I'm slipping. There are only ten minutes to go until our next dose of Chelsea Flower Show coverage, and I've forgotten to write a blog entry. Nine minutes now, while I've been wondering what to write about. Necessity is supposed to be the mother of invention, but there is nothing like knowing one has to be creative in a hurry to shut down one's imagination completely. Never mind getting the creative juices flowing, they are as dry as the Sahel in a dry season.
Seven minutes. It took me two minutes to type two sentences, plus typos and deleting typos. I get clumsier when I am in a hurry. The Systems Administrator knows this, and never to chivvy me however urgent the matter, as it will only slow things down, not speed them up. My bee instructor used to urge me to go through the frames faster, when I went as a novice to practice on his bees. Probably he was thinking of the bees, and didn't want to keep the hive open for too long, but his attempts to hurry me along simply turned me into a stumbling mess of fingers and thumbs.
Four minutes. It took me three minutes to type the previous paragraph. My record, when I was working at the optimum point of the day for clear thought, straight after breakfast, was four hundred words ready for publication in three quarters of an hour. They may not have been the best words ever, but my employer was pleased with them, and they indirectly got me the gig with the local magazine.
The magazine project has hit a snag, the amateur photographs supplied by the owners being of insufficient quality, and the ones by a professional garden photographer outside the magazine's budget. I suppose these are the perils of freelancing at the more modest end of the market, but I'll learn how it all works as I go along. As long as the Editor is happy with my contribution I'll live to fight another day.
Eight o'clock. Time to view.
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