SF writer Gary Gibson

One of the occasional joys of living in a class-structured society like the United Kingdom is the sheer joy of seeing open class warfare, particularly when expressed in the form of a television documentary series; to whit, Young Posh and Loaded, which seems designed to boost the income of dentists by creating a frenzy of mass tooth-grinding up and down the country every time this program airs. I feel duty-bound to record for posterity not only the voice-over for one young lad, still only 23 and already buying and selling million-pound properties, but the implied class hatred for what we in the fair North (or at least the majority of the people I know) like to describe as stuck-up Tory Oiks badly in need of a spanking with a sledgehammer. After expounding upon his surely well-considered views on 'layabouts, the unemployed, gypsies, the homeless, they make a hundred quid a day so why don't they start up their own business and be just like me', the voice-over referred to the young lad's financial hand-up from 'mummy and daddy'.

Now, when that voice-over person said 'mummy and daddy', every ounce of hatred held by even the distantly liberal working in television towards such people seemed expressed in those simple words. The voice-over didn't so much say 'a bit of a financial hand from mummy and daddy', as it clearly expressed, albeit visible only via a certain strain in the voice, 'a financial hand up from mummy and daddy, and when the revolution comes, you miserable little greasy-faced arse, you will most definitely be first up against the wall so we can listen to your miserable bleating for one more minute before we lay in with the steel-capped boots of righteous indignation'.

Or some such.

There. I feel much better now. I have been busy this week; regrettably not so much over Against Gravity, though it is making progress, though not quite as rapidly as I might have hoped. This is due to extenuating circumstances; I have been looking at houses. One in particular, at the very edge of Glasgow's West End (teetering, even, you might say), for a depressingly large sum of money, but nonetheless still within my financial grasp. It is being surveyed on Monday, so I shall wait and see; I am hopeful, but nervous.

Lastly, but not least, I have discovered I even have a presence on the German Amazon. The delight inherent in this is, unfortunately, balanced by the sad discovery that my publishers are also the ones responsible for inflicting Jeffrey Archer upon the world.