I sit down with my drawing pad, my pencils, my pens, my stiffened brush. I turn on the lamp and take a glimpse at the porcelain cat I bought as a joke. I put my forearms on top of the clever Ikea table that folds and unfolds according to my modern personal needs. I adjust my bottom on the uncomfortable chair, cross my legs, then put them straight again. I shuffle through my music as if browsing for inspiration but the collection is too diverse.
I'm forcing myself to be creative. To do something clever, something artistic.
But my head is a sprinkler instead of a quiet stream. Thoughts bounce erratically: the new gas and electricity bill, the presentation on wednesday, should I change job, am I in good health, am I giving attention to all my loved ones or are relationships deteriorating, will the war in Libya resolve, is Portugal going to come out of this swamp, should I be protesting against the cuts in the NHS.
The pencil touches the void but nothing flows.
I go to bed and have a troubled light sleep.