oh fer pity's sake...

... it's 11.45 pm and she is *singing* again.

To her ipod. The same whining phrase, over, and over, and over again.

I will need more gin to deal with this.

Tonight I am drinking...

A double shot of gin, over ice in a collins glass, a generous splash of
absinthe, topped up with indian tonic water.

Delish.

Does this have a name?
I don't believe for a second no one has done this before...

Frantically busy...

.... at work, rest and play.

I'm scrambling to finish my application to the Bird's Eye/Scriptfactory
'She Writes' programme - a year of professional development for eight
women film writers.

And I've just waved off guests, John and Corry, who were my very first
(practically my *only*) guests at the Stone Caravan, back in 2007. They
arrived in June in the midst of records rains and flooding. Oh. And
the birth of my second niece (my sister only reproduces during National
Emergencies. It's a hobby of hers...)

This time around I could offer them a better, toad-free, bedroom in
London. Corry is enjoying the fruits of a bursary to finish her novel
about the the regency underworld, and is spending it on practical
research (eating venison at Rules, founded 1797, hot pot at Simpsons,
founded 1757 and staying in Beckford's Tower at Bath).

I wish I could join them in the eccentric old bugger's tower - but I
have the afore mentioned application to finish by Thursday.

Hey ho.

Fear of finishing

I recently finished a short story which had been gathering dust on my
hard drive for almost 3 years.

I had put it aside as unproductive when there are so many other projects
which need work, but someone remembered it and asked if it was abandoned
or not, and suddenly I couldn't bear not to have finished it.

The few days of peace between Christmas and New Year helped, as did the
calm that settled with the snow, and it was done, at about 2am on
December 31st.

By then the fire had died past embers, and it was a cold trip to bed,
clutching a hot water bottle and a copy of "Dead Souls". It took a
while I get to sleep, and I was suddenly aware of a nagging grief that
the story was done, and that particular nest was empty.

I've never noticed this before, but wonder if it hasn't been trundling
along all this time. Perhaps I feel happier with a warm hard drive full
of "works in progress" which may or may not be of any value?

I must finish some more, and find out.

Back in the city just in time to catch more snow

I can't help imagining all the gallons of melt water which will soon be
tumbling off the fell and straight through my porch.