I am bad at titles.

And not just blog titles, either. I am having even less luck naming my novel than I am writing it, and that's saying something at the moment. The most progress I've made with any aspect of it recently is wasting three rolls of Benny's film on pictures of me pratting about posing for the cover. Now this may sound vain, but I just don't know anyone else who fits the description of the main character even vaguely - short, slim with long blonde hair - so don't start on at me about vanity. I had to stand in. Yes, I could have waited to find another model. In fact I might still end up doing that. But I wanted to feel like I was making some kind of progress - and let's face it, pratting around in a little dress, in a park, in the sunshine, taking daft pictures, is a pretty fun way to make progress.

As is the compulsory glass of Rosé wine in 'Spoons with your photographer afterwards. And the lasagne. And the cake.
Oh, the cake.

Anyway! In other, more Chuck-Norris-related news... today on my lunch break, with the aid of that wonderful invention known as Sky Television, I was able to actually watch a program containing Chuck Norris.
Walker Texas Ranger; I would come up with an opinion, perhaps even a review. Unfortunately, I didn't pay much attention to the actual program, what with being far too busy being amused merely by the presence of the Norris on my TV screen.
Such is my amusement threshold.

Also, I got to go in a hot tub the other night. It. Was. Awesome. I bet you are totally jealous. Go on. Admit it. You are.
Except Dave, because you were there too... but still. Everybody else! Haha.
Although spending an entire hour trying to detangle your hair, at midnight, is not so fun... it was totally worth it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and tidy my room, which currently resembles the bastard offspring of an Oxfam shop and that beached whale that they blew up.

That is all.

Erotica, brutality... yeah no.

(If you don't get the title - and you won't, unless you are Amelia - don't ask. Please just rest assured that it is innocent.)

One other thing I forgot to mention about that writing course I was waffling on about maybe applying for next year... in your third year, one of the units is 'Fiction and the Erotic.' That is so totally a brilliant reason to go through two years of boring writing technique classes and struggling to make deadlines. To get to learn how to write about sex. (Can it really be that difficult? I very much doubt it, but then, maybe there is some arcane knowledge here that I am missing out on.)

Speaking of deadlines, actually, I would combat this problem by handing in a bunch of pages covered in completely illegible scrawl, with a post-it note on the top quoting Douglas Adams: I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they rush past.

Heheh.

In other news! Today I get to see James. And eat lasagne.
I don't do either of those things often so it's kind of a big deal for me.