The clock reads 1.09 yet here I sit, wide awake, hot wheat bag draped around my neck in a feeble attempt to relax muscles made tight by, well, no doubt a serious and days-long now lack of sleep. It's been a doozy of a run up to this full moon (only 4 hours to go, a-bloody-men) and that, combined with worries about publication dates being set back because I have no time to chase and cajole, means that the relentless way that customer service eats into one's private thinking during that other mad run-up (by which I mean xmas) is stifling all my creativity. I feel truly - deeply - weary.
I was reminded today, no, yesterday (1.31 now) of the things that used to upset me about my old werking life, of personality traits that grate and clash. I vow to simply float along above things today. Peter helpfully reminded me (though at the time of offering it annoyed the hell outta me) that it's not my life, not anymore. Deep breaths will help. A lot.
We watched Nigella Lawson on the telly last night. Do you know, I think I've worked out that her newly-slurred speaking voice may have something to do with all the cosmetic surgery. Well, it's a theory we enjoyed giggling about at the time. You do have to larf about a woman who looks down the barrel of a camera and, while massaging crumbled panetone into sausage meat, says, "When I feel food, it makes me hungry". Almost as silly as her other classic, "Tumble the potatoes joyfully into the pan".
Almost there. Only a week to go, people. We can do this, right?