Too Hard Basket

I would really really like to know if there is a reason some days flow like silk and others have sand in the gears all the way. Not to say that the sand days are unproductive, but it is the strain on the wetware which makes this wetware sulky, bridling and seething like John McCain. I can see it would be - relieving - to have a martyr-wife to shout at (and I am not going to shout at Stefan, he has done some beautiful work this morning).

Instead I made moussaka and took Ibuproven and chocolate, and laid all the maddening runners out side by side for autopsy. What I would like is a massage.

Maybe I am just reacting against the foolishness of driving to Sacramento and back yesterday, east in the morning and west in the afternoon so the sun shone sideways into my eyes both ways. No sunglasses. The shoot went well, I have seen the footage, but now my eyes are throbbing and running and I am dreaming of a darkened room. What I should do is take a leaf from my daughter's book and develop laser focus and cunning to get the very best grapes for Sunday next.