You, sir, should not be talking books and business at midnight to a tired (and giddy) writer. Therefore, I shall be a snob and ignore you until I eventually remember to get back to you... which may or may not be tomorrow. It's a gamble, my memory.
Funny how it doesn't take long to realise just how buggered up my body actually is. Yeah, I'm constantly complaining about cramps and bad headaches and painful hands and being tired, but I never accepted how severe it is until I stopped work a couple of weeks back. Now that I'm not running after kids trying to save them from breaking down the house, or hurting each other, or hurting themselves, and I'm quiet and doing research and a lot of writing, I can really feel how bad it is.
I mean, it's flippin bad.
The worst of it is that I'm out of whiskey and I finished the last of the wine tonight.