Mission Control, out here on the Thames Delta. Struggling to get out of bed before noon. Laying there half-alive and checking the overnight app messages amd perhaps the top of Instagram. Downstairs, fighting my way into winter clothes, launching the first of three or four espressos, consumed at my seat and table under a roof in the back garden, with a couple of cigarettes. Processing the overnight email, listening to the morning’s news podcasts, skimming the Guardian and BBC headlines and whatever breaking news alerts fired while I was asleep. If it’s warm, I’ll try and write a morning.computer entry. An hour or so later, I’m in the office with a bottle of water, answering the emails that I triaged over coffee, and then firing up Feedbin and TweetDeck, listening to either something soothing or something fast, depending on whether the coffee has worked or not. If there’s nothing in the newsfeeds worth decanting into my private newsletter, then this is when I try to take a walk — possibly into town for a smoothie or a burger and a cocktail, if it’s clearly shaping up to be that kind of day. Otherwise, I’ll wrap a news burst for my favoured entities and bots and listen to some more music first. Work starts after the walk, accompanied by a smoothie. I pre-prep leaves and fruits and put them into ziplock bags that then go in the freezer. Empty pack into blender, add water and disintegrate. Three or four hours of work takes me to dinner. If I were a real writer, that would be the end of my day. But no. Work recommences after food and continues to 2am, at which point I retire to bed with the Kindle Paperwhite and read for an hour – either a book or documents I’ve sent to my Kindle during the day. Rinse and repeat until you have some terrible neurological event that hospitalises you and leaves you with mysterious, frightening neurological and physical deficits that science cannot explain.