I have taken a holiday, ostensibly to commence my masterwork. This involves a lot of egg poaching (in both senses of the word), impromptu Formby recitals, housework shirking, Mast-Watch, the contemplation of boggarts, Absolute 80s Radio, standing at the upstairs window in my werewolf mask, cups of tea, drunk sewing, sausage-fancying and staring open-gobbed at the wall, but these are as all much writing as anything else.
Writing is like a poached egg. Liquid into liquid, flailing hentai tentacles, the impossibility of coalescence. And then. And then it's this, a tiny morsel on hot buttered toast. Perhaps I am not cut out to be a lady novelist. Perhaps I will just perch here like an addled old owl and hack up little pellets of spine and fur.
I can't think of any ways in which writing is like George Formby.