Its about ten past midnight on the 26th of May, and I should be asleep. Either that or burning the midnight oil, revising for one of the many upcoming exams that I seem to be facing with my relatively non-nonchalant nature. Now what was it that I said in my last post... I can't remember. (It was so far ago now, wasn't it...).
So why, you may ask, am I up at this absurd time in the morning? Ate too much? Nope. Badly timed programmes? Nope. Drinking away your problems? Nope (My mini-fridge is empty).
I am in fact, working.
Working?! (The audience gasp, gripped by their false thoughts of Lewis being that loaded type of rich bloke who has no need or inclination to work). How? WHY?
Don't fret. It's not actual work. I'm writing.
Writing? For what? An article in a magazine? A eulogy for the poet laureate? Nope, better! I'm writing a book! That's right! An actual book! One that you can buy and read and lick and use to prop up picture frames, a real book!
Basically, it's going to be called 'SICK.' and you'll be able to buy it online around September/October. Stay tuned, because I'll be posting an extract and possibly the cover very shortly!
Now off to bed...