This week I was supposed to get some serious writing done. Edit my short stories and work on the *&%$^$# crime novel which seems stuck in the fourth dimension. No, I haven’t killed all my characters….yet…but boy do I sometimes want to slap them silly with a snoek (a South African fish which is quite large and bony and would do nicely as a weapon of mass destruction on the planet Terrorix).
Anyway, thus I am diligently applying aforementioned ample butt to chair and proceeding to open a vein when, you guessed it, life inevitably interrupts. Why, oh why can I not be one of those authors who get offered a villa in Spain to finish their book? Even a farmer’s cottage in Wales would do for Pete’s sake, even if I have to wade in sheep doody to get there. My strangely soap opera like life intervenes and there go the next Pulitzer prize winning sentences; out the door and wave them goodbye as they disappear into the sunset never to be seen again.
“Where are my socks?” my youngest son’s voice stridently calls from the room.
“Where all socks go to vacation, get a new lease on life and emerge clean and fresh; the washing machine,” I answer flippantly.
“Haven’t you done the washing yet?” he retorts.
“Nope, still busy writing the next great novel, sorry.” Which translated in my mind to: really you couldn’t switch on the washing machine, add detergent, and wait for the harmonious tune to alert you to the fact that the washing is done and saunter down the steps to the washing line and hang them out? Really?
So, being who I am, I add a huge dollop of guilt to my already burdened psyche and get up to do it. I grumble as my sanity flies once more over to the damn cuckoo’s nest and lays an egg; it’s a huge spotted one and who knows what might emerge from it. I think my house people need to be careful of this one!