If anyone finds this diary I'm done for, a crime novelist has a lot of murders under his belt. I'll be in a padded cell for life, for murder or just being plain crazy. Could make some good headlines.
"The pen mightier than the sword. One man's murderous spree written in blood. See page 3 for full story..." This isn't helping.
It's killing my creativity! My publicist laughed in my face unsurprisingly. He likes my "method writing" - bastard.
But when Officer Shortplank and DI Shiftstick arrived on my doorstep, my stomach sank like a man in the ocean with concrete boots. And I should know, I wrote the murder they were investigating in my last novel, 'The Long Swim'.
John Lilywhite had taken a dive with his new boots courtesy of a local crime cartel. But what could I tell them?!
"Yes officers, it was Barry Lovegood, he lives on 52 Linford Street and his hideout's in warehouse 17 on the Quaynook docks. Oh and he's quite partial to Wine Gums."
Where the hell IS Linford street?!
What do I do diary.....
********
Well diary it's been two weeks since my last entry. Things have definitely picked up,
I won the lottery and moved in with Naomi Campbell. I also got the key to the city for bringing Barry Lovegood to justice. Turns out there actually is a use for that key, but I'm not at liberty to talk about that.
I think next week I'll go sort out all that messy business in Iraq. Penny Crayon hasn't got shit on me.
Anyway, must dash, Naomi wants to eat strawberries off my chest.
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