Splitting up

Today, the Abigail is in charge. Sick and tired of the irrititating tasks that have been building up around here lately, she's a whirlwind of activity, airing stuff, cleaning stuff, sewing stuff, getting the odd stuff done, blackmailing me with threats about how she won't let me concentrate on writing until I get it all tidied up. She's letting me check my emails, post this and send a couple of submissions, but then I have to get onto this before lunch:

Raking leaves. A whole tree's worth that has suddenly dumped all over the Xmas swing and herb pots. AAAAH.

The Abigail is such a bitch. She always does this when she senses an imminent takeover by the Artist - she wants everything squared away so we can all coast along on her industriousness for a couple of weeks. Once satisfied that the place is shipshape, she'll retire into the background while the Artist, who'll want me to stay at home and write, fights it out with the Accountant, who'll want me to go the Arvo Job and earn real money as opposed to the will-o'-the-wisp pittance one receives from writing. The Athlete, who used to get to take this body out and about on a regular basis, unfortunately doesn't get much of a look in these days.