Today I are been mostly wandering about the house, listening to the cat complaining about the weather (as if it's my sodding fault it hasn't stopped raining for three weeks), eating leftovers and trying to find something worth watching on the television. Hahahahah! When the hell was there last something worth watching on the telly?
Take last night for example: I remember a time when weekend television was... Actually, it's always been pretty dire, but in the good old days -- when you had to power your TV with shovels full of coal and everyone was a funny grey-green colour -- at least there was usually something worth watching Monday to Friday. Well, maybe not 'usually'. Sometimes. Not often, but, you know: occasionally. Last night we decided to pull up a sofa and plonk ourselves down in front of 28 Days Later. Which I had reasonably high hopes of.
Now you see: that's where I went wrong, got my hopes up, didn't I? For all it's attempts at gritty realism I found it to be a very, very silly film. As depictions of a post-apocalyptic Britain go, it's about as realistic as Michael Jackson's nose. Only not as scary. I suppose it could have been a lot worse, but it could have been a lot better as well.
"But," I hear you say, with your mouths full of soggy gingersnaps, "why are you sodding about with the telly? Shouldn't you be off editing something?"
Yes, yes I should. But I'm not.
I should be: editing my way through Book Number The Fourth (which is back to being untitled again, after a brief period of nameitude), my ninja red pen flashing like a shining blade, leaving word-style carnage behind it.
I'd rather be: editing the novella, not just because I finished it after Book Number The Fourth and is therefore fresher in my squidgy brain, but because it's a lot shorter and could be done and dusted with much quickness, leaving me free to get into BNTF with reckless abandon and the aforementioned ninja pen feeling that I've actually achieved something.
I want to be: on holiday somewhere. Somewhere sunny, or rainy, or cloudy... I actually don't care, just as long as it's a holiday and I get to sit on my backside and maybe do some proper sleeping for a change instead. I am sodding knackered.
I actually am: frittering the day away, feeling guilty about not editing, but not really wanting to actually do anything. Preferring instead to ponder on the need for new legislation to make people register their sporrans.
Maybe I'll go have a bath and a snooze instead.
Labels: ramble, Whinge, writing