I have done nothing. Well, I have done boring stuff, such as the washing up, making lunch, and folding some clean washing. Now I have itchy hands. I'm not allergic to washing up liquid, no, I just need to do some writing. It's been a good month since I wrote anything worth showing to anyone, and I do start to feel a bit down when I haven't produced anything good for as long as that.
The solution is clear, as it always is: I must make the most of my evenings. When I produce good writing of an evening, my days are always better, and I always have more patience with the kiddy-winks, and I always feel more motivated to play with them. I must start tonight. I must get something written. I will do it.
Though I'm a little worried that I haven't got time in my life for writing, and cycling as well.
That was me, giving myself a slap. I know better than to say things like that. How ridiculous - of course I've got time for cycling and writing.
In fact, I could do some writing now, since the boys are happily playing in the garden, and actually do not want me to play with them - who could blame them, when my face alternately looks like this:
pathetically mourning the loss of a dear pet rat,
discovering the pair of dirty socks stuffed down the side of the couch,
noticing that someone has folded the towels incorrectly.
I'm only looking like this very occasionally:
a little bit demented, on discovering the chocolate hidden at the back of the cupboard
(it's past its use-by-date, but we're not fussy when it comes to chocolate).
Aren't you, reader, in luck today? You've been given the rare treat of seeing me sans hair products! What a blinkin' state I look! An uncanny resemblance to Cliff Richard c. 1963.