So this lovely magazine’s nearly finished. The last three days I’ve thought of nothing else, and I’ll be thinking of very little else until it’s in my goddam hands, smelling nice and papery with all the words and pictures safe and sound. It’s looking lovely and the energy and wonderfulness of all involved has put a huge spring in my step even as it all puts bags under my eyes. In the meantime, though, I’m allowed a few hours off. I got home from Brighton to find my wife had left a bag of cookies in the fridge with a pink post-it note on it commending me for all my hard work. God bless her sweet heart. And now she and her new lovely hott blonde paramour (we have an open relationship, y’know…) are smooching in the front room and reading 1970s horoscopes (”Scorpio and Aries: the kind of fated love from which legends arise” - tell me about it, dude; story of my damn life) and sorting me out with some spaghetti bologonese, red wine and the Texan Piano Blues (Dallas 1925-99, Magpie Records) on account of my imminent physical and mental collapse if I don’t get all of the above in the next half hour or so.

It’s all good. Don’t wanna jinx it before it’s even done, but god, it’s been fucking fun, this issue. Stressful, lively, funny fun. Highlights include Everett True making us listen to Misty’s Big Adventure - and dancing to it! - while we’re on the edge of psychotic tiredness, me getting to interview one of my favourite current artists for a whole afternoon, the helpfulness and enthusiasm of our new subs team (big shout out to Merek, Marianna, Grace, Isabel, Bec, Robin, Monster Bobby, Stewart, Daniel and Charlotte (special thanks to you for letting us take over your house.,..what a lady!) - the unsung heroes of all magazines), getting to see Sarah’s awesome photos on the layouts, and Poppy the cat acting cute and languid throughout the whole process. Oh, and last night, not being able to sleep, writing the bottom line of a whole new composition for violin (with, like, notes and everything) at Andrew Clare’s coffee table at 1am. Thanks to Andrew for the nicest coffee table in Brighton, and for the pen and Muji paper, and thanks to Katrina for the herb tea and letting me babble like a nutcase at her. And sorry to Robin, for missing your gig. I bet it was ace, too.

And there’s still lots to do. We’re nearly there but not there, all at the same time.

But there’s this weird loop going round in my head that keeps saying, “I just want someone who knows what I mean.” Lord alone knows what I mean by that. Something to do with listening to Mark Hollis’ solo album on the train. Something to do with thinking about words too much these last few weeks. Something to do with the clangy piano and moaning vocals that’s accompanying this blog entry, lonely and resigned and jaunty and sweet as hell.

Eat pasta, pack my cowboy boots and pure wool maroon kick-pleat circle skirt, sleep, get on a plane, write some lyrics and look people in the eye as I sing them.

By the way, the next issue is gonna fucking ROCK. And I oughta know.