The remnants of the mosquito bites (yes, ok, I scratched them) remain, and have now been joined by some mystery facial swellings. When I woke up this morning, my left eyelid was huge and swollen like a boxer, and although I convinced it to subside with an ice-pack and a hefty dose of ibuprofen, it reappeared on the left side of my upper lip, in a bee-sting ugly pea-sized lump. In the absence of any real proof, I blame the army of ants that seem to have taken over our kitchen of late, but whatever the cause, the new lumpiness is visually displeasing and this put me in a sulk for most of the morning, then sent me to a pharmacy this afternoon in search of anti-histamines. Basically, this is my long-winded way of telling the world that I am (totally unfairly) blaming Rhizin (cetirizine hydrochloride) for my lack of productivity this afternoon.
I’ve reached that awkward stale-mate stage with my research. The point where we stare suspiciously at each-other from our respective sides of the laptop screen, but neither is quite sure what to do. The completed first draft, but revision is needed. How major should the revisions be, how long should I spend, how many references does it need, how long is a piece of string, how many episodes of Game of Thrones have my housemates watched while I’ve been stuck in the library enjoying a Rhizin-sponsored nap? Completing that first draft is like a sprint to the finish line, only to find that beyond it is a long meandering jog where the route is poorly marked and you aren’t really sure where you are anymore. You’ve lost the urgency, but you can’t relax. Limbo-land again.
Where's Viv? 