Keep busy: it's got to be better than the other thing.
(I have no idea where I acquired this semblance of a work-ethic. I used to be so good at doing nothing; now I just get depressed and anxious if I'm not occupied. It can make the nights difficult, when I'm not sleeping. Which again is a total turn-around: when I was an unhappy teenager, the nights were blessed relief from the misery of my days. Variety: it's the spice of life, as it turns out. Consistency is for mud.)
Anyway. In between writing a story, I am cooking. Tomorrow is Hogswatch Night, in these parts; friends who come to watch Hogfather will munch on sausages-in-bacon (onna stick!) and oxtail marmalade on toast and hummus and salsa. Then afterwards there will be pulled pork and rice and beans and greens, with chocolate pear cake and possibly tarte tatin to follow. Come one, come all.
In pursuit of which, yes: I am repeating the oxtail marmalade. Except that this time I'm making it with a bottle of port as well as a bottle of wine, and the fresh duck stock I made on Wednesday. It may be that nobody in the history of the planet has previously made oxtail marmalade with duck stock. I'll let you know how that comes out. *innovates*
Because I'm indecisive, I spent an age dithering over what size of pork butt (it's from the shoulder!) to buy. I wanted one that would fit in the slow cooker, and yet feed a lot of people. Five pounds? Ten pounds? Dither, dither. In the end I compromised, mid-size, seven and a half. And carried it home convinced that it would be (a) too big for the slow cooker and (b) not big enough to feed everybody. And looked at the slow cooker, and the slow cooker looked at it, and we shrugged, and tried it - and it's perfect. Couldn't be better. Comfy, without being snug. Whether it'll (b) enough, we won't know till tomorrow. To be honest, we don't really know who's coming, or who's coming early for Hogfather, or...
Come one, come all. If we run out of food, there's always pizza. But it's a remote contingency. I guess that's tautological: pizza is remote by definition, and contingent certainly.