Y?

So, here I am, finally finished work for a whole month, my cyst has burst and is almost completely better and the steamy summer sun has hidden itself behind an oversized grey blanket which occasionally wrings itself out and very helpfully waters the garden for me. Perfect conditions for settling down indoors to write a best seller. In theory, yes. In practice, no. I cannot, repeat cannot, settle at all. All I can think about is hitching my rucksack on to my back and donning my best walking trousers - the clever ones that transform into shorts at the hint of a sunny ray. Although I have to say that the first pair I ever owned were not so clever. I wore them more often as shorts and consequently the shorts bit faded whilst the legs retained their original dark beige. One evening on holiday having dressed for dinner (okay, zipped my legs on in the back of the hire car), I walked into the light of the restuarant only to have my husband point out that I was wearing two-tone trousers.

However, before I digress further, here I am, having been given the perfect opportunity to sit at my computer and form sizzling sentences, punchy paragraphs and dazzling dialogue, and what am I doing instead? I'm lounging on the sofa flicking through 'Property Ladder' magazine and wondering how Sarah Beeney gets her hair to stay stuck out at such unlikely angles from her head; I'm trying out all the different herbal teas I have stacked in my kitchen cupboard, such as ginger and lemongrass (needs honey to make it palatable), green tea (needs honey to make it palatable) and camomile (needs honey to make it palatable) and adding 'honey' to my shopping list; and I'm not only answering the phone when it rings, but entering enthusiastically into a conversation with someone from India on the merits of changing my mortgage, my insurance and maybe even my identity (actually I think that last one was a bit suspect).

What I am not doing is writing my book, which has to be sent to the RNA's New Writers' Scheme by the end of August. Which is weird - not the fact that it has to be sent to the NWS but the fact that I'm not writing it, because I love this book. Okay, I'm only on chapter 10 of the first draft, but every time I read through what I've written, I get an excited tickling between my ribs (which, okay, may be due to the fact that I forgot to pluck the pheasant that we had for last night's tea but mainly I think it's because I quite like what I've written) and I can't wait to write on, but then I get up from my chair, change into my walking trousers, load up my rucksack with herbal teabags and take a hike into my kitchen. There, I flick through 'Property Ladder' whilst waiting for the kettle to boil and answer the phone.

Y?