So, there I am: early Monday morning, kneeling on the floor of the bathroom cubicle at work, gazing down at the bowl…and I’m thinking I’ve been here before — usually the morning after particularly alcohol-shaped evenings. But in this case, my mind was clear, sharp and focussed (or, at least, as much as it usually is on Monday morning, which is admittedly closer to fuzzy, blunt and…ooh, look at that cloud), and hard at work stapling together the next issue of Trash City.

This was, admittedly, a self-inflicted injury. I’d come in on the Sunday, intending to make full use of untrammelled access to the copier to knock off the sample copies for the printer, but managed to screw up and leave a dozen pages at home. “No problem,” I thought, “easily knock it off on Monday,” having totally forgotten the…ah, somewhat arresting nature of the TC front cover. Given the recent arrival of a new boss, of uncertain sensitivities (his mobile phone plays the theme from ‘Star Wars’…I’m not sure whether this is good or bad), I thought it best to exercise discretion, and so anyone entering the toilet would have heard sounds of rustling, punctuated by the odd ker-thunk of staples being driven home. The things I do for TC.

It was thus with a certain sense of relief that I stuffed it in the post later that morning. I think this must be what having kids are like; seems like a good idea at the time, but requires a steadily increasing amount of effort, until finally you can wave them goodbye and get on with the rest of your life. I think the worst bit was the proof-reading; every sweep seemed to find more typos, glitches and cock-ups rather than less. This is probably inevitable: by the time you’ve read an article a dozen times, you see what you think is there, rather than what actually is on the page. There’s thus an endless cycle of print-check-scrap — I’m sure I heard the Amazonian rain-forest give a small cheer when I finally said “Screw this for a lark” and went down the pub instead. Of course, I know full well that when it comes back from the printers, the typos will be outlined in neon and tap-dancing across the page to greet me. Such is the life of a ‘zine editor… I hope you’re bloody grateful. 🙂

In theory, this should mean I can kick back and relax. However, I’ve just had a quick attack of paranoia: phoned the Post Office to confirm delivery of the (recorded delivery) pages to Juma, and they said they had no record of the parcel… Panic! However, a swift call to Juma revealed they’d arrived safely with no problem, so I look forward to hearing what the Post Office Customer Services say… Actually, this wasn’t as bad as it would have been in the bad old days of scissors and glue, when there was *one* master — now it’s all electronic, I could just print off another set. Such are the delights of technology.

With that little crisis out of the way, and TC safely in the hands of the printers, all I’ve got left to do is the little things, like trying to remember where I put the envelopes. And the sticky labels. Er, and the subscriber’s list. Such are the problems with 13-month gaps between issues – though this represents a major improvement over the previous 18-month interval! Still, I think I can take this weekend off, give myself (and all the contributors, he adds hurriedly!) a pat on the back, and go down the pub for a well-earned beer: pint of Director’s, please, landlord. Tomorrow, I may well be kneeling on the bathroom floor again…