In London since election night, and still no government. I had been hoping they'd scramble to piece one together before I left, but no. How inconsiderate.
So instead of checking out a new prime minister, this weekend I have enjoyed the fine offerings of the London stage (Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing at the Old Vic, fan-freakin'-tastic!), many helpings of food, wine, and more food (the flab-tator will not be pleased) and the company of good friends.
What I have not been doing so much of is writing. None at all, actually. I'm so close (so close!) but maybe it's like exercise - once you've been off it for a while, it's hard to get back on the metaphorical horse.
And yet, it would be so great to finish off those last twenty-odd pages of the first draft between now and Friday, when Supermom and I ditch Paris to check out the new Pompidou in Metz. Because if I do, then that means champagne and art to celebrate! Followed by the rewrite (which I am actually looking forward to) and the activation of my volunteer army of proofreaders (thanks girls!)
So come on. Send some energy my way. Chapter 25. I can do it. It's nowhere near as hard as getting the Tories and the Lib Dems to agree on something.