Can't. Write. Titles!

Dammit!

Ten/Ford fic is done. (Yes Daniel I said it's done.)

Except: I need a bloody title. Just one little word, even. And bugger me, but I cannot think of a damn thing. I'm this close to just calling it Turnip, or Shopping Trolley, or Bollocks. Just to be done with it.

Bugger bugger bugger. I'm going to bed.

Long week-end - long, bad, difficult week-end.

Work was cancelled, so after a tremendous double-booked Friday night that ended rather badly, there was to be nothing for a few days. Not good, as the miserable creeping homesickness is once again kicking me in the bum, and sitting alone in the flat for days straight is nothing but dangerous.

Then - got a call late late Friday and sat with a friend for two days as her dog died. Amazingly horribly short process: he fell ill on Friday and had to be put down this morning. We've only just now got back from the vet and she's off to her mum's house for a few days, and now I've got no work until Friday (unless a bit comes in before then; which is likely, but the folks at the office are disorganized and can't keep track of their emails and seem to be covering their own asses by climbing on mine. And at the moment I am disinclined to tolerate it, even if it means no pay packet this week.)

It's all left me a bit drained. Haven't slept more than a few hours a night, Sarah and I were living on takeaway and vinegar crisps and sake so the tum is in turmoil, and although I could get myself together and go out and do ... something ... I could more easily sit here with BBC radio on the computer, re-watching Little Britain and Monty Python DVD's and anything else with a recognizable accent and not calling my brothers and Daniel every 10 minutes and. Well.

I could write. I could try to write. The ficathon piece was so nearly finished, before it got put on hold (along with everything else). It's odd, and dark (far darker than I intended) and though I have no idea how it'll go over, I'm quite proud of it. Actually found a beta for it, too - chatting with a writer-friend, and discovered that she's a Whovian - and it'd be a pity to let that opportunity pass by. And oddly enough the plotbunnies keep breeding like - well, like bunnies.

Yes. It's just getting it onto paper (funny that we still say paper, when there's so rarely paper involved any longer). Nothing else to be done, I suppose ... besides not calling Daniel again, oh hell, I'm calling again ... so I might as well stare at the screen until something happens.

Sigh.