I am very pleased indeed to tell you that today I have had my day of writing my story.
This has been blissful. Well, it has been fairly blissful. I made a huge pot of tea, and then, as an afterthought, a huge jug of tea as well, and stood them on top of the stove to stew. There must have been almost a gallon of tea, and I drank almost all of it, I will be spending tonight in the taxi longing just to pop home for a wee.
I also brought myself a bag of chocolate buttons, and I am ashamed to say that I accidentally ate all of those as well. I did not even notice it happening. I just reached across at about half past four and discovered that the bag was empty. I could not even blame the dogs.
I had got plenty of other things for which to blame the dogs, not least that I was awakened at about three in the morning by the unmistakeable sound of Rosie being sick.
I had gone to bed early in order to rise and shine brightly with the dawn today, and had descended almost immediately into peaceful slumber.
I was not pleased to be woken up.
I bellowed at her from the warm haven of my bed and heard her scurrying off down the stairs in the sort of frantic dog-panic that happens when they know they are doing something unforgivable. After some more vomiting noises, I thought I had probably better get up to investigate.
She had been sick on every stair on her way down, and had consoled herself by crawling on to my chair by the fire, where the long stream of drool that was hanging from her mouth had smeared all over the upholstery.
I was becoming less pleased by the minute.
I cleaned up, and went back to bed, where sleep deserted me amid worries about our uncertain offshore future and the chronically infirm state of Mark’s credit card. An hour or two later I poured myself a glass of single malt, which did the trick nicely, and I was snoring like a rescued tramp when the telephone rang at half past eight.
It was Number One Son-In-Law, who has very kindly been sorting out some of the bookings for Mark’s endlessly confusing offshore assessments. You have got to have a medical before you are even allowed to have the medical. It is a puzzling and complicated set of rules.
Anyway, I got up then, and realised to my satisfaction that the house was tidy, I had a shed full of firewood, and almost no effort was required of me to ensure my continued survival. There were all sorts of things I had promised myself I would do,I have got some curtains to manufacture and a bathroom ceiling to paint, but I didn’t do them. Instead I took the dogs for a stroll around the park in the rain, and went to loaf about in front of the computer, writing things.
I had promised myself that before I meet my tutor next week I would have written twenty two thousand words, and by the end of today I had got to twenty one thousand, six hundred and ninety four, and there is still ages to go.
I interrupted myself several times to write emails telling people that I was going to be in Cambridge, and by the end of the day I had let myself in for several joyous evenings of alcoholic bad behaviour, at least one of which will require me to wear a formal gown.
I am supposed to be going down to concentrate on my dissertation. I have got a lot of writing to do, along with a critical analysis.
I suspect the element that might be lacking in my personality is self-control. I do not hold out any great hopes for this week’s achievements.
I don’t care. I am fed up of the Lake District in the rain, and I couldn’t be more worried about the credit card than I am now, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.
I am counting the days.
