What you get for sleeping late
Feb. 18th, 2011 11:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceIt wasn't my fault, honest. I went to bed and everything. Just, I didn't sleep. And I didn't sleep, and didn't sleep. For a while I was coughing, and I thought I might be sick; and then I was just ... well. Awake.
So of course I did doze off when I should've been waking up, and the boys' breakfast was late, which is Not A Good Start to the day.
And because I was late out of the house, therefore I was caught by a Random Passer-By, out walking his dog. Only of course he wasn't random really, because the human mind is not capable of true randomness; so "Excuse me, you're an author, aren't you? I know that, I've seen you in the paper. And I was wondering, I've been wanting to ask for ages, how many copies do you need to sell to be a bestseller? Because my brother, he's an author too, a bestselling author; and I've never had anything off him and he's a stingy bastard, and..."
Like that. For, um. Quite a while.
And now here I am at the Lit & Phil, and Someone is Tuning the Piano. Which is inherently a good thing in many ways (it's a very fine piano, and we have people who play it beautifully) - but the constant repetition of single notes sings through my head like an ice-cold stiletto through softened butter.
And if I'd been earlier, y'know. Perhaps I could've assassinated the piano tuner on the stairs, or something. No jury would convict; I have a novel to finish.
So of course I did doze off when I should've been waking up, and the boys' breakfast was late, which is Not A Good Start to the day.
And because I was late out of the house, therefore I was caught by a Random Passer-By, out walking his dog. Only of course he wasn't random really, because the human mind is not capable of true randomness; so "Excuse me, you're an author, aren't you? I know that, I've seen you in the paper. And I was wondering, I've been wanting to ask for ages, how many copies do you need to sell to be a bestseller? Because my brother, he's an author too, a bestselling author; and I've never had anything off him and he's a stingy bastard, and..."
Like that. For, um. Quite a while.
And now here I am at the Lit & Phil, and Someone is Tuning the Piano. Which is inherently a good thing in many ways (it's a very fine piano, and we have people who play it beautifully) - but the constant repetition of single notes sings through my head like an ice-cold stiletto through softened butter.
And if I'd been earlier, y'know. Perhaps I could've assassinated the piano tuner on the stairs, or something. No jury would convict; I have a novel to finish.