I drive to my cricket net.
It is a beautiful day, and, knowing nothing about their impending flu horror, the birds cheep cheepity-cheep cheerily on the branches. I turn onto the main road, put my foot down, and bask in the luxury of being able to think.
I usually write my Private Secret Diary in one of two ways. The first is when something interesting happens to me and I think 'aha!!! I will write that in my Private Secret Diary!!!' and spend the rest of the day toying with it in my mind and laughing out loud at my own sophisticated jokes on the subject. This annoys the LTLP immensely. The second way involves me sitting in front of the PC with a piece of toast and alternately gazing at the screen and the rabbits in the garden, wondering what to say and waiting for Something to Happen.
(NB the toast is not important to the creative process; it was mentioned there as a writerly way of telling people that I do this first thing in the morning, when people eat toast. I am subtle.)
I cross the mini roundabout, taking advantage of the fact that nobody really knows how to drive round mini roundabouts.
I had no idea that babies took up this much time. I frown at the thought. She will be leaving home in about seventeen and a half years, and that does seem a bit long to get a guest blogger in for, unless it's J.D. Salinger or that French bloke who got paralysed and dictated his first novel by winking his eyelid in code for each letter. Even then it might drag a bit, as he would probably get caught up in replying to comments, checking stats etc.
So not having toying-with-it time or rabbit time, this has been a bit more domestic lately. My favourite 'funny domestic' blog is Greavsie* - I will try not to tread on his toes. I negotiate the 20 MPH zone without stalling.
The sun beats down as I carry my bag into the sports centre. There are three people using the indoor walking machines.
(*Other funny domestic blogs are available)