Most of the time I love writing, but some days, like today, turn out like this:
10:00 Get up. Make coffee. See the laptop glinting in the morning light. Suddenly have a mysterious urge to clean the fridge. End up cleaning the entire flat surrounding the fridge too.
13:30 Square up to ancient laptop. Turn it on. It is making a malevolent buzzing noise. It is probably thinking about crashing and then blowing up, for something to do.
14:00 Realise I haven't eaten anything yet. Inhale three shortbread biscuits, followed by more coffee.
17:00 Am forced to acknowledge that instead of writing my game I have wasted hours looking up murder-mystery weekends and Orient Express trips, neither of which I can afford. Feel bad about not having left the flat or achieved anything; get up and walk around, flapping arms, as though this is a substitute for either of these.
17:20 Actually start doing some work.
17:25 Am suddenly hungry. Get up and make 'salad' of cucumber, tinned chickpeas, cheddar, lemon juice and black pepper, messing up newly-cleaned kitchen in the process. It is verging on unpleasant, but I eat it anyway.
17:40 Hate Zoho. Shout at it for being a rubbish program. Think about drinking something other than coffee, but don't. Wish I was a smoker so the anguished writer scene would at least be picturesque.
18:00 Realise I am stuck. Cry. Consider turning to Poirot box-set for comfort but decide to soldier on.
18:20 Admit defeat, wondering what other, normal people have done with their Sunday.