Galley Beggar Mail
And Happy New Year. Oh hell. It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Time was, I’d get these letters out at the start of the month. And now look. It’s the 26th day already. Anyway, happy late January. The truth is that later January is probably better than early. The days are getting longer. Only a very few pine needles remain on the floor. Snowdrops are pushing through the soil. Maybe if Keats had lived longer he’d have written an Ode to Slightly Less Shitty Winter…
It's very nearly the end of December and I'm tempted to write a review of 2014. It's been a great year. But I fear that if I do start recapping all the things that have happened, this letter may just turn into a triumphalist diatribe about how great our authors are. Even worse, I may start on some pathetic whinge about all the hard work we've been doing. Or, still worse, an unfortunate combination of the two. A pathetic triumphalist whinging diatribe. And who would want to read that? I don't even want to write it - even though it would mainly be about Elly, me and my massive ego.