I think I can, I think I can, I think I'm going to get off and push

Well. That was hideous. Who'd've thought going for some milk could be
so strenuous? Spent the whole day inside working my socks off on the
Witch Baby rewrite version 10.3.7 ( or something close - I've lost
count) and as is the case with writing as opposed to illustrating, I
had to work in complete silence. After wanting to off our innocent
next-door neighbour for strimming his hedges one summer when I was
trying to write something or other and couldn't concentrate with the
eeeeee nyeeeee noises coming through the hedge, I cracked and went
out and got hold of a pair of noise-reduction headphones. They're
great, I can't hear the phone, the children, neighbours, nuclear
attacks etc but I feel like a dork wearing them even if they do beat
the heck out of facing a manslaughter charge for wantonly
slaughtering one's neighbours. They hiss, though. The headphones, not the neighbours. I sit writing and look like an alien with my blinking
red light and big black puffs on either side of my head. They help me
concentrate, but for some reason, working in silence makes it really
feel like Work.

So, yeah, picked my way through the twin-headed edit ( on this Witch
Baby book I have not only one editor, but two. Oh lucky, lucky me) up
to chapter six and realised a whole day had gone. This is just to
match the whole year that has already passed on this book, but hey -
who's counting? Five o'clock and cabin fever setting in nicely. I
offered to go get the milk. Put my weird shoe things in place and
headed off down to the village for the low-fat juice of the cow. Down
being the operative word. Bought milk, avoided being squished on the
road, and wibbled back. Took the little back road. About halfway up
it realised that I couldn't squeeze enough breath into my lungs to
fuel the muscles to push the pedals any more. Stopped. Realised that
the midges of Argyll were just waiting for this opportunity to
descend in their ravening millions. Got back on. Pedalled till lungs
gave out. Stopped. Ditto midges. Got back on. Pedalled till etcetera.
Following this rather embarassingly wussy non-athletic rhythm all the
way back. Gave up completely on the drive up to the house and got off
and pushed. How the hell do the Tour de France cyclists do what they
do? Whatever they're on, I want some.

Apparently I was the same colour as the panful of redcurrant jelly I
made later.
Not an entirely wasted day, then.