big cats not cars and deodorant) stalking sheep.

Or is that Bodmin?

Hmm. I could watch Hitchcock’s Jamaica Inn to get an impression of Dartmoor? No, there isn’t time. I still need to find my hiking boots.

Ah, sod it. This’ll do.