The other evening I was on the computer (no wonder my elbow's still hurting) when a mini-kerfuffle broke out by the door as the Teens were instructed by Lovely Husband to vamoose. "Stop pestering your mother and let her get on with her writing," he said firmly.
He's very supportive and takes what I do seriously, which is wonderful, but dear reader I was actually on E-bay at the time. Sourcing a new toilet-seat to replace the one that's broken, while simultaneously tracking down a top I'd seen in a magazine. I was planning to follow this up with a raid on the BBC Good Food website in search of a no-bake cheesecake recipe. Not that I couldn't be bothered to bake one, I just fancied one there and then.
Thing is I felt so guilty as everyone shuffled off talking in exaggerated stage whispers, that I shiftily opened a document at random and discovered a short story I'd abandoned a while back. I read it through and it wasn't bad, but I'd clearly lost it half-way through. I'd actually typed "Blah, blah, so WHAT??" in brackets at the bottom.
Spurred on by my family's faith in me I racked my addled brain and shiftily finished it off and after double-checking it wasn't complete cobblers I sent it to a magazine this morning.
And there was I thinking that guilt was completely unproductive.
Maybe if I stand next to the washing-up and squeeze out a tear or two it'll have a similar effect on the Teens.