When I'm immersed in my fictional world it can sometimes be very difficult to engage with the real world.
Today I was crossing London to see my dad.
Finding a corner seat on the tube, I grabbed my WIP and pen and found the words flowing faster than I could get them down.
Great, you might say.
And it was - except for one problem.
In spite of the signs on the platform ...
... and on the front of the train ...
... and inside the carriage ...
... and the electronic voice announcements re the next station and where the train would terminate ...
I not only got on the wrong branch of the Northern Line, but had also gone halfway to High Barnet before I realised.
It doesn't end there, I'm afraid.
As soon as the tube came out of the tunnel, I phoned dad and told him I was on my way and not to eat lunch without me.
Aware I was running over half an hour late, I dashed out of the station, grabbed a copy of the Metro for dad and raced to his flat.
He wasn't there.
It's happened before and I prepared to scour the streets looking for him.
And where did I eventually find him?
At the station, that's where.
As soon as I'd called he walked to meet me.
I must have rushed straight past him.
In my defense, he must have missed me too.
His excuse is that he's 93.
Mine? I'm a writer, innit?