One of the great things about narration is that you get to seriously fuck about with time. For example, this post is dated the second of October, though in fact it is being written some time after that, as are several of 'this week's' posts. I've got no qualms about doing this because (a) it's better than writing one huge entry detailing everything that's gone on recently or passed through my brain in idle moments over the course of a week, and (b) it's my blog, so I'll do what I want, thanks very much.

Manipulating time in this way is causing some unfortunate side-effects, though. The münsterländer has just walked backwards into the kitchen, vomited her food back into the bowl and undrunk about a pint of water - and that's nothing to the sensation that awaits her when she finds herself trotting into the garden in reverse and squatting down over a fresh pile of poo. For this indignity she can blame the Diarist's Dilemma, a phenomenon I have explained previously elsewhere, thus:

One has the most time for writing long entries when there's not much happening. When lots and lots of interesting things are going on, there's jack-all time to write the long entries needed to do events justice. I've therefore come to the conclusion that all diarists are frauds who make up most of their stuff. There's no way Pepys was wandering the streets of the City as the Great Fire got going - he'll have been running around burying his valuables, checking his insurance and hosing down his mistresses. All the stuff he says he saw must be pure invention.

But I'm too honest to fall for that temptation, by golly.