Well. That's it then isn't it? Come 7:15 tomorrow when my alarm goes GGNAADRRTTTT - my summer ends.
I'm not best chuffed, how.
I've spent the summer playing at being a writer. I've worn my dressing gown everyday (I've washed it overnight), I've drank heartily from steaming cups of DK's coffee. I've scribbled endless ideas and doodles across a notebook.
But that's it. A writer no more until October half term. Seven weeks in reality.
Today is my Planning Day. I am planning on planning today. At somepoint. Maybe. In theory.
Well, no, not really. Who am I kidding? The more I plan the more things go wrong. I'm better when I wing it, or so I tell myself. And at least that way, if I haven't gotten as far as I intended there is no proof.
On Friday I got professionally managed (not as fun as you might think, and unfortunatley not a slang term either... Ah well).
What targets would be reasonable for me to achieve this coming year? I was asked.
I could turn up, at least 75% of the time. I suggested. No.
Ok, I can stop piling books and stacks of paper on my desk so no one can see me and then pretending to be the Ghost of Essays Past. I suggested. No.
Fine, how about if the date I write on the board is never more than three days out? I suggest. No.
So it was decided for me. Proper work, proper targets, proper responsible adult once again.
I already miss the summer.
What's the bet that tomorrow is the sunniest, brightest, warmest, most glorious day we've seen since June? Course it will be - because tomorrow I get blackout blinds fitted so I can use the Interactive Whiteboard they bought me...
Ah well, it's nearly Christmas at least.
Days without Disco Kettle. Days without my dressing gown. It just seems so unfair. We do have a coffee machine in one of the art rooms. It has a siren. But it's not the same. And the biscuits will be own brand....