Yes, they still hurt.

My feet that is. Have been sitting with them in a bowl of hot salty water whilst writing up my cannibalism essay. Tedious day of domestics and driving kids around. Ho hum. Batteries let me down again whilst trying to listen to Jazz, but I guess it's precious time I should be spending talking with my off-spring, seeing as we pass the time together so infrequently these days. Mind you, talking with my 16 year old daughter always fraught. We invariably argue and fall out – and we did.

Attempted to be studious sat in my sodden fiesta again, but really not a conducive environment to be cerebral. Uncomfortable for starters. Rank smelling. And too car-like to make me feel like a proper writer. What I need is a desk. A place that I can own as my creative space. A room would be nice, but I'd settle for just a special writing area. Dream on.

Anyway, time to vacate the computer desk and let Eddie get to sleep. Take my pens and paper downstairs and try and come up with some witty, urbane responses to our bloc profile personal questions. Already stumped by the 'what's your favourite book' one – wouldn't have a clue.
Oh well.