Not so frenzied today.

Today I did a lot of housework, made a fabulous dinner (chicken minestrone soup and rosemary-and-salt foccacia, both from scratch), took my kid to karate (I, alas, am still off training at the moment due to a dodgy back), did a fair bit of emailing, listened to a couple of podcasts that seemed very important and related to my professional development at the time (and, indeed, may be), did even more housework, and played some solitaire.

What I did not do was any work on The Death of Albatross. It's now nearly 11, and I'm going to try to make a token stab at writing some words. My current streak of days-in-a-row-writing is at 16, and if I write anything this evening it stretches to 17, which is starting to approach my 2008 record (so far) of 19. Isn't this sad? Instead of writing, I'm blogging about how many days in a row I've been writing, but if I keep blogging without doing any counts-as-writing work, I won't get any more days in a row added. The irony is almost incapacitating.

I think I'm a bit tired. Must be all the solitaire.