Mostly:
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.
Balls.
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.
Plus:
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....
Balls.
