Just a day.

2553 words of secret project. (The proper manuscript is with the agent, so I have to have a secret project to keep my mind off it.) Sunshine in the morning, and a lot of wild canine activity. A splendid pack of three comes to play with Darwin the Dog. Poor Stanley the Manly is not allowed on this adventure as he wanders from the field and frightens the farmer, whose ewes are about to have their lambs. Stan does not chase sheep, but the presence of a socking great big lurcher anywhere near a ewe at this time of year is enough to make the hardiest farmer either faint or reach for his shotgun. I ride the red mare and lope about pretending I am a cowgirl.
Then there is work, work, work, work.
I keep thinking: this is the last year of my forties, and I must record memorable events. But after all those words my mind is blank and I can’t even remember what I just heard on the news. I did not even have any deep thoughts, which is most unlike me. Pretty much the most riveting thing that happened was that the boiler man came. I love the boiler man, a fact which seems to baffle him slightly.

Be fascinating, shouts the critical voice in my head. But I have no fascination left. It was a good day, a long day, a productive day. It was just a day.