In the three weeks since handing in novel I have:
Adapted to office life
Not adapted to office life too well (corporate dronedom, I do not relish thee)
Worked out how to get from Putney to Docklands without losing the will to endure other people living
Critted 3 stories (but not returned them, soz, I will get to that)
Read 4 paperbacks, including The Time Traveller’s Wife, which lives up to the hype apart from the bit where she decides to try and make it SF (which falls utterly on its arse), but otherwise is exquisite
Cried less… I think… this is a complex pattern but the overall trend does seem to be tears down, coping mechanisms up
Visited Bristol City Museum and marvelled at the stuffed-birds-and-pianos room
Been to see the Henry Moore sculptures in Kew Gardens
Stopped needing to wear beautiful Melinda scarf (spring is sprung!) but kept wearing it anyway even though it makes me too hot on the train
Listened to Paul Kincaid whiffling about mimesis
Watched several films including the new cut of Bladerunner
Eaten 39 slices of toast.
I still think about the novel a lot, but it’s not all-consuming any more. I rather miss being all-consumed.