Shattered. Idiotic amount of words today: 2736. This is really too many. When you write that much, you know that a lot of it will be dead wood. But deadline fever is on me, and I must bash bash bash away. I find that I seem to have invented a WHOLE NEW CHARACTER. He appears now to be vital, but it means instead of coasting towards the happy close, I am now wrestling and wrangling with novelty. Bugger bugger bugger. I am having to say no to things I really want to do. This makes me sad and angry. It is all my own fault, for not being quicker, slicker, more industrious, more organised. I was so cross that I was scratchy with my animals, with breaks every single one of my golden rules. Even love and trees are not working today. I am in a red ball of rage. I know I always say, blithely, easily, that every day can’t be Doris Day, but really.
I expect the fury and the tension and the shoulders around my ears will have subsided by tomorrow. I’ll be all sugar and spice again. In the meantime, I am rats’s tails and iron filings and undifferentiated bits of murky muck. Bloody human condition; some days it drives me lunatic nuts in the head.
No pictures today. Far too cross for the camera. When even this face cannot do the trick, I know I am in deep waters:
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