Time won't give me time...

Time is the great luxury that we don't appear to have in the necessary quantities. I'm pretty certain that is the case in all households that contain 10-month old livewires with teeth pushing through.

I wrote Sully when I worked at the paper. A combination of a reasonably acceptable workload and my incredibly efficient ways meant that, every week, I could spend at least a few hours at my place of employ writing and a few hours thinking about where the play was going. Then many more hours thinking and writing at weekends.

On A Shout was written in a home office during a fine and heady period when I devoted myself to creative endeavours full-time. Thinking - and there was a lot of it - was done during lengthy riverside strolls.

The writing of my current project is proving somewhat problematic. I simply don't seem to have any of the essential thinking time needed to make the mental journey required when penning a play - a full-time week of PR and public sector drivel has seen that my head merely contains mush. When attention is not on 10-month-old and the despised bill-paying work, I am usually too tired to do anything resembling thinking. Sleeping yes, thinking no. I shall, then, have to be ill more often. During the last four days I have been struck by a menacing cold that has rendered me pretty useless. However, on the upside, being unable to do much of a physical nature has left me able to drift off on those necessary flights of fancy. A couple of 'ooh' moments occurred today. Which was a superb feeling - I had started to worry that it had all gone away. Suddenly typing - for that is all it has felt like for around 30 pages - felt like writing once again.

Don't panic. Tomorrow I shall be back to complaining about shoddy service in shops or my latest television addiction and will have stopped being a pretentious writer nob.