34: 2058

The Tate were running a short story competition recently, which was all linked up to the current Turbine Hall exhibition, by Dominique Gonzalez Foerster. I only found out about it on Wednesday night, the closing date was Sunday, and I was flying out to Dublin on Thursday for my sister's wedding, so the whole weekend was destined to end up as a booze-ridden blur with no time for writing. But I thought I'd give it a go anyway, soI belted one out on Wednesday night and Thursday morning at the airport. I went to send it off on Saturday night, with a killer hangover, and only then did I actually read the rules, and it turned out that I'd written a 3000 word story for a competition with a 1500 word limit. So I frantically deleted bits and pieces and sent it off at 1497, minus its entire nervous system. They post all the stories on the site, and six will be chosen to go on an audiotape read by Christopher Eccleston. You can read my hacked-up one here, and I came across Martin Reed's one here. His one rocks.

I hope this post makes sense; my hands and brain are malfunctioning from cycling home from work in the snow, shunning taxis like a buffoon.

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