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This is not my favourite time of year. It’s the time of year where I start needing a holiday. The day job has been busy, busy, busy for the last few months – and it usually just gets crazier before Christmas – and the muse is still refusing to settle down and write something consistent. I get trickles – like the other night – but none of that satisfying flowing stuff which writers kind of need to keep their brains on an even keel. Or at least this writer needs that. Which is making me frustrated and irritable.

So I’m cranky. Grumpy. Snarly. Generally charming, you get the picture. Of course, I don’t get to be grumpy and cranky and snarly at work, so it’s my poor cats and others who get grumped at.

I’m even exercising to try and shake off the mood and seriously, either the endorphins need to kick in soon or my legs will fall off.

If I was in a sports movie there’d be a montage of me pounding punching bags and running up and down hills and snarling at my trainer. Of course, if I was in a sports movie I wouldn’t be a frustrated writer so there wouldn’t be a need for me to do any of the above.

Right now I’d love about a month on a desert island with me, some music, great food, great books, some good dvds and my computer. And nothing else. Serious hermit time. Then I might be fit for civilisation again. Instead I get six more weeks until Christmas holidays.

So, what does one do to shake off the crankies? Suggestions, oh wise internet? Other than chocolate. Because if I’m going to be wearing cranky pants, at least the exercise has to make them looser!

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