Today, I am a physical wreck. The walk was wonderful, was very restoring, but now every square inch of my body hurts.

You see, I’ve been walking mountains since I could walk at all. My body remembers how much I USED to be able to do. But forgets that I am woefully unfit.

So I tend to go a *smidge* beyond a sensible level of exertion.

At least I was sensible and didn’t run the descent. Okay, so that sensible-ness was induced by a slight fall, and I wasn’t entirely sure my bashed knee was up to it*, but we’ll draw a veil over that part.

I’ll get myself together and post some pictures later today.

When my fingertips stop aching.

But, oh, I did enjoy myself!

*I am SUCH a drama queen…

Feeling a little blue, so tomorrow I’m going to walk from here, to here, here, here and finally here.

I’ll let you know how I get on.

I think I’m in love with my taxman.

At 8:50am this morning I hand delivered the file to the tax office. I went off and had a celebratory breakfast.

At 10:00am I returned to the office.

At 10:20am I received a call from my taxman pointing out a couple of small errors, telling me how much I owe, and what I’ll have to do next.

How fab is that???

The Ecstacy because I’ve finished assembling the documents and spreadsheet for the tax enquiry (oh frabjous day!). With that no longer hanging over me, I can get back to the actual writing part of writing.

As a part of the proof of expenses I’ve had to compile, I’ve also had to supply evidence of submissions. And we know what that means, ladies and gents.

Rejection letters.

This wouldn’t be a big problem if we were talking about form rejections. For once in my life I wish I had form rejections to show… But no. No, no, no. These are detailed rejection letters.

Yes folks, my lovely taxman, as well as deriving amusement from my abysmal attempts at maths, will be collapsing with mirth at the contents of my 2003-2004 rejections.

Oh, the shame. Oh, the Agony…

He will be wiping tears of laughter after reading such gems as:

“… felt that at this stage the plotting and characterisation are still too problematic.” Well, as long as the rest of the book’s okay. I mean, what’s a little plotting and characterisation between friends?

“… what exactly is the Agency? Is it good, or evil?” If the reader can’t tell if your villain is villainous or superfluous, you’re in deep doo-doo.

“There is a little too much implausible globe-trotting.” What? I can’t send them to Hawaii on honeymoon, either?

“The biggest problem is [the hero]“ Oops.

“… his character is too morally ambiguous…” Okay, you got me on that one. Guilty as charged. I LIKE him morally ambiguous…

“… the story is poorly organised…” Hey! That’s cool! So is my tax return!

“… one particularly heavy-handed scene…” Ouch. Just… ouch.

“… which doesn’t quite make sense anyway….” *whimper*

“… the love scenes are quite good, although a bit too chatty.” Hang on a sec, I need a moment to let the humiliation of that sentence really sink in.

… … …

… … …

*shudder*

There ya go.

Actually I think too chatty may actually be an understatement. In one scene there’s nothing but dialogue.

“…(especially the scene where he deflowers her).” Yeah, that’s the one. So sue me. I wrote a virgin heroine. There were mitigating circumstances, I swear.

“… and there is one (unintentionally, I presume) funny scene…” Nope. That was intentional. Pass me that razor, will you? You don’t mind if I bleed all over your desk?

“… but it needs some work first.” You don’t say.

“… if you would prefer to submit a different story…” Is anyone else getting the subtext, “because I’d rather gouge my eyes out with my stapler than read this again ?

It’s beauties like those that I’ve begged the taxman not to read too closely. He will of course. I’ll get them back with coffee stains on from where he’s passed them round the staff room, wheezing with laughter.

I hope YOU won’t hold these against me, either! I can only say to you what I have said to the taxman. “… I have definitely improved.”

Husband and I have an odd habit of verbal fencing, a kind of insulting banter that strangers find very worrying.

I constantly have to remind him that people don’t know you’re joking, dear… Once in the supermarket queue I was spitting at him, he was railing at me in mock outrage, and then we looked at the cashier. Who was white.

It took quite a while to persuade her that we weren’t about to commit violence on each other.

One of our common rejoinders in the kitchen is “I’m holding a knife, you know!”

Today’s offering was along the lines of:

“You’re in the way.”

“No, YOU’RE in the way.”

“No. You’re in the way.”

“I’m holding a knife!”

“Well I’m holding a tea towel!”

“My knife is sharper!”

“Yeah, well my tea towel’s damper!”

*both collapse into giggles*

I’m not sure I have anything profound to say about this – I just find it funny.

Oh, and my most treasured endearment comes from our frequent late-night exchange:

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now bugger off.”

Why do I never learn? I shouldn’t drink coffee.

But we have a guest, and it seems a good idea to put coffee on after dinner.

No Anna. Just… No.

I’m still hyper at midnight. Husband announces he’s turning his lamp off (mine’s not working at the moment) and I put down one of Suzanne’s books and lie there in the darkness, figdetting.

I’m writing three books in my head simultaneously. The Frenchman one, the one with the twenty-year old who’s been married three times and the one with the research librarian and the cop.

That one’s new. I never write cops. Too much research. *baleful look*

Eventually, in the dark watches of the night, I fall asleep, heart still beating unnaturally fast.

In the morning, I’m convinced the Puke Beast of Fouliss 26 has made its intergalactic home in my mouth. Half an hour of wookie impressions and guzzling a litre of water might might get me back to normal.

God Save me from the Evil Bean.

May be a little scarce in the next few days, as my lovely mother is visiting.

Yay!

Mummy!!!