Barely even a paragraph this week. Between revisions for a revision guide (hah!), my sister’s hen party all weekend and mania at work, this was all I managed. And that was during a Y9 creative writing lesson too.
Moral of the story: If you want to get something written, you need to schedule time for it. More than ten minutes.
I mean, it’s bloody typical, isn’t it. Almost comical if it weren’t for the fact that I now have a flipping sword in the foot. Just walking along, minding my own business, hoping for some gold or treasure that someone might have left lying around and then: bam. St George, hero to all princesses in need of rescue, glamorous knight in shining armour swanning around on horseback adored by all who meet him. Except he’s an idiot, isn’t he? There’s no princesses in twenty miles and certainly not one that needs rescuing from me. Tried to eat one once; the crown snapped my tooth. Won’t touch them anymore. Give me a nice fat baby any day.