Another one of my bicycle puncture repair days. It’s a lot like writing, really. The work, both grindingly tedious and yet curiously exacting: the anxiety about messing it up; the various stages at which things can go wrong; the growing hope that perhaps this time all will be well … And so you inflate the theoretically repaired tube. And then you leave it for a while, just in case you have messed up, and need to start again – this is the part like sending off your manuscript. And the hope and fear churn around like your socks and underpants in the tumble drier. And you almost don’t want to hear the result, in case it’s bad – because until that moment of rejection/deflation, there is still the hope. Anyway, the wheel is in the hallway now, and I’m afraid to go and check. Pray for me.