oh woe, woe, woe, woe

So I have been glued to my yearly accounts, the tennis (well it is June), some rather benign football, and my computer, and find that it's weeks, nay almost a month since I updated. That's a disgrace. But my accounts are finished, a fat envelope consisting of an aga-saga of receipts for outgoings and a slim volume of incomings, which is always the way. England were truly terrible - no surprises there. Why do people continue to be surprised by the ineptitude of our footballers? Murray's out, doing a Henman on us. Again, why are we surprised? And I haven't got a publisher yet. But then I have learned not to expect things, merely just to hope. And if I do get a surprise, great, be it tennis, football, publishing contract. That way, the disappointment can be controlled, embraced even, used for the betterment of my soul and other weary parts, though I don't have to haul in a red and white flag, cos I didn't hang one out in the first place. Instead I've been scattering myself about, in schools, youth groups and day centres, either singing at people or writing with them, and have started a story for young readers, while I wait for news from my agent re: publishers. Plenty of other material for him to look at in the meantime. I#d hate him to be twiddling thumbs on my account. Hopefully he's not been too fixated on bad football to forget to read it, but not wishing to be idle myself, I've just got on with writing. No point in brooding about what might be, might have been or will be. We'd all be in a sorry state, wouldn't we?