Work. Frustration. Work. Frustration. Work. Frustration. Work. Frustration. Work. Frustration. Typing. Not copying. Not pasting. Sick of it.
And I’m really too old for this feeling sorry for myself lark. Larks. Singing. Spring. Or Autumn as it happens.
SIgh. Anyway. No writing. No excuses. I’ve been given time and space to do it. And I haven’t. For the sake of a stylistic device. Or more visually, because I stopped to look down while I was crossing the chasm.
And I’m watching adverts about bobbling and shrinking, because that’s how I deal with it. PS As much as I would like to claim the credit, I didn’t write the no artificial colours jelly sweets thing ad, although my soul brother obviously did. THE TRUMPETS.
Sigh. It will be easier in the morning. As The Hothouse Flowers once said. Although they also said there was a black cat singing by a shadow of a gatepost or something. Which is just nonsense. No cat would sit in a shadow. Greedy sun-sippers.
Finish your novel or I’m sending the boys around.