The Emergency Office Poncho is quite well, thank you.

It is morning. Not a winter's day in a deep and dark December. I am, nonetheless, alo-o-o-one. There is no street below the window on which I can gaze. I can take the song references no further.

It is still morning. Today, thus far, I have unfolded the emergency office poncho to check for general wear and tear and suitability for use should aforementioned emergency - which presumably has a lot to do with its being wet outside and everyone stupidly forgetting to bring umbrellas and having a desperate need for a sandwich and a flapjack around about elevenish - arise. All is well. I have procured water for myself to lessen the probability of my succumbing to death by dehydration, which I feel would be detrimental to the company's future. No-one else would've thought to check the poncho. I have altered the date on the whiteboard so it more closely resembles the date of the day in question. In green pen I have altered it. I have listened to the static on the answerphones. I have read the emails in the email thing, and responded to those to which I can respond. I have deleted a certain amount of vaguely pornographic spam.

I have updated the blog. Still it is morning. Later, I may or may not sharpen a pencil.

This is essentially a valuable insight into what happens in a small publishing house when the tremendously exciting upcoming books, with spines and multicolouring and general fantasticness that the website will tell you all about no less, are stranded at the printers. We are sad about this. Frankly, I hope you're fairly sad about it too, not because I wish you ill but because I want you to care pretty much fervantly about the speed at which you get to see our books, and also because you may find it character building in the long run.

The wait is vexing. The books are exciting. This is the important thing to remember.

Sam.