Day 1 

"What the bloody hell are you playing at? Leaving a perfectly good job, and for what? Don't you know there's a recession on?"

"Mmmm". I muttered non-commitedly. There was not really any need for me to answer at all. Dad could quite happily keep talking in this vein without pausing to listen for a reply. In fact, I could often put the phone down, go to the toilet, make a sandwich and still come back into the conversation in time to catch the repeat. (After all, when he ran out of things to say, he would just start again and say the same things).

Of course I knew what I was doing. I was giving myself six months to write. No job. No money. No distractions.

"Well why can't you just write in the evenings, or at the weekends and see whether you're any good at it? What about Tom? Surely he can't be happy paying all the bills?"

"Tom's perfectly happy about it".

Lie lie lie. Of course Tom wasn't happy about it, but Tom also wasn't happy with me bringing it up every evening after dinner. Even granite wears away eventually. Besides Tom knows me. He knows I'm a serious obsessive (is there any other kind?) And I know myself - I need to have my back against the wall. After all you have to apply pressure to transform rotten rainforest into diamond. Of course you also need time. I didn't have that long. Only six months.

So here I am, infront of the computer. LALALALALALALA QNQNQNQNQNQN. Perhaps I should find one of those touch-typing courses, after all six months isn't very long. Need to be able to type quickly. I start googling.

Three hours later I am amazed at how much information there is on the internet. I'm also very tired, with a tension headache, sore throat, and a pain in my lower back. Luckily I've found a website with some great exercises you can do whilst sitting at your desk. I'm actually sitting at my dinning table, but I'm pretty sure I can adapt them if I just sit and think about it for a while.

I make a cup of tea. Tom has asked me to pick up a parcel that was too big for our letterbox, and also to cancel my barclaycard (part of our little deal). There must be a way to do these things online. After all, I'm not just on holiday, I can't afford to keep taking time out to run little errands. I start with the post-office. Several clicks later I realise I have to register. I need an e-mail address. It turns out my email address has been deactivated through lack of use. Strange as it got plenty of use, it was always full with penis enlargement products and pictures of asian girls washing up (or something).

I make another cup of tea and decide to get onto the barclaycard. I need lots of information to setup an online account, including my last statement, my current balance, and the card itself (which I dramatically cut up in front of Tom last night as evidence of my good intents). This is going to take longer than I thought.

After spending an hour searching through magazine racks, coffee table drawers, and under the cushions of the sofa, I eventually find my last statement on the bookshelf. The pieces of the card are in the bin, but near the top and not too icky. All that remains is to make a wild guess at the current balance, and wait for a confirmation e-mail.

By this time it's nearly three o'clock, and I haven't even had lunch. What a busy day?

Tom comes home a few hours later and I'm knackered.

"How was the writing babe?"

"Oh, you know, fine" I haven't even written one word. But I'm optomistic about tomorrow. I'm going to start really early, and not do anything else until I've written, say, 10,000 words. Then the rest of the day I can do what I like. Perhaps go for a walk in the park. Maybe visit a coffee shop - one of those chains where you can get a handcrafted concotion of cream, coffee and syrup, and not be surprised to get no change from a fiver.

"...cell"

Oh, Tom's mouth is moving but I forgot to listen. "What was that sweetie?"

"Did you pick up the parcel?"

Oh hell. Forgot about the parcel. I meant to get it redelivered online. Better do that tomorrow.

"I've arranged redelivery". I reply confidently, only a small lie after all, I will arrange redelivery, tomorrow, and if I don't do it tomorrow then I can always pick the parcel up on my way into town. After the 10,000 words of course.