I’m sitting here with a mild feeling of anxiety.
I mean, it’s 13.48 on Sunday.
The weekend is slipping through my fingers like fine Mexican sand on an, erm, Mexican beach.
And no matter how hard I clench my digits together the sand continues to slip between them.
It’s 13.49 now.
I should be doing something.
Something productive.
Mozart composed his first work at 4 (and at 5 he went home for tea, ha ha ha).
But really.
I’m feeling panicy and unproductive.
I suppose I could have a shower and get dressed?
🙂
Now then reaches towards the ancient yet still faithful rucksack where did I put that draft symphony score I was working on when I was three-years-old?
Brennig.