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The trouble with Days Off is that I do find it so hard to engage with the concept of Days On again. Yesterday I did a little rewriting, nothing much; today I have gone through an editor's lengthy and detailed notes on a story (more notes than I got for my last novel, indeed my last several novels: and these on a story that has fewer than 3000 words in it) and pretty much said no to them all. Or at least "No, you're misunderstanding, you're reading this all wrong..."

That doesn't feel like a day's work, but I dunno what next to do. Or rather, I do know, and it's the taxes: for which I feel bizarrely little enthusiasm, and oh, the siren call of Buffy DVDs and a bottle of wine, the last of the olives, perhaps a wee snackette before I address the serious matter of dinner...

This is not as weird as it sounds

If my front was at my back, it would be a better thing.

There. Ambiguity and obfuscation (and those of you going "ewww!" have diseased minds, obviously; this was a test to draw you out, and you have failed).

No, but seriously? The workie-people have ripped up all my concrete at the front - which took them half an hour with rubber-headed sledges, as against the all-day that it took them for my neighbour's frontage, with their jackhammers and all. And underneath that thin skim of my concrete was and is lots of lovely soil.

Whereas? Out in my back yard, where I was hoping to rip out the concrete and plant plants, the damn stuff is inches thick and rock-solid and needs a jackhammer to break through it, and there is I don't know how much depth of hardcore rubble underneath. Le sigh.