I know writers are meant to struggle for their craft, but this is ridiculous.

The Cheerful Builder arrives in half an hour and I am sat here on the concrete floor base, the PC keyboard balanced on my knees, squinting at the monitor which is three feet away from me perched on a garden chair.

There is still wood everywhere, apart from in the kitchen, which is piled high with everything else in the world that I possess. I think it would be fair to say that conditions are still not 100% conducive to producing my daily diary. In fact, it’s a pain in the arse.

Anne Frank never had to put up with this.

To make things worse, we were attacked by another swarm of thunder flies yesterday. They are the tiny, tiny little annoying ones, no bigger than a speck, that appear from nowhere and end up everywhere. They generally land on anything that’s white, because they are stupid.

Unfortunately I was painting a door at the time. White, of course. I gave up in the end, because they kept landing in the paint and the door was ending up more specky than a BBC Micro (Model B) owners’ convention.

Do enjoy your weekends, everyone. I hope to have a desk back in here for Monday, and shall perhaps be a more entertaining read next week.

(insert really good last sentence here).

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