Diski is a demanding puppy; she seems to resent me working. I’m powerless against her charms and go outside with a tennis ball to make her tired enough to take a nap.
My manuscript sits beside me in silent reproach. One more cup of coffee, just one, I promise it.
The gardener guns his weed eater, setting my nerves on edge. I put on shoes fit for public eyes and go off to the Post Office, where I mail a book about Arizona to a man who lives in Arizona.
Back at my desk, I am confronted with a tangle of superfluous conjunctions and make a phonecall to delay dealing with them. When I end the call I realise that I am hungry and I eat a meat pie with a glass of one of the finest wines this country can offer. Junk food cuisine, I laugh at the ironic food/wine pairing.
The manuscript is now sending out sonar squeals of admonishment. I fling a scarf over it, go to refill my glass and come back to my study to check my email and fret for a while over the plight of an orphaned Chacma baboon baby.
I’ve slid the judgemental manuscript under my desk. A sms message appears on my cell phone screen:
Dad forgot his clothes and now he stinks wat am i gonna do and to top that he didnt bring a towel to bath
And so I go to my own bathroom, with another glass of wine and a book … not the manuscript, but something sinfully indulgent.
Tomorrow is another day. To paraphrase Scarlett, I’ll deal with grown-up things then.