I've been asked to review a book for work; I say "been asked", but if you substitute the word "volunteered", you're closer to the truth, goddammit. I thought it would be fun. The book, Chris Froome's autobiography, is on a subject I love and am knowledgeable about. And, even if I say so myself, I'm usually pretty good at distilling books and films down to their scanties. I also read voraciously. So what's the problem?
I'll tell you. I feel under pressure. If I didn't have a deadline, I've have read this tome in three or four days. As it is, I've got a week. And yet all I can do is cast furtive glances at it on my desk, and worry because the bookmark is too near the front cover for comfort. Also, unless I forget how to read English overnight or pull a hamstring in my eyes, it's going to get read in due course. I just need to relax. I'm going to end up buying a CD of whale song because I've got to write 300 non-committal words by Tuesday week.
When the going gets tough.
