So. Writing

Is a lot like sex, actually. If not done right, it isn’t worth the effort. Because I have read some bad books, and I have had some bad sex, and the two are much alike.

Both times you end up staring at the ceiling wishing it were over already.

That was my quote for the day.

I’m at work. I am not enjoying it. I am not allowed to do any writing on the work PC – but I can surf the web. And of actual work there is no sign. Because it’s almost June, and it’s cold, and who goes on holiday in the middle of winter anyway?
Ah, well, such is life. And tonight, there will be a braai, and Albert, and booze (I have some kind of sweet cream-liqueur lined up. Albert has whisky.)

And tomorrow I will be back at work, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at 06:00. On a Sunday.
I hate my job.