Mr Mop

Found a cleaning firm on the internet yesterday, got home and told Him all about them, and He said He’d rather I paid Him to do it (He’s a bit skint at the moment, on account of the being-on-a-temp-contract issue). Fine. Only problem is, I have no problem sitting on my bum while a stranger cleans the house, but there’s something rather weird about sitting on my bum while He does it. But still. At least I get out of doing it.

I have decided, after yesterday’s low patch, that on balance I would rather be creative and interesting and messy than be Bree Van Der Kamp. This is a Good Thing. The risk of me turning into a wannabe Stepford wife has receded.

With this in mind, I am going to try and take advantage of Him cleaning the house to get on with the book. My current aim is to get the first draft finished by June (yes, I know that’s three months away, but I need that much time, I’m a busy girl!), go away on holiday for two weeks and try and detach from it, then come back and do the polish. Should be with the agents for a decision by September/October, leaving me to concentrate on organising the move to Scotland in the New Year.

In other news: Scarfee is showing no signs of post-breakup recovery – “Why did he leave me? Why? Why?!”; I have started a new fitness regime – tedious but necessary; people have finally started to notice that I am now wearing contacts full time and not my media-whore glasses; I have constructed a sign for my desk that reads ‘If you ask this woman one more stupid question, she will smash your face in with a stapler’.