Nothing I've attempted to scribble this evening has come out anywhere near the way I wanted it. I blame being on baby duty last night. When I finally woke up this morning I felt much like I expect a zombie feels – yes I know zombies don't feel, that's my point exactly. I'm no longer coherent as a result, so what ever I try to waffle on about will come out horribly.
I suppose you could call it writers block, only I'm not a writer, so I'll called it baby induced block. Tonight it's my turn once more. My own blasted fault as I've finally convinced my other half that baby really should sleep alone and right through the night without waking all and sundry up screaming at ungodly hours.
Stop reading, start speaking
Stop translating in your head and start speaking Italian for real with the only audio course that prompt you to speak.
I scared the little blighter to sleep by telling him that there was a monster which homed in on crying babies and turned them into its supper. Baby seemed to get my drift and drifted off to sleep. It's early days though. And I'm not sure what all those expert parenters would say about scaring your little one to sleep. All I can say is that it was that or baking the little blighter in the oven, at 200°C. Only joking, I think.
I do believe certain people use sleep deprivation as a form of torture. Well, I can vouch for its effectiveness.
Enough. Bedtime.
