I haven’t written in 13 days. And I don’t have a great story to make up for it.
I DIDN’T drink so much champagne at New Year, I had to be hospitalised, and have now emerged from rehab, sober, skinny and preachy.
I DIDN’T kiss a mystery man at midnight, fall in love, and run away to Greece for a two-week fling.
I didn’t even resolve to stop writing such self-indulgent rubbish, and spend a fortnight writing a worthy, world-changing novel.
I’ve had my family in town.
It’s been really, really great. I am beyond happy to see them again. I am eating three square meals a day. I’ve done the Harry Potter studio tour, taken mini-breaks to Suffolk and Nottingham, and tried just about every cupcake in London. It’s awesome.
But it’s not very blog-worthy.
I am not getting drunk. I am not flirting with boys. I am not making questionable life choices. I am not sitting on the tube, wondering what the point of it all is. Or just watching people lick each other’s faces.
I’m just really happy. And it’s great.