The writeathon that never was.

BITING MY TONGUE/WHY I AM NOT WRITING.

I'm not averse to 14 hours of scrubbing at sticky orange kitchen cupboards (once white) and removing dog-fur from the saucepans, but when my mother, daytime-tv whore (bless her) pokes her head around the door at 15minute intervals, either smirking or rolling her eyes at me, then snorts, slams the door, and proceeds to ignore me until her next visit, the cheerful diplomat inside me starts to wither.

I know she gets insulted and defensive when people clean, or shop, or anything she believes she's doing - so before I started, I set it up as a favour because I know that 'she's really busy, and it shouldn't have to be her that does all the cleaning'. And I've tried to include her by asking her what she wants keeping, or where she thinks the best place for stuff would be. The most response I've had all day is an aggitated "Whatever!"

There's only so many times a girl can say things like 'I KNOW you've only just done it" and "Don't worry, you don't have the time to do it all yourself either!" convincingly.

Now, after a whole day, and the prospect of a repeat tomorrow, no amount of coffee, noisy upbeat rock, or ben and jerry's cookie dough can lift the cloud of unappreciated gloom.

I sacrifice my weekend off, and does it matter to anyone except my Muse? Does it bollocks!!