Confidence was taking a good kicking this afternoon.  He was lying on the floor, clutching his stomach and spitting out blood.  Paranoia was giggling like a school girl in the first flushes of a crush.

(Aside – I’m not entirely sure why I refer to my confidence and paranoia as males.  It just seems natural – does that say something about my psyche?  Was I meant to be a man?  Whatever the truth is, I’m not having the operation.  I like my lady-bits too much.)

I didn’t, in fact, getting any work done today.  Not much, anyway.  I wrote about 600 words.  Not good enough.  Confidence curled up even more and started to whimper.  Poor Confidence.

I went to work (not my real work, just the place I go to earn money to pay the bills) and forgot to take any reading material.  It worked out quite well because I ended up writing two really good scenes to slot in, nearer the beginning of the novel.  I was – and still am – quite pleased with them.

Confidence began to unfurl from his poor state whilst Paranoia wasn’t looking.

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