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Last Night Of The Blog Of The Living Dead

If you haven't read Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday's posts then by this point you've probably wandered onto my blog by mistake.

Or you did this on purpose, in which case there's no helping you.



Friday


At the start of the week my plan for Friday was simple: 1: Wrap up all the threads of Writing So Far in a tidy bow.


2: Celebrate.


In the name of said celebration I had laid by several face masks, some salts for a foot bath, and an extra nice bath melt.

And a bottle of over-priced fruit juice.

Because I know how to party.


Right at the start of the week, though, I was made aware of The Failing Writers Podcast's* flash fiction competition.

So the new plan went: 1: Write a short story in five hundred words or fewer.


2: Celebrate.


To begin with the day itself went pretty well:



The same purple week-planner that has appeared in every one of these blogs so far. Now however it is apparently being held up by a moderate-size, green, cuddly C'T'hulu, who is standing behind it with his hands and tentacle-y bits coming over the top. He looks happy to be there. The planner itself is much as it was on the previous day, except that the box for Friday now contains a mathematical "less than" sign, followed by the number five hundred, while two bold lines have been drawn under the commentary in the "To Do" box.



1: Get up, stretch, welcome the day with joyful song only not too loud because my throat is still a little raspy.


2: Feed cats. Manage not to trip over cats. Make tea.

Rejoice in knowledge that last night's dinner was a takeaway, and there is, therefore, no washing up to be done.

Sip tea smugly.


3: Dance for twenty jubilatory minutes.


4: Sit down. Open laptop. Prepare to write.

Get up.

Answer phone.


5: Youngest Spawnling apparently suffering from horrible food poisoning.

Misery so deep that: "Even prawns don't taste good." Decide not to ask why they are feeding seafood to someone who already has food poisoning.

The answer will only annoy.

Maybe they hope two parasites will fight each other to the death and thus solve the problem.

Advise plenty to drink and no more prawns.

Advised in turn that food poisoning mostly resolved itself over night, but they are coming home now as Youngest Spawnling requires the sympathetic embrace of a loving mother or, failing that, at least one with more sense than to feed anybody prawns.


6: Hang up phone.

Recognise that a small crimp has been inserted into my plans.

Restyle plans in the latest fashion for today's writer.

Wonder who I think I am kidding.


7: Write four hundred and ninety eight word story.

Decide it's actually pretty good.

Despatch story to the purgatory of Beta reading, to receive its just deserts.

Think fondly of desserts.

All things considered, I'd better not.


8: Put away face masks and foot bath.

Contemplate turning front room into an oasis of peace and tranquility for returning sufferer.

Realise that, in this house, that would be impossible.

Play Ace Attorney Chronicles instead.


9: Return of the conquered heroes.

Distribute sympathy and affection to all involved.

Continue not to ask about the prawns.

Demonstrate my fond devotion by handing game controller to sufferer.


10: Wait till invalid is settled comfortably, then tiptoe past piled up clothing bags and go and hide from the laundry in the bedroom.

Write blog, to accompaniment of occasional groans and the thundering of hooves.**


11: And, relax.***





* https://www.failingwriterspodcast.com/ and thank you to Jimmy for turning me on to this.


**Ok, to teenage feet running repeatedly up and downstairs.

But seriously, thundering hooves have nothing on that.


***And if you'll believe that, you will, my dears, believe anything.



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