I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth/run away to live in a little cottage in the woods with Marco Pierre White, but since finishing the last book my brain seems to have collected its coat, switched the lights off and left the building, leaving me to potter around in mindless domestic apathy. I have dusted things, and cleaned windows (Well, some of them. When it came down to it there were more than I thought, and the novelty of marvelling at the dirtiness of the water soon wore off.) I have mopped floors and made fifty zillion calories worth of stuff from the new Nigella Christmas book with various combinations of daughters who have all been off school with coughs, chest and ear infections since last week. (The novelty of marvelling at my luck that they timed this for after the deadline has not worn off, hence the uncharacteristic indulgence with icing sugar and chocolate sprinkles, playing endless games of Disney Princess Memory Game and lighting the fire in the early afternoon.)
I have also cleaned the oven.
Can you tell I need to start another book?