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.