Why doesn’t the world out there realize that we, writers of potential WOB, need a calm environment; time to ourselves whilst we contemplate our next chapter, no disturbances to upset the balance of our busy imaginations, and ultimately, no stress?

Following a very long half-term, my week began yesterday with sending my little tikes off to school with an encouraging wave. “Look, listen and learn,” I said, as I always say when they start their day of learning.  And as I drove off, heading towards home and the promise of my beloved PC waiting for me to interact with it, (cyber intercourse, I call it), I watched my little darlings leave me, lugging their sandwich boxes and book bags behind them and I was, regretfully, without an ounce of guilt, elated to see them go.

I arrived home, flicked the switch on the already filled kettle (I’m not stupid!), put my slippers on, wrapped myself in a warm robe and plonked myself down at my desk. There’s my boy, I remarked to my screen and gave it just a little swipe with an old cloth to get the dust off.

Then, ‘You’ve got mail’.

I made one click and suddenly my day (my life) took a nose dive.

I sobbed as I mourned the loss of my window in time to continue writing my book and as my inbox began to load up with problematic emails, I sobbed some more.

Our house in France, which we’ve been unable to visit for a whole year, had sprung a leak. A tap had somehow exploded and flooded the house. The flood had caused the electricity to short and to top it all, it’s on the market and we have potential purchasers viewing it this morning.

Thus began my day of stress and nagging headaches and shouting matches with French helpers who watch our house for an extortionate fee.  

So…a message to my PC and newly dusted blank screen, awaiting my next chapter.

No intercourse today, I’ve got a headache.

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