I’m feeling quite pleased, because I wrote just under 10 000 words today. Granted those are unedited words, but still, I think that’s a pretty good effort all round. It is difficult though, this diary clearing thing that I have to do to get these words written. It’s just *such* a busy time of year and also, frankly, there’s some fun stuff going on which it pains me to turn down.
Not that I would include this evening’s quick zip to Ikea at Brent Park in ‘fun stuff’ but, if you time it right, it is perfectly possible to get there from Camden and back again in exactly an hour. It helps that I have been going to that branch for donkeys, have no need or room for STUFF, and have developed excellent tunnel vision, so do not have to eschew the fifteen items and under till because I have filled my trolley with various plants, candles, cushions, and oddly shaped vessels.
So I am now the proud possessor of eight new shiny white magazine files, which I have already attacked with my labelling machine. (Utter, utter joy: I LOVE labelling things.) I was just comprehensively fed up with never knowing where salient pieces of paper were hiding, and thus missing deadlines/omitting key facts in stories/failing to fill in forms etc etc etc.
And am also feeling chastened by the realisation that in just over two hours I had not only gone and bought the means to organisation, but had also dealt with five wobbling piles of paper in my office. I should have done it ages ago: it was a salutatory lesson on the path to realising that the things you put off often end up taking the least time to complete.
Still, the Ikea mission meant that I could swing by lil’sis’ place in Kentish Town on the way home and dog nap Posetta Baddog from under her nose. We are now happily ensconced in my bed, me writing, P Bad snoring fit to beat the band. I am quite impressed at how she has managed to sausage herself into her Cath Kidston bed.