Writing is Dangerous

I like Saturday mornings. I get up, fetch the papers, make breakfast and a pot of tea and sit and read in my dressing gown. Bliss.

This morning I thought I’d make soup at the same time. Great time management. Until…

I cut a snippet out of the paper and went into my office to add it to a folder of research on Early Melbourne. Then I sat down in front of the computer. Then thought I’d just start a review, just put the title etc down. But I began writing the review and then a second.

Oops, the smell of soup wafted through from the kitchen. Hmm. Not a good soup smell, a burning-a-hole-in-the-saucepan smell. Oh dear. I’ve decanted the soup into another saucepan and put out the ‘fire’ in the pan. Only time will tell if the burn has added a frisson of smoky flavour to the soup or an inedible charcoalness.

Lucky I wasn’t working on a novel…the pan may indeed have melted and…

As I said, writing is dangerous.