Himself is a master. Black belt, hard core procrastinator. Himself can look at a job that needs doing and pick up the phone to speak to his brother instead. Then they talk for at least half an hour about the job that needs doing.

To be fair, herself is probably almost a brown belt. But, you see, it all depends on the job it is that needs doing. Ironing or go for a swim? No contest. Clean the toilet or sit outside with a clinky drink? Are you kidding? Writing or anything you might care to name? Writing, writing, writing.

If I’m not writing, I’m thinking about it. There’s not much that I will allow to get in the way of my writing. Selfish? Absolutely. Nobody’s starving around here. Everybody eventually has ironed clothes to wear. I’ve done my years of earning a living doing things I had to do to meet the targets, to keep the funding, to satisfy the consumers etc. etc.

Thing is, see, the minute I move away from the keyboard to prepare that lunch or slice those vegetables, guess who jumps in the chair the second it becomes vacant? Himself, of course. He’s Facebooking or he’s looking up properties for sale or comparing prices on remote-controlled horizontal deadbolts. (I made that last one up)

I have to hang onto my seat. Literally. Even if it means I’m developing writer’s arse. To himself, my keyboard is a displacement activity, whereas, to a writer like me, well, you know the rest.