Oh, right. That's how I do it. I remember now.

[desperance]

I wrote near enough three thousand words yesterday, in the end. And how did I achieve this, you ask? By being in the Lit & Phil, as I told it you: morning, afternoon and evening. Focused and time-limited. (Oh, and then a final page in the pub while I waited for the first-Monday gang to join me: but that was a lagniappe, no more.) I probably need to do more of that, if I'm going to bring this book in by the end of the week. Like today, f'rexample. Here I am, and in an hour I have to go up to the university for a final tutorial; but when that's done, y'know. I could come back here.

But oh, I do like going home. Cats and wine and comforts. E-mails to check, the possibility of advancement. That sort of thing. I am not strong to resist my home's allure. Maybe I need more reasons to have to be in town, with inconvenient slots of time between appointments. It would be silly, wouldn't it, deliberately to make arrangements in order to have the gaps between...?