The snow's finally beginning to melt in my part of Manchester.  Now the house is surrounded by manky slush and mud and whatever rubbish was buried under the bright white surface.  Frying pan, garbage disposal.  Anyway, I've still been mainly housebound the past few days, writing and writing and writing for my university submission next Monday.  I've got drafts of my two chapter that I'm pretty happy with, and I'll spend the next Wednesday to Friday going over my essay and making sure that it is in fact somewhat coherent, and doing final revisions on the prose.  Then next week will be a frenzy of reading for the new semester, and I might also pop into town to see what other people look like, as I haven't seen many faces since 2009 apart from him indoors and the guy in the convenience store across the road who charges too much for orange juice.  You know who you are.

I've had two acceptances recently that I'm really pleased about, but I don't have anything else out there in the literary wilderness at the moment. I should polish up a few flashes and send them on their way, but all I want to do is curl up with Wolf Hall, which I started last night, and swoon!  I LOVE Hilary Mantel.  I want to marry her books.  This one's enormous and is sure to take a while, but it'll be like a big bubble bath of a book, and I won't want to get out.  Hmm.  My similes are all fucked up here.  I'm now a little afraid of those upcoming revisions.

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