All alone
The Horse Doctor is away overnight, in Cleethorpes of all places. She had to go down to London for a meeting this morning, and has another in Lincolnshire tomorrow, a tiny little place called Saltfleet, that's about as far away from here as it's possible to get without walking on water. It was an early start to get her to the station for seven this morning, and it will be late tomorrow before she rolls back into town. Two meetings, perhaps four hours in total of work time and she'll travel for the best part of two days to cover them. What a wonderful job.
Meanwhile I have to fend for myself, which means I can eat whatever I like. Well, what it really means is I can have the pick of whatever's in the freezer, so it's bangers and mash time. Which isn't a problem; I like bangers and mash. Our local butcher in Tregaron makes the best Cumberland Sausage I've come across so far, and there's plenty of dead rat to boil up with the potatoes to make a really good mash.*
In theory this short spell of forced solitude should be a good time to get some writing done. I've got half an SF shorty sitting there waiting for me to engage brain and finish it off. But I've been sat at this desk, staring at this computer, all day already. And suddenly I begin to see the root of my latest writing slump - I'm tired of the keys, frazzled by the 15.4" TFT screen, numbed by the lack of padding in my seat.**
It's a tricky problem. I need to sit here and type in plant names (or bang my head against code, or wonder why it was I decided to design a database that particular way) in order to earn money. But there's also a finite amount of time I can spend here each day without going a bit bicycle clip. Today, as I settled myself down to start work it was around eight in the morning. It's now half past seven in the evening. I reckon I've been here for the best part of ten hours if you allow a short break for lunch and a cold, wet and windy dogstroll.
Now a ten hour working day is not normal for me, but eight isn't unusual. And it's all spent here in my little den. Here where I write.*** It's a nice room, but damn, I'm tired of it. Perhaps if I went away to an office to do the paying work stuff, coming back here to write wouldn't be such a brain-killer. But that's the problem: I don't come back, I just put the database to one side, click open word and start typing.
Perhaps I should move to the Horse Doctor's desk for the paying work, swivelling through ninety degrees and shuffling on my seat across the carpet to my desk when I want to be creative. It's still the same room, though.
Or I could try and be a bit more disciplined in my approach; have paying work days and writing work days. And ne'er the twain shall meet. What do you reckon?
And now I shall give it all up as a bad lot. There's sausages to be cooked, rat-mash to be boiled and Serenity on the DVD. Time, I think, for a break.
* only I mustn't use it all, I've got to take some to Harrogate to give to Sandra as her prize.
** the seat that has castors on the ends of its legs and can be wheeled under the desk. My seat has rather too much padding for my liking.
*** at least that's the theory.
Meanwhile I have to fend for myself, which means I can eat whatever I like. Well, what it really means is I can have the pick of whatever's in the freezer, so it's bangers and mash time. Which isn't a problem; I like bangers and mash. Our local butcher in Tregaron makes the best Cumberland Sausage I've come across so far, and there's plenty of dead rat to boil up with the potatoes to make a really good mash.*
In theory this short spell of forced solitude should be a good time to get some writing done. I've got half an SF shorty sitting there waiting for me to engage brain and finish it off. But I've been sat at this desk, staring at this computer, all day already. And suddenly I begin to see the root of my latest writing slump - I'm tired of the keys, frazzled by the 15.4" TFT screen, numbed by the lack of padding in my seat.**
It's a tricky problem. I need to sit here and type in plant names (or bang my head against code, or wonder why it was I decided to design a database that particular way) in order to earn money. But there's also a finite amount of time I can spend here each day without going a bit bicycle clip. Today, as I settled myself down to start work it was around eight in the morning. It's now half past seven in the evening. I reckon I've been here for the best part of ten hours if you allow a short break for lunch and a cold, wet and windy dogstroll.
Now a ten hour working day is not normal for me, but eight isn't unusual. And it's all spent here in my little den. Here where I write.*** It's a nice room, but damn, I'm tired of it. Perhaps if I went away to an office to do the paying work stuff, coming back here to write wouldn't be such a brain-killer. But that's the problem: I don't come back, I just put the database to one side, click open word and start typing.
Perhaps I should move to the Horse Doctor's desk for the paying work, swivelling through ninety degrees and shuffling on my seat across the carpet to my desk when I want to be creative. It's still the same room, though.
Or I could try and be a bit more disciplined in my approach; have paying work days and writing work days. And ne'er the twain shall meet. What do you reckon?
And now I shall give it all up as a bad lot. There's sausages to be cooked, rat-mash to be boiled and Serenity on the DVD. Time, I think, for a break.
* only I mustn't use it all, I've got to take some to Harrogate to give to Sandra as her prize.
** the seat that has castors on the ends of its legs and can be wheeled under the desk. My seat has rather too much padding for my liking.
*** at least that's the theory.
Comments
You guys have weird food tastes.
And I'd go for the different desks, or even nip across the road to the office. Nothing worse than being stuck in the same place for both kinds of work. It drains the life out of a place.
Unless, of course, you're prepared for a war...
As for war, well, we'll just have to see.