Yesterday I signed off first draft of this year's book. Mr F is down at the copy shop as I write, running off his reading copy. Later today I'll be able to hear nothing but the turning of pages. And the sound of his breathing. Into which I shall read all kinds of wild speculation. But right now I am free. Not that there are any flower-decked meadows to lie in around here. But I am free to do whatever I please.

There's always been a sobering gulf between what I fantasise about doing in my free time and what I actually do. Thirty four years ago, when I was expecting my first baby, I planned to make a patchwork quilt as soon as I finished work. It never happened. Now that baby has babies of her own, and it still didn't happen. I guess I don't really have what it takes to quilt.

On my list of recently neglected activities I have
1. Piano practice
2. Filing
3. Going for a walk.

However, so far this morning I have
1. Loafed in the sunshine in Campo Santa Margherita, read the newspaper and consumed a second breakfast.
2. Surfed for accommodation for a trip to western Ireland
3. Bought a new notepad to make notes for a future theatrical project.

There's a lesson in this. It tells me the careers for which I'm best suited are
1. Rich man's plaything.
2. Travel agent
3. Writer

See? It's just a question of knowing thyself. But given certain other important factors, such as love and the gas bill, I've decided to settle for
1. Poor but treasured pensioner's plaything
2. Part-time travel agent
3. Writer

So business as usual. Even when I'm free.