For the first time in months my wife and daughter aren't here. For some peculiar reason they're watching a bunch of horses jumping over fences. Can't see the point myself. After all, her demonic pony isn't even in the show, hurling itself over, around and sometimes clean through multiple stacked buses, and multiple stacked onlookers.
So now I've got time to write without: "Are we ever going to see you again?" Or "That garage needs fixing", or "the house needs moving an inch to the left", and all the other mundane things we writers are illogically expected to perform when all we want to do is write.
Now, after a leisurely breakfast, answering my emails and finally set - I can't do it. It's not that I have writers block. I just don't want to write. It's Sunday; there's bound to be at least one James Bond film and a plethora of black and white war epics simply begging for my attention.
I even tried painting but after waiting for the prog to load on my increasingly ancient machine, I couldn't paint a thing. And a good thing too, some might say.
So I'm going to compromise. It's almost 1.15 in the afternoon.
I'm going to bed.
I did some painting last night. I have no idea what I was thinking about.