It has been gathering, moving at an invisible velocity. I have been waiting to receive it keeping occupied with letters strung together in a kind of code. This alphabet lover.
I have the urge to delve into the large cupboard bordering the right side of the square table I use as a desk. I am wearing pyjama pants loose and long, a silk top and high heeled boots. I can not walk in them but they do not impede typing. There are too many things in this cupboard though they are neatly arranged. I have a row of white magazine holders on the top shelf, I have a bookshelf fitted nicely inside the cupboard, the magazine holders are full of I know not what except for the one full of empty, fresh and colourful manila folders. I have printed my manuscript and will now divide into parts, using scissors where necessary. I have no chapters and have become bogged down in the long breakless text. I must master this project. I will not be dictated to by a neat pile of typed pages. I am the director, the creator, the shaper of this manuscript and I must take it in a firm grasp.
I am home today. I spent most of the morning running ragged trips to the bathroom having inadvertently devoured cheese disguised as something else in my dinner last night. I felt too ill to telephone the office so I sent an email saying I would be late. I was expecting to improve rapidly as the poison left my system but I fell into a dozing stupor, exhausted by inner contractions, expulsions and crampings. I telephoned after ten o'clock to say I would not come in to the office at all. I did not speak to the boss, I suspect he will not be happy. The piles of work on my desk are literally piles but I will not dwell on that thought. It was impossible to leave the house. Impossible. Sometimes a lady requires close proximity to her home toilet.
And now to the cupboard, the folders, the desk, the manuscript. I will eek purpose from this day.
I have the urge to delve into the large cupboard bordering the right side of the square table I use as a desk. I am wearing pyjama pants loose and long, a silk top and high heeled boots. I can not walk in them but they do not impede typing. There are too many things in this cupboard though they are neatly arranged. I have a row of white magazine holders on the top shelf, I have a bookshelf fitted nicely inside the cupboard, the magazine holders are full of I know not what except for the one full of empty, fresh and colourful manila folders. I have printed my manuscript and will now divide into parts, using scissors where necessary. I have no chapters and have become bogged down in the long breakless text. I must master this project. I will not be dictated to by a neat pile of typed pages. I am the director, the creator, the shaper of this manuscript and I must take it in a firm grasp.
I am home today. I spent most of the morning running ragged trips to the bathroom having inadvertently devoured cheese disguised as something else in my dinner last night. I felt too ill to telephone the office so I sent an email saying I would be late. I was expecting to improve rapidly as the poison left my system but I fell into a dozing stupor, exhausted by inner contractions, expulsions and crampings. I telephoned after ten o'clock to say I would not come in to the office at all. I did not speak to the boss, I suspect he will not be happy. The piles of work on my desk are literally piles but I will not dwell on that thought. It was impossible to leave the house. Impossible. Sometimes a lady requires close proximity to her home toilet.
And now to the cupboard, the folders, the desk, the manuscript. I will eek purpose from this day.
Comments