The Conflux short story competition and my Sunday
Oh, but I want so very much to talk about the short stories I'm reading. I want to unintentionally mimic curious alignments of words. I want to gripe about the small things that could have improved a tale or the idiot things that make me laugh. I want to rejoice in the perfect turn of phrase and laugh at the affinity of ideas and worlds that I suddenly find that I share with some other writer whose name I don't yet know.

I can't, though. I have to wait till the other judges are ready and then we must talk discretely, privately.

What I can do is finish before Dr Who. After Dr Who I will watch more of ROD (another anime series Conor decided might suit me), which makes me entirely happy in the centre of my being. Also, I want to adopt Anita.

I've taken pain killers and rubbed balm on my acheing muscles and, now I know I have a virus can work right through it. Must work right through it. I have a lot to do this week. This is why I've instituted such a robust reward system.

I rested this morning and will rest tonight. This afternoon is dedicated to finishing the entries for the Conflux short story competition. Silently. Not being able to chat about it is battering bits of my soul. It's straining my mind, just as the virus is straining my body.

There's a justice in this. No-one outside the judging circle and the committee will know the results until October. This will most certainly strain your patience.