In which I have Too Much Fun

So I have to deliver Pandaemonium at the end of Jan, and that's less than two months now, and I've only written the first 9K, and Karen's coming over Xmas/New Year, and I really should be putting myself into purdah and doing nothing else but book.

Except that I have to finish this short story first, and it's already too long and nowhere near finished; and, oh, I need to write another Phantoms story before 6th Jan ("Phantoms at the Phil"! Twelfth Night! Be there!); so yup. Double, triple purdah needed.

So yesterday I spent the morning baking bread and a persimmon cake; and in the afternoon Mark and Helen collected me and we went to the coast and drank margaritas and wine and ate beef and persimmon cake and no, I did no work at all.

And I stayed overnight on account of extreme drunkenness, and didn't get home until late this morning, and fed the cats and so forth and then virtuously headed for the Lit & Phil, but I had barely switched on the computer before Harry phoned. So I barely had half an hour to get some work done before he came to collect me, and we went to the pub for lunch and then shopping after, and - well, I'm home now, and I should be able to get a little more work done at least before I go out for Sean O'Brien's first in a series (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday) of lectures on poetry. But - yeah. 'Tis the season to be jolly, oh noes. It's hard on us freelance people. Obligatory pleasure: it does get in the way.

One of those really annoying I've-got-a-secret posts

Further to having too much fun: Harry gave me the Best Present Ever. Early for Xmas, but do you hear me complaining? You do not. And I can't tell you what it is, because other people are in line for the same thing; but still. Best. Ever.

(Also, this sourdough I made yesterday? May be my best loaf ever. I'm really, really pleased with it. To the point of eating bread when I really, really don't need to.)