Chasing around today, getting my puncture fixed, second time in 4 weeks. Oh well.
Feeling rather off, breathless, unable to sleep, longing to move and I can't find a single house I'd want to move to. Getting book orders processed, creating an author page,and working on lots of book stuff.
Now if I was in an office and getting paid for this it would be work. But I'm not, I work from home, with random knocks at the door for double glazing or to take in other people's parcels as the post office has closed in the village.
Multitudenous phone calls about random investments and pensions.
Cats coming in/out - hungry/wet - angry/tired - needing cat biscuits or whenever I open the fridge to make some tea or coffee there's a little furry face pleading for something, anything,
probably meaty, to come out of the white box and magically float into their little mouths.
Rubbish in the post, funeral arrangements, leave my loved ones an investment, a will writing
Wouldn't get that in a proper office. God I miss work.
I miss lining up the camera cards and doing the run throughs.
I miss dragging pups, redheads and blondes into the studio to cable up the lighting.
I miss offering shots to the director and producer.
I even miss the machine room, but not that much.
I miss fetching the rich & famous from the green room
and taking them where they're supposed to go.
I miss making the end credit rollers.
I miss being creative and graphicy
I miss working all hours on loads of different things.
I really miss the money.
I miss the laughs and drinks at the BBC Club at the end of the day.
I miss who I used to be.
Just one of those days I suppose. In a strange sort of limbo waiting for things to happen,
after all the highs of the book being accepted, comes the what do I do now? Gruntwork.
is the answer. I am my own secretary, finance dept, admin, as well as everything else.
Mustn't crib about all this, it's all a bit Parson's egg, good in parts, the good bits are really
very good. I've always wanted to write. Somehow I thought it would be less lonely.
But all writers I've spoken to say the same.
Oh is that the laundry finished? I think I can hear the dishwasher doing it's last rinse.
Raining torrents now. I still have to go back and do the author page again.
C'est ma vie.