Especially when it’s raining. I need to commute to the summerhouse (with an umbrella and my wellies) and set up shop for the day at the bottom of the garden. No phone. No e-mail. No evil interweb. And yet, I am sitting upstairs procrastinating (I hold an Olympic medal in the sport), and avoiding writing.
First thing Monday morning I decide how many words I ought write for the rest of the week. I spend the next 7 days failing and feeling guilty. Yet, strangely this is quite useful. Unrealistic goals help me fail upwards. I am at the stage with Fred where I oscillate between ‘this is great, I Love you Fred’, to ‘Oh My God this is terrible. I am going to be found out and they’re going to take me out to the river Stour and drown me’ (though they could just use the large puddle at the bottom of the garden). I think this is normal. It does make being in my head rather exhausting though. And, I believe that if you were to inquire from Mr S, it makes living with me also a little testing.
Fred is starting to invade my dreams now. It’s quite a strange sensation, having someone else’s dreams. But last night Elise was there. I’m going to take this as a good sign. Either that or I had a little much manchego in my risotto for supper.
Talking of supper: still no cooking mojo. More people round for dinner tonight and I have no idea of what to cook. Please send urgent inspiration. Skill level must be basic.