Unlike the delightfully daft P. G. Wodehouse, I only think my work is perfect for about half a day. Then, with no warning, everything changes: my heart hits my feet and I become certain that what I’ve just thrown out all naked and unprotected into the world, is nothing more than a puerile squall which will soon be riddled with well-deserved flaming arrows.
I’m eating too much sugar (for which I’ll pay the price in pain, don’t worry) and trying to settle down for a bit of brain-soothing meditation. Then a bit of light boatwork, maybe some laundry … and then a couple of hours on the next part of the book. Because what I think of it doesn’t matter.