I knew I shoulda stayed in the library

Here I am with an immovable deadline, 7pm tomorrow night; here I am with a thousand words of story, needing several thousand more.

Here I am with a double armful of cat, Mac deciding that he needs a cuddle now, plzkthx. Le sigh.

But I did actually have to come home, as I need to wander over the park to the BBC at 4pm to be interviewed a second time about the Chalet School books. Last time I was in Stanford, with Karen and California sunshine waiting; this time I'm in Newcastle, with deadlines. Guess where I'd rather be? (But they had technical issues, apparently, with the recording, so I need to repeat myself. My cynical soul says that "technical issues" prob'ly means I stammered and stuttered and was incoherent, and they want to try one more time to see if I can actually make sense, only they're too nice quite to say so.)

No

The poet'n'novelist D M Thomas once translated a poem (the original author of which I have forgot, to my shame; I have it somewhere) that began "Just and righteous God, I wish to protest."

It's a phrase that sticks with me, and bubbles up in variations when I'm particularly outraged. Or indeed particularly stubborn.

Hence, right now: Just and righteous cat, I wish to refuse.

Both boys are inclined to sit between keyboard and screen, on the assumption that they are much more interesting to look at than whatever silly thing it is I'm doing else. I cannot argue with this, and mostly I twist and stretch to peer around them, rather than shift their fat and furry carcases.

But I will not, I will not sit here and endure it while Mac washes his bottom right there, inches from my nose, while I'm trying to work.

*evicts cat*

Anyone out there remember the seventies?

Someone does; they recreated a '70s newsroom and forced their students to inhabit it.

Managing editor Mariam Aldhahi was stymied after typing her first line. “What do I do now?” she asked. “There’s no RETURN key.”
I pointed to the lever that would propel the carriage back to the left, while the gears inside would simultaneously ratchet the paper to the next line.
She tapped it lightly.
“No, this is a manual typewriter,” I told her. “You actually have to expend some calories.”
I slammed the lever to the right, and the carriage flew back to the left margin, stopping with a thud. A look of understanding, laced with horror, crossed her face.
“It’s going to be like this the entire time, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” I said. “It gets worse.”

Etc.