You wake after a dream of salt and sloshing water, scratching the spotty red jellyfish sting on your wrist.
You remember you have a book coming out and are suddenly shit-scared.
You read your favourite mate's daily email and feel uplifted.
You read the newspaper on your iPad and feel shitty because of your comfort and the awfulness in Syria.
You look around at the beautiful late summer day, your garden.
You drink green tea.
You release kittens and dogs and feed them and blah blah.
You think you should be getting to work on those blog tour articles.
You drive your daughter to the bus stop.
You think it's a good time to weed the driveway, now that the ground is soft.
You make barley coffee.
You open the computer.
A woman calls with a heavy Roman accent, lazy and uninspired and you can tell she doesn't give a shit whether you say yes or no to a new Sky deal.
You say you are a foreigner and don't understand Italian.
You reply to twenty emails.
You have a headache.
You make tea.
You write the headings for two articles. One of them is called Sex and the Short Story. If I write this, you think, no one will ever, ever take me seriously.
You don't care.
You frantically write down the details for two radio interviews and think, Ha! I can do that in my pyjamas. Or worse!
You go through your manuscript looking for sex scenes for your article.
There are a lot.
You sift through them, choosing just three to put at the end of the piece.
Your son tells you there is a big red truck at the gate.
You are pissed off.
The man kindly brings a heavy box onto the kitchen table.
You can't look.
The books are here. They truly are.
There is no alcohol in the house except two last Corsican beers you promised to your eldest son. You are able NOT to drink them.
Your ex comes to the house when you are finishing your article. He says his girlfriend says she has read your blogs and you are sex-obsessed.
He goes to buy a cat cage.
You scan through your blog posts and don't feel you are sex-obsessed.
You also write about racism and politics and shoes.
Your other ex calls from Copenhagen.
You think, Hang on, this is my damned day.
But you feel a turnaround, a step ahead. A little click inside.
It is joy.