It feels a bit like I've become the content machine. At any point at which my hands are not otherwise busy -- driving, cooking, lighting the fire, plucking a cockerel -- they are typing.
The cause of this status is a new, short, contract. It starts tomorrow, and will take up my every working hour. The remaining waking hours will be spent producing content for the charming individuals for whom I usually produce content. Sometimes, I may sleep. But there will be no time for anything else.
I will be the content machine, slamming out the text, auto-spell-checking, ALT-TABbing to my dictionary, reaching for Fowler's like some kind of obsessive automaton. Like something Huxley or Burgess would have dreamed up. Like a person composed entirely of letters -- ells for limbs, a capital H for the torso, a big fat O for a head. Little ps for feet and full stops for my joints.
You can see where this is heading. I'm losing it already. In eight weeks' time I'll be little more than a puddle of parentheses and paper cuts. But, blood-bespeckled fingers crossed, it'll be worth it.
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