Sunday's my working day

I'm at the Media Union again - as I was a few weeks ago - in the middle a marathon writing session. I should be writing my darn story right now. But I'm so tired of it. It's like beating a half-dead horse. I want to put it to sleep already.

I also wish it weren't so cold inside. I'm wearing a T-shirt, a cardigan, and a blazer with the collar turned up. And I should have worn socks and sneakers instead of slip-on flats. When I write, I need to sit cross-legged, so my bare feet get blasted by the air-conditioning. Even sitting on my feet, Japanese-style, doesn't help much. The cold air finds some way of reaching my toes. I should also wear some fingerless gloves since the backs of my hands are feeling chilled. Very soon the bones in my fingers will start making more noise than the keyoard itself. I suppose I'm just getting old and more susceptible to the cold. I'm also beginning to whinge, a sure sign of aging.