T is back at school (albeit still part-time), the ironing pile has been dealt with at last, the house has at last had a thorough clean, I've sorted through the post and my other half is packing for a weekend away. So now, I have - what? - three or four hours to get back to what I love doing.
And you know what? I am a bit scared to even start.
Not because of all the usual fears that I wrote about the other day, but because my life has experienced such upheaval and uncertainty recently, I can't help wondering whether even more unexpectedness will jump out of the woodwork to immediately demand my attention and thwart my efforts to get the words down?
It must be something in my character - I used to get a similar feeling when the kids were babies. Remember the days when you had to do night feeds, with the first one around midnight? Not enough time to get some decent kip before you have to wake up again - so I didn't use to go to bed until after that first feed. I just didn't see the point. As a result, I ended up even more cream-crackered - entirely through my own fault.
When I finished working at school, I told myself that I would be more disciplined about writing; I have to learn to force myself to write. Whatever my fears about interruptions, I have to keep producing words or risk losing what I've already achieved. And I don't want to become a writer who says "Well, I could have..."
I want to be a writer who says "I did."
PS. I've a little less time now I've got that off my chest...but I am going to do some writing now!