I've done a final pointless image before attempting to learn how to paint.
"About time," sayeth She who must not be trifled with, "If you're going to take a year off writing and actually allow your daughter to remember your face whilst she's still young enough to do so, then I have a few jobs for you."
The amount of space Blogger allows us isn't enough to list the "few" jobs. Suffice to say that if I ever want to write again then I'll have to redecorate the house entirely, and that's just this week. Move every blade of grass in the front garden two inches to the left and, and scour the front path to spotless perfection before she and aforementioned daughter return from the yard, covered with horse droppings and hay and straw and other stuff even I can't identify. Why they can't just clean themselves down before they come back is beyond me.
Oh, and the car used to be silver, it's now a vaguely russet colour. And that's not rust. Does every horse in the entire yard have to evacuate themselves all over the car? It's a plot. Not only are all the people who go to the yard female, but every horse in the yard is female. What happens to the boy horses? I'll bet they've all hurled themselves on the muck heap in screaming fits of exasperation.
I'll get my own back, somehow, someday.