So I was going to write this happy bubbly post all about how I blame the internet and marriage equally, how it is ab initio the faults of Tim Berners Lee and m'friend Kari Sperring that I spent all morning thinking about the Irish potato famine instead of writing industriously in my book; and I might have divagated off on a riff about how I do find it charming that thoughts about the Irish potato famine lead to a story that opens with a monumental mason, a shirtless ditch-digger and the girl who owns the sandcat that kills the rats on the malting floor. I might well have done that.
But instead? I went to Walgreens for my prescriptions from yesterday's nice doctor - and our insurance company* won't pay for them. These are not new or expensive drugs, this is bog-standard asthma medication which I kind of need to keep me breathing, but apparently fifty bucks is too much. So once again I am all bitter and seething and unkind.
In other ongoing news, books - and, yes, stories - continue not to write themselves, despite everything they tell me about the power of wishful positive thinking. Hey-ho. If I just wrote my name at the top and handed in an otherwise blank sheet of paper, would that do?