SNOW DAY.

Something broke my sleep at 4am, and an ethereal halo of white seeped through my misted windows. And, having arched myself upright to see, I flumped back under duvet, content in the notion that I could awaken to a cosy, useful Snow Day – the kind where you snuggle in the warmth, content to be penned in, and there, creative juices flow.

Then, at 9.15, consciousness once more prevails. But as I shed my warm cocoon, the snow’s begun to melt, and my family bustles in their usual way, around my airy prison, and I am filled with icy gloom. There’s no way I can make it work!

Until, by 3, somehow, my state of mind returns to that of ‘Writer – Not To Be Whitewashed’ and I settle, with tea and toast in true Snow Day fashion, at my PC.

For the hours, I meddle with the dialogue between Mother and Son, but despite my efforts, I cannot steer them towards Dillan and his lust for the Guy At The Bar. I mean, what is it gonna take – someone waving manically at them and pointing? Or, the Guy to introduce himself – “ Hi there Foreigner, now if you don’t mind, we’ll just make out, then take our son and be off, before you scar him.”?

Hmm, maybe it needs a different approach. Perhaps I could have them all killed in a drive-by shooting (convicts on the brink of desperation as their cravings mount for The Loungeroom’s champagne trifle – need you ask!). That way, all issues of plot-flow are of no consequence.

Leaves a lot to be desired though. I think I’ll write some poetry.