For once I have a legitimate reason for not writing: I have moved! From Bloomsbury to Vauxhall. Moving is hard. First you buy the plastic boxes, then you bring them home, and then you try to entice your stuff to hop into the plastic boxes--and your stuff is always so much smarter than that. It knows much better than to climb into a perspex box where it will likely never get to stretch out on a hanger or snuggle in a drawer again, and where it will probably get musty and start to smell like a lavender moth ball. My stuff is particularly brainy. It evaded the plastic boxes and refused to fold up nicely and wouldn't go without a fight.
After weeks of sunshine, it naturally rained on the day of the move. My grumpy stuff got wet. Of course my shoes and books took the brunt of the damp weather. My waterproof bath stuff did not get rained on at all. But now my books and shoes and bath stuff and dresses and birthday cards and pajamas are all here in Vauxhall. And so I am writing. Writing a plum bean and writing second book. Second book got ignored during the move but has reasserted herself in my brain and is quashing thoughts of suitcases, unpacking and laundry.
And: it felt like such a treat today: Nell got a lovely review!