Dreaming about serial killers

Contacting agents today. Plus lurking in children's book departments in Waterstones and Borders checking up on what's hot on the high street. Al called while I was looking through them, to do an emergency afternoon's work writing headlines for a multinational campaign about hepatitis A and B, which I was happy to do. Writing headlines you know are going to be translated means that any idiom or playfulness has to be vetoed as it can't be translated. And given that these were for a pharmaceutical company they have to be rather plonking too, and are legally vetted to within an inch of their lives.

Feeling begloomed, exhausted and overwhelmed with frustration. Nothing I have done seems worth a hill of beans at times like this. The feeling snowballs during the day, and the only thing I can face doing in the evening is to rest my ankle and watch Dexter. The series is fascinating, and you are absolutely on the side of this lovable serial killer, and you don't want him to be caught. Even dreamed about it the other night.

I need to start meditating again. And boy do I need a holiday. Exceedingly luckily, however, I am just about to have one, which is rather splendid.