TMI

Tonstant Wwiter fwowed up.

Barry is of opinion that I make no sense: why would I drag my sorry self all the way to somewhere else in order to compile words about some silly turtle, when I could stay here and lie on the sofa and listen to the cricket and be sat upon by a perfectly wonderful cat?

But these damn stories will not write themselves, and there are two needed before Thursday. I shall venture the walk to the Lit & Phil, and see how far I get. But ooh, I do feel strange.

*drags sorry self away*

A question! [swimming on a full belly]

Is there any truth in the rumour that swimming after a full meal can cause stomach cramps or other undesirable symptoms? When I was a kid, this was so much believed that we weren't even allowed to take a bath too soon after eating. I can state categorically that this was an exaggerated anxiety - but does some actuality underlie it? And would people have known about it/been similarly anxious in the long-ago? (Say eighteenth-century, for a more-or-less touchstone.)

Urgh.

I have written, urgh, 2.5K, more or less. Still feel crap; still not finished.

If I quit now and finish this tomorrow, can I then write a ghost story from scratch in the two days I will have before I need to read it, Thursday evening? However I feel, however sick I am?

At least I won't need to be keeping one eye on the cricket. I suppose that's a plus, in the circumstances. *would rather be watching cricket*

I think it's hopeless, though, trying to go on with this tonight. I am a broken reed. (Is that a musical reference, does anyone know? And what noise does a broken reed make - squeaks, farts? Silence?) (Maybe it's a thatcher's reference instead.) (Waits to be enlightened.)

It's only nine o'clock, but I think I'm heading for bed.