Stephen King, in "On Writing", says somewhere that he supposes every writer in the world, multimillionare or no-hoper, has at some time thought "If only it wasn't for this (fill in your own annoyance here), then I just KNOW I could be writing something wonderful RIGHT NOW!!"
My evening writing slot has been eroded, this evening, by the washing machine, the new washing machine, which has stopped draining and produced its "my filter's blocked" LED complaint. But its filter isn't blocked. So, after emptying the bloody thing twice, I'm no further on, and need to phone for someone to come out tomorrow. At least, the phone call will be tomorrow. I doubt the visit will be. Tomorrow is my father's 81st birthday, anyway, so I'm not staying in just for the washing machine (and I have to go to work, too).
And both my mother AND John's mother have/will have had colonoscopies this week : ( More or less routine, in both cases, but worrying all the same.
And I've been waiting to hear about one particular vet job for 10 months, and have just been offered a job by that firm, but not the job I wanted. And John has just received a Nasty Piece of Paper from the Inland Revenue (I suppose there's no such thing as a nice piece of paper from the Inland Revenue, though).
So, life's got in the way again. I'm going to go to bed and try again tomorrow.
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