If you're anything like me, you might be happy to see the back of August. Well, I think we'll all be happy to see the end of 2020, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
For me, it has been a month of a lot of labour and very little writing. I've changed my kitchen and, together with the potential break of my marriage, as are the collateral damages of DIY, it also has brought the breaking of my back.
This is all to say: I'm sore all over.
Just as we were trying to get the sink working, I had an I-told-you-so with my husband, where I claimed I was right when I said we should fit the kitchen last year. You see, we were still thirty-nine, then, and it makes all the difference.
If you haven't gone through forty yet, let me tell you the trope that everything hurts from then on is absolutely true. I've always had minor pains here and there, but this is another level.
See? I'm even getting on like my grandmother, telling you all about my ailments.
On the bright side, I only need my hands for my jobs and, bar any issues with carpal tunnel, I should be ok to finish Show Me Your Scars (working title) on time to publish for late November, so at least my career is not over.