It was a Bubble I created for myself. The one where nobody can read what I’m writing until it’s finished. I was ably assisted in this by my partner who hasn’t read a word of mine in months because she “doesn’t really like reading”. I know. Alarm bells.

Anyway, I was in my bubble, writing book two. I have been in bits cobbling together the first four chapters until they started to make sense.

I was proud. Filled, it seemed, to the brim with pride because I took the tangled mess of exponential rambling and turned it into something – at least that I would read.

And then, I crossed my legs. I knocked the power flex out of the laptop. I thought it would be okay, because on restarting, it would certainly tell me there’d been an interruption in the power, and would I like to restore documents?

It didn’t say that.

It didn’t say anything.

I called it names and kicked myself in my mind for not hitting ‘save’ repeatedly, and as if I might require hospital observation.

I have been banging away at it for six hours. I’m missing some 700 words, but not all of them. At least, I hope not.

Here’s to three in the morning, when I remember the missing scene.