A new form of procrastination - or madness?

Yes.  It's true.  I'm writing a novel.  Can't you tell?

I'm doing really well, if word-count is inconsequential. 

Writing has taken me to new levels of procrastination.  I've always been a master of the art of acedia but since deciding to write a long story that I actually finish I have surpassed myself in discovering new ways to avoid sitting at my laptop and writing real words that will form the tale.

I'm not complaining, though.  I'm really enjoying these new-found hobbies.  Sitting in coffee shops, pubs or restaurants and writing down people's conversations, visiting places that I've decided to write about and wondering what my new imaginary friends would think about the things I'm seeing are activities to treasure.

I've missed having imaginary friends and it's fantastic to have an excuse to allow them back into my life.  As a child, baby Cumby was my constant companion, who was a confidant, guide and friend. When baby Cumby disappeared I wasn't blessed with new friend, unlike my daughter, who had serial visitors.  She used to explain, "I'm not going to put my shoes on 'cause Lizzie is here and she's from New Zealand.  They don't wear shoes in New Zealand.  Lizzie hasn't got any shoes so I won't wear any either." 

Yesterday, I went to visit my daughter.  I took my son and an imaginary friend with me, she's having a tough time and I thought she could do with a break.  The Long Suffering Husband suggested that I stay in a hotel overnight to avoid too much driving in one day. My friend agreed and got quite excited that she could take me to where she lived and with her guidance I booked a hotel on the banks of Rutland Water. as it wasn't too far from my daughter.  My son found it hilarious that we were staying overnight for writing research, so we took my daughter to look at the village and the hotel.  In the car, my  Puca was chuckling away, "Ha ha, this isn't saving you much driving is it?  Three hour and a half trips and you could have gone home."  I forgave her when we saw the hotel, she had made a good choice: maybe even worth all the driving.

View from the hotel with the best breakfast that was cheaper than a travel lodge

When we were in town we met Felicity (this was the name my imaginary friend gave her).  Felicity (or Fliss as she is often known as) owns the wool shop, which curiously smelt of stale eggs. "I think I made a mistake because I hard boiled some eggs to display the Easter knitted egg covers that we will be raffling for a charity, I might have to go and get some chocolate ones."  As we left we noticed the window display.

You've read the book, watched the film, now knit the jumper

Out loud I said, "Yes, I agree Felicity is funny.  She would be friends with my character."  

"No, she's too old," said my daughter.

My new imaginary friend was thrilled as every woman of 50  gets, when they are thought to be a lot younger than another woman who is probably about 55.  My daughter and I argued about it for a while until I heard laughter, "I can't believe we are disagreeing about someone who only exists in my head."

I have to wonder though, is this procrastination or is it madness?