It is now nearing the end of February. I have just had my 47th birthday and I’m now counting down the years until I reach my 50th! Where did all the time go, I’m sure it was only yesterday I was 40, and my 30th was the day before and I well remember that 18th birthday as though it was only last week (I did get rather drunk and my ‘friends’ very kindly helped in my inebriation by spiking my drinks – at one point I was so pickled I lay down on the bench seat in the pub and was covered with coats; it’s the only time I’ve ever had to be told what happened when I’d been drinking – I’m usually a half a lager type of person with the odd nip of rum at Christmas!)
Anyway I am trying to get back to writing, or to be more precise reviewing and editing my current novel. I try and get all my other chores out of the way (work, cooking, cleaning, sleeping, tv etc) and each week I promise myself, under pain of more cleaning, that I’ll set aside a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. And if the truth be told, which it sometimes is, I have managed a couple of hours. But I don’t feel it’s good enough, I feel like there’s a block, something stopping me emersing myself in my own little world. Of course it doesn’t help when war breaks out on the living room floor as my three sons squabble and bicker, or that the phone always seems to ring just at the moment I’ve rested my fingers on the laptop keys.
I’ll get there I always do eventually and I know I can be prolific but it’s hard when the regular side of life is there! I wouldn’t want to be alone, I love my family so I’ll just have to fit things in when I can and hope I’m not bemoaning the same problems next week when I reach 100!