I wish that it (the intellect, not my body fat) would reside reliably in my head, but it seems to bugger off from time to time and go walkabout, presumably exploring my Vena Cava, my Appendix or what pass for my Islets of Langerhan (they don't work any more). I suppose I'd better capitalize 'appendix', although I don't think it deserves it, quite frankly... At such times as these I'm prone to sitting on the couch and staring at the scene outside my window, the smudges from my dog's nose on the window pane , or (as happened today), the closed curtains. Few thoughts pass through my mind, except for the occasional "What should I think about today?", which really isn't very helpful. No wonder the intellect goes for little trips elsewhere...
Despite the fact that I was working (in a not particularly pleasant environment) until 0600hrs this morning and if the truth be known, I'm really getting way too old for such shit, I feel like I should try to do something productive today...perhaps work on one of the manuscripts currently occupying my desktop. However: which one?
My choices are (in no particular order):
Talbot The Time-Travelling Terrier
The Diary of Dick Green
An ARD Day's Work
Loud And Clear
A New Piece Of String
Just Dropping In
My School Diary
The Famous Hermit
The Longest Moment
A Bad Evening
These are all working titles of book projects. Some are nearing completion (or do I mean deletion?), and some are mere infants, stroppily trying to punch more than their weight and garner more of my attention.
Hmmm...time to stare at the curtains...