There was no week seven. I flitted across the border and took it with me.
In Glasgow, I met with another writer. We spoke, and ate a vegan meal, then watched random music in a basement. Drummer with mouthgag, a band describing themselves as being like ‘a sad wank in a bath’ and the headliners who somehow were the worst of the three. But were very energetic. I didn’t write anything.
In Loch Lomond I took a cruise from Luss and saw an osprey. I didn’t write.
I climbed Ben Lomond. It hailed. I got too hot. It was muggy. It rained. Lots of people passed me going both ways. I got to the top and took a photograph. I didn’t write.
I went to Stirling. The Wallace monument, lost the ticket but they let us in anyway, people in Scotland are friendly and nice. I drove the same road several times, parked in the same car park twice. Spent a few hours at the castle. Bumped unexpectedly into a writer from Bristol. We chatted for a while then went our separate ways. I didn’t write.
I drank a lot of whisky and visited a pub that was closed and one that wasn’t. It drizzled. I didn’t write.
I went to Edinburgh and did the Fringe – comedy, show, theatre, weird wrestling videos with comedians, shows, more shows, more comedy. I didn’t write.
I met a writer in Edinburgh. We drank lots of beer at the book festival. I listened to writers talk about their writing. I bumped into another writer I know who I didn’t know lived in Scotland. He went off to listen to other writers talk about writing. I ate Chinese food and didn’t write.
The tablet and keyboard went unused. Lugged from Glasgow to Dumbarton to Edinburgh pointlessly.
I watched Twitter as thousands of people converged on Dublin for WorldCon and all my writer friends socialised and probably talked about writing.
I didn’t write.
It’s now week eight and the total still stands at 31,000
I have some catching up to do.