I am here; where ought I to be?

Gotta love irony. Yesterday I wanted to work, I intended to work, and I just couldn't make it happen; I did desultory shopping and cleaning and menu-planning (no lamb shanks, she doesn't like "great suppurating hunks of meat" - so I'll make an avgolemono with lamb stock, and then expand the risotto & smoked black halibut into a main course. With a grilled round of goats' cheese, I think, and perhaps a prawn or two. Still haven't decided about dessert).

So today, where I can't work and really need to cook and clean and shop and hoover - well, what do you think I want to do? I've been nipping up to write the odd line here and the odd line there, but it's insanely frustrating. Right now I have to go down and skim my lamb stock, but I really really want to get on with the play. It is an evil, this thing I have, that makes me always ache to do those things that I ought not to do, and to leave undone those things that I ought to be doing.