As I plumbed in the new washing machine this morning it struck me that this is not what I signed up for as a writer. I should be in some French Gite downing wine, smoking a cigar and thinking of the next novel while I am waiting for the baguette to be delivered. Instead I'm up to my knees in old drain water and doing battle with a hose.
Doing practical stuff does give you time to muse though. I found myself entering alternative worlds in my imagination just so that I could escape this one. It's not a bad strategy, used I think by the majority of 11 year olds in maths lessons. I'm thinking of doing something similar next time I'm stuck for an idea...
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