Matt Sullivan

And it turns out that my birthday this year fell on the same day as Chinese new year; so we are, thrust into the Year of the Pig. I grew up surrounded by many, many pigs, of all shapes and sizes -- usually around three inches in length and made of pottery. My mother collected them -- though not any more, and I'll probably get yelled at if she reads this -- and the kitchen was filled with them.

As another weekend -- and birthday ... thirty-four ... where'd thirty-three disappear to? Must have blinked ... -- and I find myself sitting on my oversized beanbag, with laptop in lap, busily trying to pen a few more paragraphs for the story I'm currently writing. This one will probably be called The Coyote, but I'm never sure until I see what it finally becomes. Things I write rarely turn out the way I initially envisage them. It's a good thing, because most of the enjoyment gained from writing is in taking the journey, and it is always more fun not to know where you'll visit; or where you'll finally end up.

Most of today was spent in a haze of tiredness brought on by late nights in work -- four days in a row. Said lack of sleep has been known to cause excessive grumpiness and irritability; however, a Firday spent dozing on the train out of Dublin, building a large roaring fire and then sitting in front of it while watching Flushed Away, eating my first home-cooked meal in weeks, and finally tapping away quietly at the keyboard, while the smell of chocolate cake baking in the oven fills the house.