I'm sure I meant to do some writing today. Yes, I'm certain I meant to write. I can see significant portions of my desk and floor, I have a fresh set of bedding on my bed whilst the other set has been washed - oh, and I'm caught up on dishes (bar the cup I had my hot chocolate in). This was definitely meant to be a writing day.
Still, I have some time now to write something before going to sleep. I'm starting a job skills course... thingy in the morning, so I have early starts for the next three weeks. I fully intend to annoy my housemate/landlord/friend with showers at half past 6 in the morning, especially if he keeps me awake until 1 in the morning. He's had his Monday to Friday, 9 to 5 work cut down to just Mondays, so we're in for a complete role reversal as far as active lifestyle is concerned because previously it was me bumming around the house during the week and the last time he had so little work to do I was going out to uni most days.
I'm going to have a little bit more time pootling about online tonight before switching off and reading some of Mark Gatiss's('s...'s - oh the curse of excessive esses) Doctor Who novel Nightshade. I'm enjoying this one a lot. We've got a spooky village with funny goings on, a radio telescope picking up strange readings, an actor in an old people's home who used to star in what is essentially the Doctor Who universe equivalent of Quatermass and a mysterious monastery. And this is all happening in 1968.
Every time I curl up with this book, there is always something that will make me love Mr Gatiss even more than I already do. There was something that struck me last night, which was the Seventh Doctor remembering "dear Jamie". That made me melt in exactly the same way as this moment between Holmes and Watson did when I read the Bruce-Partington Plans not to long ago:
"I don't like it, Holmes."
"My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I'll do the criminal part. It's not a time to stick at trifles. Think of Mycroft's note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who waits for news. We are bound to go."
My answer was to rise from the table.
"You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go."
He sprang up and shook me by the hand.
"I knew you would not shrink at the last," said he, and for a moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once more.