There was a writing group critique meeting this Saturday, but I didn't go. Couldn't dredge up any enthusiasm to drag myself to Victoria, and have to face getting back again using public transport, when the tube is out. I'm still working through Esther's short story, which I plan to send back to her today. I had a bit of a crisis of confidence when starting it, doubting the validity of my responses, which are coloured by too many emotions; I imagine from grief.
This is also making some things I come across on the internet rather too much to bear. All the recent twitter storms and the like just makes me want to gafiate. Still I found this amusing, article on the Guardian website about the expectation on the number of books one can read, here. It makes me realise how far outside the norm I am.
Work wise this week has been a bust. My partner has been at home dealing with the aftermath of the death last week. Sorry not to be much fun to be around.
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