Things I've done this week instead of writing my novel:

Met with my accountant and let her enlighten/baffle me with some self-assessment calculations. Visited my company's HQ on the most handsome little quay. Went on a date at a chic new place where we shared our portions of chick'n tacos and roasted aubergine in the richest tomato sauce and talked until the bar staff were very visibly closing the place up. Collected bath bomb samples from the factory, in a box helpfully marked 'for Grace'. Had a whisky from the hotel bar in bed, while reading, three nights in a row. Walked along the local seafront with a nice chap who is utterly devoted to his adorable dog. Been to see my new home, and felt immense pressure. Taken two trips to TKMaxx, but only bought one macrame plant basket. Had coffee with the new owner of the place that was almost my home, with someone else, almost a year ago. Got my nails done. Had a facial. Paid for a car wash. Booked a tattoo touch-up. Enjoyed a sleepover in an empty house, after far too many tinnies and not enough dancing. 

this photo is actually mine. Here's the sandwich shop it was taken in.

To be clear, it's not because I don't want to write the novel. It's because I'm scared to. I don't want to give it too much time or focus in case it never comes to be, or worse, that it comes out and isn't any good. Or am I just too lazy to haul it out of my head and onto actual virtual 'pages'? I wonder. 

I hope you get to read it one day, though. It's pretty good.

Chat soon,

G. x