School holidays

School holidays, during winter, are a nightmare. Kids lolling all around the house, fighting, driving me nuts. I want to write. My son sees my sitting at the computer as an invitation to come and chat. I tell him to go away, and he looks hurt. The rain, though I'm extremely happy to see it, has them housebound, unable to go out and play. Though they don't seem to go out "and play" anymore, anyway. My daughter has her music blaring, and thumps around above my head (her bedroom is over the study) like an elephant on a rampage. I want to write. I want them to be quiet, live harmoniously, not disturb the neighbours with their yelling and screaming -- or make me yell and scream like a harridan. I want to write. My fingers itch for peace, for the feel of reins and a warm horse's neck as I segue into the world of my characters. But my son's constant chatter keeps me here. The new pup's whingeing keeps me here. My husband's growling at the kids keeps me here. Too many barriers to the fictional dream.

Night is mine. When the kids go to bed. But more and more I find their time encroaches on mine. My time is squeezed into the after-midnight hours, and these days I find that time leaner and leaner, because I live on the edge of sleep-deprivation. Something has to give, but one thing's for sure: it's not going to be my writing time!

Let sleeping dogs lie: Georgia, our Golden Retriever and Luna, our Toller pup