I was going to get into the idea today. A whole weekend with nothing to do except write.
I did have one teensy little chore. I had to get an MOT for my motorbike. That's an official annual check of my bike's road worthiness. No problem I thought, my hog's in factory condition.
'It's failed,' said the examiner, not even bothering to hide his glee.
'Why?' demanded I, not even bothering to hide the murderous expression in my face.
'Because the front tyre's worn.'
'Well put another one on, then.'
'Yes, but we'll still have to fail it.'
''Because the front tyre's worn.'
'Well, why don't you put a new front tyre on and then give it the test? There, get out of that one I thought.
'No. We've got to test it first, then fail it, then put the tyre on and then pass it.' By this time I was reaching for a hammer.
So, three hours later and nearly £200 pounds lighter, I got back home.
'Oh, while you've got the tools out', my beloved exclaimed,' I didn't have any tools out. 'You can fix the garage roof. And when you've done that, you can fix that cupboard, and then you can strip some paper, and then mow the lawn before tea.'
When I casually enquired if she'd like me to move the house two feet to the left so I could vacuum under it, she actually considered the proposition before telling me there was no time because she wanted me to grout the bathroom.
I hope they'll let me write in prison.