I suddenly realised I hadn't turned over my compost heap for ages, and this is more fun than writing. So I picked up a garden fork and plunged it repeatedly into the plastic binful of decaying grapefruit rinds and garden rubbish. This is actually quite enjoyable, and a good way of venting frustration on (edited as vague attempt at professionalism).
Rah! In went the fork, a plunging stabbing frenzy of cathartic rage. Eventually my fury burned itself out, and I took the fork out, looking down inside the compost bin whilst heaving for breath, and gently steaming.
A small grey mouse was crouched in the corner of the bin, staring up at me with dark, liquid eyes, his tiny paws trembling slightly.
Oh god, I hope I haven't killed his family. I couldn't look. Slowly I replaced the lid on the bin, put the fork back in the shed, and went inside to find an email telling me (similar thing - you'll have to wait for the blue cat film*).
It is no more than I deserve. It is the shrew murder all over again.
On the plus side, I've been thinking for ages about this novel I want to adapt, and have just found out that because the author died umpty-tump years ago the rights have very recently passed out of copyright! Woo hoo!
Funny old thing, death.
UPDATE: I've been told this all looks a bit despondant, so I should point out I'm also doing quite a few fun writey things that I'm not currently able to talk about. Part of this is being able to watch a number of really quite revolting horror movies, and claim it as research. I can say no more.
UPDATE 2: the events of the day left me particularly vulnerable to this Death Cab video. Argh. Poor poor rabbits.
* Not an actual film.