Not so Groovy
Decided to reward myself with a day off yesterday. Well, it's not every day you get to finish a book (unless you're PBW). So I chilled out on the beach with a couple of cold ones, a barbecue and some bikini babes... Did I heckers like: I spent most of the bloody day forking bloody great weeds out of the bloody tattie patch. Bloody dockens the size of bloody trees. Bloody, forking weeds! So although I spent all day digging my tattie patch, it was not in a 1970's flared-jeans, sideburns kind of way. Not groovy at all.
But in-between the nettle-stung fingers, grit down the back of the neck, worms in the socks and building up a dose of righteous backache, I did have some rumination time for that short story I have to hand in next week. I've come up with a lovely clean way to kill someone too. Nice and sanitary, if a bit... 'screamy'. So I have title, opening line and an ending now. And not bloody clue what happens in the middle.
But today I get to shovel mounds of mouldy old horse shit (God, do I live a hedonistic, rock-and-roll lifestyle, or what?) hefting it from where the Boy Rat is stabled to the back garden, so I can make the rear of my house smell like a horse toilet. Hurrah! She Who Must insists that horse dung is natural and, as they don't eat meat, doesn't smell bad. I maintain that it doesn't matter if horses are vegetarian or not: if it's come out of something's backside, it's still jobbies.
So that's my weekend. Fun eh?
Back to the writing on Monday, I think. It's less smelly.