I used to write this post every Sunday. Well, no, not this post, because that would involve me repeating myself, which, according to my kids I do anyway, so... but a post very like it.
However, lately I have wavered, and sometimes I post on a Sunday, sometimes on a Monday and sometimes, dear reader, like today, I post on a Tuesday. You see, I used to have a job which was a sensible one, school terms only, mornings only, five days a week, which gave me Saturday and Sunday to lollygag about the place, holding a hand to my forehead and moaning about how haaaaarrrd writing was, and doing blog posts about random subjects like my spare cats (I've only got three real cats. The other two are accidental acquisitions and therefore don't count as real cats, even though they eat as much as real ones).
But now...now I work for the Co Op. This involves working any number of hours between 16 and 40 in a week, any time between 6.30 am and 10.15pm, any days of the week between Monday and Pluhday (Pluhday is the little known day which comes after any five day stretch of working when you had been banking on a day off, had arranged your bed to be extra-comfy, asked for no visitors, turned off your phone, made an extra-large cup of tea and picked up your most diverting book only to receive a message asking you to come in and work).
I actually enjoy the chaos of having random hours off during the week. Today, for example, I am at work at three o clock this afternoon - giving me all morning to do stuff like ramble on at you, walk the dogs, stare at the unpainted walls of the dining room and vow never to do this decorating thing again. But, for all of you who harbour deep fantasies of all us authors lounging around on sofas, eating peeled grapes and chocolates whilst dictating our latest work to a lithe young man of undoubted attractiveness who, for some inexplicable reason, can't keep his eyes off our honed forms.... well.
Now go. I have a wall to stare at until 3 o clock.
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