I'd be lethargic if I could be bothered.

It's that time of year again. Now I have nothing particularly against this time of year. Winter has just begun and so logically, Spring is just lurking around the corner.  This is the time of year I hate owning motorbikes. I use them every day and two nights ago I actually summoned the energy to wash and polish one of them, but now I'm reluctant to use it in case it gets dirty. Is that because I'm getting older?

   I've made a healthy start on The book Of Pain. I'm enjoying writing a book with few contractions and even fewer colloquialisms. Mainly because I can't find them for the era of which I'm writing. I'm also, for the first time, aware of only the lead character's thoughts. It's an interesting viewpoint. I can give myself, and hopefully the reader, a few surprises along the way. I just can't get any further with Spawn Of Kongomato despite knowing exactly how it's  going to end. It's just the third quarter of the novel which is giving me problems.

   So apart from the horse suffering from laminitis - again; the cat being a miserable git from it's recent poisoning, and my daughter being, well just like the exquisitely mild mannered person every seventeen year old girl is, my life is a bed of roses. Albeit a cold wet and smelly one.

   There; got that off my chest. Now it's back to the book. Mayhem followed by misery and death. just the kind of thing to perk me up.

Imagine this. Except sixteen years old with quite a lot of rust, and just as many dents and really knackered. This is my bike - sort of. If I took a photo of my other bike it would probably crack the lens.