I have spent almost all afternoon writing my story.
I was having such a lovely time that I completely forgot about everything else I was supposed to be doing, and drifted downstairs at five o’clock in a waft of balmy contentment, only to discover a pile of uncooked sausages and laundry that should have had my attention, and which had been pitiably ignored.
I had to dash about then, and made myself late for work.
I was supposed to be getting the sheets back on Lucy’s bed ready for Jack’s return tomorrow, and the sausages cooked ready for both Jack and Mark, who will also be arriving tomorrow, and who will need feeding. Really I ought to have thought of something more exciting than sausages, but I couldn’t, so I didn’t.
I flew round the house then, tripping over things and swearing, and wondering what else I had forgotten to do.
There will be lots of things, there always are.
It has been the most marvellous of autumn days, and the Library Gardens was so beautiful this evening when I emptied the dogs that it took my breath away, and late for work or not, I stood and gawped at it for ages, listening to a determined robin duetting with a more superiorly melodic blackbird. The sun was just setting, the skies were clear and blue, and everywhere the world was changing to shades of russet and gold and tawny. The wonderful, wonderful burnt sugar trees come into their own at this time of year, and their glorious sweetly acid scent is hanging over everything. It is a good day to be alive, and I am very pleased that I am.
I dashed back, lately, and then rushed round again doing the things which should have occupied my afternoon, but which hadn’t, like bringing in firewood and sweeping up the resulting sawdusty mess on the kitchen floor.
I don’t care. I have had a joyful afternoon. I spent hours and hours writing an important bit where the heroine learns to Take Control Of Her Life, and then scowled at it, wondering how I might squeeze in sufficient time to make it up to my daily target of a thousand words.
Fortunately it occurred to me to check it, and to my surprise, I discovered that not only had I managed easily to pass my thousand word target, I had written almost three thousand words, how words fly when you are having fun.
I have also drunk rather a lot of tea. Tonights taxi driving is going to be interrupted by a lot of dashes home.
It is only going to be a short night in any case, because I have got to finish early. I have got to be in Penrith at twelve tomorrow for the neurology appointment. Neurologists are as rare as dodos these days, and I do not want to miss out on a chance to see a real, live one, in the flesh as it were, and so I am going to have to get up early in order to dash over the fells before I go.
Hence tonight will be briefer than usual. I do not mind this. It is so quiet at the moment that very probably I won’t earn very much anyway.
I said goodnight to the dogs and rushed out. The dogs are inexplicably sulking because I have put a new cushion in their basket. It is thicker and more comfortable than the old one, but it is different. The dogs do not like changes, and so they are grumpily sleeping on the floor next to their basket, with occasional reproachful glances in my direction every now and again.
Sometimes I am very glad that dogs can’t talk.
