Of course, it takes not a blind bit of notice of ME, telling it to go away.
Outside, everything takes so much longer, that's the thing. I'm daily thankful that I have a lovely warm house to return to. Warm but draughty and warm at vast expense, but warm, nonetheless.
The trials of a writer: I've moved offices so thet Quirkyworks HQ is in the study, not the bedroom. I have a spacious table as a work station. The trouble I'm having is that it has a drawer under the top (it was an old kitchen table) and my thighs (not enormous thighs at all, I hasten to add - honestly!) won't fit under it without a squash and subsequent bruising. I end up perching on the edge of my chair and then get a numb bum. Quandary - do I raise the table? Do I lower the chair? Do I lose weight so my thighs are thinner?
Yep, it's tough being a writer!