Day 91: Foot-dragging, Lead-swinging

Today my job is to find a cafe without an internet connection.  Because I cannot be trusted to get on with things. 

I'm taking part in a story-telling show on Monday, and because there is no corporate cosh hanging over me, I am swinging the lead like a bad'un.  This morning I have done two massive loads of washing-up (necessary for hygiene); run an errand as a favour (necessary for good will); done food shopping (necessary for nutrition); been on a walk (necessary for health); done my VAT return (necessary for a penalty-free life); spent time researching a house in St Albans that has windows I like (necessary for my historical cortex); more time researching chimney pot styles (necessary for my architectural gland); and even more time researching ghosts of St Albans (necessary for my psychic flange). 

Once all the pressing business is out of the way, and I have to look the task in the eye, I flail around like Linda Blair faced with a crucifix and Holy eau.  I play my final card: I need to be in a place without an internet connection.  If I can get online, I cannot be trusted to get onwithit.  A stay of execution as I head up to town to begin my search.  Finally the crucifix wins out over demonic possession - I end up at the St Albans Abbey refectory, which is old-fashioned, quiet and has a brilliantly ugly selection of cakes. 

Quasimodo scones, droopy buns and paving slab shortbread - all under glass cloches.  I presume these are to stop them getting out and spreading pestilence.  Notwithstanding, I eat a Quasimodo.  Not because I want one, but because it's not writing, and it will take a fair old time to chew.  Eventually I have to write.  It takes me twenty minutes to break the back of it.  TWENTY MINUTES.  An easy, enjoyable twenty minutes writing about unexpected things that have happened to me.  And then I come home and voluntarily write this.  As I have for the last ninety days.  Because I REALLY enjoy it. 

Explain that to me.  Because I cannot.