So there I was yesterday morning, wrestling with not one but two versions of the same story and desperately trying to marry the best bits of both into one homogenised whole. Then the doorbell rang. Oh bugger it, I thought, and then - no, it might be important. I legged it down three flights of stairs (my study's in the attic) and unlocked the front door. A fat bloke was standing on the step grinning at me out of a moon-like face.
"Morning luv," he said. "D'you want any 'orse manure for your garden?"
Oh dear.
For some reason it was terribly hard to concentrate on lyrical prose and serious writing after that....
I know Coleridge was cursed with the man from Porlock (hence the title of this post) but do other writers find the same thing?
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