Waah! Nearly Monday!

I've written ten pages this Draftbusters, and resolved to write 30 more before the next one on 7–8 June. This is for a 'short book' I've promised to write this year—not to be confused with the novella that's due around Christmas. I don't know that I'll be able to do much more than that, but that's not stopping me applying for money to buy time to try.

Instead of staring into the maw of the working week, I'll have another peep into the world I've been in this weekend:

Well, off I clattered down the broken road, into the rhythm of the rich man's days instead of the slow stodge of the walking soldier's. It was astounding how the country slipped by, rushed by, how shells of burnt cottages and cannon-craters and earthworks and shattered copses, instead of creeping towards a man and asking him to regard and consider how they had come into being, what they had weathered, and what had destroyed them again, leaped to my gaze, hurried by, gave onto the next dead farm, the next huddled family by their house of cloth and sticks, the next bloat-corpse of goat or donkey in the fields—I could see so far from up here! I could see, after a day or two with a night between at an inn with a good roast meal and two innkeeper's daughters, I could see how narrow a place in the world was occupied by the fighting. I rode right out of the war, I did, in the space of a day and a half, and I scarce knew what I was looking at when I saw my first ploughed field; I could scarce keep from laughing at the fool who thought he could bring up a crop in this world of poor luck and bombardment.