The worst murderer in the world

Now able to stand without yelping. Still feeling low on energy however, and attached myself to the gold sofa, and started transferring the thousands of changes I made in pencil, to Scrivener. Got half way through. After this is done, one more print off, for absolute bloody final changes, and then I am done with it. Then for the hard bit of trying to flog it, I believe in the quality of story The second kind of darkness. It took an age to get it into its current shape, and very different to how it started. My conundrum is how you can be any kind of an artist without having self doubt. It stops you from thinking that tripe is gold. But self-doubt has little to do with the selling process. I am going to be as resilient as I can be in my attempt to get this sold.

Betty back home after many adventures today. Vagabond Skies went really well apparently, and the cast had a good party afterwards in London. Let's hope someone picks up on it. Beth cooked  courgetti -- which is courgette spirallised into spaghetti like strings. Surprisingly good stuff.

Chatted with Bob today, on the way to see a client. He sounded in good spirits, although his dog is a hypochondriac, and was limping about until taken to the vet where it was pronounced healthy, and trotted home completely normally.

Lorraine at pilates this evening, and unusually talkative when she got home. Including telling Beth and I about the process of how chocolate is made from cocoa beans.

Later Calliope bit my hand nastily while on my lap. I whacked her off me with my phone. She hid under the futon and wouldn't come out. This made me feel like the worst murderer in the world. What kind of a person hits an animal? A despicable one. Lorraine was assuring me that I wasn't, but it didn't help. Later I coaxed Calliope out of hiding and she climbed straight up on me and rubbed her face on mine purring, which made me feel that cats are superior to humans. Or at least this human.