Putting a couple of copies of my book under the weight of all my lego for a week hasn’t been as effective as I had hoped. The pages are a lot flatter, but still kind of wavy. I’ll leave them for another week and put my old university coursebooks on top of the lego in addition.

I was feeling bad about that this morning but then I discovered that not all publishers need me to go through an agent. I’ve managed to find a couple who I can just email my book to directly. One is in Australia – they want the first chapter and will ask for the rest of the book within a week if they’re interested. The other is in England and want the whole book, but will take 12 weeks to make a decision. The English publisher will accept submissions from overseas, the Australian publisher doesn’t state that they won’t. I have nothing to lose from submitting my book to them, and with the Australian publisher at least I’ll know within a week. Know whether they want to take any further interest, that is.

It’s so nice to get someone to at least read the damn thing without wanting to be paid for the privelege.

After I discovered these publishers I wandered around town for a while, just because I can. A ginger cat asleep in the university library cheered me up. Mayflower New World playing ‘Friday I’m In Love’ cheered me up. A duck in the harbour cheered me up. It went ‘quack’. I don’t know why it did that, there were no other ducks around. Maybe it wanted to see if it could hear its echo.

And getting Robert Rankin’s book The Antipope out of the library cheered me up. The last Rankin book I read was atrocious, so I’ve been reluctant to read any more… but I was right about the qualities that I found so endearing about his work to begin with. It’s sort of what you’d get if you crossed Last of the Summer Wine with P.G. Wodehouse and threw in a comic book. Or something.