I've been working really hard the last few evenings, doing real money-paying work [resists temptation to spit], and I've been going to bed with a buzzing brain, and thus, insomnia. As a consequence, I have had some hours to rehash plots, characters, titles, names and so on.
Last night, about half past midnight, number-three-novel title came to me. This was a Eureka! moment, and I sat up in bed like a shot. Of course, a proper writer would have a Moleskine and pencil beside the bed. Me? I found a dried-up felt-tip and a copy of Women's Weekly's Christmas Special; but it sufficed, and I wrote down my new title.
Now why is it, when the baby's still wailing at 2am (after three drinks of water, a cuddle, milk, Nurofen, Medised...), or when a child has been sick in its bed, or when you go into labour, men just mutter "this is not a good time" and go back to sleep? And then, when there's absolutely nothing wrong and you just need to write something down (knowing perfectly well that he won't wake up, because the chimney hasn't fallen in) he wakes up!
The funny thing was, he was really concerned. Was I alright?
"Yes, sorry, just, ahem, thought of...er...a...um...a title".
"Oh," he said. "That's good. Have you written it down?"
I shan't grumble about him leaving the milk out for, what shall we say, three days?