Yup, no writing for me yesterday: far too knackered. I suppose I could claim post-performance fatigue, but seeing as I just ponced about for an hour wearing a suit, it seems a bit unlikely. She Who Must Be Consulted About Such Matters thinks it's a lack of holiday that does it. Which I'm guessing is a thinly-veiled hint that she wants taken away somewhere.
This is, of course, fuelled by jealousy that I'm going to Lyon the week after next. I keep telling her it's work, not fun. Who wants to hang around a bar in the sunny south-ish of France with a bunch of dipsomaniac crime and thriller writers? Hell on earth, so it is ;}#
Trouble is that there's no way in God's saucy fridge-magnet that I'm going to be going anywhere before I turn Book Number The Fourth in to HarperCollins for their careful consideration / laughing derision. I suppose we could set up a 200Watt bulb in the little concrete outhouse* at the bottom of the garden and maybe wheech a bit of builders' sand about the place. You can recreate sunburn with the judicious application of an electric sander, or by rubbing in heaps and heaps of Ralgex. Then all you need is to consume four bottles of crappy wine, some chicken that's about three and a half months past its sell-by-date and you've got your package holiday experience right there.
It's a plan.
* So called because it is outside of the house, not because we go to the toilet out there. Well, maybe sometimes, but we're only human.