Poor Opus, barely a bassety sprite ( he will only be 14 in October) and poor old thing is going blind.
Fortunately he has always been a trooper about everything in life, so despite his worsening sight and the wobble in his back legs when he gets out of bed first, he still goes out for his tour of the block and goes up and down the stairs countless times a day. If he’s okay with being blind I can’t complain too badly. As long as he’s happy enough bombing about the place that is all that matters.
What I will complain about is my inability to write a synopsis. I’m mean how many years am I doing this now? Don’t answer that.
Being a Hunt through and through, the gift of the gab is not something I have ever struggled with. Condensing that yappity yip is a whole other matter.
‘Just a short page,’ Faith said to me this morning over coffee in The Rathgar Bookshop, ‘to have should we need it.’
Oh yes, it’s all good and well saying ‘just a short page’ to me, but what does it mean?
How am I supposed to shorten an entire unwritten novel into a short page and still make it zing? I’ve reread what I wrote earlier, it does not zing, it flaulumps, and I think we can all agree flaulumping is not zinging. Nope, I am afraid it is 1000 words of leaden poop.
I will look to the basset on this matter. Perhaps I am relying to much on one sense and not the others? Perhaps if I stop squinting angrily at the screen the answer to my minuscule task will slap me up side the head in a flurry of inspiration.
How hard can it be?
On his thirteenth birthday, the basset found he was drawn inexplicably to flame.