First thing this morning, I was all wound up. I had to inform a client of the €1,300 bill that translating his article was going to incur. Plus, I had a thousand other more minor concerns. By mid-morning, we’d agreed on a fee for the translation and I could give myself to full-time worrying about whether I was going to be able to meet my (self-imposed) deadline. When the deadline was agreed, my aunt was still alive. Now I have a funeral to fit into the schedule. Then add the guilt of even questioning how I’m going work around the funeral. Followed by a full-on day translating like fury because I don’t know when I’m next going to have a clear space of time to work on the article (we’re going to London tomorrow). And finally ending up exhausted by all the other details of life – is there any fresh food in the fridge that needs to be used up? I need to wash my black trousers for the funeral. Is the bin empty? How am I going to get from London to Newcastle? I mustn’t forget the adapter for my mobile phone.
10pm and a stiff whisky is the answer. No wonder I drink.