Diary – 15 April 2005

Last week was dedicated to boosting morale. Having had my novel rejected no fewer than eight times in a fortnight, I have screwed the lid back on my pen until such time as I feel galvanised into a second assault. For now, it’s all about reviving my flagging spirits.

First up, an attempt to make another kind of valuable contribution to society: I took myself off to the Blood Donor Centre on Margaret Street in the hope that dishing out a pint of my O-positive would make me feel a little less O-negative. But hang it all, even my blood was rejected. According to the nice young man I was short on iron. We both watched anxiously as a drop of blood, squeezed from my index finger, failed to sink after being dropped into a capsule of blue liquid. The nice young man then stuck a needle into my arm and withdrew a syringeful of the red stuff, which he fed into a little machine like a calculator.