I did it, I handed the research project in. On time. After finishing at 2am on Tuesday. Final thing was the acknowledgments page, which went like this (with commentary in brackets):

For my father

John Storry Wrigglesworth

(which is only fair, he paid for it. He also thinks I should write a novel someday, but I strongly suspect I am far too attached to reading to be able to manage that, so this is the closest he’s going to get) 


Also in memory of

Kenneth Douglas Wrigglesworth

Waterside Duke

R.I.P. April 2007

(at this point I laid down my head and cried. Really cried. After five minutes I gulped it down and patted my face dry enough to write…)  


Grateful thanks to Dr Rebecca Lawton, and to my husband and sons for putting up with yet more academic angst.

(And I think I need to forget about a PhD, at least until my sons have all left home).

Once I’d handed it over, at first I was relieved. Then I managed a few hours of elation. Now I’m just plain knackered, worn out, pooped, tired and cranky. Writing those last few pages was like getting blood out of a dessicated old mummy. As in, there was blood (aka inspiration and lifeforce) there once, flowing freely, but now it’s long gone.

I could do with a bit of pampering. I fancied a half day package at Eastthorpe Spa, only a few miles from home. But it’s a bit out of my price range, especially seeing as next week I’m at the Horse of the Year Show and have elected to stay over Thursday night so I can watch the Foxhunter final. So yesterday I made a Malteser cake and keep sneaking pieces at random times of day. I had two after lunch, which was a mistake for stomach comfort. I must find something else with which to nurture and restore myself.

The cake, or rather, half a Malteser cake. Most of the other half is in me.