I'm reaching the point in this four day weekend when 'lovely, cosy, peaceful' shades into 'demented, eye-popping cabin fever'. Even the pumpkins have gone feral.
Also, there is no nagging left in the world because it has all come out of my mouth today (to little avail). Achievements today were minimal: no one wanted to see Interstellar (fine by me) so we had steak and chips and played a shamefully bad game of Scrabble (I lost) and I experimented with a new cookie recipe (dear Felicity Cloake, no one plans to make cookies SEVENTY TWO HOURS in advance. At the very best, they make double dough and leave half of it, but even that is frankly improbable). There was also some light squabbling and a surfeit of telly.
This cheesecake eclair was good though and I am enjoying current book (this) and the sun was beautiful, low in the sky and soft and nothing like November.
Speaking of books, tomorrow I can procrastinate no longer and must get back to writing mine after a financially necessary hiatus. This prospect is making me sweat lightly and queasily. Whenever I leave it for a while and come back, I must spend three days in bleak despair and embarrassment contemplating my own shortcomings, so that is the plan for the rest of the week, interspersed with some light corporate editing tasks.
The bleak despair looks like this, usually:
.. but with less taupe matchiness and instead of being in a cosy faux-sheepskin bed, I am curled up in the hole under my desk trying to work out if I can convincingly edit five years out of my life.
I am going to London for this cheery event tomorrow, thankfully, leaving a trail of logistical chaos behind me. The last time I created a similar logistical rat's nest, I compounded it all by leaving my phone in a taxi. I will try my very hardest not to do that this time.
I am mainly, I find, waiting for the next episode of Serial. What other podcasts should I listen to in the meantime to keep my impatience to a low simmer?