Manuscript: from the Latin manuscriptus — written by hand. Several pages of it, at least ten, jotted in my unintelligible longhand. Lost.
I spent Saturday morning writing in a café in Muswell Hill, where I happened by chance. Or better: I spent the morning alternating between writing and finishing a book by Daniela Cascella, Singed (Equus Press, 2017), in a café in Muswell Hill. After lunch I headed to Central London to buy some more reading material, and when I got thirsty and arrived in my favourite local watering hole I realised I had left my manuscript at the café. My first reaction was rushing back to Muswell Hill. But a second later I realised that I didn’t really care about my pages, that my words could very well end up in a bin. Yes, there was a feeling of loss but also a sense of relief.
I would tell you about what I was writing but this would distract us from the interesting bit, which is that this happened after I finished Singed, a book about different forms of loss: the l…