This evening I missed a lecture on forensics that I was particularly keen to attend. I couldn't find the venue and nor could about five different police officers I asked to help me. (By this time I'd become peripherally embroiled in a huge demonstration outside the Houses of Parliament - hence the significant police presence). Not a good evening.
Unusually, I read my horoscope in the paper on my train journey home. "Do you really need to go?" the horoscope asked. "Why do you put yourself through these things?" Why am I doing all this? I asked myself. What am I doing?
When I arrived home, I realised I hadn't found the venue because I'd looked up the wrong address. That didn't help my mood... Just as I was feeling really miserable, I found an email inviting me to talk about Cut Short at a literary festival.
So I can stop feeling sorry for myself - for this evening, at least.
Is writing a roller coaster for everyone, or am I just unhinged?