'Ha! Call yourself a writer. You don't even write anything. Writers write, that's how they get their name. Get it?'
At this point the horrid creature turns its back in a huff. Sometimes it's worse than that; it looks over my shoulder as I begin to type and howls with laughter or pokes me with a bony finger as I try to set a new high score on Bejewelled Blitz.
I am a patient woman, but enough is enough. Yesterday, I picked up the horrid beast, its skinny arms and legs dangling, and gave it the boot. I kicked it good and hard, sending it sailing over the Lancastrian roof tops. It landed somewhere in the shifting sands of Morecambe Bay. I hope it comes to a nasty end.
I've made a pact with myself. I will finish my English degree, learn Italian and write my blog. Apart from that and until my degree is finished, I DON'T HAVE TO WRITE ANOTHER WORD. I can't tell you how good this feels.
That was yesterday and then, this morning, what happens? I wake up wanting to write. Just a few hundred words of a story that's been swirling round my head for a few months now. I didn't write much, but that's absolutely fine.