The drive belt on the washing machine broke on Saturday lunchtime, just after the shops shut for the weekend. This left me with a load of washing to rinse by hand, which was rather a pain.
Yesterday was nice.
The clocks went back on Saturday night, but I just slept later and missed an hour of day rather than an hour of sleep.
After a solid month of writing only non-fiction, I decided to treat myself. I absolutely didn’t have time, but I wrote some fluff about a secret agent doing James Bond-type stuff, only he’s a hamster. Deathless art it ain’t, but it was fun to write. And I felt much better afterwards: something like having your first shower for three days. I need fiction to stay sane.
Or what approximately passes for sane.
But this morning the hour change really hit me. Lucky me, I could go back to bed. And now I’m catching up on little jobs, plus one not-so-little one. I really must write the promised review of “Interspex”.