Do what you should do

Hmmph. Things have come to a pretty pass - a pretty pass, I say! - when a man must leave his work no more than just-done, the minimum achieved, in order to come home and work on something else. When was I wont to be so industrious...?

But the thing is, memory: it's a brute. This week, I have remembered (just too late) that I was supposed to contribute to a questionnaire about writing SF & fantasy; and (just in time) (possibly) that I was supposed to deliver a vampire story for consideration. I have completed the questionnaire, and sneaked in by raising the wire; these last two days I have written my required quota of novel at the library and then come home to tackle the prospect of a new story. With, um, added wine. I am drinking foolishly too much, but, y'know. If it buys me a story, it must be worth it, right? Three days to go, and I think tomorrow I must forgo the novel, if I'm to get this story done. Nothing's actually happened yet, damn it, tho' the introductory persiflage is adorable...

Duin it Rong

Chaz'z greatest mistakes:

It occurs to me that I have been mismanaging the whole food issue all this time. I cook - or sometimes buy - comfort foods, yes indeed; but I do not do comfort eating.

I make the world's finest chilli, and only eat one ladleful atop a small bowl of rice; I open a packet of McVitie's plain chocolate digestives and only eat one biscuit, putting the rest back in the fridge in an airtight tin.

And thereby, I remain uncomforted.

What is wrong with me, people?