I think I maybe unwell. I have just cooked the family meal for tonight and actually enjoyed preparing it.  Not only have my culinary skills shone today but have also done a fair amount of cleaning.  My hands are chaffed and cracking.  I hate domesticity.  My Mother made a bad mistake sending me to domestic science collage at 16 and I have no regrets about being expelled before the end of my first term.  So I really hope I am not evolving into a domestic goddess.  Perish the thought.  What time would that leave me to tackle my Works in Progress?  I have many characters hanging, waiting for my devine intervention and send them on their way.  These stubby little hands were made to write not cook and clean. I better sit down at keyboard and whizz up a positive flambé of fiction before I decide to concoct a bloody dessert.