I think I'm doing it too much.

I'm beginning to think that I'm spending too much time writing. That's a first and something I'd never thought I'd say. This morning I finished work at four am and spent the next three hours dreaming of my characters'. What they might do, say or react to any given situation. I have, or had a real life but it seems to have vanished.
   So I think I'm gong to spend a few weeks painting my rubbish pictures. This is one I knocked off a couple of days ago when my muse decided to desert me. I hope she had a good time. Do muses have to be female? I hope so;  the thought of some smelly muse called Kevin or Malcolm looking over my shoulder while I write might be the reason for what passes for my brain turning to mush.

   I'll just give it a rest and look forward to Wimbledon. There's no end of sights waiting for me there. All the Ascot crowd will have sobered up, briefly, readying themselves for the several tons of strawberries and shampers that end up down their collective throats, before rolling down that hill they all cram themselves onto, usually coming to a less than graceful halt,  face first into someone's picnic. I thought the policeman who had to sort that one out last year was going to have a stroke or wet himself before he was able to stop giggling and arrest that man for breach of the peace. I suppose the thought of the cleaning the congealed mess out off the police van didn't really appeal. Come to think of it, he reminds me of that bloke who nearly emasculated himself in Henley the other day.