Oooh, I shouldn't be here, I should be in chapter 3, subchapter 2, in fact I should be writing 3.2.2 but what can you do?
The Little one was sick. I got a call from the school, Madam, your Little One is not feeling well, please come and collect him. And so it goes. First of all, a pale face and downturned mouth ... "I have a sore throat and a sore head and a sore tummy and I don't feel well and I don't want anything to eat." WHAT? You don't want anything to eat? Come here, my little one, the best thermometer in the world, a kiss against a forehead, does not lie. Tis a virus, a nasty one, a sore throaty one, a fevery one, one where you get up every two hours during the night to inform your mother of your plight. So we administer Calpol (although not every two hours, having read both the leaflet and the very scary blog post on paracetamol overdoses) , hot drinks and honey, and cuddles galore.
And in the morning, you are still poorly, but well enough to force down some hot chocolate and toast with honey while you watch National Geographic's endless documentaries on tigers, pigs, dogs, crocodiles, lions... and your poor mother tries to keep her eyes open and her brain on lofty matters to cram in her thesis.
The said chapter, chapter 3, the bane of my life, now proudly owns 4000 words!!! I know, we are still far from the required 9000 before next Thursday, but hey, a few more sleepless nights and I'll be able to type drivel like noone before.
Onwards to the kitchen and a cup of coffee, and hopefully inspiration thereafter. Or a documentary on wild hogs. Whatever.