Is it my stop yet?

Oh dear neglected blog. How often I have thought of you. How little time I have. How much is that doggy in the window?

Having three children under two is threatening to kill me. Or make me mentally ill. I suspect I am being throttled by the gods. Either that or my shower is broken.

I have no time. No energy. No, je ne regret riene.

I am also trying to balance three writing jobs (a feature film, a TV show, a documentary) and one producing job (the documentary). I told you I was mentally ill. But think how fucked up the people who employ me must be.

If you have a small, neatly wrapped pocket of time to give me, please do. I need nothing more. Languid, lay-about time. Let's-go-to-a-movie time. Time to read irrelevant articles about this summer's hair secrets. Time to phone my cousins. Time to eat slowly and not worry about dishes. Time to write for the heart not just the pocket.

And now, dishes, three nappies, two phonecalls to return and one exhausted, confused, mildly insane motherwoman to put to bed.

Nite.