What if, when a writer dies, all the plots and characters in their head that had never made it onto the printed page were released into the atmosphere? Would they take on a life of their own? Would they implant themselves into other writers' heads and achieve 'life' that way? Idea for a story? Or am I just hallucinating?
I'm certainly not with it. Having put the washing into the machine, I then stood there knowing there was something I had to go next, but unable to remember what it was. (Putting the washing powder in.) I offer to make Mr G a cup of tea, then forget all about it. I make myself one and let it go cold. I pour a glass of water, put it down somewhere, then pour another until every room contains a half-drunk glass. My hair needs washing and I can't be bothered to do it. It seems not to matter. Not when such a colossal thing has happened as Louise's death.
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