Last week I tried to write, usually on breaks. Meanwhile I attended exhibitions, finished five books, and took up painting. (Needless to say, I was procrastinating.)

Of course the mother-in-law made a dig about the painting, implying I could make better use of my time, like cleaning bathrooms or stacking peat in the bog. I'd like to be blithely disgraceful, but I guess I'll have to settle for being doggedly disgraceful.

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