De-livered

I just removed 569 manuscript pages from my desk, and put them in a box. Kind of a random box, in the middle of the floor, but hey. It's a gesture. That draft is Done. (The new draft is 460 pages, number-fans.)

So what now? A serious man would fill this blank space on my desk with the next job of work, as a reminder. A practical man might take this opportunity to clear the rest of the desk (a realm of chaos, with now one A4-sized void in it). A frivolous man would go shopping. In the rain. And possibly feel the downright necessity of dropping into the pub after, even if he had to drink alone.

Guess...

Yikes

That's the trouble, see. I can do self-control for so long, so very long - but then eventually I let myself off the leash, and...

Well. Thing is, I'm a jacket-and-bag queen. Other people do shoes; I know that, I understand it, I just don't share it. Give me a pair of black Rockport boots - size 10, since you ask - and I'm happy. Jackets and bags, though, whole different ball game.

Last week, I broke the zip on my regular backpack, the one I use almost daily. No matter: the opportunity loomed, I knew the book was coming up to ending, I knew that I could shop. So this morning, I went into town to do the thing. To buy a bag.

It will be no surprise to anyone who knows me, that I came home with a jacket. Oh, and a bag.

For those who care, the jacket is Italian leather (and green! it's a colour! it's not black!) with a satin lining, and the bag is a Kipling backpack. Black.

I'm very happy, and I hate myself.

Further to my last

Hah! I'm not the only bag-queen in this house. Barry has stalked it; slaughtered it; and is now sleeping on it.