Well, that's that, then. Quite reasonable in fact - no need to see a solicitor after all.
For the second year running, I have survived the post-every-day-a-thon that is NaBloPoMo. Of course, the sense of achievement was lessened somewhat when I realised that this event was evolved from NaNoWriMo, when otherwise sane people opt to write a 50,000-word novel in the space of a month.
For a moment I thought: 'Hmm, that's not beyond the realms of possibility..."
What's that you say? Did I go off and do something stupid like perform a word count on my November blog posts? Well, that would be a daft and pointless exercise, wouldn't it? What good could possibly come of such an endeavour?
11,197 words. Seriously. And I thought I was a wordy bugger. But it's a mere foothill - a molehill, if you like - plonked next-door to the Himalayas created by some of these novel writers. Mind you, if I'd written 50,000 words over the month in my usual style I'd probably have alienated you all. Plus Katie would be no longer talking to me and I'd have the word "Acer" permanently imprinted on my upper thighs from this overheating laptop.
Which is not a good look.
So what have we all learned from this month of material, these weeks of writing?
We now know that there is an internationally-recognised uniform for bloggers. The name of the long-lost Village People disco/progressive rock crossover album is no longer a mystery. And there's been some of the latest guidelines for modern management, alongside biting political commentary. Most of all, we learned that writing something aimed at an American audience, but posting it on Thanksgiving Day (when, let's face it, they have better things to do), was guaranteed to be as successful as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
It barely seems like only a couple of weeks since we read the moving stories behind the real victims of the economic crisis. We ranted at clueless journalists and pretentious restaurateurs alike. What fun!
Of course, I've been in a sharing mood, too. How else would you know about my one big weakness? Or my hippie past? Or even the reason why I never seem to be able to show up on time? It's enough to make someone adopt an alter ego.
So what can you expect from tomorrow onwards? Well, I know that some blog-writers have decided to extend this exercise and will post something every day for a year. I can't commit to this (I've got a screenplay to write, don't you know) but I plan to keep things nice and regular here, too. For one thing, there's the Small Mercies thing which looks like developing into a series. Well, it amuses me, anyway. Plus I can see that I've picked up some new readers. Hello you. Please stay - your validation of my existence is way cheaper than any therapy.
For now, though, I have the Sunday papers and my sofa. And they're calling my name. No, really, I can hear them. Perhaps I should reconsider the therapy thing.