Still slightly shaky from a dentist-induced-horror-filled day on Thursday, I really mucked up yesterday.
Not being able to face another rainy day stuck in with the kids on my own, I decided to go and see my Dad. The traffic on the motorway was terrible - torrential rain/idiot driving - and after struggling through it for two hours I realised that we were missing the small boy's best friend's birthday party... Mercifully, the small boy howled for only a short time.
On reaching the supermarket near my Dad's, from where I had promised to buy lunch, I found that I had not only forgotten my coat (it was still chucking it down), but the purse that is in its pocket. I had also forgotten the baby's sleeping bag and her booster seat (i.e. essential equipment).
During the course of my visit, I showed my Dad chapter 1 of novel no.2. I am really proud of it and explained that, as I thought it much better written than previous stuff, I was hoping for an honest opinion. He read it, made a few useful comments about content, and declared that it "reads well, as ever".
My own criticism of others' work is only honest if I think it any good. If it's dire, I say something bland and vaguely positive, like 'reads well'. All the way back I struggled with the start of what has become my first serious loss of confidence. I was quite unhappy by the time I got home, whereupon I found a double rejection from Woman's Weekly on my desk...
I know I'll be all right in a few days, but I'm not enjoying this bit very much!
POST SCRIPT (8.20pm): My run of misery finally came to an end this evening when, having tripped over (something sharp) in the garden - while trying to retrieve the small boy's favourite toy from the trampoline (grrrr) - I lay in the (wet) grass until my shins had stopped stinging enough for me to get up. Back inside I kept hearing an ominous buzzing in my hair, and himself was able to extract a grumpy wasp (yes, a wasp) before it stung me. So it's not all bad.