I managed to get diddly squat done on Ephialtes and his secret passage, (ooer!).
There was simply too much action at Casa Jones this weekend.
My daughter hurt her foot, I picked up the Chrimbo Triffid, late shift at the Steelworks, shopping with the woman, the tension of Liverpool only drawing at home to Hull and the general hubbub, (great word) of family life at the weekend.
Well there's the excuses, take yer pick.
What's really a bummer is that we might have to go on short time at work.
Less hours, less money, less happiness, more misery, pollution, famine, pestilence and then finally apocalypse.
If I don't sell the book I might lose the house... or even worse, my wife might have to go to work full time and I'll be left with the kids all day... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH !!!
Stoopid banks, messing up my free time. I didn't have kids to be a father! (When in doubt, get the Homerisms out say I.)
Strangley though, despite the Damoclean sword of short time and extended babysitting swaying in the wind above my head, I'm in a very good mood.
I know, it's only ten to one, shall we write something?
PS. No, I'm not drunk. However, I do believe I'm mutating into one of those manic depressive types. I'll be crying into my keyboards in ten minutes, you wait.