Not being unfriendly
Well, not intentionally so. And notwithstanding Friday's post, which rumpled a few feathers and maybe caused a few sleepless nights. Sorry for that, ladies.
My posting frequency has dropped of late and the simple reason for this is that nothing much of any great consequence is happening to me right now. I've got very little paid work, which means all my spare time is devoted to writing. I could prattle on about how much more enjoyable writing an Inspector McLean novel is than the brain-battle that was Benfro Book Three, but word counts and fuzzy images of mind-maps scrawled on whiteboards get a bit dull after a while. I'm not Nanoing - which is not because I think it's a foolish endeavour (far from it), but more because I am both too disorganised to sign up for it, and too terrified of the consequences of failing to meet the required number of words. How embarrassing that would be.
Home life potters on, in its slow, comfortable, predictable way. It's that time of year when the tups get to do their one month of marathon shagging. We don't raddle our rams here, but some of the neighbouring farmers do, and it's always amusing to see the flocks of ewes, their back ends coloured red and blue and whatever other colour dye block was available for the harness this year. The ugly sheep are the ones with no markings; the tarts have colour on both ends. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, It's a farming thing.
When the most exciting thing to happen all week is the Saturday morning trip to the supermarket, it's hard to come up with new and interesting things to say. I've more or less given up watching the news on the television, as it's all just the same old stuff endlessly repeated. I can't even rouse myself into a rant about that, either.
Perhaps things will look up soon. We're going to Suffolk to visit my sister next weekend, and that's always good for a laugh. In the meantime, if you don't hear much from me, don't think I don't care. It's just that I'm enjoying walking the streets of an imaginary Edinburgh more than any real human interaction right now.
My posting frequency has dropped of late and the simple reason for this is that nothing much of any great consequence is happening to me right now. I've got very little paid work, which means all my spare time is devoted to writing. I could prattle on about how much more enjoyable writing an Inspector McLean novel is than the brain-battle that was Benfro Book Three, but word counts and fuzzy images of mind-maps scrawled on whiteboards get a bit dull after a while. I'm not Nanoing - which is not because I think it's a foolish endeavour (far from it), but more because I am both too disorganised to sign up for it, and too terrified of the consequences of failing to meet the required number of words. How embarrassing that would be.
Home life potters on, in its slow, comfortable, predictable way. It's that time of year when the tups get to do their one month of marathon shagging. We don't raddle our rams here, but some of the neighbouring farmers do, and it's always amusing to see the flocks of ewes, their back ends coloured red and blue and whatever other colour dye block was available for the harness this year. The ugly sheep are the ones with no markings; the tarts have colour on both ends. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, It's a farming thing.
When the most exciting thing to happen all week is the Saturday morning trip to the supermarket, it's hard to come up with new and interesting things to say. I've more or less given up watching the news on the television, as it's all just the same old stuff endlessly repeated. I can't even rouse myself into a rant about that, either.
Perhaps things will look up soon. We're going to Suffolk to visit my sister next weekend, and that's always good for a laugh. In the meantime, if you don't hear much from me, don't think I don't care. It's just that I'm enjoying walking the streets of an imaginary Edinburgh more than any real human interaction right now.
Comments
I might even try it myself.
Stop laughing.