I knew getting a fulltime job would have drawbacks, one of them is of course, less time to write. But I didn’t realise how much less time.
Two hours or possibly three of an evening isn’t enough. I leave my imaginary friends on the street corner well away from my office. They wait there for me. I pick them up on my way home every night. They wait there, rain or shine, until after five in the evening. Patiently or not, I don’t know. I don’t know what they get up to in the day anymore.
And I miss them when I’m at work.
But they’re here now, sitting here on the bed next to me.
And so, to work. Real work. Important work. Work that isn’t dull, not subject to approvals, and above all, work that is not boring.
And so, at long last, to work.