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Dear Diary

Awake at six - thinking and more thinking. Wish I could be someone who did not pursue this useless activity at such an uncivilized hour. Half past, should I get up? Try to go back to sleep. No, better to make some tea and maybe do a spot of writing before other, extraneous things butt into the day. While the kettle's on, I might as well set a tray for breakfast. Hungry now. I'll pop some toast on. It's still dark outside; so don't know if it will rain. The weather forecast was good, so I might as well put some washing on.

Husband pads in, bleary eyed, and asks why we're having breakfast so early. He decides that he would like some toast and tea as well. We get back into bed with our breakfast and put on the news as we sip our tea. I'm not sure that I like to start the day with the news. Doom, gloom, economy, war and rumours of wars, cutbacks and so it goes on.

I decide to wash my hair instead of writing. Just wrapped it in a towel when the phone rings. It's a friend with a lot to say. We chat for at least half an hour. I try to style my hair afterwards but it rebels as it's been in a towel for too long. It will have to do.

Taking the breakfast tray into the kitchen, I glance through the window and am appalled at the state of the front garden. Instead of my eyes being greeted by a beautiful flowering shrub, all I see are dead, spiky branches that resemble the state of my hair. This won't do and so I phone and make an appointment at the hairdressers for the following Friday.

The sky is leaden; the forecasters have got it wrong again but I hang out the washing anyway. Husband asks me if I would like a coffee and I tell him that would be great but first I'm going to cut down the dead spiky plant if he will clear away the debris and put it in the garden waste bin. It's a deal.

The secateurs decide to jam at my first attempt, so I have a running battle with the loppers. It looks as if the shrub is winning but I persevere. The thought of Husband's strong, state of the art coffee, frothy milk and all, keep me going. Then I'll do some writing.

The coffee is ambrosia and Husband has even grated some chocolate that nestles delicately on top of the foamed milk. Fortified, if a little hyper with caffeine, I sit down at my computer with enthusiasm. It seems like a lot of emails have come in and so I decide to answer a few before writing. It won't take long. Oh dear, three more come in as I rattle off my replies. Glancing at my watch, I'm shocked to see that it's time for lunch already.

It doesn't take long to prepare. I'll make a shepherd's pie straight after for our supper. This will give me plenty of time to do some writing in the afternoon. Husband helps with potato peeling and we discuss whether or not to go to Spanish classes. He says he has too much to do and I decide that I would rather spend my time writing. We can always resort to our CDs if we get rusty with our Spanish. It's a deal.

After lunch the Times crossword beckons me. At almost five euros a copy in Spain, it shouldn't be wasted. My goodness, how time flies - I can't believe it's taken me so long and I haven't even managed to finish it. Husband answers the phone. "It's for you," he calls out.

It's the same chatty friend with much more news since our last conversation. By the time I put the phone down Husband has made a cup of tea.

Oh no, is that rain? Better get the washing in. I wonder if writers have a fleet of servants or never sleep. I return to the study and sit at my computer. Bliss.

The doorbell rings.

Perhaps I should book myself into a nunnery for a week. Just me and my laptop.

Date: 13/02/2016