In From The Cold

I'm not leaving the house today. After opening the door just to retrieve the post I made the sensible decision that I don't really fancy frostbite and will be staying indoors until it gets warmer or I am forced outside by to fetch food or other survival items. I watched the Diary of Anne Frank on the BBC last night and they managed to stay in the attic for two years without going outside so I'm sure its possible. Admittedly they didn't really have a choice but that just means my will power is brilliant for being able to do it with a choice. It seems like its a good adaption on the Beeb, although I do hate watching a program that you know the ending to. Perhaps they should rewrite it so she survives or goes all vigilante just to surprise us. I'd pay good money to watch a thirteen year old gunning down the Nazis with a gun she'd made in her attic out of spoons and plum stones. 

Yesterday I managed to brave the outside world to go and do some writing in our local library. I haven't been in a library since university and imagined a world of knowledge and studying. I thought that perhaps by sitting in there, words might enter my brain through osmosis and I'd conjure up some works of genius. Sadly or local library is a little dark hole where the weirdos and losers who don't work on a Monday go. There were only a handful of desks and on one of them was a man who was barking at a book. Surely that goes against the 'no talking' rule? Or is that man in fact a genius who has realised the loophole of animal sounds? The one thing that really irritated me was a Playstation 3 connected to a television near the children's corner. How does that help with reading or studying? The whole reason I left my house was to avoid consoles and yet a PS3 was sitting there all smug-like beckoning me to waste more time. Needless to say I managed a meagre hour and half in there then ran home to stop playing on the PS3. 

I need to find a way not to get distracted by everything in my flat. Already I've restarted this blog three times due to facebook, a phone-call, and the cats knocking their dried food all over the floor. Its like the furballs don't want me to work. I'm sure I have a form of attention deficit disorder. Its got to the point recently where rather than do work for an hour I will clean up instead. Thats not remotely normal, especially as cleaning is even more boring than writing. I wonder if any of the classic novelists had a similar problem. I can't imagine Dickins sweeping his chimney rather than write any more about Little Nell. 

My brain isn't working properly today so I'm off to give in and watch my Ulyssess 31 box set. Sure I know what happens in the end, but they might surprise me and he might never get home and instead open up a DIY store in Delphi and sell a vast array of spanners.