I have been writing since 9 a.m. trying to finish an academic article for a deadline. As I sit and read what I have written, I become ever more critical and have to re-write and re-write.
The neighbour next door is shouting at his wife, using a lot of swear words. When I meet him in the street, he is charm itself. What a horrible man; the worst thing is the silence when he has finished. I think he broke something and now he is blaming his wife.
The kettle has just boiled and I am going to have coffee. I'm sort of on a roll, although the ideas are good but the names aren't.
What was the name of that band that did the song the I can't remember the name of?
There are different levels of thought and sometimes a good dose of hoovering sorts it all out; but Offsprog Two is still asleep. She had her phone stolen last night (again) which meant that for both of us the night's sleep was disturbed considerably. That means the hoover has to remain silent; I remember years ago being woken by aggressive hoovering against my bedroom door early on Sunday mornings in Brighton when I was rising at 5.30 on weekdays to get to my job as a printer in a neighbouring town.
Bash, bash, bash against my bedroom door, r-o-a-rrrr, swoosh r-o-a-rrrrrrr!
I resolved never to do that to anyone in my lifetime.
I didn't mind doing all this writing when it was raining and before the Olympics started, but the sun is a luscious distraction and the excitement of the Olympics could penetrate even the thickest of sport-hating hides. But there is also something addictive about it, and I am set to write a documentary treatment when I've finished this.
At lunchtime, I'll take a lunch break and go out into the sunshine with my pale British legs to introduce them to that stranger, sunshine.