I decided for now to ignore the intriguingly slow speed of the gutter cleaning man who I’d just fed with toast, and get a bit of writing done.

I had hatched an idea for a short story about Manus, who thinks his friend Cyril has died (but hasn’t) and goes to his wake (which isn’t taking place), but thoughts of incomplete chores nibbled at my concentration.

This was a habit of mine: procrastination.

Whilst only being a secret, unpublished writer, I shared that foible with more established scribes.

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I mean, how on earth could I write a syllable when the socks in the laundry haven’t been put away?

While upstairs, I noticed the windows were grubby and started into them; I would nail my morbid tale later.

I was churning it round my head as I wiped off the Windowleen. Did Cyril die as he laughed at........

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